The night after India Semester at Sea students sat in the Union (our giant lecture hall) for two hours and listened to each other’s stories. Students spoke of homestay visits with the upper class. Some spoke of rickshaw drivers who became friends, and some of us, like me, discussed the moments that made us weak. When I think back over my five days in India, it is difficult to summarize. Back on the ship, it’s easy to for friends to say, “How was India?” I still can’t answer. How was India? It was hot and humid. It smelled like oil and feces, but also like saffron and bananas. It was dark corners and rows of shacks and blanket covered bodies sleeping on the streets. It was bright with fabric – colors everywhere – a true sensory overload. It was a land of laughter – my friends and I struggling to eat rice and curry with just our right hands and buses full of Indians waving wildly when they see the foreigners in a bus next to them. It was a land of hunger and distrust. Children forced to beg, and we couldn’t give to them, because we knew that any food or money would probably not remain in their tiny hands. In India, I must have seen hundreds of temples (it’s a land of over a million gods) but the only thing that mattered to me was two of those structures and the people, who were everywhere. How was India? It was life to the extreme. It was a lesson in how people are living and what is not being done. It was a lesson in morality, or more blatantly, a lack thereof. They say that India changes a person. The best and worst thing about India is that the statement is no exaggeration.
Apologies for any odd errors in this - I'm arriving in Thailand tomorrow morning and am too tired to proofread at this point.
Day 1: I’d signed up with my friends Andrea and Katie to do the city orientation at 1pm. We arrived at 9:30am, so we decided to go explore. We stepped off the ship for our first day in Asia. We were immediately immersed in stench. There was oil spilled on the road, and trash everywhere. We were bombarded by men driving Tuk Tuk bicycles with room for two in back. Still unsure of our surroundings, we chose to walk the 20 minutes to port gate. Outside of it, once again drivers surround us, this time for rickshaws, which are best compared to golf carts with faster motors. We bargained a price (that was still 4x what locals pay) and hopped in with the driver who had a Gnash (the Hindu God with an elephant nose – son of Vishnu, the most important God) sticker on the window. Riding in a rickshaw felt like a real life Frogger, for those of you who remember that game. The three girls squished into the backseat and Aaron sat up front with the driver. He tried to talk to our driver, but the driver never said much, until about ten minutes into the ride, when he announced that his wife and two children had been killed in the tsunami. We were unsure what to make of this remark. We’d been warned that people would say anything for more money, but you never really know. I wanted to not believe him. Maybe that was just the easier thing to do. We went on to buy clothes that were conservative but still breezy enough for the Indian summer. After a brief lunch of chicken tandori sandwiches, we headed back to meet our tour.
Our tour took us to the majority of sites of interest in Chennai. The only one of western significance was the Church of St. Thomas. Although only three percent of India is Christian, this church supposedly holds the bones of the apostle Thomas. It is one of the three churches in the world that claims to have the bones of an apostle. After our sightseeing, we went to the home of a friend of our guide. Her husband wrote lyrics for Bollywood, and they were upper class in India. The house was unlike anything I’d seen before. Downstairs was very plain, and a man sat, watching us take our shoes to enter. It is Indian tradition that each morning women wake up and create a design in colored rice flour in front of their homes. They joke and say that it is their exercise. The designs pay homage to the gods and (intentionally) feed the small bugs. In some homes like this one, designs had even been done in interior doorways. They feed the ants, which live quite happily in an Indian household. The home had tall ceilings to help in air circulation, but was still quite bare. They also had an area specifically for praying within the home. After an Indian music and dance performance, we were interviewed by TV and magazine crews about what we were doing in India. In India, Semester at Sea got a lot of press. The next day in the newspaper, The Sunday Hindu, there was an article about SAS community service. I was chosen for the second time during the trip, to be incorporated into a native dance. Its nice to know that somewhere on a TV in India, hundreds of thousands of Indians saw me attempt their dances. I say this because this is India – the small district in which Chennai is located has 50 million people less than the whole of the United States.
We returned to the ship each with bindis (third eyes) on our foreheads and soot covering our skin. After a day in Chennai, my skin had literally turned dark. There was a distinct line of where my sock stopped. That night, a group of us went for a traditional Indian meal, which means food served on banana leaves and a lot of spice. My favorite part of the meal was the bread, called parotta, which is the nam of Southern India. I hope I’m spelling those correctly. On the way over, our rickshaw driver offered us weed. We politely declined.
Day 2: My second day in India began at 3:15am. We were to meet our buses at 3:45am to depart for the airport. We flew from Chennai to Delhi and Delhi to Varanasi. We arrived at Varanasi to be bused to our hotel (a Radisson, of all things), where we were given an hour to eat a late lunch and rest before our sunset bicycle rickshaw ride to Ganga River. One thing about Indian airlines – I flew four times and only one of those flights was remotely on time. At one point, a tour in Delhi had to be altered due to our delayed flight.
So this is where it gets interesting. My friend Andrea had chosen the same trip I did, so as in South Africa she was once again my travel buddy. We rode our rickshaw down to the waterfront, where beggars and merchants quickly bombarded us. Varanasi is almost infamous for its poverty, but for this I was still unprepared. Small barefoot children wearing rags surrounded me. They speak no English, so all they can do is put their hand to their mouth, showing that they are hungry. Simultaneously, there are men selling postcards, bindis, henna, and trinkets of all shapes and sizes. There are girls of eight or ten, with buckets of flowers, wanting me to buy them as gifts to the river Ganga. And of course, this is India, so there are cows. Really – there are cows everywhere; on the streets, by the river, and standing amongst the people watching the ceremony. As we approach the dirty water, the large group of students walk down a set of about twenty stairs. There is a row of elderly beggars, some with toddlers beside them, outstretching a hand that was frequently bandaged. Our tour guides escorted us to a (non-alch) bar above the street, so that we could watch the ceremony from above the people and not be hassled.
Every night locals gather and perform a prayer to the river. The Ganga river is the bringer of life and is sacred to Hinduism. They say that those whose ashes are spread in the Ganges are taken out of the cycle of rebirth – there will be more on this later. The ceremony is very popular with tourists. It is done entirely facing the river, so we watched from behind, as they raise fire above their heads, and smoke swarms their praying bodies. Being the person that I am, I soon was fed up with standing amongst Americans and asked Andrea if she would come with me to watch the ceremony from the crowd, despite the possible harassment.
We found some open steps facing the river and sat. Within minutes, a boy ran up to us asking if we would buy his postcards. We said no, but he continued to talk to us. I told him that I didn’t have any money on me (they’d told us to not take purses, so all of my money was tucked into my money belt, which was not coming out), but I asked him if he were in school. He said yes, that he was in kindergarten. The boy must have been around thirteen, so that was odd, but I assumed he just had the word wrong and didn’t question it. Soon, Andrea and I were surrounded by three boys: Pejerr, RJ, and Aajar. Those are all spelled wrong, I’m sure, but we wrote them down when we returned to the hotel so that we’d be sure to remember at least how they sounded. For half an hour we talked to these boys, all of them merchants and all of them thirteen, at the oldest. They were tiny, but better dressed than the beggars. They told me of their lives: they would wake up early to be at the river at 5am when the tourists came to watch the locals bathe in the Ganga and cremate the bodies, in the traditional Hindu fashion. They would sell their goods until 10am, when school started. Around 5pm, they’d arrive back to the riverbanks to sell once again. They told me that they were on a cricket team. They joked that two of them were very good, but the oldest was terrible. “Cricket is a game for the small,” they said. I was thrilled that we’d moved away from the Americans. Pejerr gave us free bindis and marbles, because we were his friends. Aajar put the children’s type of henna on my hand. We were laughing and felt like we were connecting with these kids.
I hate to mention this next part, but its such a part of my memories of India. We’d been chatting with the boys for fifteen minutes or so when a woman in a beautiful blue-flowered saree walked up to us with her husband and child. Her husband was wearing khakis and a t-shirt. Her child was a baby girl, face covered in make up (traditional). Although they spoke no English, the boys translated. The couple wanted to know two things: did I farm, and would I take their child. When she asked me this, I honestly thought it was a joke. It even feels strange to type it now. I laughed. I told her I didn’t think I’d be able to bring a baby on the ship. It wasn’t until much later that night when I realized (with Andrea’s help) that she’d been absolutely serious. I asked her about her daughter – ten months old and her only child. This is the reason that an India email has taken so long. A woman literally offered her child to me, thinking that me, a 19-year old American girl could take better care of her child than she can. It’s taken several days of yoga on the ship and hours of discussion to process this. It really upset me.
That night in talking to my incredible tour guide, Raj, I learned that none of the children merchants are in school. That thirty-minute conversation I’d had with them was all a lie. These kids are smart and they’re well trained. To sell to the variety of tourists, they’re conversational in 8-9 languages each. One student spoke to a merchant fully in ASL. The conversation that had meant so much to me was just a way for them to create enough of a bond with me that were I to come back and purchase, I would purchase from them. This was so frustrating. In South Africa I had bought pens in bulk for children in India. I gave one to each of the boys hoping they could use them in school. That night, Andrea and I treated ourselves to whiskey and cokes in our hotel. We fell asleep to Indian soap operas, still unable to cast images of the three boys out of our minds.
Day 3: It began where day 2 left off. We woke at 4:30 to be at the Ganga by 5am. Sure enough, there were the boys. I overpaid for postcards, unable to say no to RJ. We rode boats along the river watching the people immerse themselves in the filth of the Ganga. (Prior to disembarking in India, the ship doctor gave us a list of around 20 serious bacteria found in the Ganga – its comparable to swimming in feces.) We rode as the sun rose and at daybreak watched from a distance as a body was prepared to be burnt along the banks. This tradition is not as gruesome as it sounds. It is part of their religion. We dock our boats so that we may walk around a bit. The boys, of course, find me. I tell them I do not need more postcards. I do not need bindis. I told them the day before that I wasn’t really interested in purchasing. But when I said no, the children would just look at me and say, “ah, you’re breaking my heart, you’re breaking my hart!” I sighed as I responded, “that isn’t a line for selling.” But they kept following me, “you’re breaking my hart, you said you would buy from me, why you no purchase?” I wanted to tell them that it was my heart that was falling to pieces, but instead I wound up with 36 postcards, a packet of bindis, and a full set of children’s henna. And then the beggars would swarm, putting their hands to their mouths. And more vendors would come, asking what’s wrong with them, why did I buy from that boy? The only honest moment I had in Varanasi was talking to Pejerr after purchasing the children’s henna set. I asked him what work he wanted to do when he was older. He looked down as he said, “computers.” It killed me to know how slim the chances are for him in that profession, and it hurt even more to see in his face that he also knew the odds. These boys were denied a childhood. They were denied a dream. In lower class India, the lucky ones are merchants. The rest are taught to beg. For those of you who’ve seen Slumdog Millionaire, it isn’t far off.
It was this afternoon that we saw Sarnath, which is supposedly where Buddha gave his first sermon. I felt that it was a lot more for the tourists than for Buddhists at this point. The only real interesting part was conversation I had. We’d been given an hour to see a museum that took me about five minutes (how many 5th century swastikas can a girl handle?) so I walked outside for some calmness. In search of quiet, I sat down next to a man who also looked a bit worn out. Within moments, I went from tired to happily in conversation. The man was Indian, but a tour guide for Italian travelers. I was first of all thrilled to be able to use some Italian, but also excited to hear what he thought of Sarnath. It ended up being a conversation on religious philosophy and sexuality in India. Yogi asked me if I were going to a group of Hindu temples of which I hadn’t heard. He explained that Hinduism is not a conservative religion. “You see how the women dress here – sarees are meant to be quite sexy,” he told me. “You’ve heard of the Kama Sutra,” he asked. Yogi said that prior to the Muslim invasion of India, the culture had been much more open. With Islam there came a conservative style. There is apparently a temple that is quite old where the sculptures depict the Kama Sutra. I still need to investigate that claim. I had to rush off in the middle of his telling me what he thought of Buddhism. He did give me his email though, and told me to contact him with any questions I may have.
Later that evening, we left Varanasi to fly to Delhi. We had very little time in Delhi. The only thing of significance for me was time spent wandering in the first Hindu temple to allow those from the Untouchable caste to enter, called the Birla Temple. Throughout the temple, one could hear chants. There was a garden in the back where I could have easily spent hours. I was unable to take photos, so I copied scripture from the walls. I’ll share here my favorite verse:
“From the unreal lead me to the real, from the darkness lead me to light, from death lead me to immortality…” - Veda
Upon arrival to our hotel, we were treated to the best meal of the trip. I really like Indian food – who knew?
Day 4:Finally it was the day of the Taj. We didn’t see it until mid afternoon and when it became visible I literally teared up. India is so overwhelming. It is dirty, tragic, and cluttered with poverty, and suddenly there was this structure, the perfect, gleaming symbol of true love, the Taj Mahal.
I feel that I should tell the story of the Taj, because I hadn’t heard it until arrival into India. There once was a great Muslim King from the Mughal dynasty named Shah Jahan. He had been married before (and was married at the time) but one day in the market he saw a bead vendor, Mumtaz Mahal. The story goes that it was love at first sight. She died 19 years later, after giving birth to their fourteenth child. Upon her deathbed, she asked three things of him. 1. That he would look after their children. 2. That he would not remarry (this was to protect her children from competition for the throne). And 3. That he would build her a tomb.
The Taj Mahal is the tomb of the beloved Mumtaz Mahal. The structure exudes peace. The Indian marble never loses its white color and at sunset, becomes a near pink. Andrea and I sat watching it as the light changed. The building is truly a masterpiece. Shah Jahan had planned to build a black Taj as his tomb on the opposite banks of the river. Unfortunately, his son thought him to be mad and imprisoned his father for the last eight years of his life. Although he desperately wanted to return to the grave of his beloved, his son at least allowed him to be housed near enough to the Taj that he could see it from his cell. Since his death, Shah Jahan’s grave has been placed next his wife’s within the Taj Mahal.
The Taj is so interesting because it isn’t that well monitored. Within the interior, there are just a few rooms, but if you time it right, it’s possible to find yourself entirely alone in a room within one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Andrea and I walked around the Taj feeling as if it were a dream.
Slight footnote on that – Indian women wanted to take pictures with us. On a few women’s cameras there are pictures of me with them in front of the Taj. Andrea and I also were asked to take pictures with these three men from Afghanistan. One spoke fluent English, as he was working for the American Special Forces. Another was wearing a US Air Force t-shirt. They took pictures with us, as they told us that they were not allowed to date in Afghanistan due to fear of beheading, should they be found to have a girlfriend. The one working for US Special forces was looking forward to moving to Virginia in a few months.
We left the Taj at sundown and headed to dinner before the two-hour train from Agra back to Delhi. I sat down across from another student, Andrew. We were two of the last to board, so we ended up sitting by Indian passengers. The man beside Andrew began talking to us. He asked where we were from, and what we thought of India. He was in the Indian army and lived outside of Delhi with his wife and newborn child. Andrew said, “Oh we love India, its great.” The army guy didn’t totally buy it and asked us to genuinely tell him what we thought. I guess you could say I took the bait. I told him, “well, the country is beautiful and the people are so friendly, but there is so much poverty.” The man asked me if I’d travelled much within the United States, trying to tell me that in some parts of the United States, it was probably just the same. He tried to tell me that poverty like theirs was universal. I’ve travelled enough to know that Indian poverty is actually quite extreme – there was an NYT article yesterday saying that 42.5% of Indian children are malnourished. That is not the case in the United States, or in any other democracy that I’ve seen. Still, I was in a train car full of Indian men who were leaning back in their seats to hear our conversation. I wasn’t going to fight him on this. “Well,” I said, “I guess its just more overwhelming here.” He tried to explain to me why it was okay that there was so much poverty. “You see,” he told me, “you can be happy as long as there is someone more impoverished than me. I am wealthy because of there are beggars.”
This man was so kind to us. He took down both Andrew’s and my email addresses and tried to be so nice to us. He ate dinner on the train, and offered both of us food several times, which we rejected kindly, knowing that any type of dairy was most likely unpasteurized and would make us quite ill. Finally, a steward walked by and the man insisted that we were both given ice cream. He told us if he could not eat if we didn’t either. We kept saying that we were full, but he said that in Indian culture, we must eat with him. “Its what friends do.” So Andrew and I smiled warily at each other, and ate the ice cream. That ice cream stayed with me for at least the next two days. I’ve heard it referred to as “Delhi belly.” I don’t think I need much more of a description here.
I’m going to end it here, although I could write much more about India. Any writing would have to be separated by topic to make sense, but it isn’t India unless it’s all just thrown together. If that makes any sense, I don’t know. For the next 25 days we only have 5 days of classes. I’ll be doing a whirlwind tour of Asia: five days in Thailand, five in Vietnam/Cambodia, six in China and five in Japan. It’ll be quite a month...
The first picture I took on the ship, which is really incredible, because those girls (Trish, Katie, and Andrea) are still my closest friends on board.
This was our reaction. I love this picture.
Morocco markets...
Snake charmers in the Moroccan markets. After this they demanded money. I gave them coins and ran before they put another on my head!
Us, post haircuts.
Namibia, after sandboarding. One of the coolest things I've done.
On the way to Kruger, we had a fantastic pilot who allowed us to visit the cockpit. It was a great start to the trip.
Kruger...
More Kruger...
This picture is from Kayelitsha, which I'm misspelling currently but is spelled better in a previous email. Its a township in South Africa. These places are huge firehazards. This township is huge, housing 500,000 people.
The four girls after an afternoon of beach and snorkeling.
Sunset over an open ocean...
India - even their dolls are Hindu - this is Ganesh. (that may be spelled wrong too)
In our Tuk Tuk headed to Ganga (Ganges) River.
These are the street merchants who completely changed my India experience. They really broke my heart and changed my perspective on India. Ajar, Pejer, and R.J.
Sunrise over the Ganga.
Not sure if this picture will be large enough to see what it says "Fortunate are the people who reside on the banks of the ganga."
Oh the Taj.
One again, not sure if this picture is too small to be as funny as it is. Andrea and me with three men from Afganistan who wanted a picture with us. The one in the "use a condom" shirt is in the US Special Forces and moving to Virginia in the fall.
This building is an homage to true love. It was built as a tomb for a king's beloved wife. The story goes that it was love at first site and that she died giving birth to their 13th or 14th child. She asked three things of him when she died: 1. Do not remarry (to protect her children's right to rule) 2. Take care of her children 3. Build her a tomb. He did an incredible job.
Islands off of Phuket. James Bond, Dr. No was filmed here years and years ago.
In the jungle in Thailand.
Betsy, Kate and me after a night in the markets of Bangkok.
I GOT TO SEE ART AND IT WAS AMAZING. (I went to high school with her. It was so exciting.)
Cambodia: Angkor Watt at sunrise. The pictures from Cambodia and not at Angkor Watt are too depressing to post here. If anyone wants to be thoroughly depressed about what humanity is capable of doing to one another, I have a few pictures of that too.
Betsy and I, taking in the Angkor Watt experience. I got to know Betsy in Thailand and roomed with her once again in Cambodia. She rocks. We're goofs.
Me, going into the Cu Chi Tunnels. (Surreal.)