Sunsets, Booze, Nudity and Marriage: Diwali in Goa

At the last minute, Jenny, Rachel and I all decided to cancel our previously booked Diwali plans — Jenny was going to Kerala, Rachel was going to the Himalayas and I was going to Thailand — in favor of Goa, because we’re party people and can’t be separated for five days without severe anxiety resulting. So I booked us overnight sleeper buses and a hostel a few days before our departure, and we were set.

After classes ended on Tuesday, we went to Jenny’s house and watched “Grown-Ups” in the movie theater (Harry Potter was no longer available, sadly). By the grace of some higher-up entity, our bus stopped right outside of Jenny’s house, so we moseyed outside at around 9pm and met it there without hassle.

The bus was an experience, to say the least. While far superior to the semi-sleeper buses we took to and from Hyderabad, there were still certain … difficulties. The beds were roughly six feet long, which would be wonderful for the diminutive members of society; I, however, am not of that ilk. Those six feet of bed had hard walls at both ends, and as such I couldn’t straighten my legs for the duration of the ten-hour journey without sticking them out of the curtain and into the aisle. So claustrophobia was an issue. I also kicked a woman in the face while doing this. Sorry I’m not sorry; blame the bus company for catering to Oompa Loompas.

Next, they supplied blankets but no pillows. Some people can sleep on their arms or other appendages, but I had no desire to dislocate my shoulder and so was stuck lying flat, a position I can’t sleep in. Next, we were all on the top “bunks” and every time the bus made a left turn, I was convinced I was going to roll over and fall into the aisle and hit some other poor person. This didn’t happen, as the beds had rails preventing this, but rolling over in one’s sleep and smacking their head against a cold steel bar is not particularly pleasurable either.

Lastly, and this is a problem across India, air conditioning is used more to reduce the temperature of areas to Antarctic conditions rather than simply to keep the temperature at a comfortable level. As such, despite the blanket, we were all freezing balls the whole way. Side note: we also made zero bathroom stops, so that was miserable.

We arrived in Anjuna (an area in northern Goa — Goa is actually a state, not a city) at roughly 7am on Wednesday, and after taking a taxi to our hostel, settling in and eating dosas, set off in search of the beach. It was roughly a ten-minute walk to the ocean, which in stark contrast to Mumbai, was blue! And it didn’t smell like death or a sewage plant. It was weird.

We walked north along the water, but we only saw concrete landfill material where sand and legitimate seashore should have been. We had to climb up and over randomly placed walls and dodge trash, needles and broken bottles innumerable. We were definitely in a party town. We eventually came across a small beach, but the water was dyed dark orange with mud runoff from the nearby hill. Under the impression that this was what we were stuck with, we gave it a shot.

The water was incredibly salty, but very warm, probably 80-85 degrees. None of us lasted long as a result of the mud though — it stings the eyes — so we went out on the shore to tan. Almost immediately we were swarmed by Indian paparazzi, all taking photos of us shirtless or in bikinis and requesting pictures with us. I responded by diving back in the water, while the girls and Sacha (our French friend from Pune) covered themselves with towels and flipped many a middle finger.

While in the water, I realized that as a result of my tanning on the sand as opposed to lying on a towel, my bathing suit had gained several pounds of rock. So for the first time in Asia, I removed by bathing suit in the water — not really an issue because the water was so opaque with mud — to remove the sand. At this point, fairly certain it was time to leave, we set off.

Sacha had been messaging our other French friends, who had arrived in Goa several days before us, and had discovered that they were south of us at an actual beach. We ventured south and were beyond grateful to see that real beaches exist in India. Minus the abundant cows (and cow pies) this could have been Hawaii. Walking along the shore, as we are everywhere, we were assaulted by insistent shopkeepers, all shouting prices at us, calling us their friends and insisting, “come to MY shop.”

Once we arrived at their hostel, which was actually on the beach, we spent the rest of our daylight hours bumming around between the water and the hostel’s bar, which had decent mojitos — officially my new method of judging any alcohol serving institution.

Later in the afternoon, we all went to a massive flea market, where we were badgered by many more shopkeepers. The array of products ranged from Buddha statues to silverware sets and hammocks. In the stoner mood, I bought several shirts and tank tops I’ll never wear in public ever again. I also got a henna tattoo on my shoulder (it’s faded now, for all of you who thought the photos were of a real tattoo; that’ll wait until Christmastime).

The sunset was fantastic, a red deeper than any I have ever seen. After the sun went to bed, we attempted to take a shortcut back to our hostel, which resulted in us trudging roughly half a kilometer through waist-high reeds in a marsh. We later learned the error of our ways, as cobras are common in such areas. Oops. Sorry mom.

After getting dressed to go out, we took a safer route back to the beach. Following dinner on the shore, our group ventured to Club Cubana, a venue on top of a mountain inland from us. Having been told that this was a pool party, I wore a Ganapati tank top I had bought at the flea market, a bathing suit and flip-flops. Of course, no one ended up going in the water and I was stuck among button-up shirts and pants on the dance floor. Perfect.

Jenny and Rachel both wound up acquiring romantic interests from our group of French friends that night, and as a result I was left mostly sitting around and texting people back in the States. Once I deduced that I would be going back to the hostel alone while they left with their respective men, I caught a taxi back. I also may or may not have called my mother and broken down about how awful being gay in India is. The taxi driver, who spoke very little English, was clearly befuddled by the weeping white kid in his car.

Thursday morning consisted of meeting up with Jenny and Rachel, at which point I was subjected to approximately a million hours of stories, and of course hearing about how much fun the straight people were having was great to hear after losing my shit the night before in depression. Rachel had gone in the ocean after dark and left her iPhone, wallet and sandals on the beach and, as it tends to, the tide rose and swept all of it away. So those are all at the bottom of the Arabian Sea right now. Since that night, Jenny and I have been trading off giving her money and having her PayPal us back (ahem, still waiting on $170, hun).

The afternoon was a repeat of the day before: sun, sand, tanning and alcohol, but with the added benefit of Rachel being flustered. I can’t really complain though; the salt water did wonders for my skin, which had been and continues to be terrible with the pollution.

When we returned to our hostel, the walkway leading there was lined with candles — likely due to the fact that Thursday was the actual day of Diwali. It’s a five-day festival, but if one were forced to pick a single “Diwali day,” it would be the third day of the festival. Those candles ended up being the only shred of Diwali-specific festivities we saw in Goa. Being a party town, I honestly expected more from it; I was psyched to spend Diwali in India, to see the color parades and a plethora of pretty lights. However, it is possible that the abundance of alcohols and drugs caused the residents of Goa to forget. So it goes.

We ventured to a weird trance bar on the beach we had been at earlier. Everyone who knows me well knows that there are few genres of electronic music I dislike (and few genres of non-electronic music I do like) but this was awful; there was no melody, no breakdown and no vocal. It was just straight 138bpm bass. There’s no fun in that, no nuance, no intricacy. This resulted in my Irish exit after roughly fifteen minutes, destined for another night alone in the four-bed hostel room. But I got to walk a kilometer along the sand and water, and watched movies before bed, so life could have been worse.

Our third day progressed as the second did, minus the fact that Jenny and I went and got 75-minute massages for roughly ten dollars apiece after a long, romantic walk on the beach. My masseur was a tiny man with small, weak hands, but it was still a great way to pass the time. The power went out midway through, and we thought nothing of it, but after stepping outside we realized that it had begun pouring rain while we were inside. At least I tanned as long as I could have. Our night was tame; Rachel and Jenny ended up coming back to the room, so it was nice to feel like I had friends again.

It was still raining the next day (and would remain as such for the duration of our stay) so in the spirit of Halloween and given the fact that Jenny had never seen it, the three of us watched “Hocus Pocus.” God, I missed that movie; haven’t exactly had Disney Channel access on Halloween night since college started. I actually just found out today that the three main actresses all want to make a sequel. With Sarah Jessica Parker pushing 50 and Bette Midler almost turning 70, it should be interesting if it pans out. Still, Sarah Jessica Parker essentially portraying a magical pedophile is weird no matter her age.

The rain subsided by the time we finished, so we decided to enjoy our last full day and attempt a beach run. Personally, I love swimming in the rain, but the girls weren’t having it once we got there, so we got drinks, changed and went to dinner. The place we went to had the most adorable puppy any of us had come across, at least since we arrived in India. Many an Instagram post followed.

After dinner and a bit of clubbing, we all decided to go skinny-dipping. This would have been fantastic were it not for two things: the swell and some flashlights.

The waves had increased in size significantly since the sun set. Previously boring five-foot swells had tripled in size. Now, my mother raised my well; few things elate me more than hurling myself over or diving under large waves. Being naked made it so much better. Rachel is a lifeguard, so she was having a blast as well. The current swept Jenny away with surprising speed, however, as she is quite a bit smaller than Rachel and I. She drifted several hundred yards down the beach, and caught the attention of two “lifeguards” (meaning two men with flashlights and a desire to spoil our fun, who lacked uniforms). We had to scramble to put our bathing suits on while being pummeled by waves every five seconds before getting out, which was quite the ordeal. “No water,” they told us. “Fuck off,” I replied.

We spent the last day in a sort of limbo; our bus didn’t leave until 7pm, and it was raining. This resulted in us bumming around the hostel almost all day, save for a quick trip to a nearby temple, where Rachel and I decided to consummate the long-running joke that we were engaged and had to get married before the program ends. So with Jenny, our supposed mistress, officiating, a dogfight playing out several yards away and a small child who didn’t speak a lick of English watching, Rachel and I were married on the 25th of October 2014. Yes, we kissed, yes, it was awkward and no, I’m not straight now. Seriously, apparently my sister’s friends, Rachel’s friends, Jenny’s sister and multiple random humans I’ve never even met at Georgetown think I have a girlfriend. Imbeciles.

Anyway, after a pre-dinner of Domino’s delivery, we ate another meal at a restaurant we had frequented since arriving, and caught a taxi to our bus stop. I don’t feel the need to comment on the bus ride back — you know how I feel about A/C sleeper buses. But arriving at 7am on a Monday morning — hungover — when you have class at 8:30 and a Social Justice presentation later in the day that you hadn’t thought to prepare for prior, you know it’s going to be a great day. But hey, I still got an A- in that class. And on that bombshell ending, I’m hungry after work and it’s time to fix that.

Namaste.

Baby Goats in Baramati

Rachel and I have decided to forego having a gaybe in the interest of stealing a baby goat. On October 13th, our Development Economics class traveled to a rural area outside of Pune called Baramati. We stayed at an agricultural reserve, a government-operated establishment that aids local farmers in myriad ways. When I heard “rural field visit,” I imagined sleeping in tents in the middle of nowhere. This actually ended up being the case, but these were rather plush tents.

The location was essentially a resort; the tents were more like cabins, complete with electricity and western toilets/showers. Palm trees surrounded the entire area and even in October, one of India’s hottest months, the climate was rather temperate. Of course, we all got eaten alive by mosquitos, as none of had been as pragmatic as Shaila, our office manager, who wore approximately three saris to cover herself.

After settling in, our class was led on a tour of the grounds. We first learned about sugarcane sprouts that were cultivated in soil made of coconut husk; apparently it’s highly nutritious. These saplings are sold to local farmers for several rupees a pop to aid them in augmenting their crop yield. Next, we observed an area in which severed local guava plants’ roots were being fused (read: taped together) with non-native, tastier red guava plants’ upper stems. Eventually, the two stems become one and a hybrid tree yielding large, sweeter fruit can be grown in the harsh Maharastrian climate. I’m not one for agriculture, but that was pretty cool.

Rachel and Casey then found and cracked open a coconut we came across with the help of several large stones. Casey then proceeded to pour all of the coconut water onto her hands … sticky, much?

We moved on to the louder residents of the reserve. We first observed the chicken cage, which sounded similar in severity to my roommate’s 17 daily alarms, where a particularly sassy piece of poultry gave my camera and I the stink eye. Next, we walked past two adorable yet horrifically malnourished greyhounds … I couldn’t resist petting them and making impossibly high-pitch sounds, though ample hand sanitizer was required afterward.

Next, we went to the goat pen, where we were met with a week-old baby; it was possibly the most amazing being I have ever held. Aside from the priceless faces I managed to capture when each member of our group held it, it resulted in a rather fantastic profile picture of me making approximately 25 chins while positioning my head to kiss it. It also fell asleep in my arms, the feeling of which I can’t adequately describe in words. Rachel and I also decided to adopt it (figuratively, much to my chagrin) to replace the gayby (gay guy + straight girlfriend = gayby) we intended to have previously. We also visited some cows that were supposedly 25% Indian and 75% northern European — because in order to survive in India, apparently everything needs to be bred into it, which explains my continued inability to acclimate.

We then enjoyed a fantastic nap, ate lunch, and set off for a wine fermentation factory. The entire warehouse, filled with massive steel casks (no oaked wine for us), smelled like a typical Friday night, which was great. After a tour, we got to taste several of their wines; there was a sweet Riesling, vermouth that tasted exactly like A1 steak sauce (not joking, it was actually a pretty traumatic experience and, of course, I had to finish all of the girls’ glasses) and a cabernet sauvignon, which was a bit better. I ended up purchasing two bottles of Riesling, just for fun.

When we returned, we went on a tractor ride of the grounds at sunset, which was fantastic. We dodged branches, nearly fell out of the trailer every time we hit a speed bump and even tried dancing to a Bollywood song without holding on to the side rails.

While waiting for dinner, a large group of us played Apples to Apples, which Jenna, Marissa, Rachel and I got distracted from after we started a sing-along to the “Wicked” and “Mamma Mia” soundtracks. We even attempted duets several times (for roughly half of which I was the Wicked Witch, who’s surprised?). We then ate dinner and were pleasantly surprised by a campfire and s’mores. Ahh, chocolate.

In the spirit of campfire stories, Rachel told a tale that deserved regurgitation:

“My camp counselor’s college friend was studying abroad in Paris, and she wanted to stay there over Christmas break following her program. She decided that she would housesit for extra money, so she did so for a family that was going on vacation for a few weeks. They told her to watch the house, as well as take care of their really big, really old dog. Unexpectedly, they told her that they knew the dog would die while they were gone, and that they wanted her to take care of it until it died, and when the time came, to take it to the vet and they would do what was needed.

“One day, she came home and the dog had died. The problem was, she didn’t have a car. So she found a massive suitcase in one of their closets, stuffed the body inside and brought the dog on the subway to go to the vet. She got on the subway with this giant, heavy suitcase and got off at her stop. The escalator there was broken, so she had to carry the giant suitcase up the stairs. She was obviously struggling, and conveniently, this cute guy her age came over and offered to help her with it. She eagerly accepted the offer. He asked, ‘what’s in this? It’s really heavy.’ She didn’t want to admit the truth for fear that he, like anyone might, would think that she was crazy. So she said that it was all of her stuff from school and being abroad. As they reach the top of the stairs, he takes off with the bag, likely under the assumption that he was getting her laptop, electronics, jewelry and other valuables. She then had to call the family and tell them that a man literally stole their dead dog.”

Fun, right? I wish the friend had bothered to disclose the family’s reaction.

Anyway, we then celebrated our alumni advisor Zane’s 21st birthday with one of the bottles of wine I had bought earlier — we didn’t have cups so we all passed around a ladle of wine; that was great. Even our Development Economics professor partook.

Sleeping was like being transported to Norway in the winter; I had no idea India could get so cold (it was probably only 50, but the contrast with daytime temperature was still drastic).

The next day, after exploring the facilities and examining some very cute baby cucumbers, we visited the Baramati College of Agriculture. Our group was met with about 30 students enrolled in an international agriculture course, the idea being that they would get the chance to interact with students from America to inquire about agriculture practices abroad, a topic about which approximately none of us knew, which ended up being okay as I was not asked a single agriculture-related question all day.

I was led around by a group of teenage boys throughout our visit, all eagerly inquiring about my favorite television programs, whether I like India, and my favorite — whether I play basketball (duh, I do not). I was also compared to Sheldon from “Big Bang Theory,” something I have heard before and vehemently disagree with. They walked us past laboratories and classrooms with rather fascinating material being displayed within, such as a diagram of the reproductive system of a male cockroach. They took us upstairs to show us the computer and Wi-Fi area where — and I did not realize this until later — only men were seated at the tables.

It came to light over the course of the tour that the campus as a whole was quite technologically advanced, but only for males. We first learned that while all males are permitted to carry cellular phones, and to use them wherever and whenever they please, the female hostel on campus does not allow their residents to own cell phones.

Now of course, being disallowed from having a cellphone in one’s residence certainly precludes her from owning one at all. So in a country in which over 563 million people — nearly half the population of India — own a cellular phone, these women are forcibly deprived of what has become, for better or for worse, a necessary and widely used component of contemporary life, and one which is clearly available and widely used by those around them.

But these divisive gender-based policies do not stop with cellular phones. The Wi-Fi network for the female hostel restricts access to exclusively agriculture-related websites. Normally, this would not necessarily be cause for concern; at an agricultural college, it is understandable that the administration would want to keep the focus on schoolwork and academics, and limit browsing on social media or other websites as much as possible.

However, as we learned, these browsing restrictions apply only to the network in the female hostel; the Wi-Fi in the male hostel imposes no such restrictions, allowing for unfettered access to distracting websites of all sorts. How can a policy justified based on keeping students academically oriented at all times be defended when it is only applied to one gender?

We learned about one additional restriction placed on the girls at the Baramati College of Agriculture, and though the other gender-based restrictions are heinous, this struck me as particularly draconian: for most of the week, the girls are not allowed to leave campus. On Sundays, they are allotted three hours during which they are permitted to leave campus — hardly even enough time to run an errand. Of course, some time must be left for the husbands of these sixteen, seventeen and eighteen year-old girls to see their beloveds, and the college obliges. The girls may leave campus for one hour during the daytime apart from their Sunday free time under the condition that their husbands sign them out, and provide information on where their wives will be spending the next sixty minutes.

This is not a problem of physical development; it is not as if the College of Agriculture lacks the capacity or the resources to install unrestricted Wi-Fi in the female hostels. The problem is the mindset perpetuating this system. The headmaster of the College in is fact a headmistress, and she is the person with the power to change the female students’ oppressed status on campus. She refuses to do so. The girls described an instance to us in which a group of them approached the headmistress to discuss a problem they were having with a professor, entirely unrelated to Internet access, phone usage or visitation, and the headmistress began the conversation by clarifying, “I will not discuss Internet access with you.”

This is, in a word, bullshit.

I wrote two papers further pontificating on how backwards that system was, but I’ll spare anyone who happened to stumble across this blog from those rants. We visited a radio station later, but our experience was muddled by our repeatedly reflecting on what we had learned back at the college. This continued on the drive back to Pune later that night, and still bewilders me as I write this. But anyway, that was Baramati, and on that misogynistic, patriarchal, bullshit bombshell, I have to go to work.

Namaste.

Glad I Did It (Once): Varanasi

Alright, let’s play catch-up so mother doesn’t murder me. During the weekend of October 3-5, following our fantastic foray into Mumbai the week before (which I forgot to mention included a second night of live cover music and creepy old Irish men) Rachel, Jenny, Ryan, Sunjay and I had made plans to visit Varanasi, India’s holiest city on the banks of the Ganges.

On Thursday evening (we had Friday off, calm down mom), we ate a fantastic dinner of custom sizzlers, and after I stepped on a dog and nearly got rabies, we all went back Jenny’s mansion to wait until 3am, at which point a taxi would take us to Mumbai to catch our early-morning flight. We passed the time in her host family’s movie theater, watching Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, which made me hopelessly homesick for the Western world, but the brief departure from India was, admittedly, refreshing.

After about one hour of sleep following the movie, Jenny awoke us and we met our driver in the middle of what is normally a very busy road, though now deserted. Height serves me well on occasion, when I’m not busy walking into stop signs and low doorways, as I rode shotgun while the other four crammed into the back seat of the already cramped sedan for the three-hour drive to the Mumbai airport.

Upon arrival at the same terminal we spent hours attempting to sleep in before our trip to Jaipur, we purchased our desired breakfast foods from an assortment not much more varied than a Subway, a KFC and a Domino’s, and boarded our flight.

Seats are not selected beforehand in India; you’re randomly assigned one at check-in. So of course, Ryan, Rachel and I were all seated in the absolute last row of the plane, and none of our seat recliners worked. Well, that’s not entirely true; the mechanism that allows the seats to stay upright didn’t hold, so they reclined whenever we leaned on them. This made the flight attendants rather cross with us during takeoff and landing. No matter; it’s their own fault. To their credit though, Air India has fantastic inflight meals, complete with tea, samosas and cake.

After a layover in Lucknow, during which we needed not change flights, we arrived in balls-hot Varanasi. Seriously, it was weirdly close to 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. Still though, like Rajasthan had been, Varanasi was far less humid than Mumbai or Pune, and I definitely prefer dry heat to humidity.

We arrived in the city by taxi, but had to walk roughly a kilometer to get to our hostel, which was practically on the banks of the Ganga. This was not as simple as it sounds. We were staying in the old part of Varanasi, the sacred part, a part that had probably been built before the concept of urban planning was developed.

It is at this point that I plan to complain extensively about the city. There will be moderate praise after, but let’s get the negativity and judgment out of the way first. Varanasi was everything I feared India would be. Aside from our limited interaction with already scarce main roads, our commuting consisted of dodging cows, goats, dogs and humans, on-foot and on motorcycles, alive and dead. See, because open riverside cremations are a thing in Varanasi, likely as a result of whoever first invented Hinduism’s pyro tendencies, the bodies have to get to the river somehow. They are transported to the river on pyres, wrapped in myriad cloths and perfumes, by funeral processions that wind down the same alley network we were forced to navigate. One body hit me in the face (gotta love being tall); that was mortifying. We also saw a legitimate bullfight – like a fight between two bulls—in the middle of the alley. That was actually pretty cool.

Now, for the day-by-day. After finding our way to the hostel, an attendant took us up to the roof, where we had a fantastic panoramic view of the river and the Ghats (riverfront steps leading from the banks to the riverside temples). The hostel also had a litter of puppies, which in retrospect was probably the greatest part of the trip. The hostel had neither towels nor sheets, both of which I had neglected to bring. Only the lack of a towel wound up being a problem, as the room was far too hot for sheets, let alone clothes. Standing under the fan for fifteen minutes after showers in order to not be soaking wet when stepping outside was a bit annoying, I must admit.

Beyond the dead people (roughly eighty of which are cremated on the banks of the river daily) and the crowds (I cannot describe how crowded it was, photos do this better), the only other problem I had was with the heat. I know I mentioned that I enjoy dry heat more than I enjoy humidity, but that doesn’t make 100 degrees any more palatable. Besides, we brought the humidity with us. Within minutes of stepping outside at any given time, we all had sweat marks in places we didn’t know were possible (like on the ankle area of my pants and under my ass? Since when does that happen?)

After arriving at the hostel, our first night consisted of exploring around the back alleys nearby, ducking in and out of shops, dodging funeral processions and getting dangerously close to having panic attacks because of the crowds. We headed back to the hostel early, as we had to be up at an ungodly hour the next morning.

We started our morning at roughly five o’clock as we had arranged to take a sunrise boat ride on the Ganges. All were on time, except Ryan, who had to chase our party down the alleys to the river after our guide insisted that we leave him behind. We walked down a steep set of stairs, on which there was a cascade of what I hope was just water and not the products of the city’s sewer. Passing several active funeral pyres, we trudged across several yards of soaked ashes to our boat. The heat we had experienced the day before was, thankfully, absent—one of the benefits of a less humid environment, I suppose. It was also refreshingly quiet, a phenomenon I had yet to experience in Varanasi.

Describing the sunrise itself is difficult, as aside from its exceptionally deep red hue, it was no different than any other I had seen before. All the same, the location made it special. Several of us dipped our fingers in the river, supposedly washing away a diminutive quantity of sin, and I have yet to develop gangrene, so that’s one item crossed off my bucket list with minimal consequence.

With the sun came the familiar and still unbearable heat, along with the unusually located sweat marks, so naturally, we took this opportunity to explore outside around the temples on the banks of the river. We lasted roughly an hour, and had to go back to the hostel afterwards to basically lie naked under our fans for a similar time span in order to avoid fainting. We came across a funeral site on the journey, where I witnessed the unfortunate sight of a leg protruding from one of the active funeral pyres, out of reach of the flames. It looked like just another log at first, until I got close enough to see individual toes. Despite the presence of shit everywhere in the city, among other distasteful and gag inducing things, I had not come so close to vomiting since our arrival as I did upon recognizing the detached, un-charred appendage.

From our hostel, we set off in search of lunch, which we encountered after roughly an hour more of walking and sweating. I’m choosing to forget that experience, as we waited about ninety minutes and they lost several of our orders. But it ended up being okay, as we later found a lovely German bakery on the seventh floor of a building, which had a beautiful view of the river and a ridiculous assortment of food and cheese. It was also frequented by monkeys, so that was fun and sated us until sunset.

We then made our way to the banks of the river, to an area that had been relatively barren when we were there earlier in the heat. Now, however, literally thousands of people crowded the Ghat, all observing a Hindu ceremony called the Ganga Aarti Puja. The ceremony consists of several spirituals waving massive fire apparatuses in the direction of the river in order to ward off darkness. I’m awful at describing it, but it was really very beautiful. I was not a fan of the pickpocketers though; at least seven people stuck their hands in my pockets (nothing was stolen, thankfully). I didn’t find out until later that such a ceremony occurs nightly, complete with fire and the immersion of idols in the river. No wonder the pyromancers’ forearms are so ripped.

The fact that we were in the holiest city in India during Dasara—one of Hinduism’s most significant holidays, celebrating the triumph of Rama over Ravana and of light over darkness—may have contributed to the crowds and massive idols and general insanity.

The third day, Rachel, Jenny and I hustled back to the Brown Bread Bakery for breakfast, while Ryan Skyped with someone at Georgetown, and showed up to the bakery roughly half an hour after we had ordered, dripping sweat after having run to catch up (his lateness definitely wasn’t a theme of this journey, nor is it a theme for him in India in general). Somehow though, he got his food at the same time as us, and we wound up setting off from the hostel more-or-less on time.

We traveled to Sarnath with Sunjay’s cousin, uncle and cousin’s husband, to visit the Bodhi tree under which Buddha supposedly gave his first sermon after attaining enlightenment. The tree itself was grown from a branch of the original tree under which Buddha actually attained enlightenment. So they say.

We then visited a Sari factory, and watched a man weave a silk garment by hand. We also may or may not have picked up souvenirs. But I’ll save that for Christmas.

The journey home spoiled what would have otherwise been a fine end to a somewhat uncomfortable, tumultuous journey. Apparently, India has a nationwide limit of seven kilograms per person for all carry-on baggage. This rule had never been enforced on the multiple flights we have taken since arriving in India, but the pricks at IndiGo were insistent that we would have to check our bags to Pune if they exceeded the limit. Bear in mind, we all only packed backpacks, in which we had our laptops, passports, and other things I wouldn’t really be caught dead entrusting to the Indian airline system (or its employees). Most of our company had to reshuffle bags and check one while keeping the other, but I made the potentially risky choice of removing my laptop and hiding it behind the kiosk before weighing my bag, and then smuggling it to a location where I could slip it back inside unnoticed. This ended up working, and I didn’t have to check anything, thank god.

So that’s that. If it’s not been made clear already, I am glad I visited Varanasi. Just once, I needed to experience that kind of India.

However, to quote Jack Sparrow, “Did everyone see that? Because I will not be doing it again.”

Axwell Λ Ingrosso: From Freshman Year to the Gateway of India

I had intended for this post to be nothing more than a concert recap, a description of the songs that legendary duo played in order, as I may or may not have taken notes throughout. But that seemed a bit dry in retrospect, so I decided to make this a bit more about exactly why I am so obsessed with electronic dance music (EDM) and with this duo of Axwell Λ Ingrosso in particular, for those who ridicule me for it. So this is for you.

I had heard tidbits about Swedish House Mafia throughout high school. The group consisted of these three Stockholm DJ’s (Axwell, Sebastian Ingrosso and Steve Angello) who had produced tracks endemic to the high school dance scene, from “One (Your Name)” and “Miami 2 Ibiza” to that summer anthem of 2011, “Save the World.” You know the dances I’m taking about – sweaty pubescent bodies bumping and grinding everywhere when the boys haven’t even had to start shaving yet. Yeah, those ones. News of the group’s breakup and commencement of their final “One Last Tour” just after my graduation had little impact on me, as I had yet to hear a sound from them that truly wowed me.

The day before I left for Georgetown in August, I came across the now-popular “Don’t You Worry Child.” It was catchy and sounded rather nostalgic, and thus seemed appropriate for my journey off to my chosen college, which I finally managed to settle on after a somewhat tumultuous summer of indecision.

I played the song in full for the first time on the day I left, while driving my sister to the first day of her sophomore year of high school. Of course, the lyrics caused the emotions to flow rampantly, and the bass dropped just as we pulled up to her parking lot. We both just about broke down in tears, though the consequences of doing so for my makeup-clad partner-in-crime dwarfed my own embarrassment. Apologies for the raccoon eyes, Deeds.

Anyways, “Don’t You Worry Child” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1y6smkh6c-0) immediately had become my go-to nostalgia song. It helped me get through the mire of homesickness that was the first few weeks of freshman year. Granted, it was officially released in September and quickly became an overplayed radio annoyance, but it was great for that first month when it was just Deedee’s and mine.

My next brush with the group didn’t come until my birthday in February, when my sister sent me a poster detailing the tour dates for their One Last Tour. To my chagrin, they would be in San Francisco just days after my birthday, while I was stuck in D.C. Missed opportunity number one.

After their breakup in March 2013, the three pursued their own individual careers. Axwell in particular produced a song, “I AM,” that became the anthem of my sophomore year, (ask anyone who had been to a party at which I was ever asked to DJ) the video for which recently made both of my parents cry (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K21thvOCSds).

Towards the end of that year, my obsession with that sound led me to tweet at the vocalist, Taylr Renee, who surprisingly responded. We had an oddly lengthy discussion that ultimately led to her “following” me and an agreement that we’d wed in what she called a “NASCAR wedding.” I still have no idea what that means, but the feeling was unreal. That’s one thing I love about EDM; the artists are so accessible.

In June of this year, Axwell and Sebastian Ingrosso announced that they would reconvene in an aptly named group, “Axwell Λ Ingrosso,” and that they would be releasing an album under the moniker early in 2015. Until that point, they would be touring both as a duo and individually. “I AM,” in combination with other tracks such as “Tokyo By Night” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZCs-QNH2G0U), “Reload” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GuAtcpFQpMw) and of course “Don’t You Worry Child” caused unparalleled elation on my part.

My genius sister discovered that Axwell would be coming to the Bay Area as a part of this tour in early August of this past summer, and I excitedly booked tickets for my best-friend-for-eight-years-who-I-somehow-only-had-one-photo-with and I (much to Deedee’s disappointment, the event she had come across was 18+).

On the day of the event, McKenna (the aforementioned friend) and I ventured to her family’s ranch to move furniture for her apartment, and I received a call saying the concert had been canceled due to “unforeseen circumstances.” Translated: the venue didn’t have enough fire jets. Missed opportunity number two.

I’ll gloss over the disappointment resulting from that cancellation, but rest assured, after months of building excitement, it was ample. However, I discovered that the duo would be playing in Mumbai while I was studying in India, not two hours away from the city. So naturally, I took to Facebook to attempt to rally members of the Pune group to join me. Jenny, a fellow Georgetown student, and Rachel Gagnon, some random girl from Vermont with whom I’d eventually fall in love and agree to fake-marry, wholeheartedly agreed.

I took to trying to book tickets for Jenny and I on the Indian booking site, but every single credit card I tried was denied. And I mean every card – I tried my debit card, both of my mother’s credit cards, and my father’s credit card. I checked with every bank; none were declined on the U.S. end. Only after emailing the organizer did I discover that the website in question disallowed the use of all non-Indian cards, regardless of the situation.

We would have been shit-out-of-luck, had my saint of a mother not offered to contact her New Delhi office and attempt to persuade a staff member there purchase them. Surprisingly, I was put into contact with a fellow Swedish House Mafia fan, a wonderful woman named Kassandra. She happily purchased the tickets, and provided me with the ludicrous amount of material required for redemption by someone other than the credit card-holder, including a photocopy of the front and back of her ID, her credit card, and a letter of authorization specifically listing Jenny and I as the ones permitted to redeem the booking confirmation. This is going to sound cheesy, but finally, short of another cancellation, I would finally get the chance to see the group that had played such a central role in my recent life.

I suppose this was more of an explanation for my affinity for and excitement to finally see Axwell Λ Ingrosso than for my infatuation with EDM, but that’s okay. As someone recently reminded me, people like different genres and have different passions. This happens to be mine. And I’m not sorry for it.

We’ll fast-forward a bit here, through Rachel’s tribulations acquiring the same materials required for admittance (thankfully and a bit shockingly, her father’s card worked) to September 26^th, the day we left for Mumbai. After skipping our afternoon classes and scrambling to get the materials printed at a nearby shop quickly (getting anything done “quickly” is not an easy thing in India) to appease our impatient taxi driver, we finally set off.

I had given Rachel and Jenny homework the night before – a list of songs to know before the concert, and I was relieved to find that Jenny, too, found “I AM” infectious. Though it sounded worse playing from the crappy speaker on my iPhone, it built excitement nonetheless.

After arriving at our hotel, which appeared to be within walking distance of the arena, we decided to go early to the concert site to redeem our tickets. As we saw it, the amount of material we had to bring meant that it would be a drawn-out process.

As it turned out, the arena was absolutely not walking distance from our hotel. I had just bought new, non-flip-flop sandals for going out in Mumbai, and was forced to break them in during a two-mile walk (I checked it on Google Maps after) to the stadium in the horrific Mumbai humidity. It’s difficult to communicate how arduous that trek was, in part because I had never experienced blisters on the bottom-middle of my feet before – they’re excruciating – but also because this humidity was the sort that darkened your shirt within thirty seconds of your stepping outside, the kind that makes the air drinkable and increases the temperature by at least twenty degrees. What is more, during the walk there, none of us (let’s be honest, I had no idea either) knew where exactly we were going or how much farther it would be.

Eventually, we reached a nice cove, in which sits the Haji Ali Dargah mosque, and on the perimeter of which resides the NCSI Stadium. After risking our lives crossing what was for all intents and purposes a highway, we proceeded to the ticket counter. The process of redeeming our tickets took about five minutes in all, (in other words, we could have done it later and have been fine) and the time it took to walk two miles back to the hotel left us with roughly an hour before we would have to leave and return to the same place.

So like adults, we struggled back to the hotel, stopping at a bakery for a nice dinner of bread loaves, and at a liquor store for necessary green apple flavored liquid, and returned to the room, where the girls put their faces on, and I donned my custom Zazzle “Λ” shirt. After dousing ourselves in my cologne (because Dolce > other concert attendees’ body butter), a bowl served as our chalice for the previously referenced liquid. We then sat in a circle, Rachel recited the Rules of Saturday by candlelight (we later developed our own Rules of India), and we took our final sips from the chalice with “I AM” playing in the background. It was time.

Mercifully, we were able to lock down a taxi to take us back to the venue from the hotel, as the humidity would have ruined all of the hard work we had put into our appearances (seriously, it could have probably melted the ink on my shirt). The taxi was still hot, but it was faster nonetheless. After bolting from the door as the driver tried to coax additional rupees out of us and dashing across the highway again, we got our wristbands and entered the arena.

As we had arrived during the opening acts, we were able to budge our way to the front of the crowd with relative ease. In this position, we would be roughly thirty feet from them for the entire concert. The liquid we had just consumed made the hour or so before the main event pass rather quickly, so that was nice.

Being at the front also gave us access to the occasional water offered by the security staff, and an air conditioner near the front. As such, despite the fact that this was the largest concert event I have ever attended, it was possibly the least sweaty. Smoking was also almost nil, which was fantastic. We even met several other fans in the front that proved invaluable in maintaining our spots in front (when you’re 6’4 in a country of short people, you draw a good bit of ire when hundreds of them need to see over you).

Their set began with two spotlights shining up and forming the Λ sign, while a voice repeated, “I see the dawn of a new beginning, this time we can’t go home.” When the bass dropped, two sets of curtains dropped and revealed the duo holding their hands up together in the same formation – a simple gesture, but still striking.

I’ll jump over the first ninety minutes of flawless transitions, fire, sparks and jets, because these are much better viewed on YouTube here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLYYzHkVomL5-yab4yK-7bFpR7on6UHzL8. I kept my phone in the air for roughly half of the show, resulting in very sore shoulders but also in some very memorable videos.

At some point, I had to play boyfriend to Rachel, who was being hit on by a wonderfully large man. We joined hands and threw them up in the manner Axwell and Ingrosso had done earlier, forcing his arm off of her waist. It was quite a suave move we pulled. At some point, Rachel and I also reached a consensus that Axwell’s long hair would look amazing in a man-bun.

Towards the tail end of the show, their next single “On My Way” blended seamlessly into my most awaited track of the evening – “I AM.” Of course, my ears were in heaven, but then they brought in Daft Punk’s “One More Time” before aptly dropping the “I AM” baseline one more time, and tears sprang into my eyes. Every memory the song had been tied to over the past year sprang into my mind, from helping me get through an incredibly difficult and confusing summer after coming out in 2013 to coping with the culture shock of India sixteen months later. I’m glad I took a video, because I couldn’t see much while it was happening. Beautiful nonetheless.

After the song ended, there was a pause. Axwell stood up on the booth and addressed the crowd:

“You know, just before we came on stage, we did some interviews, and the journalists asked, ‘what makes India so special? What is it about India that you like so much compared to other countries?’

And we know now what makes you special. Other crowds in other countries, they have a lot of energy, they do. But sometimes, it’s an aggressive energy. The difference is that, with India, you have positive energy. Every face in the room has a smile; I don’t see any angry faces. That’s why you’re different, and please stay like that.

One time, we said that if we want to play for money, we’d go to Las Vegas; and if we want to play for the after party, we’d go to Miami. But if we want to play for the love, we’d still go to India.”

This rang absolutely true. There are occasional scammers, but the hospitality, happiness and positivity of the population in India is unrivaled. I could not have said it better if I tried. Even the crowd at the concert didn’t harass me for my height as much as I thought they would – a welcome departure for someone used to routine harassment for it at similar U.S. events.

They then introduced their unreleased collaboration with Elton John, “Sun Is Shining.” This will undoubtedly be the next Swedish House Mafia-esque anthem. I cannot describe it adequately, apart from providing the lyrics:

“A simple band of gold, wrapped around my soul,

Hard-forgiven, hard-forget,

Faith is in our hands, castles made of sand,

No more guessing, no regrets.

Diamonds to behold, waiting to unfold,

Bite the bullet, bite your tongue.

Love beyond belief, raid the seven seas,

Come uneven, come undone.

And you came my way on a winter’s day,

Shout it loud, become loud and clear,

Can’t you tell? I got news for you.

Sun is shining and so are you.

And we’re gonna be alright,

Dry your tears and hold tight.

Can’t you tell? I got news for you.

Sun is shining and so are you.”

Fire, sparks, jets and an ear-shattering drop ensue, before transitioning to the final song of the evening, beginning with “don’t you worry, don’t you worry now … yeaaaaaaaaah.”

That was when I actually lost it. This time, mostly out of homesickness for my sister, mother and father, all I could think of was that morning before leaving for college over two years prior, and all of the events that had led to this catharsis of sorts. Were I wearing makeup, I would have left that concert with raccoon eyes as well. There’s a reason Swedish House Mafia was so popular; its songs truly do provoke quite the emotional response.

After the final drop, Rachel managed to find a red-haired man with long hair, and she debated telling him to put it in a bun. I remedied this indecision by introducing them and taking their photo together. I later discovered that she actually thought he was Axwell. Despite having been chose enough to see Axwell’s individual harm hairs, she didn’t manage to note that his hair is quite dark, and not at all red. She’s a little creeped out now that I introduced her to a stranger, who we think ended up being gay.

In the coming days, I crowded my friend’s newsfeeds on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook with references and videos from that night, and I apologize for any inconvenience that caused. However, I wound up getting five tweets favorited by Axwell, and four by Ingrosso, so overall, it was worth the potential social disapproval.

Two weeks later, I am still processing the fact that the fateful night has come and gone. It was always a speck in the distance, cause for excitement and apprehension, but I never imagined that it would actually happen. But god, I’m glad it did.

It was during that night that we developed the Rules of India, a variation on the aforementioned Rules of Saturday. Among “don’t hesitate,” “go-2-hell” (named for our favorite drink at a local bar) and others, one rule remains from that godsend of a concert, the implications of which we could live to regret in the future:

This time, we can’t go home.

The iPad Post

A friend told me a couple of weeks ago to write a post on iPad photography in India, as he did a similar post while in Florence. That’s what this post would be, if there were people taking photos with iPads in India, of which I have seen none. Nonetheless, I apologize in advance; this is going to be a long one. I’ve got Hyderabad, potential dengue, Mumbai and the Rajasthan desert to cover. So let’s begin.

Two weeks ago, a few of us traveled by overnight bus to Hyderabad. It’s difficult to narrate how incredible that city was, because the photos I took tell the story much more effectively (see Facebook for those), but I’ll try my best here.

After a few rounds of painfully feminine drinks and two separate dinners at Domino’s (which, along with KFC and Subway, are big here), the eight of us piled into the eight-hour bus ride to Hyderabad. Arriving at 7am and looking like train wrecks, bartering with rickshaw drivers was hardly at the top of our priority (pgriority, for any Hoya staffers reading this) list. Nonetheless, barter we did, and upon getting into two separate rickshaws and discovering that we would not be charged by meter, the fearless Jenny Chen caused quite the scene by making us all get out and storm off, followed by the armada of drivers. We settled on a single cab to take all of us across town from the bus stop to the Hotel Maya Deluxe. It was cramped; my legs hurt.

We quickly wiped the grime off our faces at the hotel, and after a rooftop breakfast, arranged taxi services for the next two days with the hotel manager, who was without doubt the nicest man I have ever encountered. He planned our entire stay with us, and I still need to write him a review on a site whose name escapes me at the moment. We set off in a cramped SUV that somehow fit all eight of us, and arrived at the Salar Jung Museum. I’m not normally a fan of museums, but I was beside myself with intrigue with one particularly horrifying statuette that looked exactly like Smeagol. Yup. I paid 500 rupees for a photo of that little bugger.

Also at the museum, I was introduced to an entirely new level of fascination with my height and my whiteness. I had gotten used to the stares in Pune, but the people here had a glint of lust in their eyes, which manifested itself in the form of countless photo requests (well not really – I got sixteen individual requests for photos that weekend, each of which involved groups of three or more wanting individual photos with me alone). At the museum, one particularly bulbous, sweaty man asked for a photo in the ivory gallery. He put his arm around me, and the shower I had taken earlier that morning went straight to shit. So it goes; the attention whore in me was satisfied.

After the museum, we visited the Charminar, the monument everyone thinks of when you tell them you visited Hyderabad. After many more photo requests, we made the trek of a very narrow and very steep staircase to the summit, where the views were simply spectacular. Also managed to get a fantastic photo of Rachel taking a photo of me taking a photo of her. It’s become a thing we do.

We then walked to the nearby Mecca Masjid mosque, where only Ryan and I were allowed in once we had covered our entire bodies. I had been wearing shorts all day, but put pants on over them and stayed like that in the heat and humidity for the duration of the day. Not my smartest choice. It was unfortunately difficult to fully appreciate the mosque, though, as we were not allowed inside as foreigners. We were also prohibited from wearing shoes on the grounds, and I am not exaggerating when I say that there was not a square inch of ground devoid of bird feces. So that was fun.

The group then had to sprint to the Chowmohalla Palace, as Mother Nature had apparently decided to take every raindrop she could find and hurl them at us in a monsoon rain unlike anything I’d ever witnessed; it was like hot hail. Though it helped to wash away the smell I had acquired from my new friend at the museum; there’s a silver lining to everything.

After Rachel and I did some yoga in a contextually inappropriate place (I also slipped and fell on my ass during a forearm stand because of the mud), we entered a fantastically magnificent throne room, the fixtures in which got Sia’s “Chandelier” stuck in at least two of our heads. That room and a 1911 silver-finished Rolls Royce were without doubt the highlights of the visit.

We then ventured to a ridiculously modern, western mall in High Tech City, the IT sector of Hyderabad. We explored a supermarket, drooling over ice cream and various Asian sweets (Hi-Chew lovers, eat your hearts out), but saved room for dinner. We ate in a restaurant entirely devoid of light, to emulate the experience of the visually impaired. Aside from having wonderful food (a fantastic tzatziki-like sauce in particular won my heart) we also played odds-are in the dark, which may or may not have resulted in Rachel feeding me, and me nibbling on her earlobe. She was not pleased. I, however, had a blast.

Later that night, we went to a nearby club called Bottles and Chimney. I’m choosing to skim over the effort it took to get to the damn place, which included nearly trespassing on an old airport and me talking to a policeman’s brother on the phone to try and discern where in hell we were going. But we made it. After some 1000 rupee ($16) Jack Daniel’s shots (my status as an American apparently exempts me from the drinking age laws here which, let’s be clear, should preclude me from consumption), we hit the dance floor. The DJ said he would play exclusively Bollywood music, which was not a problem, as I successfully requested “Tu Meri” by Hrithik Roshan (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Uls9v1nnss), who remains one of the most attractive people I have seen here. That was a blast.

The DJ then relaxed his resolve, and played all the club favorites, such as “Animals,” “Wake Me Up,” and “Don’t You Worry Child.” During the chorus of the aforementioned Swedish House Mafia anthem, I may or may not have princess-carried Marissa and sung to her as if she were my child. She’s definitely older than me, just a lot shorter. All-in-all, great night. Even if I did give myself a concussion from too much head banging.

The next day, we ventured to Golconda Fort where, amongst myriad photo requests, Rachel, Marissa, Ryan and I took a host of prom photos. The locals judged us harshly. Rachel also did a handstand on some very rough stones and I nearly had a heart attack. The view from the summit of the mountain was astonishing, far better than that which we had at the Charminar. I still can’t believe I didn’t take a single photo of the view. But we shan’t dwell on that. We ventured off the beaten path and climbed up a secluded area of the ruins, which smelled like dead animals, but it was a welcome break from the other tourist mobs. There was a breathtaking temple at the summit carved into massive boulders, and a mosque at which mother Ryan strongly discouraged me from taking a yoga photo in front of. We were also asked by a lovely group of women wearing Hijab for a photo, which for some odd reason made me really happy. I could have told the giggling girls about the whole gay thing, but why spoil their memories? Remember, the attention whore in me was loving this.

Next, we visited the Qutub Shahi tombs, which were magnificent monuments to the founding kings of Hyderabad. The tombs themselves made for fantastic photos, and the bats we came within ten feet of nearly stopped my heart, but the most memorable part of the visit was when we came across a group of children. They spoke English surprisingly well, and were gracious when we butchered Hindi in front of them. They complimented us, asked if I was dating any of the girls we were with (I laughed a little too hard) and the small boy told me he loved me upon our departure. Truly touching, and I say that without the slightest hint of sarcasm.

From the tombs, we went to a world-famous bakery, where we disturbed the peace with our banter about the “gay cake” or “gake,” a fruitcake that happened to be rainbow colored. The girls then went rice pearl shopping, and Ryan and I sat in some chairs with our heads in our hands.

The final event of the evening was a laser show on the lakeshore, which simultaneously told the story of Hyderabad’s history, which was super helpful, and spewing propaganda about the city’s multiculturalism and unity. Definitely sensed some religious tension there. To illustrate my point, a large group of at least a hundred Muslims got up and stormed out midway through in protest. We then took Jenna and Elizabeth to the bus stop, as they had to be back in Pune a day early, but not before stopping to marvel at a four-story statue of Ganesh (see Facebook) set up for the Ganapati festival. After a ridiculous dinner of naan and ice cream, we called it a night.

The next day was a bit embarrassing. Exhausted from our previous endeavors, the six of us that remained spent the day in a mall, watching a Hindi movie in the theater and eating lunch at the Hard Rock Café (ordering a cheeseburger after three weeks of vegetarian eating is not a good idea, for those of my fellow idiots who ever consider trying it). We then made our way to the bus stop, and enjoyed another eight hours of not really sleeping, arriving in Pune at a lovely 7am.

A side-note: the little concussion I got at the club caused the space behind my eyes to hurt excruciatingly for about a week. This, coupled with the flu, a rash and lower back pain all indicated I had dengue. I ended up living, and am fine now. Which is probably a good thing.

Let’s fast forward through a Pune hilltop temple visit (there were lots of goats) and two weeks of classes; homework didn’t happen, and that’s all that matters.

The program took Wednesday, Thursday and Friday of last week off for a trip to Mumbai. After a 7:45am train, we met with Tushar Gandhi—Mahatma Gandhi’s great-grandson—and after a fantastic lunch consisting of Julia crawling under tables and Majesta eating a full onion, slept through a lecture on mill workers. Tushar Gandhi was a brilliant orator; he spoke at length about the “contradiction of India”—the smart cities juxtaposed with areas sans proper sewers and running water, and bullet trains that have people defecating on the rail tracks for lack of other toilet options. He was incredible. Later, after dinner at the YWCA, we stayed up until midnight playing truth-or-dare, which proved almost too revealing.

The next day, we ventured to Dharavi, commonly known as Asia’s (not India’s) largest slum. Reflecting adequately on what I saw is difficult, as I believe the reality of slum life has yet to sink in, assuming it will ever sink in. The overwhelming smell, the open sewers (into which two of our company stepped—Allie went in up to her knee, while Ryan should just burn his shoe), the trash piles taller than I, the trash burning, the children defecating atop a mountain of trash; it was a lot to take in.

That said, we came to view Dharavi as a thriving informal economy. We visited a tailor and a pottery operation, heard from a local politician and members of a female empowerment group called LEARN, and were shown the vibrance of life in what, at first glance, seems to be a decrepit, hopeless area left behind by the rest of India’s financial capital. The drive of these individuals was startling, from their work ethic to the commitment to household worker’s rights and resolve to empower women. Basic conditions necessary for development were absent, such as trash disposal and even the simplest of adequate sewage removal and treatment, but the residents of Dharavi have produced a thriving micro-economy, where 70-to-80 percent of Mumbai’s trash is recycled. It was truly eye opening, albeit nostril-shutting.

The next day, we visited the Chatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Museum (say that ten times fast). We explored and posed with the statues, but as I mentioned, I’m not a museum person. So a group of us went outside and got to know the local cats. We fed them, played with them (somehow without touching them), and watched one try to kill a centipede. Marissa was a big fan. There was one kitten not bigger than my fist, which refused to eat the food we gave. That was particular heart wrenching.

From there, we went to St. Xavier’s Academy to participate in a sensitization workshop for the visually impaired. We wore blindfolds, tried to read braille and tell how many rupees we had in our hand, and interacted with a blind student. I was a bit confused as to the relevance of such a workshop to our program, as blindness in India is the same as blindness anywhere, but it was still fascinating, and I’m glad we did it.

Our group then split; about ten of us stayed behind in Mumbai while the others returned to Pune. The task then became to entertain ourselves until our 5am flight to Jaipur, where we would spend Saturday night on a camel safari. We spent about seven hours at a club an Indian friend of mine had showed us the night before, ordering drinks and food consistently so as to not get kicked out (their mojitos were fantastic). However, it was a Friday, so once things got crowded, the white tourists with baggage were the first to go. We then split between an Irish pub, Starbucks and a rooftop bar until 1:30am, at which point the city essentially shut down, and we were left to take cabs to the airport. Rachel and Allie disappeared with a few strangers to said Irish pub, where they received flaming shots and other fun concoctions.

Thankfully, aviation laws are lax and my massive bottle of cologne was allowed onboard. People in the States would have heard my cry from across the world had that been taken away; Dolce is my only option for fighting the smell of sweat and exhaust. Anyway, we spent roughly four hours trying to get comfortable, sleeping anywhere from a set of bar stools to a platform between some trees; nothing really worked. So an all-nighter it would be.

Allie and I went in search of breakfast at the 4am mark, and came across a KFC at the food court that was mercifully open. The man working was clearly as sleep deprived as we were, as he gave Allie a non-vegetarian wrap when she asked for a vegetarian one, and charged her more for it, then charged me less for a vegetarian one when I had ordered chicken. He also filled her cup with Pepsi, and upon remembering her specific request to not have Pepsi, dumped it out and filled the same cup with water we’re convinced came from a wash bucket. Our exhausted selves literally couldn’t even, and we spent several minutes laughing hysterically, maybe crying a bit too. Even the janitor stopped beside our table to stare. I think the KFC man noticed too; Allie clearly ruined his day. She’s not sorry.

Finally, 5am arrived, and we boarded our plane, where we slept for a solid hour, at which point I was punched awake and told that I was not allowed to have headphones in for landing. We were also in an exit row and forbidden from having baggage under the seat in front of us. Most ridiculous rule I’ve ever heard of.

Anyway. We took a three-hour taxi to Pushkar, where we had a solid five hours to kill before we had to be at the camel safari site, so we decided to stop and take a look around. Almost immediately, we were met by a very nice man, who insisted he did not want money, and volunteered to take us to a “sacred” lake for a welcome ritual that all who visit Pushkar simply must undergo. Naïve as we were, we followed him.

When we arrived at the lake, a group of men clad in white split us up and took us individually to different areas of the lakeshore. Mine sat me down, put kumkum on my forehead (the red smear you see on guys, larger than a female bindi), and chanted for a good ten minutes about how he was blessing my family, and so on. He then asked for a donation to bring good karma to my family, and me being a stupid tourist, I gave 1000 rupees, which is about sixteen dollars. Not a huge deal. Then he asked how many people were in my immediate family (there are four), and asked for 1000 rupees for each member. Now at this point, I was pissed. I had no idea how much other people were giving, and didn’t know if this much money (roughly 70 dollars at this point) was appropriate. So I gave it. He then told a heartbreaking story about how his son and wife had died, and about how he survives on 500 rupees a day (which is ludicrously expensive by the way), and asked how many days I would feed him for. Feeling a pang of sympathy, I said one day. He said two. And that’s how he got 5000 rupees (85 dollars) out of me. My wallet was dry.

After regrouping, I learned that the most anyone else had given was 2000 rupees, and most had just gotten up and walked away. And thus began my sulking for several hours, maybe crying a little, about how stupid I had been. Please, no one else give me shit about that; it was nearly impossible to say “no” in the moment, and not one second goes by where I don’t wish I had just given him the finger and left. Even if the karma he said I was acquiring is bullshit, I have to believe that some good fortune will come from that donation to “charity.”

Anyway, after finding an ATM, we got lunch and meandered around the retail in the area. I got my sister a Christmas present (definitely not telling you what it is, but it’s awesome) and the girls bought myriad shirts and pants. At around 3:30, we called the safari company and took a rickshaw to the hotel where we’d be setting off.

I didn’t catch my camel or camel driver’s name, so I named my camel Maurice and my camel driver “excuse me.” He responded to it, so I stuck with that. After being hoisted to a height even I found uncomfortable, we set off into the desert.

Riding a camel was probably the most exhilarating and also the most painful thing I had done since arriving in India. I refuse to go into detail, but I had bruises the next day.

We passed all manner of wildlife, from monkeys to cows and even the wildest animal of them all, the small child. My saddle slid forward onto poor Maurice’s neck after we slid down a hill, which made me feel super guilty, but he was a trooper and I think it made our relationship better. The sunset was fantastic—photos do a better job of describing it than does the English language, see above—and upon arriving at the campsite, we were greeted by a flock of gypsies that danced both for us and with us (that second part was a bit embarrassing). Then the man I took to be their boss started chugging lighter fluid and breathing fire; that was insane. We fell asleep on beds set up outside under the stars, where the Milky Way was clearly visible, which was amazing.

We woke up at 6am with our blankets soaked in the morning dew, which was a tad disgusting, but the sunrise was worth that minor inconvenience. We rode our camels back to the site (the thighs had already begun to hurt from the day before, and my camel driver thought it would be fun to make Maurice trot half the way—a cruel joke). I got a few prime back-of-Allie’s-neck photos, at her request. There’s also a great one of her face when her camel came down to its knees at the end of the journey—pure terror. We then taxied back to Jaipur and flew to Mumbai, where we took another taxi back to Pune. All in all, it was a ten-hour journey and we got home at 8pm, but those few hours out in the desert were absolutely worth it.

Now, I’ve got a week in which I have two papers due and a Hindi test to fight through, which constitutes the first actual work I’ve had to do since my statistics final in May, so that’s been fun. But none of that matters, because Rachel, Jenny and I are going to see Axwell /\ Ingrosso (two-thirds of Swedish House Mafia) back in Mumbai on Friday, which will probably be the best post-exam celebration and best concert I’ve ever experienced. At her request for inclusion, Allie will be joining, but won’t be attending the concert. She’ll be touring the city with a man named Carrot … the one she met last weekend who took her to the pub. She’s stoked. Anyway, for those that know me and my music well, seeing “I AM” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K21thvOCSds) live will be the absolute highlight of my life. Taylr, you and our Nascar wedding will be in my heart. Expect snapchats, an obnoxious number of Instagram posts, and a blog post to follow solely describing their set and how amazing it was—EDM haters beware. Alright, if you got through this, congratulations, you’re my new favorite. More to come.

Namaste.

“How’s India?”

On account of not having adequate access to Wi-Fi until yesterday, it’s been somewhat difficult to answer that question; I’ve just been directing people to a blog post to be posted eventually. Hopefully this will suffice.

The flight over here was about as pleasant as a fifteen-hour flight could have been – didn’t sleep at all, but the seat next to me was vacant, which provided a nice place to store everything that would have otherwise been stuffed under the seat in front of me. Not sure I’ll be able to handle the (longer) trip back if another human occupies that space. We flew right over Moscow and Kabul, which was both awesome and a little terrifying, not gonna lie.

Three things struck me somewhat simultaneously about Mumbai upon arrival. The international terminal was possibly the nicest structure I’ve ever been in. The modernity was astounding. However, there was little time to take that in, as it was overshadowed by the second thing: the humidity. Thank God I cut all my hair off, otherwise I would have been complaining like a high school girl. In fact, most of my female companions were complaining about their hair like high school girls.

The last bit about Mumbai that struck me that night was how different traffic operates here. The hotel we stayed at must’ve been five minutes from the airport, and I feared for my life at least a solid six times. I truly cannot describe the respect I have for drivers in India. I would never leave my driveway if disarray of this caliber existed in the States.

The hotel was comfortably western, so I have no complaints about the first night. We ate breakfast as a group and departed in a more-than-lightly used van for a two-day orientation in Durshet, about two hours away from Mumbai. Aside from the rainwater that leaked in through every possible crack in the bus, it went by quickly and painlessly.

Other than marveling at breathtaking landscapes, of which I’ll post photos eventually, one thought that kept recurring involved India’s need to rezone literally everything. The modern office building really becomes significantly less appealing with a dilapidated shell of an apartment complex next-door.

Orientation in rural Durshet involved many hours sitting in a conference room (basically a concrete box with plastic chairs in it) going over how culturally inappropriate pretty much everything we do is, but there were a few highlights. We took a trip to a nearby temple, and hiked at 7am to an even more rural village, where we tried our luck at balancing buckets of water on our heads and grinding rice. We also watched a Bollywood movie; I don’t care if he has two right thumbs, Hrithik Roshan is a beautiful person with the most captivating emerald eyes I’ve ever seen on a human being, and I kind of wish I was the “Señorita” he sang about during the random song-and-dance routine he broke out into mid-scene.

Possibly the best thing to come from orientation was a game called “odds are,” which I’m definitely bringing back to D.C. with me. Someone dares somebody else to do something, like eat an entire bowl of green chilis and nothing else for dinner, with no water (this actually happened) by saying, “odds are you ___.” The person dared then names a range, like one-to-ten, or one-to-a million. Both people then pick a number in that range, and on three, both say their numbers allowed. If they chose the same number, then the person dared has to do the task. This game resulted in our assistant resident director walking up to a stranger and telling him he had a pretty face, and almost forced me to introduce myself as “buttercup” for 24 hours – not great for first impressions – among other ridiculous dares that beat conventional icebreakers by miles.

We drove to Pune the next day, another bus ride lined with fantastic scenery. We saw monkeys on the highway, which was a really big deal. We also made a bucket list for our time here … I may get a tattoo. We’ll see.

Once in Pune, my roommate Ryan and I met our host-mother, a 58 year-old woman who runs an English preschool. We also have a little Pomeranian, which while precious, wakes up between 3 and 5am to bark at frogs that come with the rain (did I mention it’s monsoon season?) – great for jetlag.

Over the first few days, we explored around the Ganapati (don’t quote me on the spelling – it’s the same as Ganesh) festival, and desperately searched for a Laundromat and Wi-Fi, finding only the latter at a chocolate lover’s café. I’m not complaining.

I do, however, have a few things that need to be vented about in order for me to maintain my sanity and freedom from the dreaded culture shock, which still has yet to impair me in any significant way.

First, our host-mother is a vegetarian, which in the U.S., I would be totally okay with, but since raw vegetables and salads are evidently nowhere to be found in India, this involves a lot of fried carbs, and curried carbs, and chapatti, a naan-like carb, and some really (expletive) spicy carbs. Like the kind of spicy that causes tears to stream down cheeks, the kind of spicy that causes pain only exacerbated by water.

Now most of these carbs taste great, when they don’t make you cry. My problem, however, is the effect of carbs on the digestive system. Warning: this is a little grotesque, but as I said, I need to vent. I’ve been warned time after time about traveler’s diarrhea and Delhi Belly. “Don’t drink the water,” “don’t eat street food,” “you will absolutely get sick,” and so on. I even have pills for this. People make diarrhea seem like a tourist attraction you simply must visit at some point during your stay in India. But how am I supposed to visit this magical place when a 110% carb diet effectively serves as a plug? I feel like I’m missing out on a crucial part of this experience. It may be for the best, but I can’t help but feel like a part of me is missing without having to use those pills my doctor gave me for stomach … issues. But hey, I still have sixteen weeks to get deathly ill, so let’s all keep our fingers crossed.

Second grievance: whoever first said that hard beds and thin pillows are good for your spine was an absolute imbecile. If you’re one of those odd people that sleeps on their backs, you may enjoy such a thing, but for us side-sleepers, this is absolute agony. Ignoring the fact that my legs hang a full foot-and-a-half over the edge of the bed, they have it easier than the part of my body actually on the mattress.

Final grievance: mosquitos. Couldn’t leave them out of this. I seem to only have bites in inconvenient places. They’ve left my arms, legs and neck alone, opting instead to go for that one spot on my back I can’t reach, the middle of my forehead, and the bottom of my (expletive) heel. Seriously, there is absolutely no blood in the pad of my heel. That bite was solely meant to piss me off. And these little shits will fly straight through the cloud of 98% DEET that I cover myself with and bite me through my clothes and socks. It’s ridiculous.

Despite my impressive capacity for bitching, I wouldn’t trade any of the aforementioned inconveniences for the world. They’re all part of the experience, and as long as I remember to take my freaking malaria pills, none will kill me. This past week has been hugely uncomfortable, far removed from the realm of things I ever envisioned myself doing with my life, but it’s been a blast. The people are fantastic; the food is (almost without fail) great; this country is beautiful, even with the trash; I even bought two super sexy kurtas. Watch out, girls.

Classes start today, so we’ll see how the academic side of things turns out, but for a first week abroad, I couldn’t have asked for better company or a better time overall.

Namaste

Five Days Out

I didn’t expect to post on this site until after my arrival in India, but this seems time-appropriate.

I spent the summer working at Sea Trek, a small but frequented ocean kayaking center in Sausalito. I never expected to wind up there, but one can’t complain about spending ten hours a day on the beach when faced with the alternative of an unpaid desk job, right?

My first day was spent working the beach, a format the majority of my days on the clock this summer assumed. On my second day, however, I underwent what one might call “training” for that job, in the form of an introductory paddle class – the point being to speak to customers from experience, rather than regurgitating what Mitch Powers’ book, “How to Paddle,” might dictate. A little birdie (read: Andrew Miller, someone with whom I ended up spending quite a few days hauling boats) informed me that a knight would be teaching our intro class. He wasn’t kidding: ask anyone who had taken a class with Sir Michael Morgan, and they would describe him as either a pirate or a knight.

He was a rugged guy, with earrings resembling Jack Sparrow’s hair beads and a large cross hanging around his neck, complete with yellowed teeth, a blackhead-peppered nose, and sea salted grey hair. In his free time, as I learned, he donned a full suit of 14th century armor and competed in swordsmanship and martial arts tournaments – far more knight-like than a Roger Moore or Michael Gambon, in the literal sense at least. He also smoked cigarettes like a chimney.

Sir Michael placed an extraordinary amount of trust in Andrew and I that day, on account of our being Sea Trek employees. He treated us like fellow instructors, though we knew little more about what we were doing than our peers. We were entrusted with supervising and assisting with rescues, which proved somewhat difficult with the elderly members of the group. He told us to demonstrate edging (a fancy method of turning the boats) for the group, and we both promptly capsized. I could not have asked for a better or more hilarious start to a summer on Schoonmaker beach. Full disclosure: Andrew and I didn’t help Michael bring up the boats after class, which I later heard made him rather furious as he assumed we would have, but that was later forgiven.

This man also didn’t keep his stories a secret. He studied engineering at Georgia Tech and marine biology at Irvine, spent time working as an aerospace engineer, and was even a fashion photographer for a time, all of which led to him spending two hours on the beach teaching me and those other goons how to hold a paddle properly. He once helped his wife get back in a kayak after she was injured and had her paddling in the open water shortly after a doctor had said she would never be able to do so again. They had plans to move to Belize at the end of the summer to open a practice training paddling instructors.

A few weeks ago, he pulled me aside and asked whether I truly enjoyed working on the beach. I replied that I did, but mostly on days when I’m not actually working. Trying to teach people how to conduct themselves properly on the water is often difficult when they come for a break from the relentless drudge of the workweek, expecting an easy, wind- and hassle-free experience. Mothers come in sundresses and strapless hats with their three children and ask for a boat with no sand in it, fully expecting to stay impeccably dry while out on the bay. Others bring dogs to sit on their paddle boards, insisting “he loves it! We really bond out there.” Meanwhile, the dog is trembling and whining on the less-than-stable board, yet too terrified to jump into the frigid water. But I digress. I told Michael that I see the best and worst of humanity here, the smart ones and the truly dumb ones, and while exhausting, it makes for great stories, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

This oddly tangential and nostalgic narrative is relevant to this blog, I swear. Michael once asked what my plans for the fall semester were, and upon learning that I planned on studying in Pune, he broke out into a story of how he once intended to travel there to study with a spiritual master, but ultimately was unable to and met his wife as a result. He sang the city’s praises, and expressed great excitement that I might experience what he didn’t (maybe not the spiritual part, but at least visiting the place).

I learned today that Michael passed away. Here, we had a discussion about difficulties he faced while trying to sell his house just last Friday, and lo and behold, that was the last talk I’ll ever have with that odd, elk enamored sea-wizard. I never got to apologize for missing his going-away party on account of having just had my tonsils removed. I hope he knows that now.

Anyway, having only known him for a short time, I am sure that others would write far better pieces memorializing this man, but the moral of the story is this: for what it’s worth, I’d like to dedicate this blog to Sir Michael; let’s hope my four months in Pune can live up to your expectations.

Namaste