Pagdandi - Growing Towards Change

Growing Towards Change - A look at the life of Pagdandi School

So we never got around to writing about our experiences working with Swechha in New Delhi, Atish teaching song & I teaching dance. It really is a shame because it was such a wonderful experience for us, but it's too late now to try to write the details.

We did manage to put together this miniature amateur documentary about our time there and the school's growth and students. It does a much better job of describing the community than any blog entry could have. We made this video in part to raise awareness and in part to show our gratitude to our friends and family that helped us raise $1000 for the school's new library and development.

There are 2 parts, each about 12 minutes long.

Growing Towards Change - A look at the life of Pagdandi school [PART 1 of 2] from Zyanya B on Vimeo.

Growing Towards Change - A look at the life of Pagdandi school [PART 2 of 2] from Zyanya B on Vimeo.

2010 - Created by volunteers who had a chance to visit and participate in a growing alternative school started in a slum community in New Delhi, India.

An intimate tour of the slum community that Swechha project, Pagdandi, is based in. Interviews with Pagdandi students. A look at special classes with dance and music instructors visiting from the USA. Check out the Pagdandi website for more information about the school: pagdandi.weebly.com/

pictures from Benaras.

Life in Varanasi.

some India pictures.

Kolkata--> Bodhgaya--> Ayodhya

A Nightmare

April 10, 2010

The next 2 days Atish and I spent with Niharika at the new library in the slum community and at the Swechha office teaching a group of children dance and songs. I plan to write about those experiences and my observations of Atish’s interactions with the children when I write an entry about our work with Swechha/Pagdandi.

It was important to Atish to visit the state of Gujarat during his first trip to India, the state where his family is originally from. And so, despite warnings from everyone about the heat, we booked one-way tickets to fly to Ahmedabad from Delhi. The plan was to travel throughout the state of Gujarat then up through Rajasthan to return to Delhi by train, during the month of April. Atish and I were both not feeling well when we boarded the plane in Delhi, it had been something we had eaten/drunk. But we weren’t at all prepared for how quickly and violently “Delhi Belly” could strike.

During the 1.5 hour flight Atish and I alternatively complained of stomach pains and light-headedness. When we landed Atish looked pale and weak and I summoned the strength/adrenaline to show some enthusiasm and energy to get us through the airport. At the baggage claim Atish left to use the toilet. I got the bags and waited nervously for him. When he returned he looked like he could faint, it was clear he was losing fluids fast. We got on an autorickshaw to our hotel, the driver ripped us off majorly having noticed we were in no position to hang around and haggle. As we checked into the room I ran around to fill out the paper work downstairs and buy water. When I returned to the room I found Atish throwing up into a bucket. I was scared and panicked but I tried to calm him and ease his discomfort. He was shivering, said he was cold, his stomach was cramping. All I could think to do was get antibiotics in him as quickly as possible, but his stomach was empty and he also had to drink water. I prepared a bottle of water with ORS (electrolytes) and gave him an antibiotic to take. He took it and drank a little and lay down. I waited and watched.

When I’ve had traveller’s diarrhea (a topic of discussion which can’t be neglected when honestly writing of one’s travels in India) taking antibiotics have stopped it immediately. I hoped the same would happen for Atish, but was worried because I had never been so sick and thrown up before. Within 5 minutes he was sick again, losing the water he had drunken and more. My heart was racing as I leaned over to look in the bucket… red. “That’s bad, right baby?” he asked me weakly. “Ok, we’re going to a hospital right now,” I announced. I quickly gathered our money belts, water, biscuits, sweaters, and helped Atish downstairs to the reception desk, less than half-an-hour after we arrived. Blood in stool or vomit was very bad.

The hotel manager still wanted me to fill out the details of Atish’s visa, and he still had to sign he told us. “We need to go to a hospital right now,” I said, “Please, do you know a good private hospital in the city?” The men consulted in Hindi for several minutes while I watched Atish from the corner of my eye and tried to understand what was going on. “Please, it’s urgent, we need to go now. Do you know a private hospital; otherwise we will leave now for the government hospital.” Finally they seemed to come to some agreement and one of the men took us down to the street. He hailed a rickshaw and got in with us, directing the driver to a nearby clinic. He led us upstairs the old building to a tiny office where a single nurse was asleep. “Can we see a doctor? Is there a doctor here? Do you speak English?” I asked her, pleading with her to make eye-contact with me and acknowledge the urgency of Atish’s condition. She casually motioned for us to sit down and went to take his blood pressure.

Atish had lost so much fluid and he looked so weak. I’ve never been so scared in my life. I spoke to the nurse in a constant flow of words I hoped she would understand, sick, vomited, blood, do you understand blood? Dehydrated, weak, cold, water, he needs water, maybe an IV, there was blood, is there a doctor here? She walked around the desk and place a call. The doctor will be here in 10 minutes she announced. “Does the doctor speak English?” I asked. Without answering she left the room. I was so frustrated. I didn’t know anything about this clinic. The sign outside had said something about maternity care. If we couldn’t communicate here maybe we should leave right away and find a different hospital, the government hospital mentioned in the lonely planet? Would it be so much worse or better? I knew nothing of health care in India except for a horror story my mother had told me about her experience having her stomach pumped in a public hospital in Bangalore, it didn’t comfort me.

I tried to tell Atish everything was going to be fine, just breathe deeply, hold on, the doctor was on his way. He kept his head in his hands. Incredibly, the doctor did arrive in 10 minutes, telling me they took us seriously. And more incredibly he spoke perfect English. He examined Atish and said he was to be admitted for the night. They would put him on an IV and run a blood test. They had a single private room in the clinic with two beds, I could stay the night with him and watch him. The room had AC and a bathroom attached with a western toilet. They would run out and get us toilet paper, soap, snacks, bottled water. Atish was to drink as much ORS as possible. They injected antibiotics through the IV tube in his wrist.

Before Atish left Seattle my father had made him promise to take me to a doctor to ask about my persistent cough I had since Sarnath. There in the private hospital, looking paler than I knew possible, lying with an IV in his arm, Atish asked for the doctor. “Doctor, will you please look at her? She has a cough.” We both laughed. The doctor was confused. Then I knew Atish was going to be ok.

The care was amazing and I was so grateful to the doctor and his staff for their help. I knew Atish would recover, but I still felt stressed that night after I made sure Atish was comfortable. I’ve never seen him look so miserable and so weak. I wondered how we would fair in Ahmedabad in the heat. And after the whole ordeal I didn’t feel so well myself, the adrenalin was wearing off, I felt dizzy. We had so much to see and do in Gujarat, now we had lost a whole day and surely would need several more to recover. I drifted into a restless sleep. Waking up every half-hour or so I would check on Atish, when I was asleep I dreamed of my mother’s illness.

By morning Atish looked a bit better but I now had diarrhea as well. I hadn’t eaten a proper lunch or dinner the day before, and hadn’t had breakfast, I felt extremely weak. The doctor examined me and concluded that Atish had dysentery, I had traveller’s diarrhea, we were both weak from the infection and had to eat a lot of fruit, biscuits, yoghurt, and drink water for several days before we would feel well again. I nursed Atish and he nursed me. There aren’t many things that can bring people closer than 24 hours in a hospital together in a foreign country. We told each other we were going to be fine, that this was just one of those experiences when travelling, and soon we would continue our trip. When we left the hospital we were a little stronger physically but a lot stronger emotionally.

By the end of our hospital stay at 7pm that evening Atish had been given 6 IV bags of saline and sucrose solutions. His blood test came back, everything was normal except he had been extremely dehydrated when admitted, close to renal failure. It was terrifying to think that it had all happened over the course of about 3 hours after leaving Delhi. If we had taken a train instead of flying we would have been isolated and lost without access to medical facilities.

Atish and I never asked the doctor how much the private room cost to stay in, or what the doctor fees were. We wondered if the price would be ridiculously high, if the doctor would take advantage of our situation. He knew we were American and that Atish was a professional. So when it was time to see the bill we were ready for anything and resigned to pay it, after all, it would be worth it considering it was all very necessary. We were shocked by the total… 4,100 rupees. The total came to less than $100US. This included staying in the private room, all nurse costs, medicine fees, doctor fees, snacks and water. No wonder people leave the USA for medical procedures. We gave the doctor $100US, he would have quite a tip when he got it changed to rupees. We left 500rupees for the wonderful nurses. In all, it was an extremely positive experience all things considered.

Over the next 3 days we drifted between subdued bouts of energy and periods of weakness. It was frustrating and sometimes scary when we would lose our appetite or need to return to the hotel to rest. How were we going to travel like this? Where should we go? Should we head back north to the mountains where it was cooler? Should we go south to the Portuguese island, Diu? The heat was unbearable and it made recovering and regaining our appetite difficult. And Ahmedabad is not a great place to be sick. But little by little each day we got stronger and regained the enthusiasm to leave Ahmedabad.

It was an ominous beginning to our trip and it definitely set the pace for the rest of our travels. For the next month we never felt completely healthy and the heat held us back from exploring during the day. We managed to go to many places and enjoyed ourselves, but we learned our lesson to avoid India during the hottest months of the year.

Atish’s Welcome to India

April 8, 2010

The expectations and wait of 3 months made for a very anxious several hours as I waited at the hotel for Atish’s plane to land and him to reach the hotel. When the phone call came from reception that my “friend” had arrived my heart pounded and my hands began to shake, “send him up please” I said. I ran down the hall to meet him at the lift. A minute later I heard the lift rattling up to the 3rd floor. On tip-toes I tried to peer through the little window. The door opened and the bell boy first backed out carrying a large box that contained the school supplies the Irvings had donated for the Pagdandi school. After an eternity Atish emerged from the lift with a silly grin. I can’t describe how I felt at that instant I saw him. It was a peculiar combination of an entirely new thrill and something so comfortingly familiar. How do you greet your boyfriend you haven’t seen in 3 months when meeting in a world with zero PDA between the opposite sex? (Indian men share more physical affection between friends in public than couples in America.) Atish’s answer was to extend his hand for a handshake. But considering it was 2am and the only person around was the bellboy I couldn’t accept it. I threw my arms around him and nestled into his neck. The poor bellboy was mortified and scurried off to the room with the bags.

At breakfast the next morning I think we were both still a little shocked to be in each other’s (non-virtual) company. While I wanted to share Atish’s enthusiasm I couldn’t help feeling stressed and slightly miserable. Somehow I was going to have to ditch Atish at the hotel, leaving him on my own and parting from his affection, the idea broke my heart. Why had I ever thought this scavenger hunt was a good idea? I didn’t want Atish to spend his first day in India alone! I didn’t want to run out on him! “So, what are we doing today?” he must of asked me three times during breakfast, “You’ll see,” I always replied, “I don’t want to ruin the surprise.” I felt horrible. I talked Atish into taking a shower after breakfast to “wash the airplane off.” As soon as I heard the water begin to run I pulled out the lengthy letter I had written the previous evening. I left it with several hundred rupees on the bed for him to find. My hands and knees were shaking as I packed my backpack and quietly closed the door behind me. I dashed out of the hotel and headed for the nearest metro station. I was eager to put as much distance between me and the hotel, I was afraid Atish would run out after me or I would weaken and go back. I felt horrible!

The letter I left him detailed the risks I was putting him through. I told him numerous times to drink a lot of water. I told him that he had to call me as soon as he wasn’t enjoying himself anymore, if anything went wrong, if he was stressed. It would only work if he had a good time, if not it wasn’t worth continuing. I told him not to spend more than 80 rupees on any of the auto rides. And he had to text me every time he found a letter so I could keep track of him. Then there were directions to the first letter, “a sweets vendor near the entrance to the largest mosque in India.”

I reached CP and passed some time continuing my hunt for suitable flip-flops. I sent a text to Atish, “Do you hate me? I’m so sorry!” The reply came, “I love you!” I laughed, so far so good. Of all places I ended up settling into the McDonalds in CP, an interesting place to people watch, and waited to hear progress from Atish. The first letter took surprisingly long to find. Jama Mosjid is walking distance from our hotel so I was surprised when the first text came after more than 1.5 hours... But he found the letter and was on his way to Pahar Ganj! I couldn’t believe it, it was actually working! I texted Niharika to tell her our success.

I wasn’t completely surprised when Atish called me frustrated to say that the music shop in Pahar Ganj was closed. I relayed the message of the missing letter to Atish, “Hanuman Mandir?” he asked. Yes, a Hanuman Mandir… Half an hour later another phone call came, “I can’t find the flower vendor!” He described the temple he was at and it became clear that Niharika was right, there are a lot of Hanuman Mandirs in Delhi, including several around CP. He was at the wrong one. I didn’t actually know the proper name of the correct Mandir to tell Atish, so I told Atish he needed to try another one and pretended I needed to get off the phone for some reason. Crossing my fingers I hoped he would succeed on his next try and headed out to find a ride to India Gate to wait for Atish to arrive. Amazingly, Atish texted me soon after to say he was on his way to pray in the temple and then would be headed to India Gate. He had found the correct Hanuman Mandir, the flower vendor, and the last letter!

I waited at India Gate and eventually saw him walking towards me. I hid behind a bush and took some pictures of him searching for his next clue. We found each other and sat in the shade so I could hear all about his adventures and encounters in the past several hours. Turns out I wouldn’t have to take him to see the Red Fort… (read Atish’s blog to hear his side of the story: http://atishkalyan.blogspot.com/). Atish’s introduction and exploration of India had begun and I couldn’t wait to share the rest of it with him.

Setting up the scavenger hunt…

April 6, 2010

“So you are sure you want to do this to him? I’m not trying to change your mind; I just want you to know the risks. People die from the heat in India.”

Niharika was trying to reason with me, though also acknowledging a stubbornness we share. I had been planning this welcome for Atish since before I left Seattle and the 44C / 110F weather wasn’t going to stop me. It was the morning we were headed out to set everything up, the initial steps had already been taken. I appreciated Niharika’s concern for Atish and listened respectfully, but my decision was made, Atish’s first day in India would be spent searching the city for letters to eventually find me.

Allow me to explain my idea and reasoning… As I was preparing for my trip Atish and I would often discuss how exciting his arrival in India and traveling together would be. I tried to imagine that first day of stepping onto the street in Delhi with him and watching his initial impressions of India. But I knew that I would be too excited, wanting to show him everything and tell him everything I knew about Indian society and life. Ideally, a proper first experience in India is by yourself, without a guide, to allow your own eyes, ears, mouth and mind to make its own opinions about the diverse sensory overload that invariably occurs. I didn’t want Atish to initially see India through my eyes but I also couldn’t imagine leaving him on his own the day after he had arrived, our first day together after 3 months. And so the idea of setting up a scavenger hunt evolved. I wasn’t sure it would work, but I did know that if it could work India would be one of the only places that would see it through.

The idea was to leave letters for Atish with directions to the next one, starting at the hotel room. Each letter would be left with a street vendor or shop keeper that would be promised an NRI (non-resident Indian) would be arriving the next day to claim the letter in exchange for a tip of 100 rupees. The idea was romantic but the reality was risky. It’s easy to get ripped off in Delhi and it’s easier to get heat-stroke. Atish would be arriving from cold Seattle weather, he would be jet-lagged, and unfamiliar with Delhi. He would be spending hours outside in the sun and heat, did I want to risk heat-stroke on his first day? I came to the conclusion that there were enough precautions that could be taken, I would fully inform him of the risks, he would take auto-rickshaws between locations, and if something went wrong he could always just call me. I wanted to go through with it.

Niharika and I decided on 4 locations: A street vendor somewhere near the main “Jama Mosjid” mosque, tourist bazaar Pahar Ganj, a popular Hindu temple, and the classic India Gate. In order to set up the route we would have to go backwards, leaving each note with its handler. I would meet Atish at India Gate so our first stop was the temple. We chose the main Hanuman Temple of Delhi near Connaught Place (CP). I sat with Niharika on a bench to write the last letter Atish would find. It only said “India Gate.” Niharika sketched a rendition of India Gate on the letter. The simple act of writing and sketching in front of the temple drew the attention of many men and children, we were eager find our letter handler and move on. The temple was surrounded by beggars lining the ground near the entrance way, Prasad and flower vendors, and mendi artists.

We chose a vendor who looked kind to approach but quickly found out he wouldn’t be there tomorrow, Wednesday. Neither would the next vendor we approached. We tried a flower vendor who was very sweet. Niharika explained that Atish was coming to India for the first time. He was an Indian from America and we wanted to make sure his first experience was enjoyable so we were setting up places for him to go. It was important he get the letter. He said he would be there tomorrow and would happily give the letter to Atish. He also said on his own accord that he would make sure to send Atish into the temple with some flowers to offer Lord Hanuman. He placed the letter in his money box, we thanked him and left for our next destination.

I had never been to Pahar Ganj and I probably won’t go back. It is an area near the New Delhi railway station where most foreigners find budget accommodation and as a result the main street is filled with shops selling crafts and souvenirs for tourists and plenty of pushy touts trying to get your business constantly. Niharika and I pushed forward through them all to reach a place for lunch, Sam’s Café. There on the rooftop I wrote the letter that would direct Atish to Hanuman Mandir. I didn’t want to be too direct so I told him to go to the popular temple near CP that was dedicated to the god that helped Ram rescue Sita. It was a blatantly clear clue but I wanted to at least not make it too easy by writing Hanuman’s name. I wrote that he would find a flower vendor across from the entrance with his letter. Niharika pointed out that there are numerous Hanuman Mandirs in Delhi and numerous flower vendors at each mandir, how would he find the right one? I didn’t have an answer for that. The purpose of the scavenger hunt was not only to see the sights but to also encounter the challenges of getting around the city on his own, surely he’d manage… Niharika rolled her eyes, “As you wish,” she replied.

We chose a music shop directly across from Sam’s Café to leave the letter. Entering the shop Niharika did all the talking in Hindi to the shop owner. After she gave him the letter she told me that he wasn’t happy about the whole thing. He said that tourists were always asking for things, not respecting their time, but he would take the letter because she had asked him nicely in Hindi. I was apprehensive that he was so negative about the idea. And I was surprised to hear that he had encountered similar requests. Really? Were there other foreigners setting up scavenger hunts for their friends in Delhi?

Next was Jama Mosjid. We spent some nice time enjoying the peaceful atmosphere of the mosque and then found a sweets vendor across from one of the 3 entrances to the mosque. He was also a gracious letter handler. He said he didn’t understand what we were doing but he would happily hold the letter until Atish would arrive. The letter contained directions to the music shop and directions to have lunch at Sam’s Café before continuing.

Pleased with our success we headed back to home in Malviya Nagar. Niharika was instrumental to setting the whole thing up, it wouldn’t have been possible with her excellent communication / translation skills. I still had to pack up my bag and write the last/first letter for Atish that would be left at the hotel room. But the hardest part was yet to come. How would I leave Atish alone to find the first letter?

Hot feet

April 1, 2010

I slept decently that night on the train. I woke up in the morning having to badly use the loo. I wriggled out of my silk liner and climbed down to my shoes. Where were my shoes?

I had chained my bag the night before below the lower birth and left my Teva flip-flops tucked to the side. A 10-second debate in my head on whether to bring my filthy flip-flops into my bed with me for the night had ended with me deciding that every other passenger had left their shoes free on the floor, I should do the same. And now, as I looked around for my comfy, brown, trustworthy Tevas I still saw every other passenger’s shoes abandoned on the floor, but mine were nowhere to be found. They stole my flip-flops!!! Why? Why would someone do that to a person on a train, they didn’t even know I had another pair of shoes with me, I could have been shoeless!

“Someone stole my shoes.” I said to the woman in the lower birth. “No, that wouldn’t happen, they must be here,” she replied casually. I didn’t reply with my thought of, “This is India, of course it would/did happen! But why mine?” In a dance of frustration of being robbed and having a full-bladder I wrestled my sneakers free. Of course I knew why mine had been stolen, because they were “western.” They were unique and someone took a fancy to them. Of course I hadn’t thought that my foam, simple Tevas were such a commodity when I had left them with fancy slippers, sneakers, and business shoes lying on the floor around them. But apparently they are more valuable, because all the other shoes had survived the night on the floor of the train.

I reached Delhi and found an auto-rickshaw to take me to Niharika’s. I was excited to see her again after 2 years since my time in Uttarakhand. It took an hour to get to Niharika’s neighborhood, Malviya Nagar, I had no idea Delhi was so enormous. And it was even hotter than UP.

When Niharika and I embraced in front of her house it occurred to be suddenly that I really barely knew her. We had spent time together in Sonopani and I conducted a dance workshop with her at the NGO AAROHI (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8YiQ01cUZG0), we had shared personal stories, and we had stayed in touch with occasional emails. But when I saw her again I remembered that we had not had the time to develop a close friendship or any deep trust. I had travelled across India to work and stay with her and she was opening her home to me for a week, how would it go?

Within minutes of putting my pack down in her beautiful, simple 2 bedroom apartment we were catching up on each-other’s lives. It was the girl talk I had been missing for 3 months. She told me about her boyfriend, I told her about mine. We talked about our families, school, work, home, hair, clothes, travel, plans, plans, and more plans for the next week and 2 months. But before I knew it I had freshened up and she whisked me off to the Swechha office (http://www.swfc.org.in/).

Sunny, Niharika’s co-worker, was attending a meeting about an upcoming protest being organized by the Bhopal Gas Tragedy victims against DOW Chemical Company. It would be interesting for me to tag along. Tired and hungry, I agreed the meeting would be interesting without knowing what Bhopal was and got into the car with Sunny.

It was mostly curiosity that motivated me to attend the meeting. What happened in Bhopal and why was there a protest being organized, and who was this Sunny character? In the less than one hour that we had to chit-chat Niharika confided in me that her wonderful, relatively-new boyfriend was her co-worker and no one at work could know about it. I was eager to meet him.

The Bhopal meeting was extremely interesting, though mostly in Hindi. I had known nothing about the Bhopal Gas Tragedy until Sunny filled me in on the horrific industrial accident that occurred in the 1980s, an accident whose repercussions are still affecting the health of thousands in Madhya Pradesh. DOW chemical company inherited the responsibility of compensating the victims sufficiently, something that has still not happened. An international march was being organized in April by Al Gore’s NGO, named Live Earth. The hundreds of 6km marches were an effort to bring awareness to the scarcity of clean drinking water all over the world. Ironically, Live Earth’s single sponsor was DOW Chemicals, a company responsible for the pollution of water sources in numerous developing countries. But today corporate responsibility is a hot topic and huge companies like DOW are “taking action” to make a difference. A million dollars spent on organizing marches is a drop in the bucket for a company like DOW, but acknowledging the responsibility for thousands of victims of an industrial accident would be a headache for them… And so I learned that the Bhopal movement had plans to hold their own march in Delhi, registered with Live Earth under the pseudonym “Hindustan Sea Turtle Alliance.” They would show up in sea turtle t-shirts, set up booths and gather people, then strip to show their Bhopal shirts and flip their posters and signs to show their true message, DOW cannot hide their mistakes and responsibility by throwing an international party celebrating cleaning drinking water. I supported the ideas and was sorry that Atish and I would not be in Delhi on the day of Live Earth to join the “Hindustan Sea Turtle Alliance” in their mission. I was sworn to confidentiality that no one would hear about their plans until after the date, it was too risky if DOW were to catch word of the mischief.

In the car Sunny and I discussed my travels and India. He told me about his work with Swechha and the huge issues behind the Commonwealth Games soon to be held in Delhi, we talked about religion and the government in India. By the time we returned to Niharika’s place I had learned that Sunny was an excellent listener, intelligent, socially aware and active, and a musician, check, check, check, and check; I approved.

My time staying with Niharika was extremely enjoyable, even though I was still fighting off a cold, cough, and general weakness. She proved to me a most gracious host. I was fed and watered, taken to nice restaurants and given home cooked meals. We went for the delicious, famous chicken shwarma in New Friends Colony. She took me shopping for kurtas (traditional long dress shirts). She arranged all the plans perfectly so that I could teach a wonderful series of dance workshops with a group of girls (more on that later!). We went to an excellent play with famous Bollywood actors. She tagged along with me to check out the local salsa scene. And last but certainly not least she enthusiastically helped me to set up the scavenger hunt for Atish which I had been planning in my head for months. Over the course of that week our friendship was built on shared stories and experiences, advice and thoughts shared. By the end of that week it didn’t feel as though we had barely known each other 2 years ago, but more like old friends reunited. We booked train tickets to Sikkim for a two week adventure together in May that we both looked forward to.

All the while, I desperately tried to find replacement flip-flops in Delhi to provide my sweaty feet some relief. It was surprisingly difficult to find a suitable pair. There are shoe stores everywhere, but I can’t wear plastic between my toes, I get blisters (I tried too, and I got blisters!). Even after nearly 10 different stores in different parts of Delhi I hadn’t found a pair of foam flip-flops with cloth straps that fit me. Alas, I surrendered to wearing my hiking shoes and having hot feet.
If the phrase having “cold feet” is not being sure of something or wanting to quit a commitment, then is having “hot feet” wanting to see something through, eager for the final outcome or a new beginning? I eagerly awaited the arrival of Atish and our time together, so when the day finally came when I would be packing my stuff from Niharika’s and waiting for Atish’s flight to land I could hardly believe it. After 3 months of traveling through Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, Thailand, and India, Atish and I would be in the same place, together. And so, in the 109 F weather in Delhi I headed off the Hotel Tara Palace in Old Delhi where Atish would meet me in the evening.

Ayodhya

coming soon....

Pictures from Angkor Wat

Angkor Wat really deserves its own photo album I think. These are 44 pics from my folder of about 300 pictures. That's the 300 pictures that I chose from the 700 something pictures I took during my 2 days there...

Pictures from Cambodia/Thailand!

2 May 2010

So, I’m still slowly working on catching up with my journal entries. Atish and I have traveled through Gujarat and a little in Rajasthan before returning to Delhi. We’ve been constantly busy or in need of rest from the heat and finding time to write has been difficult. But I’ve finally worked on getting some pictures uploaded to picasa. These pictures go from Phnom Phen, Cambodia up through Bangkok, Thailand. Looking at them again is like remembering a dream. Let me know what you think!

Varanasi

28 March 2010

I’ll start by saying I recovered in Varanasi. I drank 5+ liters of water each day and I “gorged” on non-Indian food. There are so many tourists that many restaurants have menus with sections: Israeli food, Japanese food, Korean food, etc. But I did lose a lot of weight after Bodhgaya and have yet to find the full appetite to gain it all back.

Varanasi is magical. It is a busy city where most of the life exists within the “old city,” resulting in narrow, winding alleyways filled with shops, traffic, cows, and children’s cricket games. The ghats are most alive in the morning and evening with pilgrims and locals entering the Ganges to bathe and pray. Every evening there is a magnificent prayer set up with live musicians, a full sound system, and over ten small stages each with a priest performing the ganga aarti. This all occurs on the main ghat, Dasaswamedh Ghat, in the middle of the city and everyone comes out to watch and participate, filling in the cement stairs leading to the river. The top of the stairs are lined with beggars, a constant presence at any important religious venue. They provide the opportunity to improve one’s own karma with spare change. Pilgrims and tourists hire row boats to cruise the river observing the scene from the water, adding another hundred or so spectators to the aarti.

In every corner of the city, at any time there is worship occurring in some form. Men and woman wait in multiple lines that wrap around blocks, through the alleyways, to enter the main temple in the heart of Varanasi. They each hold a string of flowers, prasad (sweets), or a red clay vase full of milk and rose petals as an offering to Shiva, the god of dedication for Vishwanath Temple. The lines are lengthy and grow as everyone waits for the doors to be opened in the afternoon. Security is high here because of communal tensions between religions. Bags, cameras, and phones must be left in lockers and non-Hindus are not permitted inside the temple. On the ghats in the afternoon sit the holy-men, drinking chai and meditating despite the heat. Cows roam freely, often blocking the way of motorcycles and people in the narrow alleys. They shit anywhere and everywhere and you must be diligently aware of your steps to avoid catastrophe. The cows wear leis of marigold flowers, gifted by a devotee, some sport dhikas (colored powder/paint on the forehead). The cows are holy, and despite many being diseased, starving, or limping they are allowed free access to the city. Women occasionally take a minute to bless a passing cow and then themselves by lifting the filthy tail to touch their own forehead. Children play in the slow flowing Ganges river, the same river that raw sewage and city waste drains into, the same river that the remains of cremated bodies are put into; it is both the holiest and one of the most polluted rivers in the world. Varanasi is magical, full of prayer and devotion and completely indiscreet. The contrast of colors and filth, life and death, prayer and play form a chaotic scene that captivates many travelers.

Varanasi, once Benares, has probably existed like this for hundreds of years. It is one of the world’s oldest continually inhabited cities as well as one of the holiest places in India, so it is not surprising that it is crowded, chaotic, dirty, and wonderful. Varanasi is a microcosm of India, everything a traveler encounters on a trip through India will also be found in several days in Varanasi.

My first day in Varanasi I met a wonderful traveller my age, Megan. We began talking over lunch and I instantly felt a great appreciation towards her amazing outlook on traveling, India, and her excellent listening skills. She asked me questions about my trip through SE Asia, and after so much time alone I found myself eager to share stories. Megan was headed to visit the main cremation ghat and invited me to join her. I had read about the cremation ghats in my Lonely Planet and wasn’t sure if I wanted to go. It sounded extremely personal and vivid and I wasn’t sure if I could handle it. But I did know that if I would see the cremation ghats, an experience that was unique to visiting Varanasi, I would rather do it with a friend then on my own. I felt comfortable enough with Megan to tell her about my mother and my concern in visiting the ghats and she was very understanding. I decided to go with her and so my first experience in Varanasi was walking along the ghats with her towards the cremation ghat, discussing India and taking pictures.

I was so engrossed in our conversation that I was surprised when we had suddenly arrived at the cremation ghat. I didn’t know how I would handle it but I approached slowly with Megan, walking up the steps to get a view of the terrace by the river where piles of wood were being stacked for individual cremations. When my eyes fell on a fire I froze and when my eyes focused on the outline of the body, charred, black, and withering in the flames I immediately began to cry. I turned sharply away from the scene and sat down with my face in my hands. In seconds Megan was next to me, her arms around me in a warm hug. It didn’t feel like the hug of someone I met about an hour before, but like a hug from a close and dear friend. We sat there for a little while discussing grief, but were forced to walk away when a group of insensitive young Indian men refused to stop hitting on us with stupid questions. (Where are you from? Is it your birthday? Today is my birthday. Do you want to come to my birthday party? What is your name? What is your name? What is your name?)

What I found most interesting about the cremation ghats were how matter-of-fact the cremation process seemed to be. Men, born into a dalit caste designed for this position, spend their life carrying incredibly heavy logs of wood to and from the cremation ghat and then the bodies. They weigh each piece of wood on a giant scale to determine the price of the cremation. Some types of wood are more expensive, though more holy. It is a fine balance to use just enough wood to completely cremate the body, but not more than necessary to keep the cost down. What surprised me was how incredibly public the cremations are. People stand around watching, tourists and locals, but I didn’t see anyone I would have guessed was family of the deceased. There were no women present and no formally dressed men. Cremation is an important part of the Hindu life-cycle and dying in Varanasi is considered particularly auspicious because it is said to ensure moksha (liberation from the cycle of rebirth), where were the families of these people that were so fortunate to be cremated on expensive piles of wood, in Varanasi, and then given to the Ganges? I guess I would have to talk to a family to understand the process here. Even though it is so spiritually important that the body be cremated, it doesn’t seem to be appropriate for the family to accompany the body through this last stage. Or the other possibility is that the men around the ghat were family members but showing no signs of external grief or emotion, and with no community around them.

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The next day I met up with Dina in the morning at her hotel. It was very exciting to see her again and hear about her experiences in India. She described some of what she found challenging in India and I began to try to explain India and its diversity. I realized, as I was speaking, that my perspective and understanding of India has changed dramatically from my first trip and over the course of my time in India so far. My understanding of India is in a constant flux, altering with each new experience and encounter, strengthening and weakening with each frustration and amusement. That evening I wrote in my journal during dinner. I thought I had had some type of awakening, some new comprehension of India. I tried to explain it later in the night on the phone to Atish, but already that comprehension was waining and by the morning I wasn’t really sure about it anymore. It comes and goes, this understanding of life here, how people survive and thrive in one of the densest populations in the world. I like India, I love the people, I know I will continue to come back here, but this doesn’t mean I get it.

India is a mosaic. Myriad, diverse, dense, chaotic. There is more than 1 explanation for everything, every issue, ritual, tradition, and symbol. It didn’t make sense to me the first time. Keith (my UW program leader on my 1st trip) tried to tell me. For most India is simply crazy. What doesn’t make sense to us isn’t supposed to make sense, people just ignore the sense. Now I see that the “sense” we look for is there, but “sense” isn’t ours (non-Indian), it’s theirs. And you need to open your mind in a new way, a way not comprehended in the western world. I’m just learning how… Live & let live in a whole other way is how India works. Tolerance is huge here. I saw the problems before, now I see their solutions. The solutions are FAR from perfect. Tensions and frustrations are bound to rise. India has continued to be repressed under different empires for thousands of years. People found control in the caste system. Boiling points are reached throughout history with wars and riots. From the scale of state to slum there are outbursts of violence. But from day to day, the reality is that Indians live with a greater tolerance than we know. The challenges and frustrations westerners (NRIs and tourists alike) face when they visit India demonstrate our lack of tolerance in their world…

This was what I scribbled in my journal that night, some of it doesn’t make much sense to me anymore. The next night at a restaurant a talkative middle-aged Italian traveler said to Megan and I, “We travel to see other parts of the world. Asia, Africa, America are other parts of our world. But India, India is a different world. It’s not a part of our world, it is its own place.”

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Dina, a girl she was rooming with (Donna), and I went for a sunset boat ride along the river one night. It was a beautiful way to see the city and everyone offering prayers at the water’s edge. We learned something fascinating from our boat rower/guide… I had been curious when I arrived in Varanasi about the lack of development on the “other” side of the river. Varanasi is entirely built on one side of the river and the other side is just an open river bank, sand for a long way and eventually some trees in the distance. Other river-side cities in India I have visited are built up on both sides of the river equally. Our guide informed us that if you die in Varanasi you go to “heaven.” You escape reincarnation and are a free soul. But did we know what happened if you die on the “other” side of the Ganga? You are reincarnated as a donkey! No wonder no one wanted to live on the other side. I wonder how far the “donkey-zone” extends?

The rest of my time in Varanasi was really fun. I took two private dance classes with Megan. We learned the North Indian traditional style of dance- Kathak. We had a wonderful teacher and it was so neat that Megan and I were able to keep up with each other in the class, the similarity in our dance background was unexpected but allowed us to have a lot of fun and learn a lot together in the classes. We filmed the dances we learned and practiced in my room the next day, watching the videos on my computer. Learning the basics of Kathak was definitely a highlight from my time in Varanasi. And exploring the city with Megan during the day was wonderfully entertaining.

I left Varanasi after 4 nights. I left feeling a lot stronger than when I had arrived and headed off for my last stop before finally getting to Delhi. I felt optimistic, energetic, and excited. Atish would be arriving in India in 10 days and I couldn’t wait to share all of it with him.

Sarnath

24 March 2010

In Bodhgaya I began to feel ill. After a day of walking around in the sun and heat I was developing a sore throat, always my first signal that my immune system is down. I picked up some multi-vitamins, vitamin-c tablets, ORS (oral rehydration salts, electorlytes), and throat lozenges from a small pharmacy and left by train for Varanasi. I decided that despite arriving in Varanasi at night I would head directly to Sarnath, 25km away. I didn’t want to have to find a hotel in Varanasi and put up with the noise and pollution. It seemed the small town of Sarnath would be a better place to rest and relax. In Sarnath I found a welcoming small guesthouse run by a warm Jain family.

There’s not much to tell about Sarnath. I came down with a proper cold there and spent most of my time in bed, drinking water, and it turned out that Sarnath was not the right place to be sick. It is a very small town. Its only facilities exist to serve the tourists that come to visit the ruins of the monastery built by Emperor Ashoka to commemorate the location where Buddha delivered his first lesson to his first disciples. It is low tourist season and the few restaurants couldn’t make me most of what was on their menu. The food I did have was unappetizing. It’s surprisingly easy for Indian cuisine to be poorly prepared. It can either be so good, or so bad. Something I ate there also made my stomach upset and I began a round of anti-bioitics. There was also no hospital for me to go to in Sarnath if it would be necessary and every morning that I woke up feeling ill (I stayed 3 nights) I had to decide if I should wrangle the strength to get to Varanasi in case I would need a doctor.

I wasn’t eating enough, I had no appetite. Every time I left my guesthouse it was in order to force myself to eat a “meal.” Being sick in India, possibly/probably getting sick from Indian food, is an effective way of developing a taste-aversion to Indian food. I was craving food from home, something simple and nourishing. It was a surprisingly emotional experience when I found a restaurant that had pizza on the menu but then they informed me that they couldn’t make pizza. Then I saw 3 huge plates of French fries being brought to a tour group at the neighboring table. I waved over the waiter and asked him for a plate of French fries. That would be so so so good. He took my order but came back 5 minutes later to inform me that they had used the last of the potatoes on the tour group! I nearly cried.

My feelings of weakness would come and go. Sometimes I was sure I wasn’t that sick at all and found the strength to get out and walk a bit, other times I thought I needed to head to a hospital to be diagnosed. Perhaps I had a parasite? A travel bug? Malaria? My mind created all sorts of situations since I was on my own. One morning I was so frustrated that I couldn’t figure out what my illness was I decided to take my own temperature to see if I had a fever. In my homemade first-aid kit I had a traditional mercury thermometer that was my mother’s. It reads from 93 to 106 degrees Fahrenheit. I couldn’t find the bottom of the reading on the line, but I put in in my mouth and obediently waited 5 minutes to read it. Still there was no clear reading. It seemed to me that the mercury was risen all the past 106 at the top. Perhaps all the traveling and fluctuations in temperature that my pack had been through had messed up the calibration of the mercury? I probably didn’t have a fever anyway… or did I? I just couldn’t shake the weakness I was feeling. That evening I went to a cyber café. My lunchtime walk had been exceptionally hot and out of curiosity I google`d the weather for nearby Varanasi. Google returned: “Daily high of 108 F.” Oh. That would explain why my thermometer was reading past the 106 mark. I had no idea that over the course of my travels I had reached such high temperatures. I wasn’t even sure when it had gotten so hot since my whole trip has been me progressing into hotter climates and seasons. But 108 is really really hot. It’s unhealthy-hot and it reassured me that I was actually just weak and sick from the heat and stress of traveling. I made plans to leave for Varanasi the next day, perhaps I’d find some western food there, and I would continue to rest. Plus, I found out that Dina was also headed up to Varanasi! Amazingly our paths would meet again during our trips. It would be good to know someone.

Bodhgaya

22 March 2010

Since I have a little extra time now that I’m not going to Bangladesh I’ve added two more stops in my route to Delhi. Instead of only the Hindu pilgrimage sites of Varanasi and Ayodhya, I’ve decided to include the Buddhist towns of Bodhgaya and Sarnath. I never intended for this trip to take on any form of spirituality or pilgrimage, but I clearly forgot how impossible it is to separate religion from culture in this part of the world.

Bodhgaya is a small, dusty town in the poor and corrupt state of Bihar. It is home to the most important Buddhist pilgrimage site in the world, Mahabodhi Temple. The temple marks the place where, in the 6th century BC, Prince Siddartha Guatama meditated under the Bodhi Tree and became Buddha. The great Emperor Ashoka (who converted India temporarily to a Buddhist empire, 2nd century BC) laid a stone slab at the location of Buddha’s enlightenment and cared passionately for the Bodhi tree. Legend says that one of Ashoka’s wives became extremely jealous of the tree and the attention he doted on it so she killed it. Luckily, Ashoka had sent his daughter to Sri Lanka to plant a cutting of the Bodhi tree, and so a new cutting of the offspring was replanted in Bodhgaya. This close descendent and 2,000+ year old tree is said to be the Bodhi tree that now is protected next to a tall temple in Bodhgaya.

I arrived in Bodhgaya with no expectations, only curious to observe such a holy place for Buddhism after having traveled through 4 Buddhist countries. It hadn’t occurred to me during my trip that I would be ending my journey in the country of the origin of Buddhism. For me India is so heavily connected to Hinduism, and somewhat to Islam, that I had completely forgotten it is also the mother of another world religion, until I read my Lonely Planet.

There are two ways to pass your time in Bodhgaya. You may spend time at the main temple and Bodhi tree or you can visit the numerous international monasteries. I visited the main temple complex 3 times to take in the scene at different times over 2 days. The temple is surrounded by a pleasant garden with several parallel paths that guide visitors around the complex. There are small grass lawns, grassy hills, and trees filled with birds. To the untrained eye, the eye of someone unfamiliar with India, this “garden” would seem unremarkable, crowded, and noisy. But with some perspective the area easily becomes a peaceful place, a place with nature, pilgrims, and prayer. Having only been in India for about 1 week I think I felt somewhere in between. I sensed the uniqueness of the place but was disappointed by the lack of quiet. However, by my 3rd visit, my appreciation had grown and I was sad to have to leave Bodhgaya.

I particularly enjoyed sitting near the Bodhi Tree, watching people interact with it. The tree was certainly the most beautiful part of Bodhgaya for me. The idea of “worshipping” a tree as sacred because it provided the shelter and companionship for Buddha when he formulated his philosophy of life seems more appropriate than the huge temple to me. The temple is beautiful and houses a large Buddha statue, but the tree is given much stronger devotion. The tree is large and old and its enormous stretching branches are held above the ground with crutches to support their weight and keep them out of people’s reach. The base of the tree is enclosed by a large wall, protecting the trunk and root system from overzealous devotion and the thousands of people that visit every day. People offer flowers at the base of the tree, and if you peer through the gated wall you can see chipmunks munching away at those flowers and carrying them up into the tree for a snack. One side of the tree is shaded by the towering temple, the other side is where everyone sits to pray, meditate, or study. Here I watched as young Tibetan monks, boys no older than 10, skip around to catch the leaves of the Bodhi Tree. Across from the Bodhi Tree are two large trees of the same species, and so the many leaves on the ground are impossible to distinguish as a genuine Bodhi Tree leaf or from a close cousin tree. The young monks, under the instruction of their elders, wait for a breeze to pass through the garden and then follow the leaves from the branches to the ground, jumping to catch them or rushing to collect them before another eager hand snatches them up. They fill their cloth bags with the leaves to take home. I managed to collect 2 leaves, which I am still fondly carrying around pressed inside my journal.
Bodhgaya was a little disorienting for me. There are monasteries built by Buddhist nations, like religious embassies, scattered around the town. Bangladesh, China, Burma, Bhutan, Nepal, Tibet, Thailand, Japan, Vietnam are all represented by their respective temples and stupas. Visiting each temple taught me a little about each culture’s architecture and religious values. The different temples also transported me back into memories from my trip, comparing the similarities and differences between the religious cultures. And not only the buildings were diverse, but the people as well. Bodhgaya receives a surprising amount of international tourism. Somehow, people that would normally not visit India find their way into the heart of India to stay in Bodhgaya and soak up the spirituality of Buddha’s transformation. At the main temple there are beautiful Vietnamese women monks dressed in grey starched robes with shaved heads; they find private shade to meditate under. There are groups of Japanese tourists/pilgrims dressed in all white cotton with cameras around their necks listening to their guides. There are Tibetan monks, young boys and old men, dressed in orange robes. There are Indian families visiting the temple, which is significant to Hindus for its spiritual importance as well, they bring a rainbow of colors to the garden. And then there are two groups of Westerners visiting Bodhgaya, tourists including Bodhgaya in their list of sights and those seeking spirituality. My mother would have been amongst the latter, meditating with everyone else, contemplating the knowledge of the Bodhi Tree, and performing endless prostrations on the prayer boards facing the temple. I, again, consider myself somewhere in-between, though certainly more on the tourist side. I was there to observe and witness, not to participate; I still don’t know how.

And so it was with this international group and mix of temples that I found myself inside the Thai temple thoroughly confused. I had just passed some monks on the way in, walking down the green path. Teenage boys who reminded me strongly of the young monks in Luang Probang, Laos. Inside the temple I felt transported back to Bangkok, with the gold guild banisters and statues and bright mosaic decorations. Then a white man, dressed as a monk, a monk who was an American white male, approached me to ask if I needed help finding something, or was I just looking around? Just looking around, thanks, I replied. He left me alone and as I walked out of the temple I found a small water-lily filled pond and I heard my brain ask myself, “where are you again?” I’m not kidding. I actually had to backtrack and fast forward through my trip: Vietnam (check), Laos (check), Cambodia (check), Thailand (check), and now I’m… in…. India? Yes, I was in Kolkata, that was definitely India. And if I walk back out of this complex, the dusty road outside has a chai vendor on the side. Definitely India. Ok, I’m in India. Certain about my location once more I headed to find lunch. I ended up in Siam Thai, ordering green curry and rice.

My time in Bodhgaya was an unintended conclusion to my trip through SE-Asia. I reflected on the cultures and societies I had observed and the evolution of Buddhism in each nation, adapted to each culture. I still know very little about Buddhism, but I am impressed by its ability to transcend cultures, spreading its message without altering people’s cultural identification.

Catching up!!

17 April 2010

I’m nearly 1 month behind on my journal/blog now and I deeply regret it. I fell behind when I left Kolkata because I became sick with a cold, and then sick with a stomach bug, and then sick with the flu, and then sick with a cough. All due, I’m sure, to the inevitable stress of traveling alone that I allowed to finally catch up to me as I was approaching “the end” of my trip. The beginning of April represented, for me, the end of my journey through SE-Asia to India in several ways. While I was only about one half of the way through my total 4.5 months when I left Kolkata the countdown had begun in my head until the day I would reach Delhi. There I would have a home to stay in with my dear friend, Niharika. I would be able to unload my pack and relax for 1 week. I would be working with the NGO Swechha, adding some much needed significance to my trip. And all while I waited for the real goal I have been traveling to reach, Atish joining me in India.

I’m struggling to unpack the individual memories of the past 3 weeks from my jumble of stories I have been sharing haphazardly with Atish recently. New adventures and 2 month old conversations are easily confused, but I do have some notes in my journal to guide me. I’m going to attempt to catch up with my writing in the next several days but everything will surely be abbreviated. I’m sorry for the delay and if you have been reading my blog I want to say thank you! It’s really only because I hear from you, that you are enjoying my blog, that I’ve been writing as much as I have and that I’m now tackling the missing weeks.

I will jump ahead to today to share that Atish is now in India, for his first time, and we are traveling through Gujarat state together. I’m not sure how long it will take me to get to the present in my writing so I think a current update is needed, but I don’t want to spoil the stories, because we have some good ones!

We have been together for about 10 days now and I’m really proud of how well he is doing here. After 10 days we are nearly equals in terms of communicating here. In fact, Atish’s strengths from his knowledge of Gujarati/Hindi are becoming increasingly apparent and useful and I’m quickly running out of things to teach him. Since his arrival we have taught children from a slum community music/dance with Swechha (a blog entry), sight-see’d in Delhi (a blog entry), flew to Ahmedbad, had very firsthand experience with just how kind and hospitable Gujarati’s are (a blog entry!), escaped to Portugal and back (a blog entry), safari’d in Africa (a blog entry), we pilgrimaged with Hindus (a blog entry), and I taught Atish how to do his laundry by hand (a blog entry?). Wish me luck as I try to sort through all of this, plus the 2 weeks before Atish’s arrival, and capture it in writing!

Mother Teresa

Friday March 19, 2010

Calcutta was home to Mother Teresa for most of her life. It was where she established the Mother Charity missions that now exist in many cities around the world to help the very poorest “destitute and dying,” as well as orphans. It was important to me to visit the sights of Mother Teresa’s life and work because they are an example of excellent mission charity work and because Mother Teresa was my mother’s namesake.

I was surprised to learn that the mission openly accepts any foreign volunteers who show up at their door. They will put you to work the next day, after a brief orientation session, at one of their various locations in the city. I was interested in volunteering but I don’t really believe that a volunteer can do good work if he/she is only around long enough to learn the ropes. I wouldn’t have more than a day or two to spend, and honestly, I discovered the work was far too personal and intense for me.

I’ve never been to an orphanage before. I’ve always highly considered adopting if/when I decide I want children. The mission’s orphanage was exactly the scene I had always imagined a well-run orphanage would be. With an older Indian couple (who I think were interested in adopting) I was shown several rooms of the complex.

A nun dressed in white cotton robes took us first to the top floor, where in a bright, colorful room there were about 25 beds with low bars and an open space where equally as many children ranging from 4-10 years old were interacting and being cared for by busy volunteers and nuns. These children were all physically and/or mentally handicapped from birth or accidents in some way. They were shy but smiling, clinging to the women for guidance and love. One volunteer was soothing a trembling, blind 4 year old boy after some recent incident. In an accent I would place from Southern Spain she cooed, “Mi monito, no llores, no llores, estoy aqui.” Just then a young boy, who may have had cerebral palsy, fell to the ground and let out a cry. Calmly she stood the blind boy on his feet and anchored him to the side of the bed by wrapping his hand around the bar, “esperame,” and rushed to comfort the fallen boy.

Aside from these occasional tears the children seemed happy and busy either with each other or the women. They were drawing, playing, eating or sleeping. They seemed remarkably healthy. I was more concerned about the nuns and volunteers who were clearly exerting everything to care for these children. And yet they still had time to smile at us and ask us if we needed anything as we observed their work! I thought about the parents who had to give up these beautiful children because they couldn’t care for their special needs, or perhaps the parents who abandoned them because of their differences. Would these children ever know which the case was for them? Would they live their whole childhood in the orphanage? What would happen to them as adults? Was there any movement to adopt special needs children in India?

As we were about to leave the room I noticed the Indian woman looked as though she was about to cry, and so was I.

We headed downstairs with the melody of “row, row, row your boat…” growing louder. We were led into a smaller room with 20 cribs instead of beds and 20 toddlers playing in a pile on the floor with an assortment of toys and recorded children’s music filling the room. Again, they looked happy and healthy. But here there was only a single woman watching them, monitoring the fair sharing of the popular toys, and food and toilet needs. As soon as we stepped over the fence into the room each I, the husband, and the wife had 3-4 toddlers at our feet, hugging out legs, smiling bashfully at us, begging us to hold them. I sat on the floor and in seconds someone had claimed into my lap, a little girl with the biggest eyes and little black pigtails. She didn’t say anything, she didn’t show me anything, and she didn’t demand anything. She just looked up at me with the biggest smile as though I had just given her a huge ice cream cone with rainbow sprinkles, what a delight to be on my lap! I played with her for a bit but there was a queue for my lap quickly forming, girls and boys (though the ratio reflects the societal preference in India for sons, 3:1 of girls to boys) vying for my attention. After a couple more hugs I couldn’t take it anymore and we left that room as well. The married woman was holding an infant girl and looking completely overwhelmed. The young children were just what I would expect orphans to be. They were simply and mostly in need of physical affection. I asked the nun that was guiding us through the building if these children were all up for adoption. “Yes, adoption office open tomorrow morning, 8am. You come tomorrow?” No, I’m not adopting, not yet, definitely not yet, I tried to tell her. She smiled kindly and sadly. I learned that Mother’s orphanage is home to over 200 children at the moment. When my visit was over I headed to the Mother House to visit Mother Teresa’s tomb feeling emotional and hormonal.

Mother Teresa’s main personal mission had been to care for the poorest of the poor, the destitute and dying. Near the main Kali Temple of Kolkata is Mother Teresa’s original home for the sick and dying. I visited the temple briefly and waited half-an-hour for the “home” to open it’s doors at 3pm for visitors. I tentatively entered, not at all sure what to expect. Just beyond the door I was in a room with about 30 cots, each occupied by an old, fragile man. Some were sitting, some sleeping, some eating. Volunteers moved between them checking comfort and needs. I hadn’t expected to walk straight into the facility. The lonely planet said the home was, “surprisingly small.” I didn’t realize that meant it lacked any type of lobby or hallway. A young Canadian woman came up to me and asked what she could do for me. I told her I had just stopped by to visit, but I wasn’t sure what that entailed. She swept me with her along her rounds in the next room where all the woman lay. She was cheery and conversational. Asking me many question about my travels. She was a nurse in Canada and had come to Kolkata specifically to volunteer at Mother Teresa’s home for the sick and dying for 1 month. I asked some questions about the woman and the operations of the home but I was quickly overwhelmed watching the patients and the minimal conditions and supplies available. The Canadian woman told me that some of the people come to the home themselves; some are found in the slums and brought there. If they had no one to care for them they would rest here until they passed away. I barely looked at the patients, focusing on my conversation with the woman, not allowing myself to connect to the place. I left not 10 minutes after I arrived, avoiding the emotions and memories I knew would flood in if I remained there longer.

Visiting Kolkata, Bangladesh will have to wait.

Thursday March 18, 2010

I had expected Kolkata to be an extremely chaotic city, one of the worse. It is, after all, the 2nd largest city in India by population. But I’ve been pleasantly surprised to find Kolkata to be a very friendly city with little hassle, though the traffic is horrible. I feel right at home again, almost as though I never left. Slowly my limited Hindi vocabulary is coming back into use. I’m re-adapting my head wobble/tilt to replace my use of the words “yes” “maybe” “ok” “I don’t know” and “thank you.” And I’m fully enjoying the fact that everyone speaks English!! Well not everyone, not nearly everyone, but compared to my past 2 months in SE Asia I can have conversations with a complete with so much more content and friendliness. I appreciate what India offers a traveler so much more now than I did when I was here 2 years ago, the sense of humor, the clothes, the cheapness, the food, the silly bargaining, the English, the Hindi (no tones!)… Coming from SE Asia I am already used to the intense stares from men, the pollution, the heat, the noise, and the horrible traffic. And this all leaves me with generally positive experiences around each corner.

I flew into Kolkata mainly because I had hoped to spend some time in Bangladesh. On Tuesday it ended up being too late for me to go to the Bangladesh Consulate to apply for a visa. On Wednesday morning I took a taxi there only to discovered it was closed for the day to celebrate the birthday of the honorable Sir Reallylongname Reallylongname Reallylongname. On Thursday I returned, but I knew I would only bother to apply if I could get the visa back by Friday. This would only give me about 5 days to head into Dhaka, stay, and leave before I would have to make my way to Delhi. I promised Arman I would be in Delhi before his birthday on April 3 and I intend to keep that promise.

My interest in Bangladesh is to see a different part of Indian culture and visit a Muslim country for the first time. Being a Muslim country I wanted to get the visa in my Netherlands passport. I have two passports for good reason; sometimes I’d rather not be American. Also, I knew the visa would be cheaper for Europeans (about $20 vs $100). At the application counter everything seemed to be in order, they said I would get my visa the next day. I had to come back at 11:30am, in 2 hours, for an interview.

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After asking and receiving different directions from 10 people I find a cyber café to pass the time until my interview. As I pay for my hour ($0.30) the guy asks me, “Are you Muslim?” “Excuse me?”

“Are you Muslim? Or Hindu? What is your caste?”

“No I’m not Muslim. I don’t have a caste.”

“What is your religion? Christian?”

I shake my head, “I don’t have one.”

“Agnostic?” he asks with shock, “why?”

“Because I wasn’t raised with a religion,” I smile.

“Why do you look Muslim?”

“How do you mean, because of my face?”

He nods.

“I don’t know.”

“You look Muslim.”

“Well, thank you” I smile and take my leave. I’m always flattered if someone identifies me with a particular ethnicity, especially if it is their own. I don’t know why he should identify me as Muslim, even after having seen my American passport as ID. Occasionally in the states people have asked me if I am Persian or they just ask “what” I am, usually after hearing my name. It was an interesting exchange to occur just as I am in the process of getting a Visa for Bangladesh, a Muslim country. I head back to the consulate to be early for my interview.

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I waited for my turn to be interviewed. When I was called forward the man began to shuffle through my application and copies of my passport and Indian visa. I could tell he had no intentions of actually asking me questions when he began to name the fee for the visa for Dutch citizens ($18). But then he asked if I had the passport with me that contained the Indian visa. Was it an old passport? No, I said, it was a different passport. I had no intention of lying about my American citizenship; I just wanted the visa to be for my Dutch passport. He asked to see my American passport so I showed him.

He then proceeded to tell me he would have to put the visa in my American passport. I was afraid of this. My Indian visa is in my American passport because only Americans can have 10 year visas to India. I try to ask him why it is a problem. He has a photocopy of my India visa, he has both passports in front of him, until just then he didn’t know I had an American passport, why couldn’t he just put it in the Dutch passport? Because these were his rules, he says. I plead with him, saying it shouldn’t make a difference, all the information is available, but he doesn’t care. He asks me why I care, is it “because the American visa is more money?” “No, it’s because I feel safer traveling on my Dutch passport,” I say. This seems to change things. He then says he can write to the office higher up and ask them for permission to glue the visa into my Dutch passport. How long will this take? At least a week. I tell him I don’t have that kind of time, I will have to go with my American passport. But when I find out that an American visa will cost more than $170 I change my mind. For me to pay $170 to go Bangladesh, which honestly is not completely safe for a single female traveler due to political unrest, and for less than 5 days doesn’t seem worth it. I take both of my passports and leave the consulate. I’ll have to visit Bangladesh in the future when I have more time to actually see the country and hopefully someone to travel with. Travel lesson no. 79: Don’t be too honest with government officials, hide your extra passport until you actually HAVE to show it to them.

On the street I stop at a street vendor for a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. As I’m drinking my juice a woman orders her own and smiles at me. “What country are you from?” she asks. She asks me about my trip plans and if I am going to Delhi. I must stay with her family in Delhi, she tells me. They are very nice and would be happy to have me. Not wanting to insult or reject this stranger’s hospitality I tell her that I have some friends in Delhi that are waiting to host me. But she’s persistent, “my family is really outgoing, really! You must go and stay with them! I’ll give you their address.” I finish my juice quickly and say, “It was nice to meet you” with a smile and walk away. I don’t even know her name! I had forgotten the intense hospitality sometimes shown to foreigners in India. As I walk to the metro I’m bummed I won’t get to go to Bangladesh but also relieved that now I won’t have to rush the next 10 days of my trip towards Delhi. I’m also appreciative that I came to friendly Kolkata as my reintroduction to India.

By the way, I'm staying in Hotel Palace, just off Sudder St, across the street from Fresh & Juicy restaurant which is in the LP. It's a decent hotel with high ceilings so the rooms stay cool and private bathrooms. I recommend it. Or at least I recommend room 111.

Oh yeah… India!

16 March 2010

After 2 months of traveling overland from Southern Vietnam north into Northern Laos, then south into Cambodia and west to Bangkok I find myself at the Bangkok International Airport. I’m exhausted. I’ve slept poorly for the past several nights in my tiny room on Khao San road, blasted with horrible club music until 3am. And last night I went out salsa dancing again, not getting to bed until 1:00am, only to wake up this morning at 4:30am for my ride to the airport. Zombie-like I find my airline to check in at. This is not so simple because the Bangkok airport is huge. There are at least 40 different airlines here, probably more. Walking down the rows of kiosks I finally find Jet Airways on row P. I’m too early to check into my flight so I fall asleep across two seats, cradling my pack. I’m nervous about having to check my pack in, it contains everything, and I haven’t been properly parted from it for the whole trip. What if they lose it?

At 7am I approach the counter to check in. With my bag on the scale I hand the woman my passport and bend over to zip in the straps of my pack. From the empty line behind me an Indian man approaches and places his passport on the counter I am at. I stare at him bewildered. The woman says, “Sir, you need to wait your turn.” She pushes his passport back to him. He inclines his head to the right and says “ok.” But he doesn’t move, he just stands right next to me. “Sir, you need to wait behind the red line.” After a couple of gestures from the woman he backs away.

While she is checking me in he approaches again and the exact same exchange occurs again. And once more when she is telling me my gate number and handing me my passport. I was too tired to be really annoyed, but I was awake enough to register that while his behavior was very out of place at such an orderly beautiful airport in Thailand, he was just following normal conduct in India. You move to the ticket counter when you can. There are no lines; just people progressively pushing forward until they can get their request in, bus station, train station, movie cinema, and apparently airports are all the same.

When I first got home from India 2 years ago everyone wanted to know, “Did you love it?” I had a wonderful experience, but India was India, I wasn’t crazy about it. Would I go back? Probably, but not anytime soon, I had the rest of the world to see. I told people about the problems in India, the challenges, annoyances, as well as the good things. But over the past 2 years my stories, and as a result my memories, changed. By the time I left Seattle in January I told everyone I was excited to return to India. Many travelers I have met exchange stories about India. Many hated it and many loved it, but it is usually one or the other. For those that hadn’t been yet I told them they should go, but they should give India its own trip. I advertised Uttaranchal and promoted Rajasthan. I think I played a big role in convincing Dina to change her plans and fly to India.

Now, waiting for a flight to Kolkata, I’m having my first Indian experiences. And suddenly the memories, the ones I stopped sharing and remembering, are flooding back. With only a couple hours of sleep in me I’m not sure I’m ready to be in Kolkata in 3 hours. And it’s not just the fact that I’ll be landing in India, it’s just that I’ll be landing somewhere. I’ve been traveling across 4 countries gradually. I’ve seen the landscape change past my bus window, along with the culture. The food has slowly morphed from lemongrass chicken and pho, to spicy ramen soup and laap, to grilled fish and sticky rice, to noodles and fish, to noodles and curries. Now I’ll have the pleasure of “culture shock” as I touch down in India. From efficient, modern Bangkok to crowded, crazy Calcutta.

I slept most of the 2 hour flight. As we landed I looked out at the little airport and the busy streets, “oh boy” I said under my breath. The woman sitting next to me must have either heard me or noticed the distressed look on my face. “Is this your first time to India?” she asked smiling. I couldn’t help but smile and laugh. Her question is one that everyone in India will ask you, I even wrote a blog entry about it on my last trip. I was surprised by just how proud I was to tell her, “No it’s not, I was here 2 years ago!”

“In Kolkata?” she asked.
“No, not in Kolkata.”
“Ahh, so this is your first time in Kolkata,” she said wisely.

As we spoke, waiting to get off the plane, I learned that she has lived in LA for many years now, but she lives part of the year in Bangkok. Her husband and her both grew up in Kolkata. Now her husband is a business professor who lectures at both UCLA and a university in Bangkok. She asks me where I am staying and I tell her I don’t have a place yet, I’m just headed to Sudder St where the budget hotels are. She offers to give me a ride there since her home is nearby. I gladly accept.

Jyoti’s offer for a ride saves me the stress of getting a taxi to the metro, figuring out the metro, and then finding Sudder St, but it also gives me a chance to continue talking to her. She’s wonderfully outgoing and motherly. “Are you taking malaria pills?” she asks sharply.
“No, I know I should be…” I say guiltily.

She recommends a pill that she claims she takes every time she comes back to India, even her son-in-law took it his first time in India. I have to get them straight away, I should have started them a week ago. The way she talks about her son-in-law catches my attention. She says it endearingly but there is also something different about her son-in-law. I ask.

Her son-in-law is American and white. I’ve already told her that I will be traveling for a month with my boyfriend but I was hesitant to tell her Atish is Indian. She’s been so sweet to me and I don’t want to jinx it. Having just arrived to India I don’t know yet how people will react to knowing I am dating an “Indian-boy.” But hearing that her daughter is in an interracial marriage encourages me to share my full story with her.

“He’s never been to India?” she asks, wide-eyed, “It’s going to be quite an experience for him. You better take good care of him, you’ve been here before.”

She tells me about her daughter and the wedding and how the groom’s entire family was so thrilled to be a part of an Indian wedding. Everyone wore sari’s and after the wedding the groom’s immediate family all came with them to India. We discuss how westerner’s love to embrace Indian culture. I tell her about my mother and my parent’s travels in India, and how I grew up with an odd exposure to Indian culture and Hinduism. She asks me what it is like for Atish dating me with his family? A work in progress, I reply. She nods wisely, understanding.

“In some ways I am a very traditional person,” she says “but for my daughter my priority is that she is most happy in life, and you must look at her now, she is so happy! When we announced the wedding people started asking me if I was angry because he isn’t Indian. But it was everyone asking me that began to make me angry.” But, she adds, it wasn’t her family in India that were concerned, it was only the NRIs (non-resident Indians). “I think it is all about worrying what people will think of you,” she continues, “there is so much pressure to uphold an image for your family.”

As we enter Kolkata conversation shifts to her telling me about the city. Her entire family still lives here. She and her husband are the “black-sheep” in the family for having left. Every time she visits she must try to see everyone, she says. But this trip is only a visa-run from Bangkok, tomorrow she will already be on a flight back. “I’ve already been here to visit 3 times since January; you’d think it would be enough! But they always say I need to come more. I think they just want the presents from America,” she laughs.

When her driver drops me at the base of Sudder St I thank her for making my “welcome back to India” fantastic. It was such a pleasure meeting her. I really regret I didn’t ask for her email, but perhaps our paths will cross again.

new pictures!!

From Luang Prabang, Laos to the beginning of my time in Cambodia (Mondulkiri Province).

Bangkok: Current Events

March 12, 2010

As I ride into the city in a taxi from the bus station I am in awe of how big, bustling, modern, and commercial Bangkok is. It is an amazing city. I knew it was big but I wasn’t expecting this level of consumerism and business. The transportation seems good too; I observe a sky train and a metro system, plus many busses. Everyone is out shopping on Friday. Every chain I can think of in America exists here, plus they have their own franchises to support, resulting in every blocked packed with stores. Dunkin’ Donuts, KFC, Starbucks, McDonalds, Subway, Burger King, it’s all here, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Then there’s the fashion, I pass shops of high end names that I could never afford. As we get closer to the tourist district we pass a main street that seems to lead to some government buildings, on 2 corners I notice some crowd control looking police man stationed. Maybe there was a protest earlier.

I plan to go salsa dancing my first night in Bangkok. It’s been ages since I’ve danced and I miss it badly. Plus I’m really curious about the salsa scene here; it’s supposed to be pretty good. I’m excited to find some internet and figure out where the dancing will be tonight. When I do look it up I discover that tonight’s dance is at Dream Hotel. Judging by the website it’s a very posh place. I don’t think it would be fitting for me to show up in my travel pants and dance in my socks as I originally planned. Unfortunately, the tourist street of Koh San is a circus. It’s packed with street vendors selling everything for Westerners at ridiculous prices, loud music blasting bars, and cheap crummy guesthouses. But I’ve decided to stay in this part of town because I feel safe here. Bangkok is an intimidating city and there is a large sex-trade/tourism scene. I figure I’d rather be around the bars blasting Black Eyed Peas than the local “nightlife.”

I head onto the street in search of something to wear. I’m immediately overwhelmed by the selection. I’ve just walked into a street version of Forever 21. Not only because of the ridiculous amount crammed into the street, but because everything they sell here is exactly Forever 21 merchandise. This is where it all comes from. And I quickly discover that the prices here are nearly the same as Forever 21 at home as well. I know the prices are ridiculous, but the tourists here (mostly European) are willing to pay them because the clothes are still cheap to them. It’s frustrating to know that I could be getting the same deals at home. I settle on a $5 pair of leggings and a $15 pair of heels to dance in, surely I’ll get blisters breaking them in. I head back to my guesthouse feeling outlandish that I just spent $20 to go dancing, but excited to get dressed up. Did I say earlier I didn’t miss my closet at home? Ok, well I miss it as much as I miss going out salsa dancing.

A cab to Dream Hotel costs another $3.25. This is going to be an expensive night. The hotel and lounge is beautiful. I sit down to watch the couples on the floor and scope out the place. The music is good and it feels so good. Soon I get asked to dance and it’s wonderful. I quickly discover that the leads here have a wonderful calmness and consideration to their lead. They don’t push and pull or over-direct you. Though there seems to be little independent styling for the ladies, the leads are kind and advanced and I have a blast dancing.

Taking a break, I begin talking to a German man I was sitting next to. He lives in Bangkok and noticed I must be from out of town because he didn’t recognize me. This is what I love about salsa communities. No matter where in the world, a salsa dancer is always welcome in a new community, and everyone in the community knows each other. It’s one of the best ways to network and find your way around a new city. I tell him I’m from Seattle and he says that it is the only city he has been to in the USA.

“Why did you go to Seattle, for work?” I asked.

“Yes, I was there for the WTO convention.” He tells me about walking in the rain at night past the hundreds of policemen to find his way through the city to the salsa club after a day of work in conferences. Ironic, considering what I’m about to learn.

He apologizes that tonight is so quiet. Is it quiet? Apparently this is only 1/3 of the normal turnout he says, because of everything happening in the city this weekend. What’s happening in Bangkok I ask, excited. He’s shocked I don’t know and I quickly feel quite stupid for being so horribly uneducated about the current events.

I’ve been very happy with the route my trip has taken and the places I’ve gotten to seen, but I have been disappointed by how my schedule has resulted in me missing nearly every major festival possible. I left Hanoi 2 weeks before what would have surely been one of the largest Tet (Chinese New Year) celebrations on the city’s 1000 year anniversary. I left Luang Prabang just before the Elephant Festival began. I missed an amazing Buddhist pilgrimage to Champasak, Southern Laos, by about 1 week. I’ll be missing the incredible Thai New Year / nationwide water-fight by less than 1 month. I’ve missed the amazing Holi celebrations in India by 2 weeks. Atish & I will be in India during Kumbh Mela but we won’t be able to reach it with our schedule. Yet somehow I’ve managed to arrive in Bangkok just as one of the nation’s largest protests ever for a political coup is about to begin, when hundreds of thousands of people are pouring into the city to voice their discontent. And I had no idea.

The Red-Shirts want the previous prime minister to be reinstated. He was ousted in a military coup several years ago for embezzlement. My understanding is he represents a more socialist movement. He’s currently in a self-imposed exile. His supports have picked this weekend to migrate from every corner of the country and fill Bangkok wearing their iconic red shirts. They are quoted in the news for wanting a peaceful march on the capital. They say they hope their numbers alone will instill a need for change. Jost, the German salsa dancer, says there are rumors of planned violence. He tells me to be careful, that they have no real knowledge as to how many Red-Shirts there will be, estimates range from 100,000 to 1 million. I’m worried about my flight on Tuesday morning and ask him if there is a chance this could interfere with the airport. It could he says, but most likely it will blow over before then. Oh dear, please let this pass quickly. I flash back to 9th grade when I waited with 15 of my fellow classmates in the Houston Bush International Airport for 3 days when the air-traffic controllers had gone on strike in Guatemala. We were so excited to reach Guatemala when we finally were able to fly, but the wait had been horrible. Would the strike end today, tomorrow? No one had any idea. Socio-political conflicts are the worst uncertainties to encounter when traveling.

As I head back to my guesthouse at midnight I see what I missed on my ride into the city. There are police everywhere. The center of the protests will take place near Koh San Road. As we get closer I see SWAT teams lining corners carrying large plastic shields, there are police cadets on other streets, a military truck is stopped and soldiers in camo are unloading. But I don’t see any Red-Shirts, yet.

The next morning I get online to research the issue and read the latest about the protesters. BBC says that 40,000 troops have been mobilized to protect the city. Everything around me seems to be running normally. I wonder how many tourists actually know about this. When I head out for my walk through the city I am shocked to discover that my perception of where the center of the protests would be was a bit wrong. They are 2 blocks from my guesthouse, on the street parallel to Koh San road. Large canopies are set up and there are a few Red-Shirts setting up resources and a stage. I ask one of them and they say that everyone is supposed to be entering the area late tonight and the main event would be Sunday. The sooner the better, I think. Let’s get this over with so I can make my flight.

My walk through the city is uneventful and wonderful. I have fun exploring the markets, waterfront, and temples near the river. I have fun trying different foods I see. I stop at a mum & pop restaurant and order Phad Sei Ew. I ask if I can watch them cook it. Atish and I are constantly trying to figure out the best order for frying all the ingredients together in the wok. The women are happy to let me stand in the kitchen with the cook and I film the whole process. To think I almost signed up for $100 cooking course just to learn how to make Phad Sei Ew. I just got everything I needed for free :)

I take a taxi back to Koh San Road. I had nearly forgotten about the Red-Shirts when my cab driver is frustrated because roads are blocked off. We have to take a large detour. Down different streets I see red in the distance. There are definitely more of them than this morning.

In Koh San Road I feel safe. The road is blocked by police men and the protesters would have no reason to come into this touristy area. But while I’m showering I start to hear a lot of chanting and yelling in the street outside. And it’s really loud. Could people be marching down the road? I get dressed and run outside to see what it is. In front of my guesthouse is a huge crowd of tourists pressed together watching something. I squeeze to the front and find a team of children break-dancing. They are putting on an incredible show and everyone is cheering them on energetically. They finish and I head back to my room. I’ll have to wait to see what tomorrow brings.

Welcome to Thailand

March 8, 2010

My first night in Thailand consisted of being ripped off by a drunken taxi-truck driver, where I ended up at a different part of Ko Chang then where I wanted to spend the night. A very authentic dinner at none other than one of Thailand’s notorious 7-11’s. A bad night sleep waiting to let my roommate in when she got back from drinking, which ended with me trying to ignore the sounds of her making out with some guy outside the room at 3am. And waking up at 6:30am to find an overpriced boat ride to the island I actually wanted to be on. But from there on I really enjoyed my 2.5 days relaxing on Koh Kud. There were very few people there so I really could be alone. I also got to go SCUBA diving for the first time in 2 years!

Travel Lesson-learned No. 73: Don't waste time arguing with crazy women

March 8th.

Once in Koh Kong I found a guesthouse for $7 for the night and put my bags in the room. I’m always frustrated by the attitude of some guesthouse owners when I arrive to ask about vacancy. Often I have to interrupt a television show or get someone’s attention, and then they just look at me like, “what do you want.” You’d think that if you were in the business of hosting people that you would be gracious and eager to please a potential customer, but I have rarely found that to be the case at family run guesthouses. A cultural difference I guess… People wait for business to come to them and seem to accept what they get.

I went straight to the local dive shop. I had read about Koh Kong Island, which was supposed to have very beautiful beaches. Everything I read said there were no guesthouses on the island, but that development was definitely on its way, and that was all written about 1 year ago. I felt certain, with my infinite wisdom, that by now there would be a guesthouse on the island. Instead of paying for a 1 day tour to the island, I wanted to find a local boat to drop me there and I would stay for a couple days.

At the dive shop they had day tours to the island for $40, way outside my budget. I asked about staying on the island and the guy said it wasn’t an option. What? There must be at least somewhere basic to stay. He assured me there were no guesthouses. But why? I asked. Because the island is a military base. There is no local development allowed for tourism, but everyone is expecting someone to come and buy the land from the government and put a resort on the island soon. Definitely, not what I had been expecting.

I came to Koh Kong because I wanted to find somewhere away from tourism to relax on the beach for a couple days before heading to Bangkok, and then Calcutta. Apparently this wasn’t the place. The town is nothing special, and it’s not really on the coast, it’s behind a mangrove swamp, so there are no local beaches. I decide to head to Koh Kood, an island not too far, but part of Thailand. I’ll cross the nearby border today and take a ferry to the island. I find an internet café and catch up with emails and tell Dad and Atish I’m safe after my days with no communication in the mountains. Then I head back to the guesthouse to get my bags.

I know they won’t be happy I’ve decided not to stay, so when I approach the guesthouse and see the owner / mother outside I smile warmly and bring my hands together in front of my face and say, “I’m so sorry, I have to change my plans, I have to go to Thailand today, I can’t stay tonight in Koh Kong.” And it’s the truth. I don’t have enough time to stay the night and leave tomorrow. I fly from Bangkok in a week and I want my time on the beach and in the city. Immediately she looks mad and says, “You pay $5.”

Excuse me? I’m not paying more than half the price for the room that just held my bags for 2 hours. She starts up a speech in Thai and her teenage son comes over to try to translate. Something about using the water, electricity, making the room dirty, I have to pay $5. I’m so put off by her complete unwillingness to understand the situation I am in and her hostility that I flat out refuse to pay. I haven't used the room or made it dirty but I did use the small bar of soap in my room to wash my hands when I arrived, I’ll pay $1. No, $5 she says.

I ignore her and head straight back to the room to get my stuff. I want to get my bags in my hands before they lock me out of my room. She’s so angry and I haven’t done anything but have to change my plans. I haven’t been rude, I’m still trying to smile, but she’s furious.

A couple minutes later I walk back out with my bag on my back, the key and $1 in my hand, I hand them to her. She waves the $1 in the air. What is this? You pay $5! I came and agreed to stay, I used the room, I have to pay $5. I calmly tell the son that that is ridiculous. I’m not paying nearly the full price for the room for 2 hours of keeping my bags there. She should be happy with the $1 (if I had another single I would have given her $2). This is incredibly bad business I tell the boy. I came here happy, my plans changed because I had bad information (not entirely true…), I said I was sorry I would have to leave for Thailand, and now she’s pissed at me. She should be understanding. This is bad business. I try to convey all of this to the boy and he looks distraught. I tell him I’m not paying her $5. I’ve put my foot down and now I’m going to be stubborn. I’m starting to get pissed as well. I can see how frustrated the boy is, he’s embarrassed. “Moooommm, just let it go,” is clearly what he is saying to her. No. She won’t.

At this point I realize that I may end up having to pay. In a sense I understand her side. I entered a verbal agreement when I took the key for the room. I’m almost surprised she isn’t asking me for $7. But I’m so incredibly put off by her approach that I will see this out to some type of fairness. I won’t let some woman (who didn’t even seem to want my business when I arrived!) yell at me and demand $5.

I say, “I’m sorry, but you are being unreasonable,” and walk to the door. She steps in front of me and slaps my shoulders then pushes me forcefully backwards. With my backpack on her shove sets me off balance both physically and emotionally. Now I’m mad.

I’ve heard the warnings about causing a Thai businessperson to lose face. So close to the Thai border, I assume the culture is shared. 1 traveler told me about going into stores and trying on t-shirts, after trying on 3 different t-shirts that he didn’t end up liking the woman said he couldn’t try on anymore, he had to buy one. But how could he buy one if he didn’t know if he liked it on himself? he voiced. Didn’t matter, he couldn’t try any more on, it was enough. So he went to leave the store and the woman slapped him hard across the back as he passed and said, “You try on, why not buy!?” He was so shocked he stopped and tried to explain himself but she hit him again and the girl he was traveling with had to drag him out of the store, afraid he would keep getting beat up if he stood there in shock.

A German woman I met was at a bar in Bangkok with some friends. They ordered a pitcher of some mixed drink and when they taste it they were revolted. The alcohol was some sort of cheap home-brew. They insisted on a new pitcher of better stuff that they were paying full price for. The second pitcher was the same so they got up and left and went to the bar next door. As they left the 2nd bar later on they saw a group of tourists headed into the first bar. The gal yelled over to them to not go to that bar because the drinks were bad. The woman from the bar was standing there and heard. She picked up a glass beer bottle and threw it forcefully at the gal, hitting her in the eye. She had to be rushed to a hospital and now is still having problems with the dilation of her pupil from the damage.

These stories are fully supported by a warning in the Lonely Planet about not causing the Thai to lose face because it can turn violent. I’m completely shocked by these stories. I can’t imagine such outbursts of violence in public, to potential customers, by women. Whatever happened to the customer is always right? Obviously, this is an example of a huge cultural difference, but it is not one I am willing to excuse on the basis of misunderstanding differences.

What I was experiencing at the hotel wasn’t nearly as bad as these stories. The woman and I were in a standoff, each I believe within our own rights to claim whether or not the money should be paid. But I felt I held the moral-high ground because I was the one being calm, rational, not violent and not yelling.

In my attempt to seem self-assured and confident my nerves were slowly failing. I could feel my knees begin to shake under my pack. But I tried not to show it and continued to listen to the woman yell at me in Khmer, blocking the doorway with her body. Her neighbors and family members had now come around to watch the drama unfold. Her husband sat behind the desk and looked completely uninterested; he looked at the floor and didn’t try to aid the situation. There was a little girl and a teenage girl on the staircase watching. At one point I looked up at them and smiled and winked at them. They giggled. All of this caused me to further think that I was right, that this woman was crazy and alone in her demand for $5.

I repeated to the boy that this was horrible. I would leave here and tell everyone I met not to stay here. I would write on the internet (and I will) that this guesthouse should not be used. I told him that today, maybe I pay $5, but tomorrow they would have no guests. I think he understood me, but he made it clear that his wasn’t about responsible, sustainable business practices. This was about me paying $5 for using the room.

Just then a man with a backpack came walking up the driveway to the door. He was clearly looking for a place to stay. Standing directly behind the woman he was completely ignored. He looked so confused about all the yelling and I just stood there and smiled weakly at him. “Don’t stay here, go away,” I mouthed at him. He looked more confused.

“What is happening?” he asked. I explained my situation and told him he should find another place.
“But you stayed here?” he asked, he was Italian and he hadn’t fully understood me over the yelling.
“No, I got here 2 hours ago. I haven’t stayed, I just took a room, and now I need to leave.”

He look even more confused. He tried to ask them why they wanted me to pay if I didn’t sleep there. It was reassuring to know he was of the same mindset as I was. You don’t stay in a hotel room unless you spend the night, sleep in the bed, why should I pay for the room? After a couple minutes the man walked away to find another place. The woman never looked at him, he was never even offered a room. That’s the other thing. If the place was packed, if my leaving after check out hours meant that they had lost the business of filling that room with a guest, then I would have been more willing to pay. But the place was empty, so I hadn’t taken any business from them. Until just now. See! I said to the boy. You yell at me for $5 for nothing, and you just lost $7. See? He left, you lost a customer. The boy definitely understood, but he seemed too intimidated to even talk to his mother. He just stood there, occasionally repeating some of her ranting when she yelled at him to speak.

After another 5 minutes of verbal abuse the price dropped to $3. Now that was more reasonable. But at the same time, her dropping the price only confirmed my suspicion that she was majorly ripping me off from the beginning when her response to my apology of having to leave was “$5!” So, I figured I would give it another couple of minutes of refusal and then agree to pay the $3 to get out of there, but I really didn’t want to pay her. Then the boy translated, “If you don’t pay I’ll call the police.”

The police? A quick deliberation took place in my head and my mouth said, “Good! Call the police!” Why did I say that? I think I was hoping they were bluffing. They looked taken aback that I had said that. So sure was I of my position at the time that I pulled out my own phone and said shakily, “Call them! If you don’t call them, I will. Go on, call them!” They got the message, I thought perhaps she would drop the whole issue. Why make it more involved with the cops? But she was livid. She yelled at her husband to call. He looked apprehensive, but picked up the phone, dialed and handed it to her. I listend as she yelled the situation over the phone. She hung up, the police would be coming. She walked away and pointed at me and yelled something over her shoulder, “make sure she doesn’t go anywhere!”

A couple things went through my mind at this point:
They don’t have my name or passport, I could probably just get up and walk out, she seemed the only one really interested in keeping me there for the additional $2 (she still had my $1). But did I want to risk it?
Were the police a good idea? I’m in a foreign, developing country. The police could be really corrupt, I could end up having to pay $100 for god-knows-what. Then again, I was a tourist. A western. A pretty girl. They shouldn’t want to hassle me. They want tourism to grow in Koh Kong. Maybe if I batted my eyelashes, and smiled and said “she pushed me!” they would apologize and let me walk away without paying. It could easily go either way.

I look at the clock, it’s getting late. I tell the husband, if they don’t come in 5 minutes I’m leaving. He didn’t seem to care. The woman has come back to be my guard. I slowly, deliberately pull out my Lonely Planet and open it to the page for Koh Kong. Then I make a show of getting my pen and reading the sign outside with the guesthouse name and copying it into my Lonely Planet: Phneas Mea Koh Kong Guesthouse. I put a big X in front of it. Everyone is watching me, but I wonder if they understand what I’m doing. I have every intention of writing LP to tell them to not include this guesthouse in future editions, and post my experience on their travel forum. I don’t know that it will make a difference, but it has the potential to make a huge difference.

With 1 minute left of my self-proclaimed deadline 2 police motorcycles and a black Ford Escalade pull into the driveway. Apparently there wasn’t anything more important than a tourist trying to run out on a hotel bill going on in Koh Kong just then. There are 4 police men and a man I can only assume is the chief. As if in a movie he slowly gets out of the car and begins to walk towards me, flanked by the police men wearing motorcycle helmets, there’s no expression on his face as he removes his sunglasses. I dumbly try my eyelash/smile approach, “Hello” I say as I bow my head.

“Passport please,” he replies. Shit. Now he knows my name… What had I been expecting?

The woman starts to explain the story loudly. I wait. When she finishes he simply says, “You need to pay her $3.” Ok, I say, I’d be happy to, but can he hear my side of the story? He listens obligingly (luckily his English is very good). I explain how I had wanted to stay but couldn’t, I had only been there for 2 hours, she was rude, abusive, and unfair starting at $5. She was going to lose a lot of business from this incident and it would have served her better to have been nice and just ask for $3. He nods and then says, “Ok, but now I want you to pay her $3 and we close this problem.” Grrrrr. I wanted some acknowledgement. “But can you please explain to her why this whole thing was a problem, why I didn’t want to pay from the beginning?” He smiles and explains there is no point in it, she would do it again tomorrow if it happened. He also explains that it is the law there, if a guest stays in a room more than 1 hour they have to pay half the price. This is news to me, she never said anything about a law. Shakily I hand her a $5, trying as hard as I can to show that I don’t care that I’m paying her, no big deal. She makes my change and looks victorious.

The police chief asks me why I have to leave Koh Kong, why am I going back to Thailand. I correct him, I’m not going back, I’ve been in Cambodia for 3 weeks, and this has been the first bad experience I’ve had. He apologizes and says he hopes I come back to Koh Kong. See, I was right! The police would want to make a good impression for Koh Kong tourism. But that didn’t end up meaning I wouldn’t have to pay… He asks me about my travels as I walk out of the guesthouse (freedom!) and we share a couple words. I milk the smiling and conversation between us, laughing. I want the family to see how clear it is that I’m not the bad guy. I’m a very sore loser. I ask him where I should walk to find a motorbike to take me to the border. He offers to have one of his men take me to the border. Sweet! That ride would have cost me $3 ;)

As I climb onto the back of a gorgeous Harley Davidson police bike I laugh at my luck and the look on the faces of family, I wave back at them goodbye.

Having my nerves on edge being yelled at by the woman: not worth $3

Risking the decision of unknown police in a foreign country: not worth $3

Wasting an hour of my time to get to Thailand and the island: not worth $3

The experience of being delivered to the Thai border on the back of a police HD motorcycle: Priceless