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)
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
"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.
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.
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.
Friday, November 21, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
"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.
"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?
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?
Friday, November 14, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
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!
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.
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.
Friday, November 7, 2008
"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.
"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.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
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!
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!
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)