Just "Monk"eying around...

Today, I met my new hero.  He goes by the name…

Lama.

Dalai Lama.

 

Despite the common introduction, this man is waaaay cooler than James Bond.  Granted, I’ve never seen any James Bond movies (add that to Rocky and The Terminator –I’m un-American, I know) but I do know that Mr. Bond is reputed to be quite the womanizer.

What are His Holiness’ views on women?  Well, he advised the young men in the audience to marry based on inner beauty because outer beauty is fleeting.  I realize that’s not a completely original message, but I strongly believe that it cannot be repeated often enough… for the sake of the male and female populations alike.  I wonder if my 7^th graders picked up on it; we’re reading Holes, a novel in which the main character’s great-great-grandfather is warned that his beautiful love interest has a “head as empty as a flowerpot” (yeah, similes) and that anyone who chooses her will be committing matrimonial suicide.

Yeah, it was probably just me who made that connection.  Sigh.

As with most educators, my mind is never fully switched out of “teacher mode.”  Therefore, when the Dalai Lama’s speech began, I started jotting down general observations so that I could rehash the speech with my 9^th graders; we just started Animal Farm and are studying the format, rhetoric, and other elements essential to effective persuasive speeches.  However, the brief outline for my students quickly turned into a collection of copious notes for my own personal use.  The speech was not at all what I expected it to be, nor was the man who gave it. 

When you think about the Dalai Lama, what adjectives first come to your mind?  Before I heard that he would be making an appearance at Woodstock, my list would be embarrassingly vague, like:  religion, peace, Asia… old… important?  Pathetic, I realize.  I am now slightly more knowledgeable, thanks to conversations with colleagues, a presentation during assembly from a couple students, and, let’s be honest, Wikipedia.  Pathetic, I realize… but informative!  During his 1959 flight into exile, the 14^th (and current) Dalai Lama took refuge in Mussoorie.  He lives elsewhere in northern India now. 

Now, if I were to make a new list of associative adjectives for the Dalai Lama, it would include progressive, open-minded, and accepting.  These words aren’t usually representative of older people—His Holiness is 77—and they also aren’t usually representative of extremely religious people, not to mention iconic religious mastheads.  The fact that he contradicts such conventional classification should be applauded.  Which it was, at the end of the speech.

Prior to the speech, though, you could literally hear a pin drop.  A few minutes before His Holiness was scheduled to appear, an eerie hush blanketed the entire gymnasium.  There were so many people—so many children—in the gym that this silence demonstrated the most deeply rooted, intense respect that I have ever seen paid to another human being.  Still, he addressed us as “brothers and sisters,” and proceeded to explain that he chose this address because we all share a common humanity, regardless of race, religion, nationality, etc…

Yeah, yeah, yeah… totally expected. 

But then, after this introductory phase, he had to ask his assistant to remind him about the topic of the speech that he had already started giving.

Uhh… totally unexpected.

And that’s when I realized that this was not your average sermon.  He was occasionally very quiet and difficult to understand, he sometimes went off on random anecdotal flourishes, and at one point he had to ask if Woodstock was a university.  Still, his speech was ultimately about compassion, and the quirky delivery actually compounded the idea that we are all imperfect people.  He said that seeking out perfection only leads to stress, anxiety, and unhappiness, which in turn detracts from internal peace.  I am plagued by perfectionistic tendencies, so this was a much-needed reminder.  Even though he spoke in pretty broad generalities, the majority of his talk hit close to home.  Here were the main points:

 

-anxiety/stressàfrustration/angeràselfishnessàjealousy/mistrustàlonelinessà depression

-The health of one’s mind and body are interrelated. 

-Personal happiness is achieved primarily through a positive attitude.

-Ethics are essential to the survival and happiness of our species.  Religions—all of them—promote universally sound ethics, so all religions are valuable.

-Secular ethics are equally valuable.  You do not have to be a religious person to be a good person.

-Good ethics necessitate a concern for future generations and the environment in which they will live, especially as we interact on an increasingly global scope.

-A smile is a comforting global language.

-Once we gain personal happiness, it becomes outwardly obvious (through that whole smiling business) and can then be harnessed for the common good.

 

There was then a question/answer session with representatives—nominated by the teachers—from grades 7-12, who each composed a well-crafted question to pose to HH.  Some more nuggets of wisdom emerged during this Q&A portion:

 

-Technology is wonderful—almost a miracle—but sensory experiences alone will not bring inner peace.

-The purpose of education is to bridge the gap between appearance and reality… education should make people more realistic about differences and capable of engaging in dialogue with those who are different.

-Religious diversity is not something to be tolerated; it should be actively supported.  He has been called a “good Christian” and is not offended, because Buddhism and Christianity share the same aims.

-People should accept religion based on thorough exploration, not blind faith.

-We should be grateful for hardship; if life is too easy, the good times are spoiled.

 

Then, HH probably gave our principal a heart attack when he welcomed questions from random audience members.  This was my favorite part of the event.  The questions were unscripted and off-the-cuff, and the answers were similarly blunt.

There were a few requests from the audience.  A woman in a wheelchair asked to be healed, or to know how she could be healed, and another staff member asked for a blessing.  In both cases, HH humbly declined.  He referred to himself as a skeptical person who does not believe in mind-reading, future-telling, the ability of a mere mortal to heal or bless.  How different from the minister of the church I attended in Ghana, who “blessed” water for people to take home with them and who “blessed” me before I flew back! 

But my favorite question was something along the lines of, “What is the experience that has given you the greatest hope?”  It took him awhile to speak, but the answer was so poetic it was well worth the wait.  He said he once saw someone giving a speech and, while she was talking, the wind blew up her skirt.  He explained that the wind is independent and does not care about formality, and that formality separates us from reality. 

I find it interesting that he said formality separates us from reality, and also that (as previously mentioned) education is supposed to make us more realistic.  The best education, then, is informal?  It should not be about students (or teachers, for that matter) jumping through a series of meaningless hoops?  I like it.  I see what you did there, Mr. Lama.  The pieces are falling into place…

As HH recounted the story about the windblown speaker, he was giggling like a little schoolgirl.  He displayed quite the arsenal of various types of laughter, some of which involved snorting; occasionally, he even broke out the evil chuckle.  Everyone immediately started laughing when he laughed, which was often—it was so contagious!  He explained that most situations in life do not require seriousness. 

This ability to laugh at others—and himself—is what I think keeps HH so young and vibrant.  But what about his answer, when asked about the key to his boyish charm and dashing good looks?

“TOP SECRET!”

Hmm… perhaps these two are more similar than I thought… : )

I took pictures of my own, but this one (taken from Woodstock's FB page) captures the experience best!

kickin' it in Kimoi

I know I said in my previous post that I would be writing multiple entries last week to make up for my blogging absence of late.

… did you really believe me?

Silly readers, you should know better by now.

I have a relatively free Saturday at my disposal, which I’ve come to find is a rare and precious resource, so I’m excited to have the chance to recap more of the last month.

Most Saturdays are filled by some planned social, physical, or academic activity.  A few Saturdays ago, for instance, I went on a staff hike.  About 15 of us met at the school’s gate, meandered down to the bazaar, and then just kept walking down, down, down…

Through the mist…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

beyond the clouds…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and over the slippery moss-covered pathways…

until we arrived, one chai break and five hours later, at Rajpur, a quaint area just outside of the larger city of Dehradun.  We stopped into a few shops, most notably the Dehradun Guitar Company.  While the men perused musical paraphernalia, we ladies got our style on with a woman from JOYN, an organization that supplies Indian handicrafts to stores in the U.S.  We were given some pretty fantastic free purses.   Afterward, we ate lunch at the Chaaya café, where I ordered some pretty fantastic (not-free) pizza.

I took another hike on the last day of August, a Friday.  Rather than following the regular school schedule, all Woodstock students and staff participated in some sort of “service learning” activity.  I accompanied a group of 10^th graders to Kimoi Village.
 

We played with younger students and helped the older students practice a bit of English, mostly by way of basic games like “Simon Says” and “I Spy.”  Their school day ended at noon, at which time we all met as a group and engaged in an impromptu talent show of sorts!  Some of the village students had prepared songs and dances to share with us, and some brave Woodstockians stepped up and shared some of their own skills, ranging from back handsprings to the infamous Cha-Cha Slide.

 

 Then we cha-cha’d our way out on out of there.  I was relieved, in a sense, because I was actually beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic.  Think about that for a second…  it wasn’t an elevator, or a bedroom, or even a house that made me feel uncomfortably closed in; it was an entire village.  There was nowhere to go, nothing to do, no detectable roads that connected the village to civilization as I know it.  It boggled my mind.  These people don’t know the sheer joy of smuggling a Wendy’s frosty into the midnight premiere of Sex and the City, rocking to Michael Jackson just a bit too hard on the ride back home and getting pulled over by the cops, and then ordering a triple-cheese pickle pizza to top off the night.

Seriously, how do they survive without such opportunities for entertainment?

Then I saw this sly little girl on the path home:

 

Touché, Kimoi… touché.

The hike to and from the village was somewhat challenging, but stunningly beautiful.  Some of the students were complaining about the walk—“We had better get hiking points for this!”—which, again, boggled my mind.  I just kept thinking, “Do you know how many people would pay to literally be in your shoes right now?!”  While I love the students here, and while I think they’re very hardworking and polite, it bothers me how extrinsically motivated many of them are.  I can understand why getting good grades and securing admission at prestigious universities is important, and I also understand that they’re under a lot of pressure to succeed, but it seems like this focus eclipses everything else and blinds them to the beauty of their surroundings and the inherent imperfection of life.  Every announcement about a new club, new opportunity, or new weekend activity is annotated with the assurance that their participation will look good on their transcripts.  But certain things are just fun or important in their own right. 

After Service Learning Day, the next special school event that derailed us from the regular schedule was the Interhouse Cross Country meet.  In true Harry Potter fashion, the students and staff of Woodstock are split into three different houses.  I am a proud EAGLE; there are also condors and merlins.  Caw.  While eagles may look the most intimidating, we apparently aren’t the competitive of runners.  We came in last place, performance-wise (what can I say, we’re born to fly), but raked in quite a few participation points.  Teachers were encouraged to run alongside the students, which I did!

^ This is a merlin. ^

Confession time.

Since we’re talking cross country, I feel the need to lift a weight off my chest, to slough a callus of guilt from my soul. 

Once upon a time ago, my sister was an amazing high school cross country runner in high school and, as an elementary/middle-schooler, I would attend many of her races.  My dad and I would cheer and watch her pass at one point in the course, then immediately run to the next location.  At one meet, I was following my dad and, though I swear I looked to see if any runners were coming, I accidentally ran out directly in front of a male runner from another team, who had to physically push me out of his way.  I was so embarrassed that I hid myself in a slide at a playground that was part of the park.  I thought that I was going to get Jaclyn’s team disqualified if I happened to be caught, and I was so paranoid that I thought the random people passing by were part of a special search team commissioned to bring my blatant irresponsibility to justice.  This was a serious source of stress for me during the remainder of that cross country season, as I thought it was possible that the runner would recognize me and publicly exact his revenge.   

Phew.  I feel much better now.  Male runner, if you’re reading, I’m sorry if I added a few seconds to your race time on that fateful fall day.  Please forgive me.

This is something for which I shall never apologize:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Domino's pizza, baby.  No 2 AM delivery, and not really at all the same, but still a reminder of home!

"I never realize how much I like being home unless I've been somewhere really different for awhile."

So, it’s been over a week since my last update.  Over two weeks, even?  Oops.  Forgive me, friends and followers, for I have sinned.

I’ve got quite the lineup of topics I’d like to discuss on this-here blog, so I’ll try to write a mini-update multiple times this week to get caught up.  Here we go.

*PREVIOUSLY ON JULINDIA…*

Kathak dancer.  Motherhood.  Mehndi.  Playing a harp.  Thank you.

Moving on.

After all of the hype leading up to Independence Day, the holiday itself was fairly uneventful!  Taking time to get beautified in the morning was a nice change of pace.  I actually put on makeup for the first time since I’ve been here and donned my new salwar kameez, which is the most comfortable garment known to womankind.  So comfortable that, when I go back home, I know that it will be recycled into a favorite pair of jammies. 

I love it when I accidently match my clothes to my moss.

 

The Indian women have it good in the fashion department.  In the U.S., I imagine there to be some sort of annual roundtable where designers secretly discuss, “Okay, how can we make this special event as physically painful as possible for women?  How can we more effectively restrict their breathing?  How can we make them dread the simple acts of sitting down and/or standing up?  How can we make it so they can’t eat anything but crackers without busting a zipper?  And, if they rebel and dare to eat something else, how can we make it as expensive as possible to clean the stains?” 

I didn’t have to worry about any of those questions.  Independence Day consisted of a schoolwide assembly in the morning, followed by a lot of picture-taking, followed by a lot of food-eating.  And I mean a lot of food.  Luckily, my super-comfy pants had a drawstring; I could’ve gained 80 pounds in one day and they still would have fit! 

 

Afterward, some fellow staff members and I went to Ashlea and Owen’s for snacks, drinks, and games.  After graduating from college and pretty much not having anyone my own age to hang out with for two years, all of the opportunities for socialization that I have here are both exciting and a little scary… I’m out of practice talking to people and feel more socially awkward than usual, which I didn’t think was even possible.  I love that there are fellow teachers and dorm parents that I can legitimately call “friends” and that it’s normal and expected to spend time together outside of the school setting.  Last weekend, there was a fun girls’ dinner at Sabrina’s.  It was a true girls’ night in the sense that there was more dessert than main course, which was a happy accident that none of us much minded!  I wanted to bake something to share because I AM THE PROUD NEW OWNER OF AN OVEN, but, at that point in time, I was not the proud new owner of any baking pans. 

I think the topic of my new oven deserves its own paragraph.  All oven options are of the countertop variety, but I had to make a decision about whether I wanted a just an oven/grill, just a microwave, or a microwave/oven/grill combo.  I went with the combo and it’s made me very happy.  I can have my favorite baked oatmeal in the morning, nuke leftovers for dinner, and roast chickpeas in the middle of the night just because it’s fun to roast things.  Its surface area is small, but the exponential increase in menu options is liberating… and important, since I took myself off the school meal plan starting today.

There is only one major setback to my new appliance.

Sometimes it doesn’t turn off unless I unplug it.

Now, this is no longer a big issue because, as with the previously-narrated massage scenario, it was the element of surprise that really got to me.  But there I was, innocently manning my microwave for the first time, when I decided to open the door and check my food’s progress.  My hand was fully encased in the microwave when all of the sudden I realized that said microwave was still operating.  Freaking out, I slammed the door and ran to the sink, because, you know, furiously scrubbing your hands is proven to eliminate microwave radiation.  It’s science. 

I know it’s dangerous but I don’t know exactly why, so my mind started racing with presupposed side effects, all of them imagined and only potentially real.  Cancer?  Blindness?  Elephantiasis? 

I thought about how, as a kid, my mom always told me not to get too close to the microwave when watching popcorn being popped.

Then I thought about Juno and how I was probably harming my unborn (and not-yet-conceived, just to be clear) future children.

"She won't even let me stand in front of the microwave or eat red M&Ms."

 

Then I calmed down, ate my food, and returned to life as I once knew it.  One week later, I still have 10 digits and a full head of hair.  And quite the hankering for red M&Ms.

A word about M&Ms… you know how in "The Wedding Planner", Matthew McCantspellhisname only eats brown M&Ms because he figures they have less artificial coloring because chocolate is already brown?  That scene pisses me off for so many reasons.  Well, two:

1)      HE’S WASTING THE M&Ms.  I’m pretty sure Jennifer Lopez was sitting right next to him when he just started tossing the chocolate onto the grass.  That should be a deal breaker, J-Lo.  He’s being wasteful and practically calling you fat.  And endangering dogs.  He should have first offered them to you.  If you declined, then he should've found a little kid or someone to give them to… you're in a park, after all.  Wait.  On second thought, that would be a creepy deal breaker, too.  He should’ve put them in his pocket to give to give to his niece and nephew.  Case closed. 

2)      HE STOLE THAT IDEA FROM ME!  I, too, used to favor the brown M&Ms… but not because of the artificial coloring.  I always thought they tasted extra-chocolatey because chocolate was already brown.  Where are the thought police when you need them?  I should be raking in some royalties right about now.

So, I just read through what I have written so far, and I think I’m starting to venture into Negative Nancy territory.  First a scary microwave story, then a vengeful M&M anecdote.  Time to balance out this blog with another funny sign that I found in the bathroom of one of the nicest restaurants in Mussoorie:

 

“You better pay for that pee-stick when you're done with it. Don't think it's yours just because you marked it with your urine!”

 

I’ll wait while you laugh, reread, and laugh again… I don’t even know where to begin with this gem.

Gentlemen:  I would like to point out the poetic (though probably unintentional) parallelism between “our aim” and “your aim.”  It’s less clear whether the hilarious double entendre was intentional or not.  What, exactly, is “shorter than you think”?  The distance to the toilet, or… : )

Ladies: First, I understand that if the gentlemen are getting lectured, then the ladies should get a stern talking-to as well… perhaps about those infamous “red bin” issues?  What I don’t understand is why they had to call it a frickin “performance.”  It really freaked me out.  I scoured the ceiling and floor for a hidden camera; for whom was I performing?  And is standing up during the act really that common of an issue?  What would possess one to do such a thing?  It’s not like going to the movies, people.  There is no intermission.  As mom and dad would say… “either poop OR get off the pot.”  Literally. 

I ordered a paneer and veggie wrap at the restaurant where I found that bathroom sign.  The conversation with the waiter went something like this:

“I’d like a paneer and veggie wrap, please.”
“It has Indian spices, ma’am.”

“…Okay.”

“Would you like less spice?”
“No, full spice.”

*waits for food*

*food arrives*

“I put in half spice, ma’am.”

*takes bite*
*realizes it’s not spicy at all*

Indian food, in general, is not nearly as spicy as I expected it to be.  Spicy food reminds me of pregnancy, which brings me full circle back to Juno.  I have a sudden urge to watch the movie, which I luckily brought with me!  I could be a really excellent teacher and show it to my students tomorrow instead of, you know, planning a lesson.  It’s completely educational and I can prove it. 

It introduces literary terms…

“Yeah, I'm a legend. You know, they call me the cautionary whale.”

alludes to canonical literature…

“You should try talking to it. 'Cause, like, supposedly they can hear you even though it's all, like, ten-thousand leagues under the sea.”

shows cause and effect…

“I'm just gonna go ahead and nip this thing in the bud. Cuz you know, they say pregnancy often leads to, you know... an infant.”

includes advanced vocabulary…

“Hi, I'm calling to procure a hasty abortion.”

uses simile and metaphor…

“You think you're really going to do this?”
“Yea, if I could just have the thing and give it to you now, I totally would. But I'm guessing it looks probably like a sea monkey right now and we should let it get a little cuter.”
“That's great.”
“Keep it in the oven.”

incorporates foreign language...

"Silencio, old man!"

demonstrates rhetorical question and subject/verb disagreement…

“Why don't you go back to night school in Manteno and learn a real trade?”
“Bren, you's a dick! I love it!”

includes irony (maybe. I still have the darndest time identifying this)…

“So how far along are you? “
“I'm a junior.”

covers geography…

“And this, of course, is Juno.”
“Like the city in Alaska?”
“No.”

and even provides opportunities for mathematical conversions…

“Come on, let me carry your bag.”
“Oh, what's another ten pounds?”

I’m slightly embarrassed by how long it took me to find those quotations.  Blogging is dangerous business.  Time to get back to real life and plan a real lesson.

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.

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 15^th.  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:

National Anthem

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:

I would like to buy a hamburger.

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 7^th graders, and I introduced the lesson by showing them this YouTube video of my favorite rollercoaster:

Magnum XL-200

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 7^th 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…

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 20^th 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!