Saturday, August 18, 2012

Merry Christmas, Dan!


Oh man, this is going to be one long update.  This week was particularly eventful, because Wednesday (August 15) was India’s Independence Day!  (Also Korea’s, randomly enough).
There were special events on Monday and Tuesday leading up to the special holiday.  On Monday night, a renowned kathak dancer put on a performance in Parker Hall.  I entered the auditorium skeptically, because, as you know, I am now a practiced kathak dancer myself.  Three practices, to be exact… so why shouldn’t I just go home and break out my own moves in front of the mirror?  How could this woman possibly dance any more awesomely than me?
Awesome doesn’t even begin to describe it.  Microsoft Word suggests synonyms such as: overwhelming grand, splendid, breathtaking, splendid, tremendous, remarkable, amazing, and awe-inspiring.  I think “breathtaking” is the most accurate; it sent shivers up my spine!  (Down my spine?  Which way do shivers run these days?)  The performance was an entertaining mix of dance, mime, theater, and straight-up storytelling.  Because she wasn’t dancing for an all-Indian crowd, I think she narrated the dance more heavily than usual, which I appreciated.  Something else I appreciated was the fact that she was an older woman with a fuller body than I expected.  The only other professional dancers I’ve seen have been stick-thin ballerinas and, while I think stick-thin ballerinas are beautiful and talented as well, it’s sad that they reach a certain age when they need to stop doing what they love solely for aesthetic reasons.  I actually thought the kathak dancer’s age and body type leant depth and authenticity to the performance.  As I watched her, I kept thinking that she would make a great teacher (with her very expressive, commanding presence) but I guess that, in a sense, she already is one.

She threw in various environmentalist and feminist remarks throughout the performance, using her art to advocate for the greater good, which leads me to believe that she’s a pretty cool woman off the stage as well.  Most women here (and everywhere, really) are pretty cool.  If I were to major in something other than Education, I would probably choose Women’s Studies.  But instead, I will just learn about it on my own, by studying women firsthand and reading.  I saw a bunch of books in the library the other day about women’s rights in India.  I’d love to read some *when I have time*, which means possibly never :/

On Tuesday night, there was a puppet show in the auditorium that I heard was really impressive.  Shadow puppets, I believe.  I wasn’t able to attend because I was at another staff member’s house getting mehndi done for Independence Day.  It was such a fun girls’ gathering.  Speaking of cool women, I think all of the new female staff members and “hillside mothers” were there.  What is a “hillside mother,” you ask?  Enter:  Rachel and Cheryl.  Their husbands are employed by the school, but they are not.  Instead, they are true “homemakers” in every sense of the word, making sure their families are able to function in a completely foreign environment.  It’s difficult enough to cook and clean for myself here; I can’t imagine having to provide for the physical and emotional needs of my own children (and they have 3 each) at all times. 
The keynote speaker at the Independence Day celebration was a woman who made a humorous comment about how she wasn’t a mother, “thank goodness.”  It was funny and endearing, but at the same time it made me realize how much I would like to be a mother someday.  I think I’d be pretty darn good at it.  It helps to have such wonderful, motherly role models… my own mother, obviously, my aunts, my sister… and now the hillside mothers!  On the 7ish-hour train ride from Delhi to Dehra Dun, when we were on our way to Mussoorie for the first time, I sat in front of Rachel and one or two of her sons.  Whereas I was busy marveling at the new landscape and worrying about my own well-being, I could hear her patiently reading stories to her children and trying to make the transition as seamless as possible.  It was pretty impressive. 
Okay, I need to work my way back.  Mehdni.  It only took about ten minutes for the woman to freehand this intricate design:


And it cost less than $2. 
All the women at the gathering thought it looked like chocolate and we had to resist licking it off our fingers.  My brother, on the other hand, thought it looked like poop.  I told him that mehndi must be a Rorschach test in the form of body art.  My mom and sister don’t like the look of mehndi; therefore, they must be crazy! 
If you’re wondering how mehdni works, it just takes a couple hours to dry and then you can peel it off to reveal the semi-permanent stain.  My power went out before I peeled mine off, so I went to bed with it on and woke up in a sea of small henna specks.  I’m not sure how long the design stays on, but it’s been almost a week and it’s still very dark.  According to my kathak instructor, the secret to making the mehndi last longer is to apply a mixture of lime juice, sugar, and oil.  I don’t know if I’m ambitious enough to actually make the mixture, but it’s good to know such a concoction exists. 
As I was waiting for my mehndi to dry, I passed time by reading a book belonging to the hostess, all about humorous road signs in India.  I laughed out loud at this one.  Maybe I should show this to my students as an example of a really, really bad simile.  And personification.  And contrived rhyme.  And a run-on sentence:
(Yes, I realize I just identified a run-on sentence with a sentence fragment).

I have no idea why this picture is sideways; I took it horizontally.  To save you some neckache, it reads, "Curves are blind and sharp drive your vehicle like playing a harp."  Hmmm.  Should we hold onto the steering wheel with our fingertips?  Should we close our eyes and sway our bodies from side to side while we're driving, as if we're making beautiful music?  How many people actually know how to play a harp?  If I were to play one, I'd probably break the instrument or my own eardrums.  Let's just stick to what we know, shall we? I guess the sign is telling us to drive carefully, but I associate harps with angels and I associate angels with death (because I'm a glass-half-full kinda girl).  Basically, I do not want a bunch of harp-playing drivers on the road.
 We also attempted to learn more Hindi words to pass the time.  The only one that really stuck with me was “thank you”—a highly useful phrase.  I don’t know how to spell it, but it’s pronounced “don-yuh-vahd.”  The only way I can remember Hindi words is to connect them to English words that sound similar—or, in this case, Spanish words that sound similar.
Let's see if you can follow my train of thought, here.
Whenever I think about saying “thank you,” I think about saying, “Merry Christmas, Dan!” in Spanish, because “don-yuh-vahd” is a fusion of the Spanish pronunciation of “Dan” and “feliz navidad.”  To make it extra-formal and respectful, you add a “ji” at the end, as in, “Gee, I forgot to get Dan a Christmas present.” 
"Don-yuh-vahd-gee."
Talking takes a lot of brainpower. 
So does writing a blog entry.  I’m pooped (in the tired way, not the mehndi way) and I haven’t even touched on Independence Day yet.  I guess I’ll just use this post as a teaser and leave you with a
TO BE CONTINUED…
mwahahahaha.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

I would like to buy a hamburger.


So, I’ve come to realize that updating my blog every day is an extremely unrealistic goal… no matter how much I enjoy it.  I’ll do it as often as I can, but at least once a week.
Want to know another unrealistic goal?  Learning Hindi. 
In assembly on Wednesday and Friday, we practiced singing the Indian national anthem in preparation for Independence Day on the 15th.  On Wednesday, before we sang it through for the first time, we just worked on basic pronunciation.  Basic, my butt.  I found it impossible to repeat the lines after they were read to me.  My tongue was tripping over itself as it tried to tie together the various syllables, skipping some sounds altogether that just could not be reproduced.  Imagine trying to say “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” backwards.  Three times.  While rubbing your tummy and patting your head.  If you can do that, then maybe you’re superhuman enough to sing this:
A friend posted this video on Facebook a few days ago, and it perfectly demonstrates the frustration I feel when trying to say just about anything in Hindi:
Cracks me up every time, especially his expression at 1:14.  Although, I think their time would have been better spent on another phrase… you can always just point at the menu item :)  I bought a veggie burger last night, with fries and a milkshake.  Sabrina, Melanie, Chris, and I ate dinner at Rokeby… a super-nice restaurant that, surprisingly, wasn’t super-expensive.  We met at the front gate of the school before getting a taxi up.  It’s not a very far walk, but it was really monsoony. 
And, as suggested by myriad scary movies, rain brings the creepers out of hiding.
When I was walking to the gate (about a 20-minute trip), a car with four men inside pulled up beside me and offered to give me a ride.  I thought it was a nice gesture, but also a sketchy one, so I politely declined.  They drove off, only to pull over further down the road and make the same offer.  I gave the same response and continued to walk up ahead of them.  A few seconds later, the car swerved in front of me and completely cut me off. They had given up on the ride; now they were offering me a cigarette.  This back-and-forth, drive-a-little-then-stop-and-pester pattern continued for a while. 
“It’s okay, we aren’t bad boys!”
That made me laugh. 
“You are quick, you are very smart not to ride with us.” (?!)
That made me scared.
Then, one of the guys physically got out of the car and walked beside me while the car followed us.  At first I was nervous, but then I realized that his head didn’t even reach my shoulders; my umbrella fit comfortably over his.  I could totally push him over the guard rail if adequately provoked.  Plus, I didn’t know what his ultimate goal was… sleep with the white girl, or just get under her skin?  I tried to remain civilly distant. 
“Where are you from?”
“The U.S.”
“Oh, so Paris?  London?”
“No.”
So he was either really dumb, or really drunk.
“What hotel are you staying at?”
“I live here.”
Confused look.
So he wasn’t a local.
When I finally got to the front gate, the car pulled over a bit further down the road.  I told Sabrina what was happening and she told the school guard.  (Apparently, there have been issues on that main road with female staff members before; when walking home after dark, the guards will accompany you if they are asked.)  The guard took care of business.  I watched him jump into action and run over to the car in seemingly slow motion, like an Indian Terminator.  The theme song to Rocky was playing in my head.  (FYI:  I have never seen either of those two movies.  The references could make absolutely no sense.)  Point is:  he’s my hero, because they drove away.  He reported back and confirmed both of my suspicions.  They were drinking, and therefore dumb.  The driving here is insane even for the sober.
I wasn’t until later that I thought about how a similar scenario would play out in the United States.  We would take down the license plate number and arrest that shit!  Things are different here.
Things like ordering food, for example.
On Friday night, I realized I didn’t have any food in my house.  Being unable to just hop in the car and pick up some ingredients at Wal-Mart, I was forced to order takeout.  I had a few takeout menus from orientation and was going to go with good ol’ pizza, but then I remembered a second problem:
No refrigerator/freezer.
That morning, I had woken up to a soggy peas and spoiled soy milk.  I knew if I ordered a whole pizza, I was either going to be wasteful or sick to my stomach.  So instead, I decided to go the soup/salad route.  Crisp veggies sounded fantastic, but the place I was ordering from had a 250 rupee minimum requirement for delivery, unless I wanted an extra 50 rupees tacked on to a lesser order.  I figured that a salad, sweet corn soup, and garlic naan would come to 270 rupees.  Expensive, but perfect for my needs.
Then came the arduous task of calling in the order.  Again, for those of you who don’t know me well, I absolutely hate talking on the phone.  I inevitably can’t hear what the other person is saying, I miss facial cues, and I just find it to be an all-around awkward experience.  The first time I tried calling, I got a whole lot of static.  I got through the second time, but the static was still there.  I gave him my name, my house name (not an actual address), and my order.  He repeated it back to me and, though it was really difficult to hear, I heard the names of the three main items.  Then he was gone… no order total, no estimated delivery time.
Then I played the waiting game.
Food came about an hour later, which was not beyond my expectations.  What was beyond my expectations was the price: 465 rupees!  (still only $8-9, but to put it into perspective, this is about what it costs to eat lunch at school for an entire month.) I looked at the receipt and saw that I had supposedly called in 3 orders of sweet corn soup.  At first I figured that I’d just save some for lunch the next day.  But, oh wait, I didn’t have a refrigerator.
So I ate a lot of soup.
The soup was just okay.  The “salad” was a bowl full of dressing.  The naan tasted stale.  Last night’s dinner was so much better, for so much less.
But why do all of my blog posts inevitably turn to the topic of food?  Le sigh…
Here was the real highlight of my weekend:

Lainey is blowing me a kiss in this picture : )  Later, I got to Skype with mom, dad, Jaclyn, and Lainey simultaneously!  It worked surprisingly well.  Technology is awesome.  I do not think I would have been able to leave home for two years without the ability to Skype.
Another reason technology is awesome?
I was reviewing the elements of plot on Friday with my 7th graders, and I introduced the lesson by showing them this YouTube video of my favorite rollercoaster:
Their reactions were hilarious… they were freaking out as the car made its first big ascent and there was one big collective gasp when it finally got to the top.  One kid actually stood up and started jumping and clapping as it went down the hill… he (and many others) had never been on a rollercoaster!  Priceless.
Here is a picture of my 7th grade classroom:

Along with the grading scale for the whole school:

An 80 is an A?!  And a C is actually expected to be the class average?  This is going to take some getting used to…

Thursday, August 9, 2012

More cooking... and more creatures

For those of you who don’t know me well, I really love oatmeal.  All kinds of oatmeal.  But, oddly enough, only quick oats are readily available here.  I did find regular, old-fashioned oatmeal at a place in Dehradun; the canister was labeled “jumbo” oats.  I always look forward to my bowl of oatmeal in the morning because I can prepare it—or could prepare it, when I had more kitcheny amenities at my fingertips—a whole heckofalotta delicious ways.  I especially love to eat steel cut oats that have been cooked in the crockpot overnight.

So, naturally, I brought a mini-crockpot and four packages of steel cut oats with me to India for that specific purpose.  Last night, I decided that I would break open the first bag and treat myself.
“But what kind shall I make first?” I asked aloud, overwhelmed by my options, looking to the heavens for advice and guidance. 
APPLE CINNAMON!!!” the voice of God boomed back from above.  Unfortunately, I think He went off-duty after that command… maybe to make himself a bowl?  
Allow me to illustrate.


This is what a bowl of apple cinnamon crockpot oatmeal is supposed to look like (and always has looked like when I’ve made it in the past):                                                     
                                                                    


The ingenious person who posted the original recipe says, “It gets crusty around the edges. That's my favorite part. Great flavor right there. The finished dish tastes kind of like a combination of apple pie and oatmeal. Those brown bits mixed in are so yummy.”
I usually agree.  Except here in India, the crusty edges tasted a little different.  I’m not sure why.

Any ideas?

Perhaps because I couldn't differentiate the crusty edges from the charred entirety?  I don't know if you can tell, but that crockpot is totally totaled.
I think this highly-unfortunate food fail had less to do with the quality of my cooking skills and more to do with the quantity of electricity with which I was working.  Or maybe voltage.  Current?  I feel like at least one of those scary, undefinable words is the culprit.  Maybe I should read more words and numbers and stuff before I plug things into places.  Talk about a fire hazard.  If I die in India, I need a cool story to offset the tragedy.  Monkey attack?  Fine.  Falling off a cliff in a van filled with 50 other passengers?  I can accept it.  Cooking oatmeal?  No.  I might as well die of embarrassment.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t today’s only encounter with food of questionable edibility.
After school, I was a mosquito to a lantern, instinctively lured to the comforting glow of the Lyons Lounge coffeemaker.  But, when this metaphorical bug put her mug underneath the spout and eagerly pressed the espresso button…  a literal bug came shooting out. 
At first I thought it was a whole coffee bean.  And that maybe finding a whole coffee bean was a rare sign of good luck, akin to finding a four-leaf clover.  Or maybe this was the silver lining to my spoiled bowl of oatmeal.  Could I follow Jack’s lead and plant my own Beanstalk? 
Unfortunately, upon closer inspection, I found that the “coffee bean” had six legs and antennae.
It was not luck or magic, it was just India. 
So I did what any self-respecting caf-fiend would do, when faced with the disappointing alternatives of instant coffee or instant despondency.  I dumped out the bug, filled up my cup, and added some milk for good measure. 
Mmmm.  Coffee never tasted so good. 
I guess I now understand why various food items are labeled “hygienic.”  Apparently, everything has the potential to be contaminated.  Heck, everything probably is contaminated.  But it’s okay.  I’m a proud advocate of the 5(or 15)-second rule and can easily munch my way through a stray hair or two.  I figure what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.  Plus, I already almost killed myself with the most harmless food of all:  oatmeal.
What I kill first also makes me stronger.  Brace yourself for some shockingly impressive anecdotal evidence.
Yesterday, when I came home from school, I was greeted at the door by something tall, dark, and handso—er—hairy.  After a fleeting moment of flattery (this is the third of such gentleman callers I’ve recieved since I’ve moved in!), I went into full-on “fight or flight” mode.  However, instead of instinctively fleeing the scene, this time I bravely secured a can of bug spray (thank you, Preeti!) and reclaimed my rightful territory.  I ultimately won the battle, despite the defense strategies employed by the enemy camp. 
I feel like I’m turning into a full-fledged Julia of the Jungle.
But what’s that?  You need further evidence of my impressive survival skills?  Ask and you shall receive.

I killed this mother yesterday with my bare hands.  India is totally heightening my senses. 



Are you wondering who the person is behind the dead fly?


A rather ironic title, dontcha think?  I definitely touched that fly.









Kelly, one of the student teachers, witnessed my catlike reflexes in action; she can back up my story if you think it’s simply too amazing to be true.  She also taught me that some people can see sound in color.  It’s called synesthesia:  check it out.  Is your mind blown?  I know I’m still trying to put back the pieces of mine.
The other student teacher, Claire, taught me that 420 (“four-twenty”) has negative connotations in India that have less to with weed and more to do with wheedling… cheating people and such.  (Because of the way dates are written here, April 20th would be 20/4, anyway).  Kelly and Claire are fine, upstanding members of the Woodstock community.  I’ll miss them when they leave in a few months!

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Global soul

In my opinion, Tuesday habitually proves to be the slowest, most soul-crushing day of the week.  But this temporary condition is a small price to pay for the permanent impact of what Chris Anderson of TED talks refers to as a “global soul.”

The following article, which explains the importance of a global soul and extols places that cultivate this characteristic, has been circulating among my fellow Woodstock Facebookers today:
It outlines just a few reasons why my school is better than yours.
Damn right, it’s better than yours.
I can teach you, but I have to charge.
Seriously.  I recently found out that it costs more to attend one year at Woodstock than one year at Ohio University, though I guess many of our students receive generous grants.
Speaking of generous, Owen and Ashlea lent me their Arnica cream today and my foot looks nearly normal again!  Still trying to rest it for a few more days, but, thanks to Google’s hurdle game that took over the last hour of my life, at least my fingers got a workout today.
Record: 11.3

Monday, August 6, 2012

I like to move it, moov it

My goal, since starting this blog right before classes began, was to update daily... with a long post, short post, photograph, quotation, random musing… something.
However, I find that once I start writing a new post it’s difficult to stop.  I simply don’t have time to write an entire chapter every night, so tonight I will practice brevity.
Ankle update:


When I went to bed last night, I could barely put weight on my right foot.  Then, I woke up this morning to find that I was sort of miraculously healed.  The swelling was still there, but walking did not hurt at all!  I was completely relieved.  Still, I went to the health center during one of my free periods and Tara, the friend I was running with at the time of the unfortunate incident, bandaged me up.  She also gave me a tube of “moov,” a topical pain reliever for sprains and strains.  I find this name incredibly ironic.  “Moo” reminds me of a cow, but cows here are most certainly not expected to “moov” anywhere.  I have seen cows sleeping in the middle of the road, making two (and by two I mean, like, five) lanes of traffic swerve around them.  They should thank God they’re holy.
Also unlike a cow, “moov” smells wonderfully winterfreshy.  I’m sniffing the tube right now (shhhh).
Other Indian products are more amusing than aromatic.  For instance, when I went to the grocery yesterday, I was looking at various herbs and spices.  Many of the packages advertised the fact that their contents were “hygienic.”  Hmm.  If something is being sold in a semi-legitimate store, I’m going to assume that the product is hygienic, but you know what they say about the word “assume”…
It could make you sick.
If “hygienic” needs to be displayed as largely as the product name itself, I’m going to actively avoid purchasing that item.
On the other hand, here is an item that I would strongly consider purchasing solely because of its description:

Because honestly, I often find that I am dripping with so much desire for the Irish that I really need a place in which to contain it all.

Sunday, August 5, 2012

Extremes of pain and pleasure

I did end up running this morning, even though it was raining.

And so the story begins.

I probably wouldn’t have mustered up the willpower to go running by myself in the rain, but two other women were expecting me to run with them.  Small group exercise = accountability.
The run felt wonderful.  We went for about 4.5 miles (my Garmin watch still works in India!) at the top of the hill (the “chukkar”) where there aren’t too many sharp inclines.  The views were spectacular; it was surprisingly clear this morning, despite the rain.  I have really missed running and am planning on helping out with cross country practices at least a couple of times a week.  Also, there’s going to be a Mussoorie half-marathon sometime in November, I think.  It sounds really fun but also slightly terrifying.  We’ll see if I actually end up participating!
The run definitely lifted my spirits.  I was pretty down last night after I realized that Sunday was quickly approaching, and the rain didn’t help much, either.  Even though I can’t do much about the weather, I think a definite key to my happiness here—one that I can control—is staying busy (with stuff other than just schoolwork).  I don’t think that should be a problem… there seem to be many activities planned for staff.  There’s a hike scheduled for the 25th that I signed up for today!
At around noon, I walked back up to the grocery store at the top of the hill, where I ran earlier this morning.  I didn’t really need to buy anything, but it has been absolutely gorgeous all day and I wanted to take advantage of the weather. 
                                             ^ the grocery store

After I got back, ate lunch, and took a shower, I realized that my foot was starting to hurt.
Crap.
I forgot to mention that on the way home from my run, I was running/walking on a foresty path when I stepped on a rock and my ankle twisted upwards.  I felt an intense sharp pain, but it disappeared after a few seconds and I felt fine, continuing to run with no problem. 
Crap!!
It was at about this time that my awesome spider-killing neighbor called, asking if I wanted someone to come over to my apartment to give me a full-body massage.  I debated for a split-second; I was pretty sure that I had a sprained ankle, so would this be a good idea?  Then I quickly realized that a sprained ankle, 20 bee stings, a bleeding orifice, and a shark bite would not have stopped me from wanting a massage.
So I answered in the affirmative.
The person who appeared at my door was a woman.  I was intrigued to know how an Indian massage worked, since the country (and especially this community) is more modest than the standards to which I am accustomed.  I’m not supposed to show knees in public, so would I be asked to take off any articles of clothing in private?
To put it bluntly:  YES.
I was originally wearing sweatpants, a tank top, and a zip-up jacket.  The masseuse did not know much English, but it was enough to communicate.  I asked if I should take off my jacket and she said yes, and she motioned to my tank top as well.   Then, she started the massage.
On my face.
I must have inadvertently asked for a facial, in addition to the massage, somewhere along the line.  Gah!  Why is my life filled with such hardship?!  When she was done, she asked me to feel my face and take a look in the mirror.  I made a point of hobbling over to the mirror to make sure she knew my foot was hurt.  She definitely got the point.  Still, when she started in on the feet, she was kind of merciless.  I tried to grin and bear it, but at one point I definitely jerked in pain.  She let up on the right foot after that, probably afraid I was going to kick her.
Despite the language barrier, we were having a nice conversation.  She’s 28 years old and has been married for 12 years.
I’m going to stop and let you do the math.
If memory serves me correctly, I held a boy’s hand for the first time when I was 16.  It was a very big deal. 
She also has three children:  two boys and a girl.  I’m not quite sure why, but I felt kind of guilty when she asked if I was married.  No husband.  No children.  So basically, no responsibility (ha!), though we did bond over the fact that we are both “working women” J
Then it happened.
Boobage.
My own sister has never seen me so naked, so long.  I’ve had two massages in the U.S.  The first one involved sheeted nudity, and it was wonderful.  The second was a “medical massage,” so I was fully clothed, but the masseuse somehow thought it was appropriate to make awkward comments about my body as she massaged me.  Plus, it didn't feel that great.
Surprisingly enough, the massage I had today actually wasn’t that awkward.  More like gynecologist-awkward, when you don’t necessarily want to be so exposed, but you know she’s a professional and that she’s probably seen worse.  Plus, she probably had to squint to see ‘em, anyway.  It was like an extended breast exam… with sunflower oil.  Now that I know what to expect, I'd definitely do it again.
And yes, there is currently sunflower oil all over my body.
She first asked if I had olive oil.  I do not, but if I did, I would not waste it on the outside of my body.  That stuff is expensive here.  And by expensive, I mean probably comparable to its cost in the United States.  My mental conversion from dollars to rupees is starting to happen…
After 45 minutes, it was over.  I almost fell down when I got off the bed.  During the course of the massage, my foot got super-sore.  She told me to put ice on it.  So did Google.  I don’t have ice, but I do have frozen peas and I have been using them.  I’m curious to see what the situation is like in the morning… so much for helping with cross country this week L

Saturday, August 4, 2012

Dancing and Dosas

This morning marked my first lesson in Kathak dancing, a traditional north Indian dance that is used to tell a story.

On my way to my lesson, I finally got a photo op with some elusive langur monkeys.  There are two types of monkeys here: the langur and the rhesus.  Rhesus monkeys are big, bold, food-stealing bullies.  They are more prone to attack women and children (yes, literally attack), so it is advised to avoid eating while walking and to avert eye contact at all costs.  The langurs are a bit more classy.


There were only 3 of us in the 10-10:45 beginners’ class.  Turnout was probably low because of the rain.  Monsoon has definitely been making its presence more known in the past 24 hours.  Last night, on the way to dinner, water was cascading down the extensive set of stairs we were all trying to climb.  I felt like I was walking up a waterfall.  Or at least like I was in the game Jumanji. 

This morning, I felt like I was in an Indian Juilliard.  Our Kathak teacher is an older woman.  Her favorite catchphrase is, “If you go faster than my count, you are wrong.  If you go slower than my count, then that also is wrong.”  I now have a little bit of perspective on why students who come to Woodstock straight from an Indian school are a little scared of the teachers.  Our instructor is a very nice woman, don’t get me wrong, but she’s not afraid to call you out (“no, no, no, no, no!”) on your mistakes! 
I am so thankful that nearly-individualized dance instruction is only 300 rupees a month (approximately $5).  The school pays for the rest, probably classifying it as a type of professional development.  Cultural development?
After Kathak, I went into the bazaar with Melanie and Chris, a couple of other new staff members.  I was in dire need of some fruits and veggies.  Luckily, there’s a stand (or 25) for that.  I bought all of the following for lesson than $4:
(Potatoes, beets, carrots, peppers, tomatoes, cauliflower, mangoes, bananas... and a coconut.  I’m hoping to give coconut butter another go tomorrow.)
While buying this scrumptiousness is easy enough, eating it poses a particular challenge.  Fresh produce needs to be washed with a potassium permanganate solution before it can be eaten raw, which is an annoyingly inconvenient process that I’m still a little confused about.  Sautéing the vegetables eliminates the need for washing, but I miss the crunchiness!  Also, lettuce is hard to come by L  I haven’t haggled for anything yet.  That, in addition to the assumed “skin tax” imposed on Westerners, means I was probably overcharged for the veggies.  I think I’m okay with that.
Buying something here is always an adventure.  I purchased a green and pink salwar kameez during one of my first trips into the bazaar.  I really had no intention of purchasing clothing right then, but the tailor was a smooth-talking, chai-providing mastermind of retail.  I really like the outfit, though.  The pants are like genie pants.  I could gain 80 pounds and they would still fit.  I’ll wear it to school on August 15th—India’s Independence Day.  There are no classes, but everyone wears traditional Indian dress (or traditional dress from their nation of origin) and celebrates with various activities at the school.
Another shopping experience of note was when I bought my food processor.  I was debating between a full-fledged processor and a simpler (and less expensive) mixer/grinder.  The store clerk said that he had the same mixer/grinder at home, and that it was very sturdy.  Unbreakable, actually.  (When he said that, my mind immediately quoted Titanic—“Unsinkable!  God himself could not sink this ship!”)  As if he sensed that I didn’t believe him, he proceeded to take the mixer/grinder out of its box, set it on the floor, and stand on it. 
Both feet. 
We’re talking entire body weight.
I thought that the clerk had lost his marbles, but looking back, I now realize his brilliance.  I did not buy the mixer/grinder (partially out of fear that it was now damaged… and because it had feet on it) but I did end up buying the more expensive product.  What a trickster. 
From the grocery store (yes, the grocery store), I purchased a set of “fine quality Indian razors” that looked an awful lot like disposable razors to my untrained eye.  Upon taking them home and testing one out, I can confirm that they are, indeed, regular disposable razors.  I have many blades here, but forgot my actual razor at home!  There will need to be a care package in my near future. 
But anyway,
While in the bazaar today, the three of us stopped at Madras, a South Indian restaurant specializing in dosas.  I ordered an onion/tomato/coconut masala dosa and it was fantastic.  Interestingly enough, the entire menu was vegetarian.  It didn’t even advertise this fact on the outside of the restaurant or on the menu, that’s how common veg food is here.  Sometimes all the lunch options at school are veg, too!  Interesting fact:  while "vegetarian" in the United States generally means that you can eat eggs and dairy, "vegetarian" in India means you can eat dairy but no eggs.

On my way back from the bazaar, I met a couple of senior school boys on the road.  They don’t even have me as a teacher, but they quickly offered to help me carry my bags.  Isn’t that sweet?  Once I got home, I crashed.  Going into the bazaar is tiring.  Plus, the rain had started back up again.  It’s still going strong.  I hope it lets up by tomorrow morning!  I want to go on a run.
(So much for planning today!)

Friday, August 3, 2012

TGIF

I can sum up last night’s dinner with two (or three?) words: feta-stuffed bread.  Pair that with tonight’s description—hot custard & ice cream sundaes—and it’s safe to say that I’m one happy and overly-indulged girl.

Perhaps even more exciting than dinner is the fact that I have officially survived my first “week” (3 days) of teaching!  The next two days will definitely be filled with extensive plannage.  Luckily, each class period is only 45 minutes long, whereas I’m used to planning out 80-minute blocks of time.
I also need to work on learning students’ names over the weekend.  This will be an incredibly difficult task.  It’s hard enough to memorize names that I’m familiar with, but the names of my new students are so… well… foreign.  Yesterday, I had each student write his/her name very largely on a piece of notebook paper.  Then, I used my camera to take a video:  each student held up the name tag and read it aloud, and I repeated it.  I think it will be a helpful study tool, though I wonder how many times I’ll have to watch the videos for the names to really sink in!
This weekend is also the first one for which I have no specific plans (granted, it’s only my third weekend here).  The first weekend, my “buddies” took me to Dehradun—the bigger city about an hour down the mountain—to go shopping, see The Dark Knight Rises, and eat at Pizza Hut!  Each new staff member was assigned a buddy (or, in my case, a married couple of buddies) to answer questions and just generally show us the ropes.  I was clearly paired up with some awesome people! 
Last weekend, I went to Dehradun again with a larger group of new staff members.  While there went to a couple of grocery stores (oh, how I miss Kroger!), KKM (a handweaving center that employs/aids people with leprosy), the Utensil’s Store (yes, the apostrophe is present on the store’s sign; apparently, one very powerful utensil owns the whole place… I’m envisioning a large cleaver that physically threatens its employees), FabIndia (organic whole wheat pasta, anyone?!), and a women’s clothing store.  The clothing store was fairly pricey (hmm...according to Word, "pricey" and "pricy" are both correct!), but everything just so happened to be 40% off.  I bought this little number, which I wore today:

Yeah, I actually thought for a second about changing back into it just to take a picture.  HA.  I will enthusiastically share the fact that the pants (which are like skinny sweatpants) are actually long enough for me!  Figures, I go to a country where I can’t buy shoes that are big enough, but I can buy pants that are long enough.
Speaking of pants, I almost shit mine the other night. 
I really hope you appreciate that effortlessly seamless transition.
I went downstairs to get a snack.  A spoonful of peanut butter, to be exact—I’ve had crazy peanut butter cravings since I’ve been here.  But there, strategically blocking my entrance to the kitchen, was the granddaddy of all spiders.  I just stood there gaping for a few minutes, then finally grew some balls, grabbed a bucket, and attacked.  Not quick enough.  Or was I?  The outcome of the brief and bloodless battle remained unclear, so I just let the bucket sit and retreated back to my room, sans peanut butter… full of terror, but with an empty tummy.
This made me think, what an effective (albeit extreme) dieting strategy!  If I could patent and market this idea somehow, I would make millions.  Trillions.  It goes a little something like this:
Step 1: After dinner, let a harmless, yet gargantuan, spiderbeast loose in the kitchen and shut the door.
Do you still get a snack? 
Step 2: Send in another larger, poisonous spider the next night.
Do you still get a snack?  Really?
Step 3: You die fairly quickly—either from a spider bite or a massive heart attack, whichever comes first. 
There is no step 4.
The only way I can see someone getting to step 3, though, is if they’re a) a skilled spider trainer, b) a vampire, or c) a person who has been living in solitary confinement since birth, hopelessly seeking out the company of anything with a heartbeat.  But for the rest of the world, this is pretty much a one-size-fits-all solution to weight loss woes.  Bahahaha.
But I digress.  Are you wondering what happened to the questionably-bucketed arachnid?  My neighbor heard of my predicament and was nice enough to come over to check my bucket with me.  But before we tended to the bucket, “we” had to deal with another bloodcurdling spider that was, once again, smack dab in the middle of the kitchen.  My neighbor is much braver than me, and she charged at it with a broom while I stood away, tiptoeing back and forth and waving my arms in tight little circles like a penguin frantically trying to fly.  Clearly, I was an integral part of the process.  After that intruder was flushed, we went back for the one beneath the bucket… which wasn’t actually there.  I hope beyond hope that the one she killed was the same one from my original faceoff. 
But to end this post on a more positive note… my spirits were definitely lifted today at lunch, when another teacher told me that a student who was in the health center said she was feeling better specifically so she could go to her “favorite class”:  English 7 with Ms. Julia J  Probably the highlight of my time here so far!  I hope I can maintain that same enthusiasm throughout the year.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Making the news

Some of you may want me to shed some light on the recent power outage in northern India. 

Get it?
Shed some light?
Well, I can’t really, because I didn’t actually experience the turmoil.  But here’s some information, all the same:



Luckily, Woodstock has generators (in the school as well as my apartment) that keep the power supply relatively stable.  While lights still flicker on and off quite frequently, I’ve never experienced an outage that lasted for more than a minute or so.  Other staff members are not fortunate enough to be on the generator and have lost power for hours, but I still feel like I’m part of history; I can truthfully say that I survived “the world’s biggest-ever power outage.”  Even if the power were lost everywhere in Mussoorie, though, it wouldn’t be as devastating as in New Delhi.  The weather is very comfortable up in the mountains so air conditioning isn't necessary, and there aren’t any trains or other electronically-dependent transportation networks (that I’m aware of, at least).
Speaking of weather, I feel like I need to describe the monsoon season.  Apparently, this year’s monsoon is unseasonably mild.  While I certainly don’t mind it now, apparently the farmers will suffer come next year… and I mean seriously suffer:
Monsoon season will end sometime in September, and I am very excited for the change.  Not only will I have freer hands (you have to carry an umbrella everywhere, just in case), I will be able to see!  Occasionally, the air clears up and the views are spectacular, but oftentimes the mountain is just literally encased in cloud.  One night I had a beautiful view out my bedroom window, but I saw a cloud rolling in… two minutes later, I could barely see two feet in front of me.
Perhaps the worst part of the monsoon is the bugs that it brings.  I’ve already posted this molting spider on Facebook, but now that I’ve got my blog rolling I’ll share the joy on here as well.

If I’m going to have monstrous spiders living in my house, they might as well perform tricks for me before they die, I guess.
Other creatures to watch out for include leeches (I should be carrying a canister of salt) and scorpions.  I always shake out my clothes and shoes before I put them on, and you’d better believe that I check behind my pillow at night.  The creepy crawly creature situation here is similar to what I experienced in Ghana.  I knew that the multi-legged beasts were always there, lurking, and taking over the house at night… but actual encounters were relatively infrequent.  Once the monsoon goes away, most of the bugs will too, I take it.
The list of further comparisons between Ghana and India is quite extensive.  Just to name a few:  the shopping areas and “grocery stores,” the poverty, the public urination (so many penises), the massive amounts of rice, the tailors and their beautiful clothing, the ridiculously skilled taxi drivers, the requisite haggling, the billboards and Vodafone logo plastered everywhere, the blatant staring (although definitely not as bad here as in Ghana), and even the general smell.  If I were in Ghana, blindfolded and spun around ten times, and the wild lizards were quickly switched out for mountain-dwelling maniacal monkeys, you might be able to convince me I was in India.  I feel like my current situation is a sort of middle ground between my experiences in Ghana and Ecuador.  The school and students are definitely more similar to Colegio Americano, but my general lifestyle, my home, and my access to Western luxuries mirrors my time spent in Ghana.
I think I made the right choice coming here.
I’m going to try to get some planning done here in the staff lounge before heading over to the principal’s house for dinner… see what I mean about the sense of community?  Another family is having a buffet for new staff tomorrow night.  No cooking two nights in a row… whoo!! 
I can’t believe I’m actually excited about not having to cook. 
I love cooking. 
Identity crisis. 
Culinary Jeckyll and Hyde. 
It’s just so difficult to cook here, what with buying food in bags without labels and having only the two-burner countertop gas stove to work with.  It’s a tricky instrument.  I did splurge on a food processor this past weekend.  It took precedence over a television and a microwave and an oven.  I attempted to use it to make coconut butter a few days ago…

Why is coconut meat so antisocial?  It took about an hour to get this puppy open, and I almost lost a thumb in the process.  I didn’t get a buttery consistency because I probably wasn’t patient enough, and I didn’t want to burn out the food processor.  I must slowly begin to test its limits.

Final thought of the day:  India is funny.
Want proof?





Disregarding the redundancy of the colon and the dash, fairly normal, right?



Wait for it…








India is funny.