Of Course, More Animals...You Should Come to Expect This

Monday after my trip to the second Sunrise of Africa School, in Kitengela, I had the opportunity to visit baby elephants and rhinos through the David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust. The school in Waithaka has adopted a 7 mo old elephant named Ndii, who was found at the bottom of a pipeline breather tank. After my experiences with the grown elephants in Siem Reap, it was amazing to see how small she was. This project is exceptional in its scope, having reared over 85 elephant orphans between 1987-2009 and successfully reintroducing them into the wild after years of trial and error to find suitable milk formula, as elephants need milk for at least the first 3 years of their lives. Some have even given birth to babies in the wild. You can find more information at www.sheldrickwildlifetrust.org, as they have done a wonderful job of explaining their mission and what their work entails.

The following weekend I got an up close and personal meeting with ostriches. I went to the ostrich farm. and realized just how ginormous those crazy birds are. I learned all too well that they like shiny things as they all went for my bangles. I mean, they peeped their huge, small-brained heads over the fence and snapped at my wrist, relentlessly. One of them got a hold of my watch and I had to wrestle it away from the little thief. I found them quite amusing. I then feasted on ostrich meat, quite tasty. I guess I should’ve felt bad about eating something I had just had a showdown with but when in Rome...Speaking of food, I’ve been trying to get my family to kill the evil goose that keeps chasing me around the yard, hissing and wagging its tongue. I’m putting geese on my hit list, right up there with turkeys (don’t make me relive my Turkey incidents but you can see them both at www.mayainbrazil.com and www.mayainmexuco.com). The geese keep me up at night and Sunday morning they went after my baby sister who was playing with a bucket of water. I guess they were thirsty. It was quite comical, even with the 3 yr old’s blood-curdling yells. I’ve asked for a deep fried goose waiting for me when I get to Houston for Christmas. I also live with a rescued kitty. She was given to my family, frail and suffering from what we think was pneumonia. She was also missing fur from some tussles with various animals. She has almost been nursed back to health, however. I feed her chicken, trying to get her on my good side so she’ll catch the renegade mouse that is hiding somewhere in my room and woke me up with its incessant scratching last night.

Yesterday I went to Giraffe center to hang out with the tallest animals on the planet. The purpose of the center (www.giraffecenter.org) is “to educate Kenyan school children about their country’s wildlife and environment.” At the moment, 9 giraffes live at the center on 60 acres of land. The center is made possible by the African Fund for Endangered Wildlife, started in 1979 by Jock Leslie-Melville. His wife, Betty, had “discovered the sad plight of the Rothschild giraffe- there were only 120 left...There are now over 300 giraffes-all safe and breeding well in different parts of Kenya.” I must say, I never imagined just how tall they are and feeding them is a memorable, if not slobbery, experience. Just like the elephants, they have marked personalities with some being grumpy and others being playful. They all are adorable and amusing. I even had a giraffe kiss me and I admit that I liked it. However, I feel that she was using me as I was tangling a piece of her food out my mouth.

These various experiences are a nice precursor to the Masai Mara and Lake Nakuru National Park. Stay tuned.

Kenya: Schools, Churches, and a mix of both

I didn’t know what to expect during my taxi ride from Jomo Kenyatta Airport to my new home in Waithaka, a suburb of Nairobi. I had just spent about 18 hrs traveling from Singapore via Doha. Doha provided the catalyst needed to switch my mind from SE Asia mode to Africa mode because it was so unlike anything I had seen the past three months and, I presume, just as unlike anything I will see in these next three months. Arriving to Doha at 5 am after a 7 hour flight, I assumed the eeriness was due to sleep deprivation. But there was something more. I somehow felt I was no longer on earth. It could’ve been that I’d never landed in a desert before. It was immense, sparse, disorienting. Everything was the same gray color. I thought for a moment I had gone colorblind and was destined to a life of monocromasity. The roads, the ground, the buildings, the same. I either felt that I’d been transported to another planet or that I’d gotten trapped in a story book. The skyline was ethereal, sandcastles jutting from the plains. And then, there was sunrise, to further transport me into otherworldly bliss. At 5am, the sun was a ginormous orb hovering over the horizon. The sandy backdrop mixed with the golden glow beseeched me to take a moment of pause. This was truly the perfect transition from the beaten path of SE Asia to the road less traveled in Eastern Africa.

What was awaiting me in Nairobi was unexpected. Two institutions marked my arrival to Kenya: churches and schools. I was met with an array of churches from both well-known congregations to denominations I had never heard before. In Senegal, I was confronted with mosques. I was unfortunately the victim of a very tone-death Call to Prayer every morning, insuring my acknowledgement that Islam was all around. Arabic was abundant on the radio, as different religious programs read from the Koran and talked about societal issues. However, I was not architecturally assaulted by Islam in Senegal as I would be by Christianity in Kenya. Every few buildings seemed to be a church. And when there wasn’t a church, there was a school, often affiliated with a church. One reason I was headed to Nairobi was to work at a Christian Science primary school for two weeks. Much value is placed on education in this country as many see it as the only way for social and economic mobility both at home and in the world arena. However, lack of resources and overcrowding make it impossible for the public sector to handle the demand. In some places, one teacher will have 150 students. It is impossible to give quality education when you have that many students. I thought the overcrowding in the US was bad, but imagine: 150 students to one teacher! This has caused the private sector to step in and alleviate some of the burden, often in the form of religious schooling. Meanwhile, companies have been quietly looking to Kenya for the future of outsourcing, thus Kenya is following in the footsteps of India in more ways than just in its abundance of Masala Chai that I am forced to drink about 10 times a day, and its chapatis, one of my favorite dishes and what my host family patiently taught me to make even though I was useless at making the dough form a perfect circle.

As mentioned earlier, I was partially in Nairobi to see what inroads education was making, particularly at the Sunrise of Africa Schools (www.sunrise-of-africa.com- there is a campus in Waithaka where I am currently staying and a newer one in Kitengela). My mom, the headmaster of a Christian Science School in Houston and an adviser to the Board of Directors for these schools in Kenya, wanted to know about the type of education these children were receiving, having heard brilliant things about their curriculum evidenced by their students high scores. I have been sitting in on classes from pre-school through 5th grade, as well as guest teaching art to the older students and what I’ve witnessed as been quite impressive. I was humbled by the teachers’ preoccupation with what I would think of their classrooms, which are insanely small and barely accommodate the students who are literally on top of each other. (The school has seen rapid growth, now having more than 150 students and adding a grade level each year. It is quite a feat to keep up with the demand). They share all the materials and use them until they are in tatters. But what I’ve witnessed firsthand is that physical environment is worth so little in the grand scheme of things. What is important is the quality of education, and the teaching here is clearly top notch. The students work extremely hard, attending class year around and many opting to come on Saturdays for extra tutoring.

The Sunrise of Africa’s vision is to provide “academically outstanding co-educational schools, based on Christian principles,” namely (and I paraphrase)...to love and respect themselves and others; develop self confidence; be optimistic; express God-given qualities such as love, enthusiasm, freedom, self-control, joy, vivacity; recognize and support others in the diversity of religious beliefs, be encouraged to achieve excellence, and learn practical problem solving. I’ve seen these qualities manifested in all grade-levels. As a non-profit making school, they aim to provide education equal to the expensive, Nairobi private schools. Emphasizing the development of the whole child, they use a combination of the well known Montessori Method and the National Early Childhood curriculum. The Sunrise schools are making good on this promise. They have students that come from broken homes, whose parents are dealing with a range of issues. They even have orphans as well as refugees from neighboring countries. Regardless of their background, they are given the opportunity to receive a stellar education.

Classes for the primary school students are conducted in English, the official language of Kenya, although explanations will occasionally be given in Kiswahili, especially for the younger children as a means to emphasize a point. A period is devoted each day for Kiswahili, the national language, where students learn to read and write, as all of them are already fluent in spoken Kiswahili. Meanwhile, the youngest preschoolers have class in Kiswahili but are gradually exposed to more and more English, reaching a stage of balanced bilingualism by the lower primary grades. While English is obviously favored as it is the most prominent international language at the moment, much respect is shown to Kiswahili and all students are expected to be fluent in both, with no detriment to the development of reading, writing, and speaking skills of either language.

As part of the religious aspect of the school, the kids are requested to attend Sunday school, and all students attend Monday school, which is a shortened version of Sunday School comprising of the Golden Text and Responsive Reading of the weekly Christian Science lesson sermon as well as various hymns relating to the weekly topic. Religion plays a lesser role during the rest of the week, but the principles of Christian Science (www.spirituality.com) are the foundation of the school.

As I travel around the various neighborhoods, what I notice most are the school uniforms donned by every student. There are no shortage of schools, and no shortage of students. While I cannot speak for the other schools as I have not visited them, Sunrise of Africa Schools are making a positive contribution to the education and rearing of Kenyan students. While perhaps lacking in material wealth, they use what they have to the fullest. I wish this sort of ‘using what little you have to the max’ could be imported in the poorer neighborhoods in the US as poverty should not be an excuse for insufficient education. It should be taken into account but only to then be combatted as minds can grow if there is a belief that they can. If the public schools are overtaxed, the private sector should be able to offer quality education but without the price tag of most of the private institutions that only wealthy children can access. Those children with no material wealth have a wealth of a different kind: the ability to learn and grow. They hold inner qualities that outshine outward wealth. I worry that my idealism will become battered and one day wither away but hopefully I can do much by way of my own projects before that day arrives. I will definitely use these schools to remind me that anything is possible, regardless of the odds.

Introduction to yet another chapter in my relationship with Africa

I didn’t have many ideas of what Kenya would be like before I arrived. I’ve learned in my travels that there is no point to cloud your mind with pre-conceived notions because they will be destroyed if you are open-minded enough not to cling to them. Having already lived in Senegal for half a year, my conceptualization of Africa was probably more developed than most people’s. I did not reduce all of Africa to a monolithic culture. I did not imagine it a destitute place filled only with sorrow, pain, disease, famine, corruption. From my experiences in Senegal (www.mayainsenegal.blogspot.com), I learned of the depth and intensity that Africa holds, of its beauty as well as its squalor, of its resolve as well as its problems, of its hope as well as its despair. Experiencing Senegal, its people, its cultures, its land, I learned to respect Africa in a way that’s often lacking in other people’s repertoire. I also knew that while some of these same dichotomies would assail my senses in Kenya, there would be a whole new range of emotion and experiences. The people are different, the history particular, the languages diverse, the music varied. I’m reaching Kenya six years after my introduction to Sub-Saharan Africa, therefore, my ever-changing frame of reference internalizes my experiences here differently than when I was a college student. All I can give my readers are the impressions that I take away and show how they become ingrained in my psyche at this very moment in time. I hope that what I say will inspire others to travel to this incredible continent and to see Africa more than what the media portrays and the imagination concocts.

Monkeys, Tigers and Bears, Oh my, and oh yah, Elephants

Southeast Asia has four main animals that are held above all others. They are often the protagonists in fables and the subjects of artwork and I managed to have up close and personal encounters with all of them. Each interaction seemed to outdo the last and while most things don’t phrase me, I am well aware of the singular and impressive few weeks I’ve had. While I tend to steer clear of chronological order in my blogs, it was as if each experience was preparing me for the one to follow and so I will tell the animal section (as I very seldom have travels without some sort of traumatic or impressionable episode with an animal i.e. buffalo in India, turkeys in Brazil) from beginning to end.

My journey with the big four began in Siem Reap, Cambodia. The info bequeathed to me by the stoner at my guesthouse paid dividends. Basically, the owner’s friend, Smiley, couldn’t have been more on point with every suggestion he gave. Perhaps, he’s a wise man, concealing his powers behind the stoner facade. Whatever his true nature, his first direction to us was to find his friend who cares for the elephants at Angkor Wat. While riding an elephant around Angkor Wat is not on my list of things to do before I die and was fortunately not on the menu as nothing screams tourist more than that, getting to spend an afternoon with them, watching them eat and bathe, was quite a memorable experience. Elephants are incredibly expressive, each with marked personalities. The one who captured my heart and who literally captured my hand as her nose reached out for me was, in fact, quite shy and took time to get to know us. Every time we tried to take a photo of her, she would hide behind the pillar. When we put the camera down, she would sneak from behind her haven and cautiously approach. If we moved toward the camera, she would go into hiding again. Meanwhile, the others showed various personality traits as they went for their afternoon baths. Rival elephants had to bathe at different times or there would be trouble. Some would taunt others if they got to go first. It was like dealing with a kindergarten classroom, except your students weighed several tons more than you. You could sense their joy during bath time when they would snort as much water as possible and shower their backs with what seemed like fire hose strength. Even though each step could shake the ground, they were quite graceful. Proud and majestic they stood, yet humble in a way I can’t describe.

Smiley then led us to the Tiger Temple in Kanachanaburi, western Thailand. The sanctuary was started when a Buddhist monk was given a tiger to care for. The center has since grown to house many tigers with volunteers from all over the world. If you get there in the afternoon, you get to pet the tigers and have your picture taken (yes, I know, touristy, but still thrilling) as well as watch the babies get fed bottled milk. I’ve never been so close to a tiger. And even though they are subdued from the afternoon heat and are surrounded by trained professionals who watch their every move, your instincts are to freeze up. I didn’t realize my hesitancy until I saw my first couple pictures. I don’t think I’ve ever been caught so wide-eyed and cautious.

The next part of my journey landed me in northern Laos. The Brit, who returns only briefly in my adventure as part of the framing narrative, practically commanded me to do the Gibbon Experience in the Bokeo National Reserve. While having the utmost respect for the Brit and his ability to provide animal adventure (he was there for both the buffalo incident and the camel safari), the offputting price of the three day escapade at a whopping $220 was convincing me otherwise. I swallowed my starving artist/career student attitude enough to hand over my credit card (actually my friend’s credit card since mine still hasn’t been replaced from the identity theft). There is something almost otherworldly about living in a tree house for 3 days, zip-lining and hiking around a gigantic forest, tracking gibbons at 5 am. Even though I spent a week’s budget in those three days, I was happy with the decision I made. I wasn’t aware of what repercussions that decision actually held.

The second day, I briefly met a Scottish couple who had worked for the Experience before and who spend a lot of time rescuing animals. They passed through my tree house and stopped in for coffee. When we were hiking out on the third day, I met them again at the village bordering the Reserve. I also noticed a small monkey in a makeshift cage behind the door but didn’t put two and two together. Leaving most of my group to hang out with the guides for a while, I saw the Scottish girl walk towards me with a somewhat sheepish look on her face. What was she up to? She sat down next to me, made some pleasantries, and asked if I was heading to Luang Prabang. I told her I was leaving the following day by bus. The sheepish look transformed into badly concealed pure delight. She then asked if I were willing to do her a favor. A favor? She must need something transported. As long as it wasn’t contraband, I would be happy to. Her smile grew even bigger. That’s when she proceeded to explain to me how she needed a monkey, a long-tail macaque, to be exact, transported to her friends. The monkey had been confiscated by a forest ranger who was now trying to find a way to provide long-term care for it. As is often the case, these animals are confiscated from illegal trades after their mothers have been killed in order that the poachers can take the young. Since she was headed to Thailand, she was unable to provide refuge. The monkey’s only hope was a bus ride to Luang Prabang where, lucky thing, she had been promised the final place in an informal sanctuary.

I don’t know if I should’ve been more hesitant, or actually thought about my answer before speaking, but I responded with an unequivocal yes. I mean, seriously, how often do you get asked to transport a monkey 12 hrs on a bus? The next morning we met at the bus station around 7 so she could hand over the goods and make sure the bus driver was ok having a monkey on board. Since it was supposedly a VIP bus, I thought maybe a monkey would not be welcomed. I was wrong on both accounts. The VIP bus was actually a local bus with my being the only farang on there. The driver didn’t even bat an eye as animals are common fares on local buses. He was impressed with the towel I put down under her cage, but when reading his eyes, they seemed to say there was no point, and I soon learned why.

I have a very strong stomach and am not prone to motion sickness. If I could handle the winding mountains of Mexico, I could handle Laos. However, Laos was a very formidable opponent and I was one of the few left standing. The mountains are treacherous, the drivers, insane. The endless supply of plastic bags was inadequate because as we went barreling around the mountains, the floor started to look like a Rorschach test. Hardly anyone kept their lunch down. I was somewhat protected as I was sitting behind the back wheel with Renee’s cage wedged between the seat and the wheel. Yes, the monkey was temporarily named Renee as the Scottish girl could not remember my name and kept calling me Renee. Neither the monkey nor I look like a Renee but I needed to call her something other than Monkey and adopted that. But I digress. My fortress consisted of a back wheel and a huge plasma screen TV, whose box was shoved up against the side of my seat. Where did a plasma screen come from in the middle of the Laotian mountains, beats me, but I’ve never been so happy to have one because the box shielded me from everyone’s mess. I think Renee and I were probably in the cleanest area on the bus. 12 hrs on a bus is long in any situation, but couple that with a scared monkey, a bus full of sick passengers, and death-defying mountain driving and you have an ulcer in the works. However, I took the experience in stride and enjoyed my monkey bonding time. I was also constantly amused. I had a sitcom playing before me in the rearview mirror. The first time I looked up the bus driver was nonchalantly attacking the mountains with a cigarette hanging out his mouth. This went on a couple hours. However, the programming changed because when I looked up later, I noticed the driver didn’t look too hot. Someone should’ve given him a plastic bag. When I woke up from a nap, I realized that the bus driver was no longer driving. He had relinquished his seat to what appeared to be a 10 yr old boy. Everyone looks younger than they actually are in SE Asia but he couldn’t have been over 14. I guess he was the backup driver. I was wondering where the driver was as I had arranged to use his cell phone when I got to Luang Prabang so that I could successful make the drop off. Then I noticed the driver clutching a plastic bag in the front row. Just great, the driver also has motion sickness. I decided to go back to sleep because I realized that sleep is the best defense mechanism you can possibly have. When fear takes over and there’s nothing you can do in the present situation, go to sleep. I also found that reassuring Renee would reassure me. She would make this sort of tsk tsk sound and I would respond with an approximate noise to let her know I was close by. I would also slip pieces of banana and tamarind through the cage, along with drops of water. Caring for her got my mind off the fact that someone who could barely see over the steering wheel was driving my bus.

Monkey and me made it to Luang Prabang in one piece. The bus driver was still alive as well and called the Scots’ friends to have them come pick up Renee. For the hard work, they helped me find accommodation and then offered me the best payment anyone like me could’ve imagined. They had contacts at the bear sanctuary and said I could come around the following day for a special tour. I arrived and was ushered to the bear house where I laid eyes on the cutest thing I’d ever seen, a three month old Asiatic Black Bear named Fun (pronounced Foon). As is normally the case with these animals in sanctuaries, his mother had been killed. Since he was too young to be in the large enclosures with the older bears and there were no bears of a similar size he was not able to have physical contact with any other bears. This meant that the rescue center staff had to play surrogate mother and be his play mates. Ordinarily the rescue center does not encourage interaction with the bears and contact is limited to a very small number of people only when absolutely necessary. My thank you for helping with the monkey gave me a chance to become a part of this cub's adopted family and help to provide the stimulation and interaction that he should have been getting from his mother.

I spent the next hour wrestling with Fun, who I renamed “Bitey” for his propensity to bite every chance he got. He never broke the skin but enjoyed using me as a chew toy. He wobbled when he walked which made him even more endearing if that was possible. He climbed on top of me. I had to make it known straight away that I was not able to nurse him as that was the first place he gravitated towards. He also enjoyed my dreads and tried several times to climb up my body and chomp down on them. He was a messing eating, stepping all into his mixture of banana and milk, and smeared honey all over the floor. I’ve had incredible experiences on this trip and through all my travels, but nothing comes close to the hour I had with him.

As for my animals, we’ll see what insanity awaits in Eastern Africa, my next destination.

Planes, Trains, and Autorickshaws

It is fitting that I should be writing this post from the back of a bus. When I say back of the bus, I’m not evoking Rosa Park’s 1950’s Montgomery. I’m talking about being sent behind the mysterious red floral curtain to what I presume is the driver’s private enclave, complete with mattress, a few changes of clothes, and a towel, on my way between Johol Bahru (JB) and Mersing, Malaysia. When we tried to catch the bus from Singapore to Mersing, the driver told us the bus was full so we concocted plan B and opted to take a bus simply to JB, on the border with Malaysia, and then catch another bus to Mersing. Little did we know that the bus in JB would be the exact same full bus we were trying to catch in Singapore. No emptier than it was in Singapore but apparently more available, as he let us get on. Maybe what’s not allowed in Singapore, i.e. hiding tourists as if they were illegal immigrants, flies in Malaysia. Whatever the reason for his change of heart, it’s hard to get five people on a full bus. This isn’t India, seating capacity is respected here. People aren’t allowed to be strewn across the floor, or crammed three to a seat. This isn’t Nepal, you aren’t allowed to get on top of the bus and hang on to the luggage racks for dear life. The Malaysians have other ways to get around silly seating rules. So as an angry Chinese woman yelled at us for being in her family’s seats, the driver calmly herded two of us to his lair. I had a valid seat but jumped at the opportunity to go to the back, a section of the bus I didn’t know existed two minutes prior. In my new locale, I pulled the partition closed. This would be where I could update my blog for the next three hours: my new home office.

I’ve been wanting to write a post about transit for a while. Most people don’t like to consider transit as part of the travel. They want to get where they are going without actually participating in the going. A four hour bus ride seems tedious as it is nothing more than the wall that keeps them between two geographic locations and two moments in time. I, on the other hand, relish in the actual travel part of travel. 20 hr train ride? Sign me up for it gives me time to reflect. 14 hrs on a plane? Great time to catch up on sleep, especially since I can’t stay awake in a moving vehicle for more than five minutes (people who road trip with me find me useless company). And the best of all, you don’t know who you are going to meet along the way.

The train. India has the most extensive train network I’ve ever seen. While lacking in punctuality, it makes up for this in character. Oh man does it have character. My new friends in Jaisalmer, also Brits as they seem to run rampant in these here parts, refused to ride anything but A/C, which is 1^st class travel. I tried to convince them of the beauty of traveling 2^nd class sleeper (which would translate to about 5^th class) but they weren’t having none of that. They were scarred for life after an incident whereby a little girl decided to drop trough on the seats right in front of them. As the mother embarrassedly tried to clean up the mess, which was worsened by the fact that girl clearly lacked fiber in her diet, the girl moved to another location and repeated her previous action. While the mother followed her daughter around like a New Yorker curbing her dog, my friends were making simultaneous mental notes: no more traveling with the plebeians. A/C all the way for now on.

I can’t fault them for their respect for hygiene but I did try to show them that second class sleeper has its merits. I made them sit with me on the way from Jaisalmer to Jodhpur after the ticket Nazi wouldn’t allow me to sit with them in fancy shmancy A/C. There facial expressions were marred with fear. Flashbacks of the “incident” was playing back, stuck on repeat. After a little coaxing, they were with me and the Brit, crammed between several people. The Brit was soon whisked away by a soldier who wanted to share his hidden stash of whiskey so only I was left to hold my friends’ hands as they made this giant step towards recovery. Luckily, we had an amazing experience. While no one in our section spoke much English, we were able to get them to teach us phrases in Hindi, draw us maps of India complete with all the states and home towns, tell life stories with no guarantee of comprehension, and laugh uncontrollably over cultural differences.

Another key to sleeper class is to carry with you a bit of food, and offer this food to any woman you see, because in return, she will pull out a picnic basket concealing a 10 course meal, and undoubtedly return the favor. There is nothing worse for an Indian mother than to think that you might not be stuffed beyond belief. However, Indian mothers are somewhat of a commodity and can be hard to find on some itineraries. As a female traveler, you have to be aware that at times you could be the only female on your coach. For some reason, my 20 hour ride from Delhi to Jaisalmer was void of all things female. I think even the cockroaches (and there are many of those, something you should probably learn to accept if you are going to travel extensively in India) were male on that leg of my journey. While A/C has some sense of order and anyone without the appropriate ticket is quickly escorted out, with sleeper, the collectors have a much more laissez-faire attitude, giving many general seating travelers license to sneak in. You shouldn’t be surprised to wake up in the middle of night and find a whole family sleeping on the floor between the bunks of your compartment (as was the case between Jodhpur and Delhi). Getting to the toilet can be quite dicey as you have to avoid stepping on body parts and luggage. One time, I finally made it through the gauntlet to find that one bathroom had been converted into some sort of office as about five men played cards and conducted all sorts of business from the comfort of the latrine. Meanwhile, the other bathroom was occupied, indefinitely, as some guy was smoking up. Herding a group of men out of the bathroom in another language is not the easiest of tasks and the 20 other people crammed in the hallways love to see how you handle the situation. As with most things, giving food as an offering usually suffices.

At my stop in Jodhpur, the train cleared, only to repack itself with military personnel. For this leg, I was sandwiched in between soldiers, rifles, and all sorts of military paraphernalia. As always when I’m the lone female among a group of guys in India, I get my “don’t even think about talking to me” face. I scrunch my eyes in the shifty-eye position, jut my lips out slightly in a menacing fashion, and cross my arms. However, holding this stance for hours on end is tiring. They seem to know it’s a war of attrition and that you will eventually weaken. As soon as the moment occurs when your face sets itself into neutral, it begins: “where are you from”, “are you married?” “where is your husband/boyfriend?” “why are you traveling alone?” in that exact order. However, after exchanging pleasantries this time, the soldiers wanted to know what I was listening to. This led into hours of comparing music and trying to get our bluetooths (blueteeth?) to synch in order to share. It turned out to be an enjoyable ride hanging out with the boys and watching the desert panorama pass me by.

Planes. Since I had such little time in India, I had to grab a couple flights to cut down on the length of travel time. However, there are none of the usually amusing Indian travel experiences when traveling by planes. In fact, they are comfier and cozier than any of the American or European flights I’ve been on. Kudos, India, kudos.

Autorickshaws. I thought hitting a buffalo head on in a motorcycle and flying in the air was scary. But nothing, I repeat, nothing is scarier than autorickshaws in India…if you are not used to them. Fortunately for me, I am now used to them.

Holi Moley

Pink. Why did this year’s color have to be pink? What a pathetic color. I mean, is it really necessary? Perhaps my feelings for this pointless color are remnants of my days as a tomboy when I abhorred anything girlie. However, I have to admit: there is something quite satisfying about shooting young and old, human and bovine alike, with pink dye. Holi this year was on March 11th although we began to see preparations in Delhi two days prior. I was wondering why so many people were walking around with faces covered in pink powder or shirts stained pink. My friend Nishant explained to me that this was in celebration of Holi. The origins of Holi remains a mystery to me as I’ve heard as many versions of the festival’s conception as the number of times I’ve asked. All versions seem to agree that there was a character named Holika. I’m deferring to Wikipedia until there can be some consensus. Explaining the ritual of Holi Eve, Wiki writes, “The bonfires are lit in memory of the miraculous escape that young Prahlad had when Demoness Holika, sister of Hiranyakashipu, carried him into the fire. Holika was burnt but Prahlad, a staunch devotee of Lord Vishnu, escaped without any injuries due to his unshakable devotion.”

The Brit (yes, he reemerges in the story as we wound up meeting thousands of kilometers from our first encounter, in Jaisalmer, a city surrounded by the Thar Desert on the border with Pakistan) and I had spent Holi Eve searching for munitions. We needed water guns, dye (both powder and liquid), clothes that could be worn once and thrown away, and spray bottles (for maximum carnage). The townspeople gave us pointers on the best places to go. Actually, they gave the Brit pointers. They told me I would be better off staying far far away from all the action. I would find out the next day that this was in order to avoid the opportunistic gropes of prepubescent (and sometimes very pubescent) boys. In fact, the only girls I saw out and about that morning were Westerners, most of them looking confused at what they had gotten themselves into. After a 5 minute battle with the young neighborhood kids by our guesthouse, we ventured into the fort for rowdy and somewhat violent dyeing. I had an added layer of protection (which, in retrospect, I wish were a taser): my goggles.

There are certain things I always travel with and can hardly live without. Number one on the list would be earplugs. After living a block away from Times Square for a year, I became addicted to earplugs and haven’t slept without them since. I have my primary pair as well as several spares for emergency situations. After that is, of course, my passport. Perhaps passport should be number one. Next comes my computer. I don’t always travel with it but am quite attached. How else am I going to relate my experiences to you guys in a timely fashion? Somewhere on the list are my goggles. Swimming is one of the greatest pleasures in my life. You never know where you will have the chance so I carry them around just in case. My preparedness came in handy on Wednesday as goggles were the only protection from potential hazardous materials. All the newspapers were cautioning holi-players of bad dyes, explaining how most of them were coming in through China and had been shown to be not very health friendly. That might explain the burning . Anyway, after an hour, covered from head to toe in pink and sometimes red, green, and yellow dye, I was exhausted and ready to return to the hotel where a large bucket-worth of dye, thrown from the top floor, was awaiting me. No one was spared. No one. It took me 45 minutes to shower and I was still a dark pink for the following few days. Good times.

If you are looking at the photos, you might be wondering why we were wearing camel balls in some of the photos. Ask the Brit.

International Women's Day (meant to be posted Mar 8)

I’m sitting on my flight from Mumbai to Delhi and was just instructed to buckle my seatbelt. Soon after I was wished a Happy Woman’s day. March 8, known first and foremost as my mom’s birthday (Happy Birthday Mom), and secondly, as International Women’s Day, has become increasingly more urgent each year as my awareness of the plight of women all over the world grows. A couple years ago I had flown to NY to kick off my Art for Darfur fundraiser. I was speaking at a conference for young girls about the trials of the women of Darfur. After imparting on them the irreprehensible crimes against women who have been raped, murdered, and tortured in the genocide that still ravishes Southern Sudan, I conducted an art workshop with mainly underprivileged girls who expressed their impressions of the situation through painting. Their work was then shown at the main event and auctioned off as part of my fundraiser. Art for Darfur was the first time I had really reflected on what it means to be a woman in this world. Before leaving the US, I had very little understanding of the gender differences that exist. I was a tomboy growing up, playing football, collecting baseball cards, having only guy friends until 7th grade. Once I reached middle school, I finally managed to get girlfriends and in class, my gender never came up, always being afforded the same opportunities as my male classmates. Any sense of injustice was always connected to race, not gender, and even my doctoral research is linked more to race and ethnicity issues than to gender issues. My family might have something to do with my squewed view of the world. The family is probably as matriarchal as it gets. While Dad is much respected, Mom is in charge, which is I guess why having her birthday occur on Women’s Day is fitting. There were never any obstacles to what I could do as both my parents let me follow whatever whims or dreams I have.

Being in India for the past month has made me question what it means to be a woman. There are so many contradictions. While India has already had a female prime minister, women are sorely lacking in government and legislative bodies. While education to women is quite accessible, at least in the large cities, and the higher a woman’s degree, the more respected she is, once married and with a family, she is expected to be a wife and mother, first and foremost. Recent attacks on pub-going women in Mangalore remind us that women who don’t fit a certain mold are going to be ostracized and punished. While more women than men tend to be born in most of the world, in India, there are 93 female births per 100 male births. The business of finding out the sex of fetuses and aborting the females is a grave problem while female infanticide is even more problematic. While dowries have been outlawed, in many places especially in the countryside, women are costly because the families need to come up with a suitable dowry. In addition, since parents go to live with their sons, having only female children leave parents with a feeling of uncertainty in their old age. Many fear they will be discarded, forced into nursing homes, one of the biggest qualms that Indians have about Americans and their views on family.

It is in India that I first learned the word “eve-teasing”. It includes improper comments, touching, or other verbal/physical harassment by men. It is a punishable offense yet most women don’t know their rights or are too afraid to speak up. Marches all over India will take place on March 8. Some focusing on recent events like the Mangalore attacks, some calling attention to everyday occurrences like eves-teasing. Blank Noise, an organization in Bangalore, seeks to create an open dialogue today and everyday while SITA Sena in Mumbai, hoping to spark a trend, have armed women with whistles and instructed them to blow each time a man acts inappropriately to them. Women are not the only ones targeted in this campaign for empowerment. Men Against Violence and Abuse sensitizes men to women’s struggles. These are a few of the many demonstrations occurring today to remind India and the world that things have improved but we have a long way to go.