home safe and sound.

with a slight cold and loose motions - but who can ask for anything more?

And thus ends the India blog.

Well, there might be one more conclusive one in me tomorrow, but I'm not making any promises. So in case this is the last blog, thanks for reading and the comments and all the support. I have so many amazing people in my life and I love you all and I can't wait to trap each of you in a corner and talk your ears off.

weird to be home. but a good weird.

I have a lot to go think about....

homeward bound

It was really hard to say goodbye to the women at Kalighat.
Radha was crying yesterday and I asked a girl who speaks Hindi what she was saying and she translated it, "I'm all alone in the world. I have no one."

It broke my heart. But the girl told me later that the other women were comforting her and saying, "we're all alone in the world too. But we're in here together."

So we painted nails, and massaged arms, and put coconut oil in hair. And Racha sang a song for all of us, and Sanita held my hand and told me to come back to Kalighat. I really love these women. I wish you all knew how amazing they are. Truly. Truly. Amazing women.

I hate saying goodbye.

Last day in Calcutta. Goodbye party tonight. With more goodbyes. and then a 9:30 flight tomorrow morning to Mumbai. A 12 hour layover. a 16 hour flight. a four hour layover. another flight. and then home. which all adds up to 41 hours and 22 minutes of travel time.

I'm going to be INSANE when I get home.

but I'll be home. and that'll be nice. even if crazy. see you all soon.

(I should be landing at 1:20 pm on Wednesday in pdx)

Last night I went to Maddy, Denise and Verity's for their rooftop Thanksgiving dinner. SueLynn; the cranberry sauce and stuffing were a HUGE hit. Denise specifically told me to tell you so. And she's not American, so that seems like an even bigger compliment because she wasn't expecting it. So thank you! I can't believe you sent a can of cranberry sauce!

Went to a football (soccer, for those of us who speak proper) match today. Wonderful. My team (in one day I've managed to acquire a team) won. So fun! I love a good game. And a stadium half full of crazy enthusiastic fans. We shook our fists (and when really mad, our sandals) and the refs needed armed police with crowd control shields on guard in case the angry fans decided to chuck water bottles at them like they apparently did last week.

HOWEVER. Me and a girl I was with were the ONLY females in the entire stadium. I'm not joking. The only women. I have to admit that a spare thought in the corner of my neurotic brain feared some sort of catastrophe or natural disaster that would leave us stuck in the stadium - as the only females.

Luckily I take kung fu.

And luckily it means that there's no line at the women's bathroom!

It was a really fun game. And I think I had at least twenty people take my picture. They probably thought I was Kate Winslet and not Kate Nordbye. An easy mistake.

This post is crap. I can't think straight enough to write. Mostly because I, once again, joy of joy Calcutta, have only moments left until I'll need to rush home to the bathroom.

two days left. Then bombay. then new jersey. then home. (with hopefully a plenitude of toilets between here and there)

Bombay

The man that sells newspapers on Sudder street is one of my favorites. We have a fight most mornings; I try to read my book, and he tries to take it from me so I'll be forced to read his newspaper.

It was the same yesterday. I was at the cafe, reading about the underworld of Bombay (which, eerily, was predicting an attack would happen soon) when he came in and snatched my book, "nooo, I moaned," as I was just at a good part about all the police corruption, but this time instead of grinning, he slammed a paper in front of my face and pointed at the headline: Mumbai Under Attack. (Today's headline just said, in huge letters, "FEAR")

It was strange, and scary, and as I started reading the death toll I started to cry, and then I couldn't read any more and had to turn the paper over and say, "Liz, tell me something happy about your childhood."

"Well," she said, hesitating, "My dad use to take us camping in the Lake District and it was really wonderful."

Mr. Darcy is from the Lake District, I thought to myself, which helped for a second.

But still I'm scared. And everyone is watching. I paid my bill and walked to work and started painting a horse green and a bear purple. But after a few hours my stomach was hurting so bad, so I walked home and vomited five times.

It was probably food poisoning again, but still....sometimes I think my mind and my body feed off each other.

So another night sick in Calcutta. Reading bad news. Hearing bad news. Carmel came up and lay on my bed. Katerina brought me anti-nausea medicine and toast. Esther lay in bed and listened to my ipod with me (and even let me sing "tiny dancer" really loud which always makes me feel better), and then Carmel came up to read me a book in her wonderful Irish accent.

It's good to be sick in Calcutta with so many people around to take care of you. Still. I want to be home.

And not in Bombay. Mumbai. Which is where I will be in four days. My flight from Calcutta stops in Bombay for a 12 hour layover on Tuesday before my flight home. And I'm scared to go. But glad my flight is for four days from now, and not yesterday. Which. Eerily again. Was one of the dates I had considered. So that I would have come home on Thanksgiving.

But it was nice to go to Kalighat today. The women seemed happy to see me and asked me where I had gone, and when I said, "Darjeeling," they all smiled and pointed to the sky. I think to mountains.

Three more days left in Calcutta. I just want to be home safe.

I'm going to miss my spice seller, Pappu.

Whenever I need spices I walk to new market and sit in his shop while he orders me tea and potatoes (he discovered I like potatoes) and chat while I sip on tea and pick out what spices I want (cumin, tumeric, all ground by hand, and masalas - oh I love the masalas). then he puts them in plastic bags and seals them with a candle. He let me try today, and I was really, really, really bad (there goes my career in spice selling - and american drug dealing).

He left me today with presents (something small, sarah) for my sister (he wants my sister to come to India next time with me) and instructions that when I return to Calcutta next time, I'm not allowed to stay in a guest house, but I'm to stay with his family. He also invited me to dinner with his family on Sunday, but I can't make it, which is sad, because I imagine a spice seller is a really good cook.

Felicity and Marite both leave tomorrow. Carmel said today that the hardest thing about Calcutta is all the goodbyes you have to say. I immediately thought, "no, the hardest thing is all the death." but, in thinking, I guess goodbyes and death are pretty similar.

Sigh. The days are going fast.

I painted for over eight hours today. Very irritated painting, by the way, because most of the people have quit over drama (boys and nun fights - same old same old) and new people have come. And new people don't paint inside the lines. Which is very irritating, as I am quite attached to one particular whale.

So there was my vent. And all the thought and space I'm going to give to it. Instead:

I was looking through my camera today. I have only one week left, and I've realized that I've hardly taken any pictures of daily life in Calcutta, which is what I wish I could share the most. The problem is, I can't really take those pictures because every time I want to, I never do; I get too embarassed; it feels too obnoxiously touristy; too intrusive into daily life. So, you'll have to do without, I'm thinking. And instead make do with the mental notes I took on my walk home today.

walking through the Muslim section: most of the women are wearing sari's but a few of them are in burkas and all I can see are their eyes. And they avoid my eyes. I wonder about them. I wonder if they like it. If they choose it. Or if they are forced. I would like to talk to them, perhaps more than anyone else in India. But I can't. They seem off limits.

Most of the men are in white undershirts and lungis (cloth worn around the waist). Shopkeepers, butchers. Huge slabs of meat; mostly beef. Large chunks of wood and giant butcher knives, swinging and cutting them, raw and bloody, then hung up by rope.

Boys hold hands. You almost never, never, see a male and female touching (unless you're in the richer, more westernized neighborhoods. Or at certain parks - where they kiss behind umbrellas). But the boys hold hands. All the time. To my eyes it looks like boyfriends, but in India it is officially against the law (as in, you can be put in prison) to be gay. So the handholds are just friends friends. Maybe...

People everywhere. always cars, rickshaws, people, bikes, motorbikes buzzing around you. It's hard to remember what an empty street back home looks like. I'm used to the crowds now and I wonder if the space when I return home will be unsettling. But here, hundreds, thousands of people pushing past you around you everyday. All day. And night. Because 15 million people have to go somewhere. So they are here. Everywhere.

And lines. Everyone waits. In lines, in their shops, on the streets with their hands extended out to you, "yes sister, money, sister," waiting for customers, chai, to sell fruit or newspaper, hundreds of people for hundreds of hours, if not pushing past you, are waiting.

Forty chicken tied upside down to a bicycle, being taken to market. Or piled upon each other in a small wicker cage.

Dogs, dogs everywhere. Mangy and with fleas. Half their fur bitten off in fights. But happy - walking like they own the streets

Cows tied to poles.

Goats. A hurd of goats walking down the street with men in lungi's with bamboo sticks to keep them in line.

Men bathing. All the time; gathered in groups around the water pumps with soap and pails poured over their heads.

The traffic. It'll kill you. Really. Either through emissions (slowly, daily, every breath in-an-out. I've been back one day and the inside of my nose is black again already) or quickly. In that it will hit you. I haven't been hit. Katerina has been hit (but not too hard) five times now. Because pedestrian's don't have the right of way. It's everyone for themselves and every space is fair game. Only usually the biggest things win.

Fruit for sale. Men swatting the flies off with fabric. Beautiful fruit; bananas, apples, pomelo's, sweet limes, oranges, pomegranates, pineapples, asian pears, and the sweets; sweet shops, with sugar and spice. And bread. Men frying roti and potato paneer; vegetable paneer. Chai shops everywhere served in tiny clay cups that are smashed on the grown when the tea is gone. So good the chai. Really really good.

Anything you want here on the street; shopping bags and magazines selling sexy bollywood stars (who bare everything on covers but still can't kiss on screen - too taboo. the kiss.) shoe shines, wallets, fabrics, bracelets, cold water, warm water, yogurt and curd, milk trucks.

Small boys chase small boys. Men laughing and snap each other with fabric. People sleeping on the streets, always someone, curled up on a small piece of blanket with the extra cloth pulled over their face. Or not. Face exposed to the sun and everyone steps around. Small children in school uniforms pulled by a rickshaw driver or walking hand-in-hand.

Taxi drivers lined up by the water pump to throw buckets of water on their bright yellow cars.

Men waiting outside the mosque dressed all in white.

Hindu women with bright red bindi dots on their foreheads and more red at the hair part to show they are married. Nuns and priests; catholic, jain, hindu, muslim.

People with limps. Old women and men being walked by their adult children. Bent backs and crooked hands. Beautiful sari's, deep bright colors. Every color.

Restaurants, hotels, round the corner and I'm home.

And Katerina says, take a picture of the cat for felicity's going away party tomorrow! And I shower and then take a picture of the cat. Write emails and Carmel is home and it is so good to see you, and let's meet for dinner (and I can't believe I told the soccer players from Nigeria that I think I'm faster than them, and now all of a sudden I have a race on Thursday. the same day that my knees and ankles will probably start to hurt so I won't be able to race :) and a game on Saturday - only this time I watch, and one week left. One week left.

Oh, home to Calcutta; where they'll steal the shirt off your back and then sell it you for 100 rupees. And then hit you with their car so they can take your shirt again.

It was kind of endearing the hoard of taxi drivers waiting outside the train station trying to rip us off: Ohhh, we're home. And I love it.

Goodbye Darjeeling.

Esther and I stood on a hillside road our last night and watched (I'm not good at estimation, but I'm very good at exaggeration) I'm guessing close to two-thousand people march in line; silent, and holding candles. A night vigil. Perhaps for peace, perhaps for the boy who died, perhaps for their dear Gorkhaland.

Then we caught a jeep, packed full, including a very drunk man who for thirty minutes enthusiastically (and unrelentlessly) tried to convince me to marry his son, "I have decided that I would very much like you to be my daughter-in-law." When he tumbled out of the jeep, the rest of the people groaned and apologized for him. No problem, I smiled (though it was a slight problem, because to listen to him I had to turn my head to the side, which always, always, makes me car sick if done for an extended - say, thirty minutes- amount of time).

The train ride was wonderful. I fell asleep almost the moment I sat down, and when I awoke, it was Calcutta.

And the weather is wonderful. Warm, but not too hot. And it's nice to be back. I'm sharing a room with Esther for the last week, and I was unpacking and I heard Katerina and Felicity call out, "Come down Kate, we want to see your face."

It's nice to be back.

"oh hello! I've just slipped a note under your door, but it is much better to run into you!"

I'm walking up the steep stone road and come across Joan, our favorite elderly British lady who tells scandalous stories to the women on the trains. She's squatted down next to a small Nepali boy playing cars with him.

"I have to tell you, I have just so enjoyed meeting you two young ladies. You're simply wonderful and look at you, so sparkly! And anyways, I've given you my email and I'd love to keep in touch, but if you don't feel like it, don't bother at all," and she continues on, "and I have to tell you, I've just gotten into the most wonderful fight. I was buying tickets and this man cuts right in front of me! So I say, 'excuse me sir, but I was here, and you're just going to have to wait.' and he says, 'but I'm rich!' so I say to him, 'I don't care if you're god, you're going to have to wait because I was here first and I'm not finished.' and he replies, 'you British don't own India anymore and you never should have been here in the first place,' so I say, 'you're perfectly right about that, but good manners are universal and I was here first.' and then he says, 'but you're a woman.' and I say, 'I don't care what I am, I was here first!' It really was a fantastic fight, but I'm keeping you and you have to go.

So she hugs me and runs off down the hill.

One more plate of momo's, twenty-five deep breaths (to last me through calcutta), and away we go. Last train ride. Through the night, back to Calcutta. With, hopefully, no boob grabs or exploding light bulbs. But one can only hope.

It's strange. But once again, I've found myself missing Calcutta. Oh how I hate it. Oh how I love it.

Darjeeling time limited

Esther just squealed. She has an email notifying her that she has an interview in Hamburg for nursing school when she returns. Two seconds later, I squealed as well, because I have an email notifying me that mum will have my favorite potatoes waiting for me when I return. Which, honestly, is nicer than nursing school.

Another wonderful day at the top of the world. Only Ethan's gone. Our brand new best friend. He left this morning to catch a bus to Kathmandu. Good for him and all, but sad for us. I'm not sure the rest of the tenants of the guest house would agree, but it was good to laugh. And bore holes into the tops of unopenable rum bottles. (our fingers were too cold and ethan's pepper spray wasn't effective at all.) Have I mentioned that it's really really cold here? I sleep in long johns, wool socks, and six thick blankets. And it's still cold.

I love the people you meet while traveling.

It's officially food day. Esther and I have dedicated the day to eating whatever and whenever we want. So I have to go. It's time to eat again. (by the way, we had the best food in the universe last night, and I'm sorry you weren't all here. Umm Thalis at Sonam's Kitchen. But I now know how to make vegetable steamed momo's so, yeah, don't eat until I get home so you have lots of room!)

Calcutta night train leaves tomorrow, with me on it.

Just so you all know, I've seen Mt. Everest and it's tiny. Size of my thumb. I'm not sure what the big deal is, so I've squashed it between my fingers. Squish squish.

Esther bought a tea set and wanted to send it home, so we spent about an hour in the Darjeeling post office today, and I think it should be a tourist attraction - only I'm glad it's not, because after spending the sunrise with about 300 other tourists with cameras yesterday, I'm a bit done with tourist attractions. Anyways, all packages foreign or domestic need to be "sewn." The tea guy kept saying this to Esther and she kept agreeing, and I thought it was just an English translation error. But it turns out there's this man who sits in the corner of the post office (chewing betel the whole time - is my guess to explain the wad in his cheek) working at an old wooden desk. People bring him packages and he wraps them and smooths them down, then takes out a piece of white cloth, a large hooked needle, and sews them up into a neat little bundle. Then he takes out a candle and some red wax and makes a series of wax imprints on the seal to close it in. Next he takes an old plastic bag (perhaps from bread) and cuts it into a little package that the shipping directions are put inside. I'm pretty sure at this point none of you are interested anymore in my post office narrative, but maybe it's the "home economic student of the year" (don't laugh) in me that really likes watching a person at a craft. Like Bob Ross, on OPB.

We've met the most fantastic British woman. We actually met her in Pelling and she's shown up in Darjeeling at our guest house and she's great. Really. Everything you would imagine an obstinate independent British woman to be. She's older, maybe 60-65? and she's fantastic. A shop keeper asked her to come into his shop yesterday with the assurance, "don't worry, I won't force you to buy anything." And she promptly replied, "Sir, there isn't a person alive who can force me to do anything I don't want to do, you included, thank you very much, and I shant be visiting your shop today, I'm tired and am going home." He tried to bribe her in with some tea. "Sir, unless you give me a glass of wine, I will just continue on my way, thank you very much." And so she did.

Today we ran into her buying carrots to feed to the horribly hungry looking ponies around that tourists ride and sharply rebuking the men for underfeeding them.

Last night she told us a story about her train rides. "I've never been married, never had any kids and I'm sick, completely sick of the snickerty old Indian women who interogate me every trip as to where my husband is. So on my last ride I met this gorgeous Swedish man - he was a real dish- and I asked him if he would pretend to be my lover the next time a woman asked me. And he said, no problem, he'd go along with anything. So soon this woman sits down across from me and asks, 'where's your husband?' and I replied, 'oh, he's home with our six children and I'm traveling here with my lover.' and the Swedish man, he was great, he said, 'and yes, we like to have regular sex on the hour so we better be going,' and up he jumped and put his arm around my waist and we walked off to the bathroom, and when we came back he laid down and stretched out saying, 'I need to rest now.' It was such great fun and that poor woman was too scandalised to talk to me the rest of the trip!"

And then yesterday she was to be found laying flat out on her stomach on the sidewalk to have a better look at a buddha statue she was interested in, not to be bothered at all.

Really like her.

Esther and I walked up a hill today to a small goompa (monastery) shared by Buddhists and Hindus and covered everywhere with Buddhist prayer flags. It was quiet and smelled of incense and there were (at least) 30 monkeys and monkey babies running all around eating and swinging off the prayer flags. Then we came back at ate a huge bowl of potatoes and played cards. I taught Esther gin, and have been beating her really badly. So then I taught her spades and beat her really badly at that as well (it was just like playing poki). Which made me feel really good. Like beating the Weisenburgs at spoons (that's right, I said it).

And anyways, all is well and good and cold and full of books and interesting people and traveling stories and on and on.

"traveling can be an eerie sort of loneliness sometimes," Scott was saying. We were eating dinner and I hadn't been really listening because I was looking at the last onion pakora. But "loneliness" caught my ear and I looked up.

"I've been traveling for seven months now. And when you leave home you think you have this great community of people around you. And at first they write all the time, and then less and less, and you less and less. And pretty soon its been months since anyone has contacted you and you start to wonder if you were to disappear completely, would anyone notice? And I've been thinking about it..."

When times are dark (or distances are far) friends are few.

maybe I haven't been gone long enough, or disappeared enough. I feel my friends and family still so strongly. You all are still with me. still. still there is a loneliness. A sense of disappearing and wondering who would notice. and who it would matter to. But those aren't accusing thoughts, just the slow meandering thoughts late as night as you are so far away and about to get into a jeep and go even further away.

We woke up at 4:00 this morning when the moon was still bright and the sky still dark, and caught a ride up to Tiger Hill to watch the sun rise. Dark car ride with strangers, and my thoughts are still on last night, wondering meandering. And death and life and, I wonder, is there anyone I would die for? Kill for? And brain goes on, is there anyone who would die for me and kill for me and what would be the point and is that Orion over there and this concept of family it is all so different for all of us and, fuck, he's not slowing down for the corner. don't die don't die don't die.

And the thoughts weave in and out. And I love you all and. then there are new people everywhere you go. Last night we met Ethan, and he likes my clothes but not the jewelery or the hat I bought and "oh my god where can we get a drink around here and I love your pants and your shoes, the whole thing, I love it" and he came over to play rummy and we trash-talked the whole game and suddenly you're running into people on the street you've only met once and they feel like your old best friend and he's saying, "kate, come on, go to Nepal with me, and lets go find drinks and go to the zoo to look at the red panda!" and yesterday you were strangers and now you are friends and it's all so strange these pockets and communities of people that spring up.

And I miss you all so much. I have things to tell you that I can only tell to you and I have tea and stories and things to write. And miles to go.

but first sleep.

or tea. in the shadows of darjeeling.

"I'm leaving in two weeks," I'm telling scott as we're walking down the hill today. Three months, it's almost been three months.

"yeah, that's not enough time," he responds, "at three months you're just beginning to leave home at home." Is his weird paradox.

Sikkim fi-li-li

Anita woke me up at 4:00 in the morning, as she had taken to doing the previous three mornings to look at the weather. If there were clouds, we slept, if it was clear we would catch a ride up to Tiger Hill, where, when the sun rises you can see Mt. Everest.

But instead of looking at the weather, she sat on my bed and whispered, "goodbye my friend. I came to say goodbye." And then they were gone (but they came back for breakfast, to make the goodbye hard all over again) and then they were gone again. And Esther, Scott, and I hiked down the hill and caught a jeep to the state of Sikkim.

I'm not really sure how to begin to recount the past four days. But I'll start with this: a few days ago Esther and I were walking through a trail in the middle of the Himalaya mountains. We heard there was a waterfall to be found on the other end, and as we were walking I realised that I had no idea what the date was, I had no idea what day of the week it was, and except for a general guess provided by the sun, I had no idea what time of day it was. I was just in the wild, and it didn't matter and it was wonderful.

The jeep rides are a trip unto themselves. Scott caught one a few days before and the driver had gotten out every few villages to take a shot of who knows what, and pretty soon was trashed and driving a jeep full of ten people quickly around the mountain bends. Scott said at one point the jeep lifted off onto just the two side wheels. Two wheels! You would think that was a big deal too if you could see these roads! They're tiny, steep, windy, and often running head on into a jeep making his way back down the other direction at equal speed.

Our driver certainly wasn't trashed. But he did stop every few villages to cram more people in and pick up a package of beets or socks or sack of pigs to take to someone's sister or uncle a few villages away. And after one stop, he certainly had liquor on the breath. But luckily it didn't affect his driving as much as his singing. All the Sikkimites (Do I call them Indians? They seem a people unto themselves. Mostly they speak Nepali, a few speak Tibetan, and even fewer Bengali) started singing a trekking song:

Resam fi-li-li
Resam fi-li-li
U rera jahm khii
dara ma bahnjahn
Resam fi-li-li

which a song about a sari silk blowing in the winds of the mountains and the valleys, over the forrest. However, by the end, when we were shouting it at the top of our lungs, the words were changed to, "I am a monkey, you are a donkey, resam fi-li-li"

And then we arrived in Yuksom. Where I can safely say I ate the cheapest food of my life, and then spent the coldest night of my life. Burried in a small village, deep in the mountains, winter approaches, and you dread the moment the sun goes down. Because the temperature quickly goes with it, and it takes every wool scarf you have to maintain body heat. The locals, however, say "this isn't cold. Cold is still coming." I have to admit, though, I am happy I won't be there to see "cold."

So we bought a deck of cards and rolled ourselves in blankets and bought huge pots of spiced tea and distracted the cold away.

But here is something. And it's important to me, so I will share. In the middle of the woods (which Sikkim is - beautiful mountain woods) night always terrifies me. As the skies get darker, I can feel my body getting tenser and tenser. A fear of the claustrophobia of the night. So dark that you can't get out and so big that it swollows you whole. So I sat there, in the stars and the darkness, waiting for the fear to start tightening around my muscles and chest. I waited and I waited. And it never came. Not once. The dark fear that has been with me for the past five years is suddenly, without pause or pomp; gone. I seem to have outlived it. Or lived it away. Which I guess is what you do with fear? And I don't know what to make of it. Only how wonderful my nights will be. From here on.

The next day in Yusom, Esther and I hiked up to see some old palace ruins. We took the high trail (as up is always better, sarah) and came to a small cluster of huts on a mountain ridge, overlooking the whole valley. We tentatively walked forward, not wanting to disturb the homes, and a trail of kids came out and marched behind us, laughing and giggling, all the way to the ruins (which turned out to be a very small pile of rocks). The kids circled us, up high there on the mountains and a very small one looked up at us and said, "dance please." We looked down at their dirty smiling upturned faces. "Dance?" I said, "I don't know any dances." They stared at us. I shook my hands a bit. "Yes, dance!" they smiled.

So what can you do? When a kid tells you to dance, you really need to dance.

When all else fails, there is always the hokey pokey. Which, I admit to doing. We made a circle and hokeyed pokeyed, and it was a hit. Esther and I sat down laughing and the kids (who live at the top of the world) sang and danced their Nepali songs while the sun shown down and the valley collapsed around us. in. perfect. happiness.

Later we hiked down to the waterfall and lay on rocks in the sun. And soaked it all into our skin.

The next day, Scott opted to go for another "walk" (I guess that's what Australians call miles and miles of mountain packing) while Esther and I caught another jeep to Pelling. Where we found the old ruins (legitimate ruins!) of the ancient capital of Sikkim. We sat among the stones and bricks looking at the mountains and the hills and in the distance we could hear the gongs and chants of a Tibetan Monastery echoing through the forest.

We made our way (via "shortcut" by the way, shortcut means "climb this mountain the most difficult way possible") up to the monastery where young monk boys were practicing their kung fu and football skills. Inside were elaborate pictures and carvings - one wooden pagoda replica inside was said to have taken five years to carve.

Then we made our way back to our guesthouse where a fire was going, and the staff had brought in Millet beer for us. Millet beer is the alcohol of choice in the mountains. It's served in these large wooden/bamboo mugs (that look like mini-barrels) and millet is put inside and hot water is poured over the top. You sip the beer through a bamboo straw (so the millet doesn't come up) and it tastes a bit like Japanese Saki. Which means I didn't like it, sorry, but they lit the fire outside and we all gathered around and played guitars and drums and sang songs late into the night. Until Mynos got too drunk and it was time to leave - but that's another story.

And now I'm here. Back in Darjeeling - beautiful Darjeeling where the tea is good and the wool is warm. And I wish I was back in Sikkim. Looking at the stars.

I'm in Darjeeling for three days. Esther and I were going to go to Bodhgaya (were Buddha achieved enlightenment) but when we tried to make the tickets today, we found there's no direct train, so we'd have to take a five hour jeep ride, two ridiculously long train rides, and then, then, then, still catch a bus. So no Bodhgaya. At least now. For now we will drink tea and drink the mountain and then head back to Calcutta.

oh calcutta.

I only have two weeks left. That can't be right, can it?

Darjeeling has proven not good for getting blog comments. So I go to Sikkim.

You need a government permit to go to the region of Sikkim and so Esther and I trekked back and forth up and down steep Darjeeling hills to the magistrates office (after going to the tourist office for the paperwork - on the other side of town) to get our permit. And met Scott on the way - another volunteer from Calcutta that we knew. He just got back from a five day "walk" around the mountain valleys. And has decided to join us to Sikkim. And so we go, a merry group of three. But we loose Anita and Christoph. For good actually, as I won't see them again before I go home. Only I'm not ready to say goodbye to them, so it's looking like I'll just have to go to Austria. Some time. Some day.

But tomorrow, Sikkim. Pending whether or not we can catch a jeep there. Darjeeling has shut down for the most part. It was difficult today to find a place that was open for food, and so it was a rather hungry day for me. But I've just had a giant bowl of potatoes so don't worry - I'm happy.

It turns out that it was not a young girl that was killed yesterday, but a young boy, in the seventh grade. Apparently a military truck backed up into him, and his friends jumped out of the way but he was not able to escape in time. The area, full of tension over issues of separation, quickly formed into a mob and smashed the truck windows and overturned it. Riot police arrived at the scene and it looked like there was going to be a confrontation between the police and the mob but a group of at least 100 women formed a wall between the two groups saying no violence and both sides backed down. With no violence.

Still the city is shut down. And it seems like a good time to leave. Not that I feel any of the tension directed towards me. To me, everyone is so kind - the kindest people I've met. Really. I get a puzzled look on my face and people stop and offer to help without me having to utter a single plea.

Today Esther, Scott, a guy named Will, and I walked to the Tibetan Refugee Center here in Darjeeling. It was a truly amazing center offering refuge to the thousands of Tibetans that have been displaced (imagine fleeing across the Himalayas. I have difficulty being in an unheated room here, let alone surviving a trek across the world's largest mountains) since the Chinese invasion (genocide) of Tibet. The center houses the people, provides schooling and is a handicraft center so that the people can make goods, sell them, and provide a living for themselves.

And once again, it leaves me with inward thoughts that put my life and troubles and worries in perspective.

I have seen a lot these past few months. I want my friends and family to talk them all over with. Sometimes they seem to much, and me not enough. But other times - other times not. Anyways. You are all in for beers (more likely a whiskey) and long talks when I'm back. There will be no escaping it. I'll corner each one of you individually and spew everything jumbled and mulled out in one single sitting (without a bathroom break).

I personally can't wait.

But until then, Sikkim, 20 days, wool socks, and my one yellow sweatshirt.

And again, I'm not sure if there will be internet, but I will do my best.

changed my mind, it doesn't feel nice to be cold! It's sooooo cold! More wool, I need more wool!

We went to a tea farm today and watched the workers weave through the rows of tea bushes on the high mountain slopes. the sun was (briefly) warm and, hitting the tea, made the air smell rich and sweet. we sat and watched them before being beckoned into a woman's shop to buy tea and watch how to make "the best brew in the world in five seconds." I think she was a bit of a hustler, but she was such a pleasant hustler that it was fun to sit and laugh and hear why "Darjeeling tea is the best tea in the world." In Happy valley, Darjeeling. (which is part of her reasoning as to why the tea is so good - because it's happy)

But the rest of Darjeeling wasn't today. the town shut down after a small girl was killed today by a military truck. We watched them carry her tiny coffin up the steps lined with people. and all the markets and all the restaurants closed in mourning, in protest, in solidarity, in sympathy.

there's tension in the air. but i am safe. don't worry.

and off to wrap myself in wool and hope it keeps me warm through the night.

I am safely and happily in Darjeeling. And it is just as beautiful as I imagined. Yesterday we drank (Darjeeling) tea and watched the sun set on the mountains. And were were at the same level as the clouds.

We are living nestled in the hills, with the landscape dropping thousands of feet to one side and rising hundreds of more on the other. And it's cold. Cold! It feels so wonderful to be cold. We went shopping at the street markets last night and stocked up on socks and hats and underjohns. But we only need them in the morning and the night. During the day the sunshine is so warm and wonderful. I love it.

This morning we went for a walk looking for breakfast and got lost in a maze of steep hills and steeper stairs in tiny alleys and houses and hillside. We were walking down our thousandth step of steps and a woman stopped us with a smile, "Where are you going?" she asked. "We have no idea," we responded. "Come, Come," she beckoned us and welcomed us into her small home and sat us down on some chairs. She served us tea and cookies and said it is a tradition to serve tea to strangers. We chatted (her brother does kung fu and tai chi, and she said I should come back tomorrow because he will be visiting and we could do a session together. But I will be too embarassed. But it was nice). And we talked about religion and politics and all the things you're not supposed to, but it was wonderful. She told us about her love for all religions and people and about the protests happening up here (mostly peaceful hunger protests by students). Darjeeling wants to separate from the State of West Bengal and form their own state so they can have their own representation of governemnt. She smiled and said, "some day we'll be free." Apparently the central Indian government already supports them but of course West Bengal doesn't because Darjeeling is their largest source of income, producing 25% of India's tea. It's always about money in the end, isn't it?

And here we are in the mountains bordering Nepal, Tibet, and India. And it's absolutely wonderful. The cleanest air. And kindest people. And most beautiful mountains.

There are beautiful Buddhist prayer flags hung everywhere. And the people say that when the wind hits them, it carries their prayers to the heavens. And every house, no matter how small, has dozens and dozens of flowers - marigolds. And more marigolds. And I think I could stay here happily for a very long time.

But we will only be here for a few more days, then Esther and I will head deeper into the mountains to Sikkum and back to Darjeeling before home. It will be much more difficult to write posts (and anything internet related for that matter) while I'm here, so I apologize in advance that posts and emails will be few and far between. But I will be thinking my thoughts of you all, and everytime the wind brushes my face it will carry them home to you. Promise.

Himalayas!

In a few hours I'm catching a train up to the mountains. Trains don't run all the way up to Darjeeling, so we'll get out and catch a jeep up to the hill station.

I have no idea when I'll be able to write again (likely it will be tomorrow, but if not, the next day. promise). And when I write it will be in the shadows of Kanchenjunga, the world's third largest mountain. If the mornings are clear, I hear we will be able to see Everest. And climb it - probably takes a few hours or something.

Wish me good luck and no car sickness in the mountain jeeps!

I can't believe the life I'm living!

short post on sweet things: It was a really nice birthday

We went to the flower market at 5 in the morning and bought loads of marigolds and sunflowers, banana leaves, and bright pink flowers that I don't know the name of. And walking home past new market people kept smiling and asking what the flowers were for. "Puja" we said laughing and then they laughed. Because here, everyday is a puja.

But yesterday was Kate Puja. Which is a great puja (as long as I don't get thrown in a river when all is over). And Katerina told me today that Kate Puja lasts at least three days. So it's a very good puja.

We decorated the courtyard and it looked beautiful! Flowers and palm leaves, candles and red balloons. And the food was soooo good. Heaping plates of samosas and chow mien and then Nico also made salad (he found lettuce. No on has lettuce in Kolkata and he found lettuce! It was amazing and delicious) and potatoes and eggs, and dipping sauces. And Carmel made the most delicious chocolate biscuit cake (how she did this with no oven is beyond me). And all night Nico mixed drinks - mohitos and pineapple rum.

And everyone - the party was so great! It really was. At least 50 people came - in and out throughout the night. And we laughed and danced. Anita and I did our Austrian Folk dance and everyone got a red bindi and a flower crown. And the food and drinks never ran out. And Neev's friend who plays Indian music came and played and sang late into the night, with a strong clear Indian voice that wails and wavers, with us all gathered around by candlelight. Though, he said, he would have preferred to sing showtunes. And kept trying to slip a "Chicago" song into the Indian playlist. And so the Irish sang their songs. And talked their shit. Connor said, about my Indian drum solo, "I'm going to go eat a samosa and chew really loud in hopes that it will drown out your horrible playing." And it was really a great night.

And the pinata. They made a pinata! I told Anita that my mom used to make me a pinata when I was little for every birthday. So I should have been suspicious when she asked and took interest in the explanation of how one makes a pinata. Because somehow, somewhere, Christoph made me a pinata and filled it with candy and hat and sox for Darjeeling (that they embroidered Udurgydurgy on - which is Austrain slang for the lid of a gas can. Which is the name of their culture club. Of which I am an honorary member. And as Christoph says, "whenever you are unsure, just think 'udurgydurgy' and know that everything is well.) He made the pinata in the shape of a light bulb. A bright yellow light bulb (as I am electrokate) and they blindfolded me and spun me round and round. And wet pinatas are difficult to break.

And a new housedress! They bought me a new housedress. It's blue and beautiful and has elephants on it. Perfect for dancing.

And it caught on fire.

Because I knelt in a candle that was by the drink buckets when I was getting a beer for Denise.

"Ach, Denise, I'm on fire!" I shouted and clapped out the flame.

Of course I caught on fire at my birthday. And now my new dress has a new hole, which also looks very nice.

And we sang and ate and danced until 2 or 3 in the morning.

Really. The greatest party ever.

100 million thousand hundred bazillion and one thanks. To everyone. Thanks for the emails and the messages and well wishes because they all made it my way. And it was wonderful.



And P.S. Jeremy, there was an article in the paper today (as every other article is about Obama) and it was how Obama is inspiring the Dalit movement of India (the "untouchable" class) and I just thought your coworkers should know that.

"Felicity," I am moaning and barely holding my head up, "Do you have any bread?"

"Why's that, Kate?" Felicity is grinning her evil Irish grin, "whatever would you be wanting bread for this morning?"

I grin my sheepish American grin.

"Is it just the hangover, or is it something else?"

"It's just the hangover."

"Good. That's a sign of good health." (Felicity feels like everyone's Irish mum) "I had no idea you were drunk. You just seemed really happy. And you kept saying you weren't drunk at all, and then you wandered right on off."

Yes. That sounds about right.

And then she turned to her friend and said with a laugh, "Kate is our token American and she got so pissed last night at her Obama party that when I came home and they were dancing Austrian folk dances!"

Which is true.

I came home with the vodka and rum declaring, Obama won! And Christoph said, "hurray! let us all have a drink!" And Brenden showed up with some mixers, and Katerina and Anita and Christoph got out their wooden flutes and harmonicas they bought on the street and Carmel sang some Irish songs and soon we were all dancing around the courtyard.

And I really didn't drink that much. But Carmel told me the next day. "It's not that you drank hardly anything at all. It's because you were drinking first a shot of rum, then vodka, then schnapps (the schnapps is really good by the way, and homemade by the Austrians from walnuts and it tastes like licorice). I think you don't understand that your mixers shouldn't be other liquors."

And I'm telling you this because it's my birthday now, so my mum isn't allowed make any comments (or sighs) regarding alcohol. Because Obama won! And happy birthday to me!

So Anita said, "O.K. let's get serious now. We've got a party to plan." And she took out a pad of paper and Christoph said "I will buy whiskey and DJ the music." Good. Good. And I will buy flowers at the flower market (because Mrs. Dalloway decided that she would buy the flowers herself) And Felicity will buy banana leaves to use as plates, and Esther will make a giant cucumber yogurt salad , and tonight I asked the street vendor to make me 100 samosas and 20 plates of veggie chow mien (and that will cost like ten bucks. I love India) And Stephi will buy incense and flowers. And we will buy beer and rum and Neev's friends who are musicians are coming and said they would play. And I hope people come. To the best party ever.

Because it is also a goodbye party. I leave Calcutta in just a few days. To head to the mountains for just a few weeks. And then I come back to get ready to go home. I can hardly believe it. And I'm not ready for it. When I bought my tickets three months seemed like such a long time. And now that I am here it is too short of a time. All day Stephi says, "you need to change your ticket. You should stay. Three months is too short." And she's right. And I'm thinking about it. Because it is hard to think of leaving this new home that I've made.

And yet. And yet. I will come home. And see you all very soon. And that feels good.

But first. I've got a birthday to go celebrate! And some mountains to see.

today my alarm went off at 5 a.m. Why is it going off? I am grumpy. And then I remember. Because Obama might be president. He might be president. even right now. Outside there were fireworks shooting off; loud claps. Could Bush be bombing India (possible), could the Puja still be going on (probable), can Obama really win in America? Could it be possible?

I walked through the dark to the Park Hotel. The Puja of last night was still going on. It was called something like Chaat Puja, with something to do with agriculture. After work at Kalighat we sat on the rooftop last night and watched the thousands of people gathered in the street -dancing in bright sari's with their hands in the air. When we left they pulled us into their circles and we danced and danced and danced. On the streets. With our hands in the air. Anita and I, laughing and dancing with strangers who know how to shake their shoulders in really amazing ways.

We went to a concert at a local studio and listened to traditional Indian music played by men who when they sing close their eyes and tilt their heads back with a look of complete joy on their faces. And they tap bells on their toes in time.

And then we got beers and laughed with the Irish (who got quite drunk) and all the while it was Obama, Obama, Obama - all the conversation, all the background. It was like a pulse. To me.

So I walked through the dark to the Park hotel and watched the people dancing - they were still dancing from last night - all night long they danced and beat their drums. And then there was the hotel, with the American Consulate. And news crews, and interviews, and hundreds of balloons; red, white, and blue. And sandwiches and juice and huge screens playing constant streams of CNN. And at first there were only two states reported and I was nervous. And the room filled up with Americans and Indians and people from all over the world. And when they said that Obama had won Ohio I felt the hair on the top of my head stand up. He just won Ohio.

And then he won won, and I started to cry, and everyone was shouting and cheering and Obama has won. Can you believe it? I really can't believe it. I really can't.

Obama is president. I am too happy to write!

Yesterday I walked into Kalighat and Radha waved me over. So excited. "What? What is it?" I ask her. And she is laughing and trying to tell me something. In her bad English and my horrendous Bengali I managed to gather that yesterday a baby had been born at Kalighat. A baby!

A woman was brought in off the street and immediately went into labor. The volunteers (luckily one was a nurse) helped deliver the baby. actually caught the baby! and she was breech and the umbilical cord was around her throat. But she lived and she is well and she is now at Shishu Bhavan getting bigger. And the women were so excited. All day. Apparently she was born with her eyes wide open. And a head full of hair. But oh so small. And all day the old women sat and talked about what her name should be. And a baby! A baby!

So I painted a wall blue and red and yellow and green. In her un-named honor. Because I wasn't sure which color she would like best. I hope yellow. But she is free, of course, to like whichever color she wants.

And when I got home we pulled out blankets and made popcorn (thanks SueLynn) and drank beer and watched Darjeeling Limited. Our own private film festival on our own private computer screen (well, Anita's) the size of my hand. And when it was over I laid on my back and looked at Orion, so bright up above. And went to bed with sweeter dreams than I've had in a long time. (But then, that perhaps could have been the beer.)

Tomorrow the American Consulate is hosting an election party at the Park Street hotel. Free food and television access to everyone holding an American passport (it's about time - I swear the German embassy throws a free dinner at least once a month!) So I think I will go. At (gulp) 5:30 in the morning. For coffee and Obama fever.

It's funny the things that make your heart hurt. You think you're fine. And then just something small makes you realize that you're not. And you wonder what to do. So you write in third person and try to remove it from you by removing closer pronouns. Are they pronouns? See you are already distracted. And there is always writing. Vague.ly.

And crowded markets with men shouting, "Yes madam, please madam, look at my shop madam." And you tell them not today, but they don't, and you wonder what phrase it is you have to learn in Bengali that won't be rude but will really let them know you want to be left alone. And please don't grab at me and please don't follow me. And I won't pay that price, are you crazy! Because in your time here ten rupees has become something to argue over. And because even though there are millions of people swarming around you, and chickens in small cages that smell like waiting to be killed, and you think now you will always be a vegetarian, and you don't even notice the men anymore peeing in the street, but the smells you still notice - but the point is, even, with all of this you are still alone. very much alone. And it feels big and frightening today. And maybe you were trying to run away from a broken heart, maybe it's time to be honest with yourself and it's foolish of you. And you are not sure. You don't even know what you want. So you write long messages because you know he won't read it and then you realize that you are publishing them and who knows who read this and you are foolish, even in removed pronouns.

But I am always lonely on my birthday. Which is soon. Everyday in my head. And it approaches with the old familiar terrifying loneliness. approaches. The last two years were different, and you thought maybe you had gotten over it. But you hadn't and it's there, only now you're older. And as Thomas Wolfe said, You can't go home again. Because you can never go back. it seems. because things have moved forward. and why do I bare my heart like this for everyone to see? I wish I had a sense of privacy with my thoughts to protect me today. But I feel the need to share. So someone will see me. Anyone? Because despite all appearances. I don't want to be alone.

I'm tired of meeting new people. Every day new volunteers. I want old and familiar. And now Anita's boyfriend is here. Arrived and great and will travel with us to Darjeeling. And everyone has everyone. Isn't that sad?

And why is it that I feel the need to amplify feelings? sad songs and sitting by myself, when I should be in a park painting things yellow. With the nuns walking by and saying, "you should repaint that cow. There is not enough milk in the udders. And why does that baby have no hair?"

And I'm in India. And I have a sudden realization of just how short three months really is. And my handful of Bengali words. And palaces of sand still standing to see, that will be left unseen, because three months is really so short. And maybe I should just keep wandering around the world until my heart stops hurting. And I stop missing my grandpa. But I will always miss my mum. and dad. and sister. so it's no use. really.

And already I'm starting to say goodbye to what I still have. Calcutta, noise and smog and smoke. I really like you. In spite of it all. Though I hear the air in Darjeeling is pure. And clean. And crisp and cold. And yesterday I called and reserved two rooms for four. And we will pay $2 extra a night for hot water. Hot water! I have not had a hot shower in months now. two. months. Everyday I take bucketfuls of cold water from the tap and throw it over my head because I don't want to turn the shower nozzle on. For some reason a bucket of cold water seems more manageable than a cold stream from above. But hot water! A hot shower! I pinch myself into forgetting my heart.

I hope Obama wins. Otherwise. I don't want to come home. At least not to Portland. Maybe straight to the mountain to hide. And write books. And collect cats and turn into my old grandma wickersham. Who didn't write books but did collect cats. With her hands curled and deformed from the fire. All alone with her cats.

Maybe today I will go to see the great poet Tagore's house. And next to it is the coffee shop of writers. The India coffee shop. famous with students and writers. And will distract myself with poetry. And wander the world. Only I don't want to wander alone. And I don't want to say goodbye to India. Beautiful, crazy India.

India has beautiful poets. The best. Really beautiful. Which, in turn, make me feel beautiful. And I walk with a strut. Again.

Bought tickets to Darjeeling tonight! We leave on November 10th! To the Himalayas! To the Himalayas!

happy.

In other news: A light bulb exploded today on me while I was in the shower and I have small chards of glass stuck in my back.

India is trying to kill me. Or I have super powers. And my superhero name is electrokate.

How do you follow up a blog about a fire? It's just so exciting, I'm tempted to make something up to keep my readership.

Instead the truth: no fires, or sickness, just life as usual. (though I did make myself ill eating all the candy that SueLynn sent me - I wallow in an endless pool of rasinets and peanut butter m&ms - ummm happiness). And I finally got around to reading Mrs. Dalloway. Which I picked up just because the first line said, "And Mrs. Dalloway decided that she would buy the flowers herself." Which was great. The whole thing was great.

And next week is my birthday and I'm throwing myself a party with food and music and dancing. And I will go in the morning to the flower market to buy the flowers myself. And if you are in Calcutta you are invited. But only if you intend to have a lot of fun. And promise to wear marigolds.

Kali Puja and Diwali seem to be lingering outside in the form of music played on the loudspeakers. That never ends. Ever. All day. All night. Puja puja puja. Luckily my new mini-fan that sits on a table and not on the charred ceiling is good at blocking the sound. But then maybe I just don't notice because I'm passed out on chocolate.

So I'm well. Just weaker. And back at work. I painted on the mural today for eight hours, mostly because we finally are filling in with color and I got my hands on the can of yellow paint and refused to let it go. So now everything will be yellow. All yellow. Like a coldplay song. And my bedroom on 71st street. And the best half of the greenbay packers. now that brett favre is gone.

I only have ten days left in Calcutta. Then it's off to the mountains. Only everyone is telling us not to go to Darjeeling now. Apparently there is unrest there. But I'm so set on going. I find reasonable reasons to be unreasonable.

There's unrest all over India right now. The country seems to be ticking. There has been HUGE violence in Orissa. Against the Christian families. Apparently the Hindu families are putting orange flags up so that they are identified as Hindu and not Christian so their houses won't get burned down. And there have been bombs in Delhi. Two last month. And crazy stories from the trains.

I read an article in the paper last month about a kid who murdered his cousin and then convinced the town people that a djiin (genie- spirit) had killed him. And the town believed it. Until he gave himself away by bragging about it later.

But mostly the papers here, as elsewhere I've heard. Are all about the American elections. The world is watching. And waiting for Obama. (I got into a heated argument with a woman from New Zealand today who said she liked Obama because he "talked proper english not like those other black people in america.") I found that to be disgusting and ignorant. Sigh.

And apparently I'm the downer of all bloggers! Sorry.

All is well and good and go Obama and Happy Halloween and I'll be home in a month! Can you believe it!

Honestly. Just glad I woke up. And glad, maybe for the first time ever, that I'm a light sleeper.

The smoke smell in my room was really strong - I thought it was from the Diwali festivities outside. Diwali isn't huge in West Bengal. I think they celebrate it more in Delhi, maybe Mumbai as well? I'm not sure. Here, Durga Puja is everything. But I found that in India, given the chance, they will celebrate anything. Which, personally, I am in favor of. Especially Diwali. The festival of lights. And we lit candles in the courtyard, and outside the people lit fireworks in the street. And I think Rama found his lovely way home.

And so I thought that the smoke had crept into my room to wake me up at 3:30 this morning. But it wasn't Diwali smoke. My windows were all closed. Then I looked up. And realized that my ceiling fan had sparked into flames sometime in the night and the flames were growing bigger and climbing towards the ceiling.

I jumped out of bed. What do I do what do I do? (I'm very good in crisis. By the way. I think maybe I would survive a zombie attack. If it weren't for my poor health) I had a bucket of water in my room (the remains of good intentions of mopping the floor that hadn't been actualized) - but it's an electrical fire, you don't throw water on it. What do I do? I ran down the five flights of stairs and two hallways to where the men sleep by the front gate. They were fast asleep on their cot. I shook the one closest to me, "wake up. please wake up. help me. FIRE. please help!" The first man didn't move at all, but the second man, when he heard fire jumped up and raced after me up the stairs.

He grabbed the bucket and threw it on the fan.

Which seemed to work. And made me feel stupid. But what are you supposed to do with electrical fires? Not water, right? Anyways, it worked, but my room was full of the most horrible smoke ever. He cut my fan down, remade my bed for me and said, "well, goodnight, then." and off he went. But today when I saw him he touched his heart and wiped his forehead with a sigh of relief. Which made me feel solidarity with him. Our secret firefighting club.

And Felicity kicked the cat out and let me sleep on her extra bed because the smoke was too thick in my room to sleep. And I lay and tried so hard not to wiggle and wake her up, which was so difficult because I so love to wiggle.

This morning Carmel, who lives on the first floor, told me she had heard me shout fire last night, and worried, had followed us up the first couple flights of stairs, but then got tired and turned around and went back to bed. Which made me laugh (she is so sick now. Everyone is so sick. Everyday I hear about people fainting and hospital trips and vomit. oh the vomit. everyone is sick. oh india.)

And I think it's silly of the fire trying to kill me. Because I haven't been to Darjeeling yet. And come virus, fire, hell or high water, I'm going to Darjeeling. Dammit. To look at the goddamn Himalayas. Dammit.

Anita came and laid on my bed this morning. "By the way, I think I have lice again," she said.

Yesterday she came in with a bamboo flute she bought on the street and played me music to cheer me up. Which it did. So the lice are forgiven.

Yesterday was another low day for me. Felt so sick, with horrors of mono running through my head. But 12 hours of sleep does wonders. And I'm doing better today. Except for the mysterious itching....

Joking. No itching.

So the Sunderbans. I know I haven't written about them yet, but they now feel so removed it's difficult to get my mind back there. I'll try. But I warn you in advance, I'm already unsatisfied with anything I write.

It was a beautiful trip down. We caught a bus and rode through the countryside. Small villages and soccer games in every town. Sometimes being in Calcutta it's difficult to remember that India has life outside the city.

It seems that for many of the people south of Calcutta, fishing is a huge livelihood. We went past field upon field upon field submerged, with people wading through the waters with nets, bringing in the harvested fish.

And then we boarded a boat and headed into the jungle. Only it's not really a jungle. It feels more like a marsh. The mangroves are low lying trees with huge roots that stick out above ground. Because the water of the Sunderbans is salt water (from the Bay of Bengal) the mangroves are the only vegetation that have adapted (and thus have no competition for sunlight, keeping the tree growth relatively short and low to the ground). Their roots stick up to absorb more oxygen that is apparently difficult to absorb in the rising salt waters.

The people that live in the sunderbans are a sub-tribe (from what I can gather - I'll have to look it up) of Bengalis, and they are mainly rice farmers, honey collectors, and fishermen. They live in mud and straw houses in a landscape and a lifestyle that has changed very very little for hundreds, possibly thousands of years.

And every year they are hunted and killed by the world's only remaining man-eating tigers that live in the sunderbans.

And the people seem to accept it. Here, they say, the Tiger is stronger than man. But why do they only kill here? Up to 80 people a year? Where elsewhere in the world, Tigers haven't attacked, let alone killed a human for years and years? There are many theories, all interesting, but all just theories. No on knows why for sure.

Still, it's terrifying. Many of the women dress in widow clothes when then men go out fishing (tigers have been known to pull them right out of boats) or deep into the mangroves to collect the honey.

We were safe though. In a really big boat. And (I now feel lucky about this) we didn't see any tigers. We did see crocodiles, lizards, and birds though. Which all felt much safer.

And the tent was like a house, and there was a huge buffet at every meal and the food was so good and the flowers and fellow travelers beautiful and the landscape breathtaking and so so quiet.

And that's all I feel like writing. It's difficult to think about because now I'm in an internet cafe and it's the first day of Diwali and there is a dance party happening outside and the sunderbans feel like a wonderful world away. How quickly Calcutta takes over everything else.

Time is moving quickly. Stan went home today. We sent him home with a shirt that says "Calcutta is great, france sucks." And I only have about a month left. Only a month and a few days.

Just please, please don't let me be sick again! I have so little time left.

Public Notice: The small but powerful matriarchal nation of Kate has just made a bid to declare SueLynn as a Saint of the People for her humanitarian work in providing peanut butter and rasinettes to the downtrodden and suffering....



I think the fever has broken. It's now at around 99.8, but that seems fine to me. I'll take it. Because after three straight days of laying in my bed in fever and pain, I'll take just about anything.

I think Mother India hates me.

I'm just happy to not be alone. Anita brought me trays of food and played backgammon, and Carmel came and laid on my bed and talked about love, life and literature (the world's greatest topics). Stan let me become a fixture in his room (it has a television, and since being sick I've learned a lot about the mystical snow leopard of Pakistan and the beautiful snakes of India!) and as he stepped around me I asked, "do you want me to go?" and he said, "No. I'm use to you." And Felicity checked on me most every hour with toast and tea, and vomit buckets, and even cleared aside my piles of books and papers so I could "vomit proper, without spraying every which way."

And then she took me to the hospital because the pain in my body was really so bad. It hurt to touch my own arm. And I cried, because hospitals scare me. And she asked why I was crying. And I said, "because I wanted to be strong enough." And India isn't always what you think, she smiled and said. No, I replied, also smiling. I imagined it would smell of spice and jasmine. Felicity said, "one time, on one of my first visits to India, I was heading down south and at that time there was no direct flight, so you had to fly out of Mumbai (bombay) and then catch a seven hour bus ride. Anyways, one of the times there were problems with the flight and it ended up being 12 hours late. It was such a horribly long day and I was so frustrated, but when we landed we stepped off the plane and the air smelled like Jasmine and incense - and I would have done the whole trip again, just for that moment."

The blood tests came back negative, which means no Malaria (and there was much rejoicing), and it's most likely that I have some sort of a virus, that will pass with time (I'm a virus collector, by the way. Not by choice, but it appears to have become a hobby with me).

So the good news is that I will be ok. Anyways, I think I cried most of it out of my system by now. And also. Also. Also. Esther showed up at my door yesterday declaring, "special delivery" and in her hand was a HUGE box from SueLynn full of peanut butter, and rasinettes, and peanut butter m&m's and art supplies so I can color, and holiday decorations and a birthday present and it was huge and it was the best present ever! And I started bouncing up and down, but that hurt, so I just hugged it all to my chest; unpacking it and then repacking it so I could unpack it all over again.

And now I'm getting well on peanut butter.

November is soon. At which point I will only have a month left. Can you believe it? So much still to do. I want to see the Himalayas.

But I'm tired now and need to head back to bed. But tomorrow I will try to make it here again to tell you about the Sunderbans, the only place in the world where tigers still actively hunt humans - killing up to 80 people a year. I have to tell you. tomorrow.

Thanks for all the well wishes. It means a lot. I miss home.

I'm back from the jungle. It was a really great time, and I have so much to write. But not now. I came home with a fever of 102. And everything hurts. It hurts to wear clothes and touch keyboards and think. And it's difficult not to be frustrated.

I'm strange. And leaving for the jungles.

"I actually don't have any interest in seeing the temple" I said to anita, katerina, and felicity. Which was too bad because we were already there.

We got there at 1:00 yesterday after carefully not reading what was clearly written in the guidebook: "the temple is closed daily at 1:00 and opens again at 3:30." They all decided to wait the two and a half hours, and then I turned to them and said, "I actually don't have any interest in seeing the temple."

Which is too bad, because I am interested. Only not just then. Just then my only goal - as has been my goal for the past two days- is to not be around people. Which is a change. Because the first month I wanted people around constantly. To fight off the loneliness and make the unfamiliar feel manageable.

But I can't get the image of the woman with her scalp missing out of my head. And I'm not sleeping well. Or eating well (just eating a lot. salt then sugar. sugar then salt) and I told anita I was leaving, and they looked at me strangely and I got up and left. And as soon as I was gone I breathed a deep breath and caught a taxi to the metro and from the metro wandered the streets, feeling only comfortable around strangers. I don't know why

I don't know why.

I'm acting very strange. Or maybe more like myself. The introvert that I secretly am. When I was in college and SueLynn was in the room I often would pretend that I was an invisible vapor creeping along the walls. And when I was in that mood she would always let me be - which makes her, once again, the world's greatest roommate. I know it's strange. Sometimes I just want to be invisible. Except with Poki. I always wanted him to see me. And I tried so hard I misunderstood that he was seeing me. all the time. And that was also part of the problem. But a different problem than what I want to talk about.

So I have been creeping around the courtyard, staying close to the walls. Hoping no one sees me except complete strangers who won't expect anything from me and ask me how I'm doing, because I'm exhausted and I don't want to talk about it.

So I sat on a bench and drank tea with the West Bengali's and felt better. And the man told me that Darjeeling will be so cold, and some rooms will have no heat, so I will have to take rum with me to stay warm. And I think that's a really good idea.

And I took the morning to myself to listen to music and watch the moth on the wall and write random sentences on scraps of paper. Which makes me feel better. always. And now I will go paint pink elephants on the wall.

And tomorrow I will go to the jungles by taxi, bus, and boat. And Anita, Steffi and I drank all the rum and made up songs on the guitar, "Sunderbans, sunderbans, we're going to the sunderbans..." and we will see tigers and birds and crocodiles and mangrove forests quiet air with blue and green and then maybe I can get that picture of the woman's scalp out of my head. Where it doesn't belong.

Be back Wednesday

Anita walked back over to park street yesterday to see if the man with the stolen pants was o.k. She didn't see him, but she did see a man with no shirt, and she said to herself, "no just keep walking, just keep walking."

This morning at breakfast Father Abello came over to talk to me again. He is a Canadian Catholic father and has lived in Calcutta for something like 36 years. I hate it when he talks to me because it always turns out to be a big political discussion and I always disagree with him and he always makes me angry and then sends me emails regarding the ills of contraception (it makes me so upset that the sisters are so against contraception when India - and everywhere- are having a crisis of overpopulation. I feel really strongly about this. anyways) anyways. anyways. I was trying to avoid eye contact and he was scanning the room looking for Americans so he could come over and tell them not to vote for Obama. But he found me and came over, and I thought, "oh no, not today Father Abello, please, I am talking to the really cute boy with dimples today, and it is a nice morning so far and please don't come over." And I felt like a catholic school kid. Only I'm not catholic and the boy was really cute, and afterwards we joked that we should hide the ballot that just came in from America for one of the volunteers because Father Abello might steam it open and vote for McCain.

And I decided that cute boys would be a good cure for the heartache that isn't going away. Why does it still hurt. I don't want to hurt anymore. And I don't want McCain to win. either. There are more Americans here than last month. Last month I only met two, now there are so many and mostly from the Northwest, which is nice. And we decided to have an "Obama wins" party in a couple of weeks.

The mural is coming along so quickly. I thought that we would still be scraping, but the walls have already been plastered and primed and Verity is drawing on the outline of the mural. I am so impressed by how hard people are working. They are starting at 8:00 in the morning and working until 5, 6:00 every night. This morning we followed her pencil lines with black paint until the wall started to look like a giant coloring book. It's great.

Anita and I are going to the Sunderban tiger reserve on Monday. We will go for two nights (sleeping in a tent) and return on Wednesday. (I have decided not to tell Anita about my claustrophobia and my habit of sleeping with a knife when in a tent. the knife eases my mind. in case I need to cut my way out) The sunderbans are a giant nature reserve - supposed to be comprised of the world's largest river deltas and forest of mangrove trees. It's pretty much a jungle from what I can understand - I wrote about it I think already? I can't remember. Long day.

A woman died at Kalighat today. It is very hard for me. I'm trying not to cry. I don't want to cry. today. I was squatting next to a big basin of water washing the dishes from dinner and they brought her body past me covered in a shroud. They were deciding what to do with her jewelry. I think. I don't know. I just sat there with my hands in the water.

Another woman was brought in today. Her scalp was ripped open and you could see the bone of her skull and in some places you could see her brain. There were worms and maggots crawling around in the open flesh of her head and three nurses were gathered around her with tweezers pulling them out. Somehow she is alive. I don't know how.

I am going to go buy a beer and write. A very hard day for me.

I want to curl up into myself smaller and smaller until I disappear.

And then I want to reappear, because I'm scared of being forgotten, and I want someone to cuddle me and play with my hair and hold my forehead and I want to eat mint chocolate chip ice cream and play soccer in the mud and have drinks with good friends and live forever by a river with a large fur-faced dog and good food and friends and family and someone to love and be loved. And I want french fries.

Don't misunderstand what I write though. I'm o.k.

Today I live for pineapples.

And the air conditioner at Oxford Books.

It's still really hot. But I think the evenings are getting cooler. It's not easy to say that at night when we're all still sitting around sweating, but it's easy to think that, and so I will.

And I refuse to be swayed otherwise. I believe it's cooler. And so it is. But oh lordy, it's so hot.

I don't feel upset today. But I was so upset last night that I have to pay tribute to my frustration through a blog vent. So if you are in a good mood, I really think you shouldn't read further. Just wait until tomorrow when I write something that uplifts your spirit and conclusively ends poverty and oppression through words alone. Just wait.

Until then.

Sigh. O.K. so here's the vent: I really fucking can't handle the adolescent males. I really can't. Maybe on a different day I'd have a more anthropologically unbiased nonviolent point of view. But today I fucking can't handle them.

And it's mostly them. Occasionally younger boys and older men, but mostly just the adolescents. Who think physical harassment of foreigners is an acceptable pastime, and have learned enough words in English so that walking down the street I hear at least four, five times a day, "I want to fuck you. You are a sexy machine goddess I want to fuck." It's gross.

It's worse when they touch you.

One of my friends was walking down the street and kept accidentally brushing her hand into the man behind her. She was embarrassed and apologized, until she realized he was following her on purpose for the cheap thrill of having his penis touched.

Another friend was at a restaurant where a man - no joke- was staring at her, took out his penis and started masturbating, right there at the restaurant. She got up and slapped him. And he said, "I apologize that you had to see that." She went over and told the servers, and they went and talked to him and came back and told her, "He said that nothing happened and you are making it up." She went inside and found the owner of the restaurant (thank goodness it was a woman) told her, and the woman went and screamed at him and kicked him out.

My same friend was riding in a bus or a plane (I don't remember which) and fell asleep and when she woke up a man was sitting there with his hands on her breasts. She started crying and told an attendant who, get this, told her it was her fault for falling asleep.

Another friend was walking down the street (this is my favorite story) and a man came up and full on grabbed her breasts. She screamed and then men around her asked what happened. She told them what he had done and they chased him down and held him for her as she beat him with her umbrella. (this is my favorite story).

Last night I was making a Veggie Chow Mien run for the house mates (15 rupees for a big bowl! 47 rupees equals a dollar, by the way). And I was standing there waiting for the to-go order and a group of adolescent males came up and grabbed my ass and ran away. And the frustrating part is that there was a group of other males just sitting around watching it and laughing. It was really humiliating actually to just stand there waiting for my food being laughed at.

But the worse part about all of this is how jaded it makes me. It puts me completely on my guard and I find myself, after a day of hassle and harassment, responding really shortly and rudely to people who are perfectly wonderful and kind and just trying to help me. And I think sometimes I miss out on really good interactions because of that. That's the most frustrating part, because for every asshole, there's at least ten really great people. With amazing kindness and I don't want to stop seeing that.

Luckily I have great house mates to vent to and luckily Brenden was there to play Speed with me, and I'm really good at Speed and I always feel better after beating someone at cards. And then he taught me how to play 13 and I won a rupee off of him, which felt even better and all was forgotten.

Until I lay in bed and thought about how frustrating it can be to be a female. And it took a while to calm down enough to sleep (women are so emotional, I hear)

One of the women (girls) at Kalighat is new this week. She's five months pregnant and has come here to have her baby. The sister was telling me that the girl says she's only 10 years old. The sister believes it because the girl has such a young sounding voice, but I don't believe it, her body, her hands, and her face look older. Her voice is young though. She could easily be 15. And the thing is, as they were saying, it is good she is here, because young and pregnant on the street she would get raped every night.

I like her. She's very much the teenager. Even though we don't speak the same language, I spent like twenty minutes looking at nails and shoes with her. Then when I turned to another woman (a cute old woman with a bald head and bottle-cap glasses, who I think was pretending to fly yesterday) the girl repeatedly hit me on the back. "Ow!" I'd say, "what do you want?" She'd point to the food plates getting ready for dinner. "It's not time for dinner, I can't do anything about that," I'd say, and turn back. And she'd proceed to hit me like ten more times. Because she wanted dinner NOW. It was really funny. Very much the teenager.

And another woman reached out her hand to me yesterday when I walked by, and I sat down next to her, and she curled herself into my side and cried into me. And I just sat there and rocked her, and she'd look up and kiss my face. It was so sad and so sweet and I remember being sick and wanting to do the exact same thing. I don't know why I'm saying all this. Just needed to.

But the best story yesterday (not that any story has been good so far) is from Anita. She was walking down Park Street in her never-ending pursuit of British Airways to extend her ticket. She walked past a man who was laying with no pants - completely exposed - on the sidewalk. She thought I have to do something, what should I do, and she said, "I looked up, and right there were a pair of trousers hanging on the rail, and I thought, this is perfect! they must have come from heaven! Look I need trousers, and here they are!" Gleefully, she took the heaven-sent trousers and gave them to the naked man. She said he was so happy and she bought him an egg and rice roll and walked home thinking how great everything worked out. And it wasn't until she was on the bus later that day that she realized the possibility that the pants hadn't come from heaven but she just maybe had stolen someone else's pants (hung out to dry after laundry) and given them to the man.

To which Felicity said, "Of course you stole them, and now that first man is beating the shit out of the other one." Which was just too funny - not that it's funny at all - but that Anita has such a good heart and tried so hard, and it was just such an innocent, albeit really obvious, mistake, and Anita was so distraught over her attempt to do good. And we've all done something similar. And we're all just stumbling along trying to do the best we can.

And men can be gross, and women can be dying, and people can be pantless but you just have to keep going and you just have to keep trying sometimes, huh?

Anyways, that's all I've got.

back by popular (solicited) demand.

Didn't get my tickets to the Sunderbans yesterday, because there was yet ANOTHER puja. Puja puja puja. Crazy. So all the offices were closed, but we'll try again today. So instead we walked down to the river and caught a ferry across (it was a lovely ferry ride and only cost 4 rupees! 4 rupees. That's like a nickel. Maybe ten cents, I'm not sure. But yeah!) then we sat in front of the train station and drank tea and sipped chai, caught another ferry back across. And a very nice day.

I'm tired and covered in paint. The mural is coming along so much faster than expected. It's really exciting. And has inspired me to start doing my push ups again. Cause I'm really tired.

But well. Well-ish. Very lonely for people at home today.

BUT: I got my very first letter today! I pranced around showing it to at least ten people. It was really exciting. To me. And from my sister. And so beautiful. And I've already read it three times and I'm about to go home and pin it on my wall before falling into a coma like sleep.

Shit happens....on my shoulder.

The trouble with blogging everyday is that I don't want to. (And I'm only doing what I want these days. It's awesome.)
The trouble with not blogging is that when I do want to, there is too much to say! So much, in fact, that I'm having trouble getting my thoughts to work in a linear fashion. So excuse the onslaught of incohesiveness in advance.

Yesterday we made it to laughing yoga!

Anita, myself, and a girl from South Africa (she's here visiting her mom who owns a wine farm in South Africa who decided to come here once a year and volunteer after her husband died -aside: I love everyone's stories! - Also, they said if I wanted to come to South Africa they'd show me around!) - anyways, we got up at 5:30 and caught a taxi to a place I can't remember the name of. It was by a lake and as we walked around the orange sun rising cast a brilliant light on all the trees and illuminated the people doing morning walks, yoga, meditation, and salutations to the starting day. And through the mist we could hear, ever so softly, and then ever so much louder, "Ha-ha-ho-ho-ha ha ha ha ha."

By the time we walked around the lake there was only like ten minutes left of the group, but we joined in and a woman came over to us to explain the exercises. It was such a wonderful way to start the day, I'm thinking of going again.

The day before we went in a large group to the marble palace which is a beautiful mansion with the most unbelievable marble inlay on the floors. Home to Hindi princes for generations. Still owned by the family of seven brothers. And as correctly described in the guidebook, really eerie; like a scary movie/horror set. Oh the horror!

Then we walked up to find a famous Indian coffee house by the college campus. It was closed, but we let ourselves in anyways. And sat in the empty room, with a distinctly cuban writer's feel and thought about all the stories that had been conjured there. And I'm dying to write. I wish I had brought my laptop. I'm bursting at the seems with characters and situations that have to be stories immediately. All I want to do is write and write and write. Only not blogs. Because no one comments and that's depressing. (this is me making an obvious request:)

Then my ATM card died, and my watch died and a pigeon shit on my shoulder.

So here I am in the middle of India with no access to money. It's a bit unnerving (and inhibits my sense of freedom) but I'm surprisingly fine with it. Brendon was commenting yesterday that it was refreshing how I took my quandary in stride. Because what can you do? But secretly, I'm only calm for two reasons. The first is because I only tend to get anxious at night time. Especially if I'm with people I'm comfortable falling apart in front of. So I just waited until I was alone in my bed at night and realized in a moment's panic, "I'm completely stuck in India and can't leave if I want because I have no money." The second reason is - because honestly what can you do? Poki told me a while ago about an ancient Chinese (I think chinese.) practice of making all major decisions in seven breaths. And I've been trying that. So my ATM card doesn't work, what do I do? "one breath, two breaths, three breaths, four...wire my parents for money." done. How much money, "one breath, two, three, four...done." And then it really is done.

All who know my indecisiveness would be very impressed. This will come in handy later when I have to pick out a new toothbrush.

And the other secret reason (I guess there were three) why I'm not worried is because I'm not alone. I was telling people about my prediciment and Carmel (my new friend ever since I invited her out for a beer two days ago - she's Irish) said, "oh it's no worries. We'd all take care of you. If you need money, we'd get you money" and Joe from New York said he'll give me all the money he has left over on Thursday when he leaves. And Stan and Brendon and Anita - everyone asked.

I'm getting to love my life here. Last night Steffi asked, "why don't you extend your ticket. You should stay longer. What do you have to go home for?" And the last question is haunting me a little bit...

Last night we sat around in our courtyard. hungry. And someone asked, does anyone have any food? I said, I have one onion and garlic. Steffi had three tomatoes and a cucumber. Stan had two bags of pasta. Anita had a papaya. And we pooled our meager food together and gave it to Nico and somehow an amazing meal came out of it.

Time is moving so fast.

Anita and I (and maybe Katerina) are going to go to the Sunderbans this weekend. Hopefully. It's the world's largest system of river deltas, mangrove forrests, and Tigers! We will spend two nights on a river boat drifting through the jungles. Reportedly, the women that live there dress as widows everytime their husbands leave for work, as so many of them have been attacked by tigers, and then change back into their regular clothes when their husbands return. The men, many of them beekeepers I believe, wear masks on the back of their heads because it is believed that a tiger won't attack you if it thinks you are looking at him.

Today I started work at Shisu bhavan, another house for children. I will be going there in the mornings now to work on a mureal! One of the volunteers (an anthropologist, very excited to hear I studied anthropology!) has been coming here for ten years, and she is painting a beautiful beautiful bright mureal in the children's playground. Today she and I scrapped off an old one (pale and depressing) for three hours off the walls - and we're not close to done. Hopefully by tomorrow we can finish up, wash the walls, and then by the end of the week whitewash everything. She's already designed the mureal (it's really bright and beautiful and will completely enclose the playground!) and she'll outline it, then me and another volunteer will paint it in. She's also planning to put candystripes on the play equipment and paint a pond at the bottom of the slides so it will look like you're sliding into a pool of fish!) We're also hoping to bring in barkdust to put around the garden and make the playground a really beautiful oasis for the kids. I'm really, really exicted to work on it and just wish that my mom, sister, and jess were here to work on it because I think they would love it!

I'm still working at Kalighat at night. How will I ever find all the time I'm needing. It's starting to go so quickly. It's caught me completely off guard.

this is how we survive

Just having a really good time.

mostly.

I was talking with a girl I met yesterday and she lived in India three years ago, and now is back for the first time. She said (in effect), "The whole time I was gone I missed it horribly, and kept trying to figure out a way to get back. But I also realized, that while I was here I wasn't ever completely happy. I don't think you can be. There's the noise and the pollution, and you have to be on your guard so much. And you often really want a toilet. And there are so many things you can't eat and you get hassled so much that you want to scream. But then there are the women and the children you work with and you love them so much. And the other volunteers - everyone. But then you have to separate your head and your heart. Often you have to cut out your heart completely, otherwise it is just too assaulted and I don't think you can live, I think you would explode. So you walk around each day in your head. And you love it and you hate it."

And now she's back - working at Kalighat again - and one of the women patients remembered her from three years ago and started crying and held her and wouldn't let her go. It almost made me start to cry, but then I've cut my heart out so I can't.

And after work we all went out for beers - France, Spain, Ireland, Canada, and me (I love it!) only there was no alcohol at the bar that night (shitty bar if you ask me) so instead we just sat and talked and voiced all our frustrations, which are growing. Frustrations about the work and the organization and all it could be but refuses. And one volunteer who was last here 12 years ago (!) said that everything is identical to how it was then. No change. (I think "but this is how we've always done it" is the death of so many organizations) and the other girl said that three years ago she sat around with volunteers all having the exact same conversation.

I have so many thoughts. What shall I do with them?

But it was nice to talk. And as frustrated as everyone is, we all love Kalighat: Aroti walked yesterday. This was really exciting for me because she is the sickest woman I've seen - a breathing skeleton with the skin just hanging from the bones. And there are the women with maggots eating holes in the sides of their faces. Huge ulcers and abbesses hanging from the bodies. But Aroti walked.

I've been giving her a massage almost daily for two weeks. Bare hands. And her skin is falling off her back in sores. And not until yesterday did someone tell me that she has a horribly contagious skin disease and I shouldn't touch her without gloves. I asked what it was, and the volunteer looked at me in horror-struck seriousness and whispered, "Herpes." Perhaps it was a misunderstanding of the language barrier, and I'm certainly no doctor, but pretty sure that isn't herpes making the skin fall off her back. If it is. I know a lot of people in a lot of trouble! But the truth is, whatever she has, it seems worse not to touch her. I mean I know I should be careful, but I just keep thinking if I was her - I would want to be touched.

So you see why I've had to cut my heart out.

Last night in our courtyard, we were sitting around in happy silence - satisfied by yet another amazing meal from Nico (I don't know how he takes so little and makes it taste so good!). And for some reason we started laughing. And for some reason I looked over at Anita and she had a huge pool of drool dripping from her mouth. So we laughed even harder and I said, "wait, wait, here's my impression of Anita" and I took a sip of water and let it drip from my mouth. To which she promptly emptied an entire bottle of water over my head. And for the next hour stan, nico, steffi, esther, anita and I ran around screaming with buckets of water and dumping them on each other's heads. Until we were drenched, and dying with laughter, and shouted at by another volunteer exasperated by our water waste and lack of ecological consciousness.

It was the world's best water fight. Ever.

And that is how we survive.

I got married!

alternative title: Best night ever

yesterday really was the best day ever.

let's see. where to start....

Well first, we'll start with death. The cemetery was so beautiful; you stepped through the gates and it was like stepping back into another time. Like and Indiana Jones kind of time with giant tombs and monuments covered in jungle vines and moss and palm trees. It apparently was the East India Trading Companies cemetery so all the graves were british, and many seemed to have died very youg: 23, 25, 27, 28 years old. Many babies as well.

And then I got married.

We took the metro to the kalighat area. And it was insane. I sincerely believe that half of the city was trying to cram themselves on there at the same time. It was utter chaos (and horribly hot as the humidity has been at around 95%) We were packed so tight and still people were yelling and pushing. I was enjoying myself for reasons unknown. Especially seeing how I'm usually horribly claustrophobic. But for some reason I was really unphased.

And then we got to my stop. People were pushing and shoving trying to get out and a nearby Indian man turned to me and said, "you want off here?"

I nodded, and he swooped me up by the waist and jumped off the train with me into a sea of people. It wasn't necessary. But made it much more exciting.

But I didn't marry him.

Instead I went shopping for more moomoos! My housemates have been impressed by my house-dress and wanted ones of there very own. It's funny actually, because they were asking me questions in all seriousness "what do you recommend...what do you think about this one?" as I have become some sort of expert in lounge wear. makes me laugh.

The Kalighat area was a sea of people all celebrating the last day of the Puja. We decided to stop in a few more pandels and unknowlingly went into a small blue one that looked like a castle. It turned out to be full completely of women (in beautiful saris of course) and they all had small trays of red paint or dye in their hands. And they descended upon us. It was hilarious. At first they started with making just the red bindi mark on our foreheads and a red mark at our hairline, but they soon proceeded to cover our faces completely in red. We were laughing so hard and they were laughing and it was like a giant red paint fight with a hundred women.

And when we left the panel there were more women on the street and all around kali's temple and they all came up and laughed and smeared more red on us. Until we were completely covered. And best night ever.

Later, one of the brahmin priests was telling us that the red bindi and hair line mark is the sign of a married woman, so he was joking with us that we all got married last night.

(Though today, in retrospect, I've decided that being married sucks because some of the red won't come off my face, and now I have orange stains, mostly on my chin that really won't come off. I've scrubbed and scrubbed!)

So we walked all around and it felt like the whole city loved us - everyone that saw us cracked up laughing and said, "Oh so beautiful! Very nice, very nice! Happy Puja!"

And driving down the steets were giant open trucks carrying the Durga's to be thrown in the river. And each truck was full of a couple dozen people playing music and dancing. So we jumped in a taxi and followed the procession to the river and watched as they danced the statues down to the river and plunged them in (apparently, the story goes that when Durga is submersed in the river, Kali will rise back up in her place). And it was a huge party, and everyone was dancing and laughing!

Then we headed back to a rooftop restaurant with our bright red faces to greet the laughing waiters and drank beers to toast our marriages.

Best night ever.