Sunday

My alarm clock silenced, I wake to peals of birdcalls

ringing in my ears.  I train my eyes on the day ahead

of schedule, beating Helios to the punch. 

Able to pack my lunch, brew coffee, peel an orange

in one long strip, like the stripe of citrus horizon.

It blushes, then brightens, like a new lover—

good morning, sunshine—discovered just last night.

Its beauty blinds me to the order of the day…

first breakfast, then lunch, then dinner,

a linear reality that alights upon me

only at the          lonely          midday hour.

A love turned sour, I see and flee from its heat and intensity.

So suddenly unforgiving, this orange Oracle that sets

the tone for the week ahead, always a clone of the last.

Basking turns to asking, pleading, deflecting

the blame, wanting—needing—a wider time frame. 

Eyes burning, cheeks shining, whining for longer days. 

Bargaining with fading gold, I hold on to the last rays of hope

for productivity, until it dawns on me

that the day, but nothing else,

is done.

Day Trippers

When you live somewhere semi-permanently, you don’t necessarily have impetus to visit the local attractions… after all, they’ll always be there!  But, with exactly one month left in Mussoorie, I’m rushing to do/see/taste/climb/experience everything that I’ve been putting off for almost two years now.  My roommate, Claire, and I took advantage of yesterday’s beautiful weather to check some of these experiences off my list.

But first, to gain the mobility necessary for traversing treacherous mountainous terrain, I had to go to Doma’s to rent a scooter for the day.  Doma’s is a quaint little inn/restaurant situated right at the entrance to the bazaar.  It’s run by Tibetans and serves the most amazing food mine tongue has ever caressed.  This my go-to order:

Veg Shaphaley: two big, fried momos.  By the time it’s delivered, so much oil has seeped through the paper bag that it breaks. There is no truer taste test.

Honey Chili Potato: potatoes with honey and chili.  It hurts so good.

But alas, I was not at Doma’s to eat, unless you count ‘biting the dust’ as dining—(sorry).  Since Claire was down at dorms teaching children how to swim, it was my job to retrieve the scooter and meet her at school, the halfway point.  Once at Doma’s, all I had to do was give the desk-man Rs. 500 (about $8) and my Ohio driver’s license.  I would like to publicly state that being able to drive a car in the United States in no way makes me qualified to drive a scooter in India.  These are not transferable skills. 

I’ve done a lot of dumb and dangerous things in the past two years, but this 5-minute adventure really made me aware of my mortality.  As I coasted away from Doma’s, I kept repeating, “left, left, left, left” to ensure that I didn’t get all American and drift to the right side of the road.  It was a well-intentioned but poorly executed mantra; on the first downhill switchback, I did not give myself a wide enough berth to make the turn successfully.  I almost tipped the vessel of death in full view of the restaurant, but ho!, I remained upright and forged forth toward the bazaar.  At the intersection, I passed some 7^th graders who recognized me, despite the helmet that made me feel like a mighty morphin’ power ranger.  I wanted to wave, but with my nerves freshly rattled from the near-fall, I just yelled, “I don’t know what I’m doing!!!”

I am an excellent role model.

Luckily, Claire the Scooterer Extraordinaire took over all driving duties after I arrived at school, surprisingly unscathed.  Our first order of business was to fuel up—both the bike and our bellies.  We had a very Indian meal of bun omelets and pakora at Chardukan’s Tip Top Tea Shop.  Chardukan literally means ‘four stores,’ even though I think there are actually five now.

Then we made our way to Everest House, a former home of Sir George Everest.  He was India’s Surveyor General in the mid-1800s and Mount Everest was named after him, though, according to this site, he was admirably against the idea.  Fun Fact:  George Everest’s last name is pronounced with an initial long “e” sound, so everyone technically says the mountain’s name incorrectly.  Here is another incorrect pronunciation that will blow your mind: Himalayas.  Instead of “hi-muh-LAY-uhs,” everyone actually living in/around the mountains says “hi-MAH-luh-yuhs.”  

Everything you know about the world is wrong.

Though technically part of Mussoorie, Everest House was very isolated and quiet.  Claire and I trekked to the top of the nearby hill and just sat, listening to the Tibetan prayer flags flapping in the wind.  The flags are supposed to spread prayers across the land and its people rather than sending them up to heaven.  It’s a nice thought.  Meanwhile, a couple of eagles flew overhead and got close enough that I could see the orange of their beaks.  The prayer flags, the eagles, the good friend, the isolation, and the breathtaking views balled up in my gut and gave me a “how did I get here and why am I leaving?” moment.  I will miss Mussoorie.

I'm proud to say it took us about five shots to get a proper selfie.

view from the top!

You can see Everest House in the distance; we hiked up from there.

The house itself was not as peaceful and picturesque as its surroundings.  It’s fallen into disrepair and is covered with haphazard, non-artistic graffiti.   

After Everest House, we went to ‘Happy Valley,’ a rather upbeat name for what is essentially a refugee camp.  However, since it was established 50 years ago, Happy Valley is now a fairly settled, stable village for thousands of displaced Tibetans.  The Dalai Lama lived here for a year in 1959, right after fleeing Tibet.  Then he made a permanent move to Dharamsala.  I went to Dharamsala for quarter break—blog post coming soon to a computer screen near you!

the first Tibetan temple in India, consecrated by the Dalai Lama

Tibetan Homes- a school for orphaned children.  Woodstock students often do community service here.

On the way back home, Claire and I decided to follow the signs for Camel’s Back Road, a route that we’d heard of before but had never explored.  It was a wise decision!  There were more spectacular views along this relatively quiet, winding strip of pavement, and it was as flat as could ever be expected from a mountain road.  It was also lacking in the crotchal discomfort one would usually associate with a camel's back (ahem, mom).  Along the way, we stopped at a theater/ballroom/roller rink that the British established in the late 1800s and took a peek inside.  It was both creepy and cool, in equal parts.

As great as it was to finally see Everest House, nothing beats returning to your own house after an exhausting day of adventure.  It was simply amazing to be able to foray into the Himalayan foothills during the day and sleep in my own bed at night.  Before bed, though, I was able to talk to my mom on Skype and tell her about my memorable day.  And, because I couldn't officially say it then, I must say it now:

Happy Mother's Day!

Without my mom's love and guidance throughout my childhood, I probably would not have become a teacher; without my mom's love and support as I've entered adulthood, I definitely would not have become a teacher in India.  I love you, mom!

Viethaibodia

Winter break festivities did not end with my brother’s visit!  We both had flights out of India on the same night; he went back to the U.S. and I pressed on to Vietnam.

If you can’t locate Vietnam on a map, it’s the one that looks like Captain Hook’s namesake holding “hands” with Cambodia/Laos. 

That's the one!

I traveled in Hanoi, by myself, for the first few days.  It was fun to meander around the city, taking in all the new sights and smells, especially at the Sunday night market in the heart of town.  I saw intricate pop-up cards sold alongside iPhone covers, and so much cute, cheap clothing that I cursed myself for being 5X’s the size of an average Vietnamese woman.  Then, aptly, I drowned my sorrows by hailing down a passing donut-seller.  YES, in this version of heaven, women weave through the crowd selling donuts out of baskets. 

But the culture of Hanoi does extend beyond food and shopping.  Water puppetry originated near here in the 11^th century.  It was difficult for me to capture good shots of the performance, but you can see someone else’s video HERE.

I also went to Halong Bay on what was truly ‘halong’ day trip (ha.ha.ha.).  Halong Bay is a picturesque cove scattered with limestone islands and surrounded by caves.  Though the weather was dreary and unseasonably cold, it was still beautiful.  I joined a random group tour and created temporary friendships with fellow travelers from Tunisia, Ecuador, Russia, and—surprise!—India.

Then I splurged on a domestic flight to Danang in order to meet up with friends in Hoi An, a quaint ancient town and tourist hub.  By chance, I arrived on the same evening as the monthly Full Moon Festival, so the ambiance was fueled by colored lanterns and wish-candles.

Full Moon Festival

After enjoying Hoi An, we decided to take a 24-hour bus ride (!!!) to Ho Chi Minh City (aka Saigon).  Taking a bus in Vietnam is a significantly more enjoyable experience than taking a bus in India.  Before riding, you have to take off your sandals and put them in a plastic bag!  While riding, you can semi-recline your seat AND have access to a bathroom!  But after riding, you still have interesting stories to tell.  For instance, said built-in bathroom had a unique... air freshener?  The first time I went inside, I was overcome by the stench of rotting pineapple.  I soon located the surprising source of this pungent odor.

I still just don't understand.

Ho Chi Minh City was more modern than I expected, and it definitely had a different atmosphere than the capital of Hanoi.  But for all of its contemporary charm, we took in the haunting experience of the war memorial museum.  Seeing memorabilia from the past was intense enough, but even more heartbreaking was seeing and reading about how the war is currently affecting Vietnam’s innocent citizens.  Though war is not pleasant for any of the involved parties, Vietnam is still riddled with landmines and babies are still born with defects as a result of the chemical weapons used over 40 years ago.  How different to physically bear the effects of a war rather than to read about it in a textbook.

We then took a day trip to Cu Chi, home to part of the vast system of underground tunnels used by Viet Cong soldiers.  This is one of the original tunnels:

Along with seeing the tunnels themselves, a trip to Cu Chi included a general history lesson about Viet Cong battle techniques.  There were small exhibits set up to display typical war gear and supplies.  There was also a rather disturbing display of various torture devices and descriptions of how they were used.  I did not understand some of the tourists who were taking pictures in front of the torture devices.  While smiling.  What, did they think the sharpened bamboo poles brought out their eyes? 

Cambodia also had interesting, yet depressing, sites of historic turmoil.  We started in Phnom Penh, the country’s capital, to see one of the “Killing Fields” where executions occurred during the 1970s.  The field was eerily peaceful.  We also visited the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, situated within a schoolhouse cum Khmer Rouge prison.  The most memorable aspect of the museum were the walls lined with photos of prisoners, including children.  Around 2 million people—almost a quarter of the country’s population—died during the reign of the Khmer Rouge.  And to think, I never knew this until I physically traveled to Cambodia. 

But Cambodia was not all death and destruction.  We also enjoyed relaxing on beautiful, postcard-perfect beaches…

…finding snakes-on-a-stick and roasted tarantulas…

oops, this falls under 'death and destruction,' too.

…and, of course, exploring the Angkor Wat temple complex in Siem Reap.  These temples—originally Hindu, then Buddhist—are no longer active.  The trees have claimed the buildings as their own.  Stepping through the crumbling architecture, I felt like a time-traveler.  Or a tomb raider, minus the act of raiding tombs.  But a badass, in any case.    

the Tomb Raider tree... guess I should see the movie now

That is, I felt like a badass up until I felt like death warmed over.  I got sick during our second day of temple-hopping and ended up taking a rickshaw back to the guesthouse to sleep it off.  The rickshaw driver was very concerned about my well-being.  At one point, he stopped the vehicle, opened a secret compartment, and handed me some kind of balm that I just stared at in my sickness and confusion.  Then he got out of the driver’s seat and manually applied it to my nostrils.  Keep in mind that I had no sinus issues or breathing problems of any sort.  But it was still endearing.

The only major temple I didn’t see, as a result, was the Bayon.  I’ve swiped an image from Google because I like that these ancient edifices seem to be in good humor, even after being stuck next to each other for hundreds of years.  Humanity could learn a lot from these stone men.

"Did she just call us stoners?"
"That's what she said."
I know, they're aging themselves.

I must go back to Thailand.  The time spent in Bangkok was far too short and the rest of the country, particularly Chiang Mai, is still calling.  I loved what I saw of Bangkok, but Ritika was… less impressed... probably because she didn’t experience the (bitter)sweet taste of white privilege in the airport.  Americans land and can immediately get on their way; Indians not only have to buy a pricey visa, but they also have to show around $800 in hard cash.  The whole process was highly confusing and time consuming, and this was the result:

And then there was one.

Places of interest in Bangkok included the Grand Palace and the Reclining Buddha.  We also went to a mall called Terminal 21, where each floor was themed as a different country and escalators between the floors were ‘airport terminals.’ 

I was excited to find the terminal to my future home!

Monkey See, Monkey Attack!

Life as I know it changed on the morning of Wednesday, March 19.

The day began beautifully, with clear skies and a sunny warmth that had been missing for months.  On the ramp down to the main road, I noticed a rhododendron tree that appeared to have blossomed just overnight.  I walked slowly and watched, out of the corner of my eyes, as monkeys chomped at the leafy goodness.  Reaching the main road with no difficulty, I picked up my pace until I reached a briskness that matched the fecundity of my outer surroundings and the optimism of my inner soul.  Nothing could go wrong.

Until it did. 

As I propelled myself toward another inevitably productive day at school, my blissful state was unexpectedly interrupted by the—I don’t know how else to put it—hooting and huffing of wild animals.  Could it be the same monkeys that were joyously ingesting leaves, just minutes before?  Surely not.  Could it be rabid dogs, confused and disgruntled leopards, or cacophonous exotic birds?  It was truly a day in which anything was possible.

Now, what happened next needs to be recorded for the good of the Woodstock community, as history repeats itself unless it is dutifully recorded, distributed, and analyzed.  At the same time, we all know that perspective is truly what poises pen over paper... or hands over keys, as the case may be.  So let me be clear:  this is my perspective of 3/19.  I share my perspective to convey my personal truth.  I share my perspective to restore my personal dignity.  I share my perspective to combat simplified stories that could dirty and destroy my personal honor.

After all, Woodstock is a small community where gossip has the tendency to flourish.  It is the nature of the beast.  Similarly, Mussoorie is a small city where monkeys have the tendency to attack.  It is the nature of the beast.  And when these two beasts combine, there is no beauty… only terror, shame, and soiled underpants.  And I intend to clean this mess up.

Until 3/19, I had (as far as I know) successfully avoided that first beast—being the subject of Woodstock gossip.  Some could say I’m boring, sharing my bed with only a book or a cat (or even both, if I’m feeling particularly risqué), but I’d like to reframe my gentle lifestyle under the umbrella term of responsible.  Until 3/19, I had also successfully avoided that second beast—being the victim of Woodstock monkeys.  Some could say I’m manly, since monkeys are more frightened by males than females, but I’d like to reframe that fragile peace as proof of monkeys’ respect for humanity.

A vision of respectability.

But enough—I have sidestepped the heart of the matter, which is the sheer heartlessness of the monkeys.  They do not show respect.  They do not show mercy.  They hoot and huff and blow houses down, metaphorically, and then they literally chase people down roads on beautiful spring mornings for cheap thrills.  But I discovered this only as my neighbor hurtled down the road, desperately shouting my name, with a monkey galloping behind her. 

And did I show mercy? 

This is where perspectives veer and controversial tales are shaped.  This is where the beasts intertwine and my mythical archetype—monster or hero?—rises from the dust of despair kicked up by my neighbor’s feet.  According to Friday morning’s teatime talk, popular opinion places me squarely in the ‘monster’ category via an embarrassingly abridged version of that doomed morning goes something like this:

I saw the monkey and ran away.

As a wise sage once sang, "this shit is bananas."  Now, I do not deny that I saw the monkey and I do not deny that I ran, but I do wish to elaborate on the circumstances surrounding this gutless gut-instinct.  Within a matter of moments, I cycled through myriad feelings, decisions, and assumptions.  The following three false assumptions are of particular importance.  I pair them with the first few steps in the hero’s journey, but I don’t want to be a hero; I just want to justify the nature of my actions… and inaction... and show that I merely followed the patterns set in place by destiny.

1)     I thought the monkey was a dog: “Call to Adventure”

I may have been thrown off by the fact that I’d never seen a monkey run before.  I’d seen scampering monkeys, sure, and perhaps loping ones—but running?  It was kind of like seeing Santa Claus run, in that it was unexpected, but it was also not at all like seeing Santa Claus run, in that one is chubby and imaginary while the other is sinewy and horrifically real. 

So, why is this false assumption of particular importance?  Because I believe it is representative of the unexpected nature of the broader event.  When I walk to school, usually I’m thinking about the number of apples that will be shyly placed on my desk while I’m out to lunch… or the cheers that will be raised when I assign a particularly challenging essay… or the feeling that I will have changed lives in a concrete and measurable way by the end of the day.  Mortal danger is not usually on my mental checklist.  But I will be checking that list twice from now on.   

2)      I thought I was being warned about the chase: “Refusal of the Call”

After hearing my name, seeing the figures drawing nearer, and standing stupidly for a few seconds, I made the selfish—yet subconscious—determination that (lightbulb!) the cry was not a cry for help, but a cry of warning!  But of course!  She wants me to run, too!  With every step, though, I realized I was running further away from the reality of the situation.  THUD- this, THUD- is, THUD- stupid, THUD- turn, THUD- around!

That’s it.  It took no more than five running steps to realize the error of my ways.  Five steps in order for humane reasoning to overcome animal instinct.  Can I not use the hallowed 5-Second Rule in my defense?  Am I not more easily forgiven than food?  Let us separate the wheat from the chaff!  Let the cream rise to the top!  

When I turned around to face my fate, the moment of truth had already passed.  My neighbor, who had previously been running like the wind, crumpled at my feet because her own foot was injured.  The monkey, satiated by fear and pain, loped/scampered away.

3)      I thought her ankle was destroyed: “Supernatural Aid”

At the time, amputation seemed like a legitimate option.  Luckily, I knew just what to do to obtain help: look confused, hopeless, and scared.  No one else could have done it better.  That trademark expression, paired with a quick flick of the wrist, almost immediately summoned a car from the swirling black oblivion of despair.  The nameless good Samaritan dropped us at the front gate of the school, where I proceeded to summon professional expertise from the health center.  Then I discarded the confused/hopeless/scared face, put on my teacher face, and taught The Merchant of Venice like a boss.  The following lines gave me pause, for what is the degree of separation between humans and our evolutionary counterparts?

If you prick us, do we not bleed?  If you tickle us, do we not laugh?  If you poison us, do we not die?  And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?

If they chase us, do we not run?  If we chase them back, are we not avenged?

The school devised a systematic way to 'chase' the monkeys back, called the Monkey Relocation Programme (spelled the British way, so you know they mean business… monkey business).  The main tenet of the Monkey Relocation Programme was fairly basic: remove the monkeys.  Fifty of the bloodthirsty creatures were removed from Mussoorie this past winter, but their reign of terror has clearly not abated.  Has our vigilante justice begun a blood feud that will last for generations untold?  I fear for myself, I fear for my neighbors, and I also fear for posterity.

The lasting message here is clear.  Humans need to band together in order to combat the harmful stereotypes about monkeys—which, ironically are positive stereotypes—perpetrated by Western media.  Monkeys are not curious, they are conniving.  That’s right, I’m monkey shaming.  Because as I struggle to cope with reintegration into American society this summer, I’ll probably also have a PTSD flare-up as I walk through the kiddie aisles of my local Wal-Mart.  And how can I explain to my niece that I can’t hug her because she’s wearing the sign of the devil?

My neighbor will survive.  But again, the question remains:  will we, as a species, tear each other apart during times of monkey-induced trauma or will we view fearful retreat as a collective cross to bear?  Answering that question might be aided by the understanding that there is a fine line between running, momentarily, and running away, leaving a victim to be torn to shreds.  I may be a coward, but I’m not as heartless as a monkey.

My niece, wearing the truth on her face.

(Also, I realize that this is an ape of sorts, not a monkey.
If you even think about correcting me, we aren't friends.)

O Brother, Where Art Thou?

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