The Good, the Wet, and the Ugly Tent

Looking back at previous entries, I realize that my blog posts tend to focus on the negative.  

I'm usually a moderately positive person, but it's so much more fun to write (and, I'm assuming, to read), about the occasional misfortunes that occur in a foreign land than the everyday successes.  So, when describing the happenings of Activity Week, I choose to forego lengthy descriptions of beautiful scenery.  I will not elaborate on the life lessons learned or the relationships formed.  Instead, I'd like you to meet the tent that Christina, a fellow staff member, and I shared during out week-long sojourn into the Himalayas:

Believe it or not, this was a brand new tent that Christina and I had the privilege of testing out for the outdoor education center.  For most of the week, the tent was a nuisance at best.  But on the last night, in the rain, it became a downright enemy.  

The following account chronicles that fateful night in a godforsaken structural nightmare. 

 4:00- Arrive at “camp,” what we call the weedy patch of uneven land on which we set up our “tent.”  Frantically, in the rain.

4:15- Drag our muddy packs into the tent, set them in the middle (presumably, the driest) area.  Promptly move them onto our sleeping mats (aka, life rafts) to avoid the puddle forming between our two bodies.

4:22- Stop staring around in shock and terror and begin to laugh.  A lot.

4:25- Detect random orange phantom just outside our tent, shuffling its way to front flap.  Assume the phantom is digging a trench/moat.  Still not sure.

4:26- Begin to bail water out of tent.

4:30- Break out the emergency chocolate.  Discover that Cadbury fruit ‘n nut bars contain "apricot kernels."  Ponder what this means.

4:35- Rain appears to let up.

4:36- Rain resumes.

4:40- Conduct interview with Christina to capture her pure, unadulterated hatred toward the tent.
**see below for full transcript of tent interview**

4:50- Chai is served.  Desperately shove our mugs outside the tent flap, thus surprising, and almost wounding, the man with the teapot.  We are unashamed.

4:51- Begin to zip up tent, but catch a glimpse of a cookie tray.  Mutter “snacks?” under my breath, as it may be a mirage, but Christina overhears and thrusts bowl outside of flap.  Given some snacks that smell of sulfur, along with an uneven amount of cookies.  Is this a cruel social experiment?

4:55- Christina decides it’s time to open the umbrella –inside the tent.  We are not concerned about bad luck; things cannot get worse.

5:00- Things get worse.  Must venture outside to relieve ourselves, within view of camp. 

5:15- Return to camp and have soup.  Spirits are lifted, bladders are light.  Discuss what shape, if any, best describes our tent.

5:30- Return to tent.  Realize zipper is broken as Owen points out some ominous rain clouds to students.

5:35- Zipper tentatively fixed.

5:45- Owen delivers object to raise pole in our tent.  Unsure whether extreme happiness is a result of object’s success or fumes emanating from object.  Object is a kerosene tank.  Question safety of kerosene tank while Owen goes MacGyver on our tent.

6:00- After psychologically-induced headaches and hallucinations, Christina changes out kerosene tank for drinking mug.  She sacrifices her own.

6:30- Owen finishes pimping out our tent.  Not pimping in our tent (just to clarify).

6:31- Storm appears.  So does Owen.

6:40- Dinner appears.  Maggi.

6:50- “Sweeties” appear.  Are they coated in rum?  Should we be concerned?  Eat sweeties.

7:00- Question whether it’s too early to go to sleep.

7:17- Owen declares tent an official geometric shape.

7:18- Guide asks if anyone in tent wants hot chocolate.  Ask for two mugs; one mug is supporting our very lives.  Hot chocolate ETA: 20 minutes.  Depressed, Christina begins to slumber.

8:15- Hot chocolate arrives.  Tastes like warm powdered milk.  Owen departs.  Realize I’ve been sitting in water for the past hour.  Change into shorts and two pairs of wool socks.  Bedtime.

**TENT INTERVIEW**

With Christina Gittings, amateur tent expert

Q: If you could sum up your total tenting experience in 3 words, what would they be?

A: Widens eyes at the depth of the question.  Droopy.  Makes guttural noise.  Wet.  At a loss for words as she looks around.  Flatbutt.

Q: In your mind what are the primary aims/purposes of a week-long trekking tent?

A: It should store goods and people in a dry and comfortable space. 

Q: And did this tent meet those aims?

A: It stored people and goods.  Break for laughter.  It’s like I can’t look anywhere without being disgusted by this thing!  Break for tent repair.

Q: Do you think this tent is an introvert or an extrovert?

A: I would say an introvert all the way.  When I ask it all of my questions (Why don’t you keep me dry?  What shape are you supposed to be?  Why is the bottom absorbing moisture?) it just doesn’t respond.  I’ve also noticed it likes to keep things on the inside rather than on the outside.

Q: What is the best feature of this tent?

A: Just off the cuff, I would say the best feature is the tent peg you found at the campsite that didn’t actually belong to the tent.  It was much sturdier than the original pegs. 

Best feature when raining: the everpresent misting effect.

Best feature when dry: its ability to create condensation when there is none!

Best feature when cold: the way the inner net sags, like a pseudo-blanket.

Q: What is the worst feature of this tent?  Choose wisely.

A: The pole.  There’s rubber on one end, which initially makes it seem really hardcore.  But it’s not long enough and it doesn’t go in the middle of the tent.  Maybe this isn’t the worst feature, but it’s definitely the most puzzling.

Q: Would you wish for your worst enemy to stay in this tent?

A: Maybe on a dry night.  On a rainy night, I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

rain, urine, tears... it's all the same in the wild.

an expression of terror mixed with relief

Silk... Stupas... Sex School?

Within 24 hours of my arrival in Varanasi, I found myself in a cyber café, typing an email for another new “friend” named Baboo, who sold silks.  We were responding to a potential buyer from Estonia.  Baboo’s original message read as if a chipmunk had been exercising on the keyboard, so I talked with him for a while and then tweaked his original email for clarity and overall professionalism. 

Which makes me wonder… did I do a justice for Baboo by making his actual meaning better understood, or did I do an injustice to the buyer by presenting the silk products through a false voice?  Or did I do both simultaneously, essentially cancelling out the karmic results?  I know that I would be much more likely to buy silk/pashmina from someone with impeccable English than someone with a limited command.  Is this just because of the ease and clarity of the resulting communication, or some prejudice running much deeper?
 

After talking to Baboo at length about his silks, I realized that he didn’t really know a whole lot about them.  He just kept repeating “export quality” and “100% pure” and “promise, promise, friend.”  I eventually found out that there are two types of silk—thick and thin—and that they cost the same.  I knew that Mr. Estonia was going to wonder why one was thick and one was thin, and why there was no price difference, but I also knew Baboo couldn’t provide a satisfactory answer.  After clearing the final draft with Baboo and pressing “send,” he treated me to a dosa and chai. 

The next day, he also gave me a free boat ride along the Ganges. 

The most interesting part of the tour was the burning ghat, remarkably close to where I was staying, where photography was strictly forbidden.  We stopped right in front of the burning ghat for at least 10 minutes, while most other boats just floated slowly by.  This is what I learned:

The male head of the household is responsible for actually setting the body on fire.  These men were visible because they had shaved heads and wore white, toga-like attire.  Baboo said women stay at home during the process because they are “too emotional.”  He earnestly believed that women become so overcome with grief that they throw themselves into the flames with their husbands, completely oblivious that only a very rare, cracked nut would do something like that on their own accord. 

Baboo said it takes about three hours for a body to burn and that the family stands and watches the entire time before letting the ashes free on the Ganga.  Certain types of bodies, including those of children, pregnant women, Untouchables (those below the caste system), and holy men, are not allowed to be burned, so they are dropped directly into the Ganga.

Baboo admitted that the Ganga is his “mother,” but he will not bathe in it because of all the pollution.  And “pollution” is almost euphemistic—the water is literally septic.  Ironically, Baboo had to take a pee break in the middle of the rowing.

Yes, he took a piss on his mother.

Afterwards, he confessed that it was very bad for his karma and he asked for forgiveness (from the water, of course, not me).  Bodily functions are not excused here, they are simply accepted.  And so I watched the nightly puja amidst a cacophony of middle-aged-man-farts.  Thank you, Baboo, for making the moment magical.

The next, and last, day of vacation, I took a day trip to Sarnath, an important site along the Buddhist pilgrimage circuit.  It was very peaceful and relaxing.  I visited a museum full of paraphernalia that predated the birth of Christ.  I couldn’t take pictures, but one thing the most interesting part of the museum was the Buddha Room, which was entirely filled with various sculptures of Buddha.  It wasn’t so much the sculptures that intrigued me, but the group of Buddhists that came in and—er, interacted—with the statues.  They had prayer beads in their hands and bowed before each and every statue, rubbing the beads on and putting their hands all over these phenomenally old relics.  One of the museum guards said something to them, but he didn’t say it very forcefully and they didn’t really listen.  I thought it was interesting how quickly they hurried through the museum.  They didn’t read the plaques; they just paid reverence and went on their way… probably on to the Dhamekh Stupa, where Buddha preached his first sermon. 

I was so upset I couldn't put foil on stuff.

Back in Varanasi, I said goodbye to dear old Baboo.  We ate dinner together and he “gifted” me a sari, which served me well for both graduation and Independence Day.

A few months later, he added me on Facebook.  Guess which prestigious school he attended?

"Sex school."

Friend request denied.

bathing in the Ganges

Creepy poster in the room I stayed in.

"I can't imagine Monsieur Monet blushing"/"He does landscapes"

(If you don't understand the title's quotation, get offa my blog.  Just go.)

After my parents left, I hit up three more cities—Khajuraho, Allahabad, and Varanasi—before returning back to Mussoorie for the second semester.

To begin with, I would like to extend a hearty “fuck you” to 99% of the men I encountered in Khajuraho.

Now, I’ve been waiting to unleash the f-bomb for a while now, but this is a perfectly punny time to do so.

Get it?  Khajuraho is known for its erotic temple carvings, dating back to 950 AD.  

I overheard a guide nonchalantly say, "The soldiers were away from home so  they used animals instead of wives."  Sure.  NBD.

Glad I didn't take my parents here.

Fittingly, the male population I encountered there was particularly seedy.  In fact, I changed guesthouses three times in order to avoid certain shady characters.  I also faked a death in the family.  It was not my proudest moment.

At the second guesthouse, I thought I made friends with the cook, who taught me some Hindi while I was sitting on the balcony.  After a while, he invited me to his house for dinner.  He lived with his mother and two sisters—totally normal for an unmarried man, even grown as he was—and he called his mother for permission.  I could pick up enough of the conversation, on both ends, to know that it was a legit invitation. 

Later that night, he took me on the back of his motorbike to his house, just about a 10-minute drive away.  His mother and youngest sister were very warm and welcoming.  His other sister (younger than me, but with a toddler on her hip) looked at me suspiciously.  I felt a bit silly.

I felt even sillier when, after the food was finished, I was ushered into a separate room with CB (Cooking Buddy) while his mother prepared roti.  With a smile, he unveiled the oh-so-American appetizers: pizza and beer.  I thought it was bit odd that beer would be served in a rural Hindu home, and I didn’t partake—primarily because I would rather drink my own urine than ingest beer, regardless of the location or company present.

CB insisted on documenting our dinner with my camera.

Do you see how, in those photos, the contents of his beer mug are rapidly depleting while mine remains full?  Though he was pretty relentless about getting me to drink, he ended up drinking enough for the both of us. 

And then driving me home, while swerving and cackling like a maniac as my arms were pinned around his waist.

Prior to getting back on his motorbike, CB got a call from his boss.  Apparently, he was missing work in order to cook me dinner at his home; the guesthouse was left without a chef.  I also witnessed a weird interaction between CB and his mother before we left.  She seemed angry.  Back at the guesthouse, he told me that it was because she found the beer bottles in the trash.  He told her that I brought them.

After that, I changed hotels and, as soon as possible, cities.

I hopped onto a train to Allahabad, where I had planned to stay a couple of days in order to see the beginning of the Kumbh Mela.  Holy Cow, a travel memoir by Sarah Macdonald, does a good job of explaining the origin of this once-every-twelve-years festival:

“Once upon a time in a Hindu legend the Devas (the gods of heaven responsible for sun, wind, rain and fire) were weakened by a curse.  They cooperated with the demons to stir the cosmic ocean of existence and from the milky depths a pot, or a kumbh, containing amrit, the nectar of immortality, emerged.  The Devas decided they didn’t want to share with the demons and a chase across the heavens began.  During the battle (equivalent to twelve human years) four drops of nectar fell to earth and at each spot they landed, the Kumbh Mela is celebrated.  Allahabad is the most special of places because here the three holy rivers of Hinduism meet—the Ganges, the Yamuna and the mythical Saraswati.  So, every twelve years this town hosts the Maha Kumbh Mela, literally translated as ‘The Big Post Festival.’”

I did not stay a couple of days in Allahabad because it was absolutely overrun by pilgrims.  A completely shady hotel room with a bathroom pit in the corner would have run me $100/night.  So, I decided to lug my backpack and sleeping bag onto a bicycle rickshaw.  I told the driver I wanted to go to Sangam—the name of the holy meeting of the three rivers—before he threw back his head and gave a cackle that was frighteningly similar to CB’s.  Then he started pedaling.  Every time I asked a question—how long?  how much?—he would turn around, laugh, and pat my face as if I were a puppy. 

Once I got to the shore of the river, I needed to get onto a boat that would paddle to the rivers’ meeting point.  Here, I encountered an uncomfortable Catch-22.  Should I join a boat full of people going out to Sangam and risk inadvertently mocking their beliefs or devaluing their experience?  Should I get my own boat and risk appearing like I’m too good to share a boat, or insulting people who would like to go to Sangam but didn’t have the money to purchase even one seat?

I ended up taking my own boat.

Sangam- the water changed color at the meeting point

a very crowded shoreline

fellow boaters

Just a few hours after arriving in Allahabad, after seeing what I had gone there to see, I found a bus on its way to Varanasi.

Meet the Parents

This is my dad, Jack “JR” Schroeder.

 He is a *now-retired* math teacher who, rather ironically, rejects all laws of logic and probability by being an avid Cleveland Browns fan.  My dad doesn’t like heights, spelling, or artificial watermelon flavor.  He enjoys camping and using technology, but not using technology while camping.

This is my mom, Jana “Cutiepatootie” Schroeder.

She is a teacher of gifted students who has unfortunately called our dog, Sophie, “gifted” on more than one occasion.  My mom is also a Browns fan, but one who is fine with heights, excellent with spelling, ambivalent toward camping, and ignorant about technology. I don’t know her opinions on artificial watermelon flavor.

A clear case of Opposites Attract.

Something that my parents have in common, however, is extreme generosity.  To the point that, even though it’s my mom’s dream to go to France, she and my dad chose to send my sister, myself, and my brother to Europe on high school trips rather than taking a trip somewhere themselves.  In fact, my parents had never been out of the country until coming to India.  Key words: until coming to India.  I was a little nervous and a lot excited for their visit.  But all my nerves were for naught.  They maneuvered the bazaars like pros.  They traveled in sleeper class without batting an eye.  They toured six cities—via train, taxi, metro, auto-rickshaw, and cycle-rickshaw—in less than two weeks.

In short, my parents were rock stars.

So it makes sense, then, that after hanging out in Mussoorie for a few days, we headed to Rishikesh, primarily to see the ashram where the Beatles stayed with the Maharishi in the late ‘60s.  It was extremely difficult to find, which started us off on a bad foot with our hired asshat of a driver, but it was worth it:

The man in the last picture was our “guide.”  He just popped in at some point along the way, and it wasn’t until we had finished going through the deserted buildings that we realized that he had, indeed, guided us; he was that good.  We paid him a mandatory tip and, after he approved the amount, were allowed to leave the gated entrance area.  Apparently, all he needed was love… and some rupees.  Ha. Ha.

Speaking of love, the Taj Mahal.  The most lovely love story of all time, blah blah blah.  For any man out that that may possibly love me in the future, please don’t build me a monument/mansion/palace after I die.  It’s almost like saying, “Nananabooboo, you can’t live here.  Get it?  You’re dead.”  Give a nice speech at my funeral and have a nice cry.  Like I did.  In public.  I try not to make a habit of crying in public, but sometimes one just cannot help it.  This was one of those times.

The Fog Mahal… how “Agra”vating!

Luckily, elephants make everything better.  With this in mind, we made our way to Jaipur and my parents rode up to the Amber Fort on these beautiful creatures.  Remember what I said about my dad being afraid of heights?  Photo proof:

And, as if that wasn’t enough interaction with exotic beasts of burden, we also traveled to Jaisalmer and rode some camels through the sand dunes.  This time, it was my mom’s turn to freak out on top of an animal and almost cry in public.  Apparently, her groins are not what they used to be.

This was an overnight trip, so after riding the camels we camped out for the night on three cots inside of one big tent.  I was in the middle, with my mom’s cot on my right and my dad’s cot on my left.  Things were good.  Things were cozy.  Things were snug.

Then, things got a little snugger.

Something had jumped onto my legs.  It was not big enough to be a human, but it was not small enough for me not to be scared.  Dad was already snoring, so I managed to squeak out a quick, “Mom?”  Silence.  For the first time in my life, my mom was sound asleep while I was wide awake.  And it just so happened that this was also the first time I had a wild animal on my legs.  I assessed the situation as best I could (What is it?  I don’t know!), succumbed to my ignorance, and fell asleep. 

The next morning, this little guy was curled up on my feet:

It must have made mom miss Sophie, because the next day, my mom and dad were on a flight back to the United States.

Udaipurfection

Tomorrow, I shall depart on an epic trek into the Himalayas with a group of students, directly followed by a blissful retreat (?) in Kolkata with a great friend.

In two weeks, I shall have many new experiences about which to blog. 

But first, I shall turn back time and finish recounting last year’s winter break adventures.  Finally.

After my stay in Jodhpur (superfluous spice shops, majestic fort, ziplining ... remember?), I hopped on yet another bus:  to Udaipur.  It was a long ride, but a beautiful one, through stretches of protected forestland.  I sat next to a man who was obviously very proud of his country and peppered the journey with interesting facts and anecdotes about the surrounding countryside.  Just as interesting, however, is the fact that I didn’t know this man spoke English until halfway through the bus trip.  He was visibly becoming more and more frustrated by the heavy-handed, horn-blowing driver, until he finally turned to me and exhaled, “This is the real India.”

I got another glimpse into the “real India” once in Udaipur.  I stayed at a guesthouse called Dream Heaven.  I wouldn’t necessarily call it “dreamy” and it was a far cry from heaven, but the kitchen could cook up a mean pasta.  The bed was also pretty magnificent.  

But the best meal—and best experience, in general—was with Vidhaya, a woman who ran a small shop right next to the guesthouse.  I stopped there my first night to pick up some hygiene essentials, and she invited me to stay for a while and watch TV on a small set suspended in the corner of the shop.  I did.  We watched some sort of singing competition between India and Pakistan.  Like American Idol, but fueled by an I-hate-your-country twist.  Brilliant.  This became a nightly ritual and, as weird and cheesy as this may sound, I felt a real connection with this woman.  Like, if in another life we were born in the same country and shared a common language, we would be great friends.

Vidhaya dressed me up.  But the question remains: did she purposely make me pose next to the "tourist" box?

My last morning in Udaipur, Vidhaya asked for the names of my favorite Indian food and Indian sweet (answer: bhindi masala and gulab jamun, respectively).  Then, she invited me over for dinner that night and said she would prepare my chosen dishes.  I offered to help cook, so at 4 pm I showed up at her apartment, which was located right above her shop.  We spent the next four hours prepping a variety of food, even though Vidhaya ultimately didn’t eat any of it because she was fasting.  Apparently, Vidhaya fasts twice a month, whereas her mother fasts once a week.  For the occasion, she made a special “fasting food,” which seemed like a complete oxymoron.  It looked like circular puffed rice, but tasted kind of like the little pasta pieces in Campbell’s Italian Wedding soup.  Not bad for non-food.

I asked Vidhaya if she had any interest in starting up a cooking course and she reacted in a strongly negative way, which made me feel even more honored to be invited into her home—I wasn’t just a practice dummy.  I was impressed that Vidhaya wasn’t jumping onto the cooking class bandwagon in Udaipur—there were signs on every restaurant, every guesthouse, advertising lessons—although, Vidhaya’s house wouldn't really lend itself to such business.  All of the food preparation and consumption was done on the kitchen floor due to limited counter space, and the menfolk ate in another area of the house. 

So it was me, Vidhaya, her daughters, and her mother-in-law on the floor.  Vidhaya’s youngest daughter whispered something to her mother in unusually shy Hindi, and Vidhaya asked if her daughter could eat with me.  Adorable.  Then Vidhaya got out a big thali plate and urged me to spoon out samples from each of the serving bowls before topping off my plate with a steaming chapatti.  Then, Vidhaya’s daughter sat down next to me and began to eat off the same plate.  Having a random 7-year-old tear pieces off my roti was—here comes the weird cheesiness again— probably the most intimate moment I’d had with anyone in India at that point.

Except for maybe that time when I taught my 7^th grade female students how to pee outside.  But that’s a different story.

Even though I loved feeling so welcomed by a family in Udaipur, Vidhaya’s kindness made me pretty homesick.  But the homesickness couldn't have come at a better time—MY PARENTS WERE COMING!

AF 226: Landed

                                          To be continued... within a few hours.