Welcome to Ajmer?

After my hospital ‘visit’ I was itching to get out of Jaipur. Wooo! While I was pooping away in the hospital some of the group had traveled to a magical land called Pushkar. My friend Anne and I decided that we needed to go. We barely planned the trip- something I admired about our journey. We briefly went off the itinerary our friends planned the previous weekend. We took a richshaw hoping to somehow find a bus that takes us to our desired destination. Good luck to us. But the free flowing spirit of Anne had immersed itself in me. We’d figure it out, and wherever we ended up…we ended up.

Within the first 5 seconds of getting out of the cramped backseat where dust from the road has permanently settled, we are bombarded with men trying to help us book our tickets. We knew our friends had taken an overcrowded government bus that went straight to Pushkar. “Pushkar, Pushkar, government bus,” we had to yell amidst the horn-honking and persistent beggars. A man pointed to a bus just a few feet away… “Pushkar, 200 rupees.” There was too much commotion going on to tell well…to tell what was ACTUALLY going on. Anne and I had our money out and the man simply plucked 200 rupees from our hands without our consent, wrote us a ticket and pointed to the bus. That bus it is.

From the moment the man had wrote us our tickets we knew it wasn’t the bus our friends had taken. The bus resembled somewhat of an over-used Megabus complete with gods and goddess enveloped in garlands of orange and pink flowers. This was definitely too nice. Anne and I took our seats and waited for the bus to depart. We were excited as we, apart from two other business-looking men seemed to be the only ones embarking on the 7-hour long journey. The bus lurched forward and we were off, slowly picking up families and business men who stand on the roadsides with glittering, eye-striking sari’s and clean-cut button down shirts in contrast to the brown and barren landscape. When the bus picked people up, it didn't even stop…going the speed of a merry-go-round. The ‘to-be’ passengers jogged alongside holding what luggage they have and hopped on. What was a bus filled with 4 passengers in the beginning became incredibly crowded. I think we had a good enough crowd to create our own colony if the bus became stranded. There were three people in seats meant for two…the aisle was completely full, people ] sat on the steps to which you enter the bus. People even sat up front with the bus driver in his alcove. Just when I thought the bus would have to turn people away…the driver allowed more people. What the…? An elderly lady nudged her way to our seat, causing us to be friendlier than ‘bugs in a rug.’ I hopped out of my seat and sat on my backpacking backpack, to make room. This proved only so comfortable for about…hmmmm…let’s see 3 minutes and my back began to ache. The awkward positioning of my body begot stares from other passengers. The driver motioned for me to sit up with him in the front. I obeyed…not wanting to cause more of a scene.

Anne, from Minneapolis woot woot! and I

The rest of journey was spent praying for my life as I had a front seat to the insane and life-threatening driving a drunk driver couldn’t even manifest. No wonder the driver had so many gods displayed on his dashboard. Riding buses, ok not even buses but all vehicles in India are equivalent to riding the Knight bus Harry Potter rides in Prisoner of Azkaban. I kid you not. Replace the shrunken heads with Ganesh (the elephant god) and Shiva, add smelly Indian men who don’t wear deodorant, the drivier swerving for cows and goats plus and some Rajasthani music (traditional music of the state I am living in) with gypsies singing and there you go. Welcome to India J. I wouldn’t have had that bus ride any other way. After a daze of a hot and dusty view, squished between an elderly man who could not smile for his life and the dashboard loaded with idols, Anne and I were told to get off the bus.

“Pushkar? Ye Pushkar hai (This is Pushkar?)” we asked. I was so ready to exit the bus and to stretch my legs. The whole bus stared at us; I guess it was pretty obvious with our English accents and backpacking backpacks that gave us away as spacey tourists.

“Nahi, (No),” the driver said. “Go that way to another bus.”

Brittany, Anne and Gretchen at the Jaipur Literature Festival

So much for not planning the trip, where the hell were we?

"Ye Ajmer hai (This is Ajmer)."

Alright...let the trip begin...

Chachi

The Spanish Lady, I had heard so much about her…well I guess she was just mentioned a lot not that I actually knew much about her. Here is what I did know: She was Spanish….they called her Chachi (seemed to be a fitting name for this crazy woman), she has lived in India for 15 years and can’t speak Hindi- hmmmm, she rents a room from my host family the Rajawats.

Which one of these is the Spanish Lady?

The moment I saw “The Spanish Lady,” I knew why everyone was always talking about her. I think the pink streak in her hair said it all…you don’t see many 50 year-old women with that now do ya? Her clothes were a mix of Indian and European chic with a touch of pink (hair and clothes).  She gave off a spunky aura that you can only find in movie characters, Foxxy Cleopatra combined with Fran from “The Nanny.” That woman talked English at the speed of light in a heavy Spanish accent. Are you familiar with Gloria from Modern Family? Ok take her voice and make it 50 years old. Yep that’s what you got. She was not afraid to speak her mind, always arguing with the rickshaw drivers. She is a Spanish travel guide so she is always all over the place, she’d sure be an interesting tour guide. She loves to dance, and she has made it clear she loves to drink. One of my roommates became sick, and Chachi told her to drink some rum-and she was being very serious. My friend Asha and I went out one night, and then next day Chachi asked us what club we went to and started naming off the clubs she has been to in Jaipur.

She came with Krishnaji, Amanda, Asha, Claire and I sari shopping. I had really wanted my own sari to wear to an upcoming wedding. Chachi stepped right in (even though Krishnaji is probably an expert at sari’s) picking out colors of the fabric and design patterns. She even directed the men how to cut the sleeves for my top. “No, no, no you do it short, this girl is young and fresh. You don’t give her long sleeves like an old person, you put the sleeves right there (pointing to my shoulder).” And would you know it I LOVED the final product. Thank you Chachi.

Ji Signhji with Chachi

And I’m pretty sure Ji Signhji is in love with her, the crazy bad-girl Spanish lady type is really appealing to him I think. He is always over chatting away or eating (Krishnaji makes her special food without the Indian spices- home girl ain’t havin none of that) with her aka bothering her. But she is just oblivious to his puppy love. Chatting away, giving him a hard time while on her sewing machine she bought for $40.

A few days before I left Jaipur, our family was having some sort of dance party with Spanish music provided by Chachi. Ji Signhji, wanting to be the center of attention gets right in on the dancing and stands on the large freezer in the backyard. As he is dancing his goofy dance, ear to ear smiling with his scrawny legs, blue flip-flops and Elmer Fudd head in his crappy plaid button-up, Chachi yells, “Now take off your shirt! If you dance like that you take off your shirt!”

Me: Please dear lord, no. I have already seen him take a bath in the garden with his swim trunks, cleaning his junk. I don’t need a strip tease.

He begins to take off his shirt. “AHHHHH!!!!” The adjacent family comes out to see what all the commotion is about. Ji Signhji struggles to get his sleeve to come off his arm….anndddd RIP! His sleeve tears right off. I am watching a 50 year-old Indian man strip to Spanish music, while he is on a freezer. What is this world coming too?

Krishnaji and Ji Singhhi (with Amanda and I of course)

Amanda (my roommate) and I have a theory that they have an affair, but then I think Chachi wouldn’t want to be tied down (seriously). That relationship is a mystery to me. It seems like such a storybook tale; a traditional Indian family, with the crazy Spanish lady living next door. Someone needs to write a book about it…

Could I Please Have A Snake Charmer This Evening?

After my hospital visit my mood was in cahoots. It took me at least a week to get back into the swing of things. It’s so hard being so far away from home without a familiar support system. I think that was my weakest point in this crazy journey. I shed a lot of tears out of frustration; confusion and just shear insanity. Even though it was only three days in a hospital, so many other factors came into play. When you are in a third world country’s hospital and you don’t even know why you are there or what they are putting into you is a large problem. HELLO language barrier.

Could I really have anticipated needing to know the Hindi words for; diarrhea, shot, butt, nurse, go away (eh…maybe I should have known this one), vomit, gurney, stomach pains, did I say diarrhea already? You bet your booty I didn’t. However I did know how to say bow and arrow, fire worship and snake charmer. Yes these are the basic words Indian children learn. We are taught the A,B,C’s, a is for apple, b is for ball (you get the point) Hindi children learn “dha se dhanush (bow and arrow), ya se yagya (fire worship), sa se sapera (snake charmer).” So I could have easily asked my nurse, “Chayie sapera (I want a snake charmer)." Which actually might have been a nice change to my boring days, your own personal snake charmer? And maybe that would compel the workers to actually scrub the floor instead of just spray it. I could ask for some evening entertainment, but I was incapable of asking for a clean towel. How wonderful.

Have you ever looked up or for that matter heard someone speak Hindi? Dear lord is it hard. There is gha and ga, tha, tha and ta, bha and ba… the list goes on. I never thought I could connect Lady Gaga with Hindi, but I’ve learned anything is possible (even becoming Facebook friends with your nurse). Lady Gaga’s song Bad Romance is like peas in a pod with the Hindi dialect. One must simply know to chorus line to practice and tweak just a little- “Gha ga, oooo, ta tha, da dha, oooo pa pha…” Thanks Lady Gag’s you’re one in a million.

Things were back to normal when I returned, the bed was the same middle school gym-mat-hardness and my host family was still super crazy and the water still had little white flakes in it after it had been boiled. 

Claire with the chickens

But we did have a new addition to the family- six little neon colored chickens. Ji Singhji brought them home in a little cramped up box. My first question: How in the world did these chickens get colored? My second question: Why are there five baby neon colored chickens in the house? It was nice to play with them...even though they probably had a disease. Apparently Ji Singhji bought them as gifts to give to his nephews. So he would give them to one nephew and whenever the nephew got tired of playing with the chickies he would pawn them off on another nephew. Weird right? I asked what will happen when the chickens grow up, my host sister Bulbul said, "They will just run around in our yard." Alrighty then.

To add to the crazy neon chickens, ‘The Spanish Lady” I had been hearing all about had returned home from Dehli and I was curious to meet her- and boy was she something.

Day Three- Someone help me

Yes yes yes, I have been terribly bad about writing my adventures in my blog. It’s been almost a month and I have so much to say! So although the hospital incident happened such a long time ago I am going to continue in the same format because I’m anal like that and don’t want to alter the ‘vibe’ of the blog (for my own sake J ). Now back to the hospital…(chimes ringing like returning to the story)...

You have a lot of time to contemplate life when you are in a hospital in a third world country. Many of you will say, “Well hey, you wanted to learn about public health didn’t ya? Here it is…at it’s finest.”

Ok I can totally do this, although I didn’t want to be in the hospital while all my friends were out exploring India and its wonders, I did have a T.V that had some English channels and the best part- I had an actual shower! Like one that streams down on your head! So fabulous. And I also had time alone, something I hadn’t received a lot of since arriving in India.

Me 'enjoying' the hospital

So the plan was that I would stay over night and leave the next morning. My roommate Amanda accompanied me after coming back from the field trip. What a saint. I read Eat Pray Love, watched some T.V (Dead Poet’s Society to be exact) and slept a lot. My body felt so weak and my appetite was only craving the standard ‘American sick foods;’ chicken noodle soup, saltine crackers, sprite. Three meals -all the dietician would give me was the bland daal, kitchiri, curd (chunky, soupy, plain yogurt that Indians eat a lot), and coconut water (of which I had high hopes for because I heard it was good and it was NOT!). I picked at the food like a picky 5-year-old child and forced some of it down my throat. However, between my scrumptious meals I did get tea (with two packets of sugar in- yum) and biscuits that I snarfed down. All I wanted was some toast and jelly- just toast and jelly PLEASE! So after a lot of begging and pantomiming I finally got toast and jelly with each meal. Every time I needed to go to the bathroom I had to push the nurse button and have them unhook me so I could make the pathetic- me looking pathetic- walk to the washroom- very inconvenient when there are constantly fluids and antibiotics flowing through your body making you have to go to the bathroom twice as much. Each time the nurse would re-hook my IV I’d feel a cool rush through my arm of the liquids that were re-hydrating me. I had lost about 5lbs, so for all you weight watchers- it’s simple; fly to India, lick the street or something (ok you don’t need to go that far but if you want guaranteed results that’s the best way), get a lot of loose motions and boom! 5lbs out the door.

Three days damned days and three damned nights I spent in Fortis hospital. One night my ass- the plan changed from a few hours, to one night, to maybe stay until the next day to not discharged until Monday.

At least I had a gorgeous view from my window...too bad I had to ask the nurse to unhook me each time if I ever wanted to see it.

Let me tell you a little something about this hospital- apparently one of the best in the country. Well first, I look back on it and it’s all quite hilarious, however when you are in the midst of a hospital stay it seems like forever and it sucks. As I would be sleeping with my cute little stuffed dog cinnamon, pleasantly dreaming about normal bowel movements and toast with jelly, 6a.m. every morning- KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK! HOUSEKEEPING!

Me: “What the…GO AWAY!” It is 6 a.m. in the morning. What in the world could possibly be done at 6a.m. that could improve the situation?

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

Me: “NO! NAHI CHAYIE! (I don’t need!)” LET ME SLEEP FOR LORDS SAKE.

The door opens…two little nurses scurry in. So much for my Hindi lessons…. They spray the ground and air with something equivalent to Lysol/Windex. They didn’t wipe it up…just spray- is this the typical cleaning method in India? Clean the bathroom and then poke me. They point to the loose sheet that ‘covers’ the plastic hospital bed I am sleeping on…

Nurse: “Change.”

The 'hotel' as my host sister bulbul called it-hotel my ass

You’ve GOT to be kidding me…no way in hell…

Nurse: poke poke poke, “Change.”

Welp, sitting here is going to do nothing so I succumbed. I get up at 6a.m. and wait for them to change the sheet- that I guess desperately needed to be changed that very moment.

Within the three days I was there I had three different doctors, all of whom poked my stomach, checked the vitals and peaced out. It wasn’t until the third doctor that I asked- “Um, what is going on? What do I have?”

Doctor: “O. No one told you? You have gastroenteritis.”

In the most sarcastic tone I thought; WHY THANK YOU GOOD SIR! How kind of you to take the time to visit your patient and inform me. I have been in this hospital for two whole days and I finally am clued in on why the hell I’m here.

On the bright side, during sporadic times in the day I would have a card laying on top of my bed- “Get Well Soon,” signed by no one…with my name spelled wrong, but hey at least someone was nice enough to give me a card eh? Same card, with the same happy white people on the front, in a nice Fortis Escorts envelope, precious.

I made it clear I had wanted an English-speaking nurse. Apparently, my program told the hospital only women were to work with me due to gender roles here. Well, if it’s between having someone I actually understand and someone who I have to pantomime the potty dance to at least 10 times a day- I’ll take the boy.

From then on, it was somewhat of a pleasant experience- I was informed on what was happening and even became Facebook friends with good old Kanishk. Tell me how often that happens? Not entirely sure if that's sketchy...or not...but if I have more loose motions Kanishk is just a Facebook message away.

After a lot of alone time, a lot of crying and frustration, a lot of pondering life, a lot of pooping, a lot of daal, kitchiri and curd, a lot of pantomiming the potty dance- I was discharged. Entered early Friday, left late Monday-I was a free woman. Let my life begin.

Welcome to India.

First time for everything...

For those of you who have been good friends and family members and have read my previous blog, my story continues...

Thursday night, my clan of 11 convinces me something more needs to be done to take care of the situation. No one is helping me, not the school, not the previous doctor, not my host family. I have NO clue what to do in such a strange and unfamiliar place. I call my insurance company and get the name of a doctor and then the name of a hospital under which I will be fully covered. I set up an appointment with a doctor for the morning. I inform my host family I have an appointment in the morning.

I wake up. It’s Friday morning. Liza Minelli is still singin’. It is the third day of my emtreme loose motions. This is far from normal ‘travelers diarrhea,’ and is getting to be more concerning. I want to go to school today, we have a field trip. I want this awful sickness to go away. I feel weak and tired. In these times I refer to my inspiration in life Lil’ Wayne “I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

Pretty soon one of teacher’s is at my house. I am lying in bed…people are talking so loudly. All I want to do is sleep. Someone is calling the ambulance? THE AMBLUANCE? Well hot dang I only have loose motions…that’s enough to call the ambulance? Wait…calling the ambulance means…I’m going to the hospital??? WHAT?! Maybe I should get up and see what everyone is determining about MY health situation without consulting me.

Here is what I learn: I will not be going to school today. Instead my field trip will consist of the hospital. I must cancel my previous appointment with the doctor. Why didn’t I inform the school I wanted to be hospitalized? (UM who said I wanted to be hospitalized? And for that matter the school had done NOTHING until now to help me. VERY VERY FRUSTRATING). They are calling a cab because it will most likely take the ambulance 1 hour to reach my house (thank god I’m not dying or something).

Dazed and confused (good movie by the way) I take the bumpy ride with my guardian of a roommate, Amanda, who might I add planned to skip the field trip to stay with me what an angel, and my teacher Mitaji. I go into emergency care where I learn I will be given an IV to replace all the fluids I lost. Great. I have never had an IV before; guess there is a first time for everything right? An IV in India, now that’s my kind of fun. And I am still overcoming my anxiety with needles. They poke and prod me 4 places because my veins were so small from the absence of fluids. I’d only be in the hospital for an hour and then I could leave.

Weren't supposed to take pics in the emergency room. Whoops.

I had a tiny nurse, around 25yrs, that sat in the room to watch over me. She had the kindest eyes and such a soothing presence, like someone in the hospital actually cared. She would smile at me with those big beautiful brown eyes even though I looked like a crazed lunatic who is trying to ween off drugs. When I began shivering she brought me another blanket and tucked me in each time it fell off my feet. She would gently brush my hair out of my face. Something was so comforting about having her by my side even though we could barely say two words to each other.

I lolled in and out of sleep (that was easily more than an hour). And then: the butt shot. In the middle of my dream I was awakened by the sweet nurse (I would learn most of my attendants spoke incredibly poor English…that was fun), and she mimed for me to turn on my side and pull down my pants. And I saw the needle…a big fat stinkin needle that was going to go into my non-existent butt (for those of you who don’t know or haven’t noticed I am very much lacking in any backside action). She stuck that sucker in and it hurt like hell. Apparently it was pain killer for my stomach ‘snake bites’ but I think I would have preferred those than that horrendous shot. And then I began to cry. Doctors and attendants filtered in and out, “What’s wrong? What happened?” WELL let me tell you (Indians say that a lot here, it’s weird) I am stuck in this stupid sketchy-ass hospital where I have no idea what is going on and what is wrong with me. Instead I could be on a field trip watching people make paper and pottery, but I am watching my heart monitor beep. I am not allowed to have my phone so I can’t call my family to inform them I am in a sketchy-ass hospital in a third world country. I have an IV in me, of which could be any type of liquid like potassium nitrate, and I just got a shot in my butt. The school did nothing to take care of me and no one is translating for me what exactly is happening. Good thing I’m leaving this popsicle stand today.

And then just as I had magically arrived at the hospital, had an IV of god-knows-what shoved in my arm, was given a nightmarish butt shot, I was being rolled to the third floor on a gurney. I was going to be staying over night…

I guess there is a first time for everything...to be admitted to a hospital, to get an IV, to have a shot in one's butt, to stay overnight in the hospital...and why not in India?

Liza Minnelli- my new friend

The Raj Mandir the first movie theater in Rajasthan...I think

I had to have cursed myself. I didn’t knock on wood…bad idea. Almost half of our group dropped like flies when we went to the Taj Mahal. There was dehydration, there was vomiting, there was diarrhea. ALAS! I triumphed! I did not become sick during the trip. Not once had I had traveler’s diarrhea, two weeks baby and all regular solid beautiful bowel movements. And then the apocalypse came. As I was peacefully going to sleep with the smell of ganja in my nose, the sound of dying cats outside my window in the comfort of my hard bed:

Body: “WOAH! I have to go. Now. Yes now.”

Me: “But I am so comfy. Go to sleep, it’ll go away.”

Body: “CAN-NOT WAIT. Pain-in-stomach, intestines-moving-fast.”

Me: “But I love sleep, more than pizza. You aren’t sick just SLEEP!”

Body: “I will not wait any longer, and if you do wait you will suffer the consequences.”

Me: “FINE.” I went to the bathroom (which may I add is very centrally located in the house, so everyone can hear you do your business, awkward? I think so) and sat on the toilet. Ladies and Gents I had my first loose motion.

At the Jaipur Marathon

(A loose motion? It is the equivalent to the American name for diarrhea. We started to come up with nicknames and signs. Mona Lisa? Lisa Mona? Naw. And for some reason Liza Minnelli popped into my head…What does this broad even sing? O well, she is the scapegoat that gets to have her name tarnished by my bowel movement problems. We also have a hand signal was an ‘L’ like “loser! On your forehead” and ‘M’ like with your three fingers upside down. “LM” clever eh?)

My sleep was awful, tossing and turning, horrible cramps in my stomach, feeling like I was going to hurl and always needing to sit in the bathroom with the read and orange tomato tiles to give me support. The next morning I woke up…I am not going to school only to sit from 9:30-3 and get up to go to the b-room every 15 min. Nope nope nope, I will not. So I spent my day tossing turning and pooping…a lot. The attempt at eating was minimal; I was limited to curd, kichiri (a very bland mixture of basmati rice and baby lentils in a mush form) and dal (soup that tasted like bitter peanut juice) and lots of bananas. Yum. Let me remind you that more than 3 ‘loose motions’ is not good and you are recommended to get some medicine, I had about 20 loose motions. We called a doctor, and I had my 15-year-old host sister converse because I couldn’t understand what I was supposed to do.  Our house is next to a hospital so we get in line for the pharmacy  (which is outside and SUPER sketchy) and I have Bulbul explain my loose motion conundrum and get me some sort of medicine. No prescription needed. Hmm. I had no idea what the pills were, they could have been Viagra for all I knew, but I was desperate.

Thursday rolled around and I was itching to get out of the house, no matter how I felt. I made the daring trip to MI Road (a popular road with lots of shops) with some friends despite my body’s disagreement. About 20 minutes into our escapade and suppressing my bowel movements I realized I needed to go home. NOW. I flagged down a cycle rickshaw, and settled with an old scroungy man who was clearly high, I just needed to go home and lay down. Normally I appreciate the minimal conversations with the drivers but this was not the time. I am riding on a bicycle cart, alone, with a man who is high pedaling down the streets of mass chaos and he is trying to give me some sort of sightseeing tour.

HRM (high rickshaw man): “And this is the park.”

Me: “Uh huh. Very nice.” The smells of street weed, burning crap and urine were starting to get to me. The man’s voice started to become hazy…

HRM: “BBLLLAAAAHHH BLAAHHH BLAAAHHH.”

This is what I was gagging on with the HRM

Me: “Mmmm hmm. Yes.” Ok, I am NOT feeling good.

HRM: “Waaaa waaahhh wahhhh.” (like the teacher on Charlie Brown)

I begin to gag. I am going to throw up. The HRM keeps talking to me. “America nice.” And I am gagging. The roads are getting bumpier and the cycle rickshaw is creaking. I am gagging. Hold it in hold it in. Don’t puke on the streets of India. After what seems like an eternity I reach home run to the bathroom and throw up. So much for feeling good.

Squat and Push

Our 2^nd weekend in Jaipur and all 11 of us were itching to travel. Jaipur, Delhi and Agra are considered part of the ‘great triangle.’ For those of you who don’t know the Taj Mahal is located in Agra, and of course when you’re in India, one must travel to the Taj. We hired a bus that seated all 11 of us and we were off.

The trip there took about 5 hours and it became really hard to sleep because looking out the window here seems like a movie. There is always so much to see and observe. Camels, random cows, crazies on motorcycles, naked babies, lots of monkeys, men peeing on the street…if I had a quarter for every time I’ve seen a man pee…woofta I’d be a rich son of a…ok I won’t go that far. But it seems to be the way to go here, just whip it out, do your business and bam! I’ve also realized that every place in India is completely different from the next so to shut your eyes on a bus ride is impossible. You have to keep them open just out of curiosity.

On the rooftop of the Siddartha

To be on the safe side we stayed at a hotel that was recommended in the Lonely Planet (a life-saver if you are ever traveling anywhere). India’s Lonely Planet is so darn huge I could easily press a leaf it in, just so you know how big and diverse India is. So we arrive at Siddartha (the hotel) and it is beautiful. Nicely priced with a rooftop view of the Taj Mahal, can’t complain. So every chance I got I would sit on the roof. and I roomed together. Our room was complete with a connected ‘trinket’ shop that was run by the owner’s sister so I guess if we had that crazy urge to shop at midnight…we could. How thoughtful. And then I looked in the bathroom and low and behold our first squatting toilet! I really needed to go so… “Let’s see how this thing works.”

How To Use Squatting Toilet For Dummies, aka The Bathroom In A Hole In The Ground:

1. Straddle feet on ribbed tile

2. Take a breath (believe me, it’s a good idea)

3. Pull down your pants, all the way down

4.  Squat like a frog, chest should be between thighs and knees close to your cheeks (the cheeks on your face)

5. Establish good balance

6. Do your thang (if you like to take your time in the bathroom, the squat is not for you. Find another toilet). Be careful of your aim.

7.  Fill the cup with water pour down backside and wipe with hand.

8. Wiggle around to dry yourself off. Stand up and pull up your clothes.

9. Wash hands. THOUROUGHLY. Congratulations! You have used the squatting toilet!

And with that out of the way, I went to experience my first world wonder: the Taj Mahal. The Taj was built in 1653, in memory of emperor Shan Jahan’s wife. She died after giving birth to their 14^th child…yep I know. And the Taj Mahal is her tomb inlayed with thousands of precious stones and mainly composed of white marble.

The minute we arrived in the parking lot we were swarmed with “Madame! Madame! Just look, looking is free!” We bought our tickets and were immediately bombarded by ‘Tour Guides,’ who would only charge us 100 rupees and could get us in way faster. “The wait to get in to the Taj would be at least 2 hours.” We decided we’d rather just fare it on our own and got it line. And woah! People here do NOT have concepts of personal space. We were waiting in line in a clump so we could chat and whatnot. We got so many awful looks. Here people make straight lines with absolutely no space between your butt and the person’s crotch (good thing there are separate lines for men and women, and I’m pretty sure that’s why). I was the last person in our clump so I was ‘blessed’ with some short Indian women’s boobs in my back and whatnot. What a pleasant wait. People would push and glare and when there was a gap in the line it was filled within 5 seconds. So different from America! People don’t understand making the line physically shorter does NOT make the line move any faster. Luckily, we didn’t take that tour guide to ‘get us in faster’ -we only waited in line for 40 minutes. Those liars! People will try and trick you into anything here.

10 of us at the Taj

The Taj Mahal took my breath away. It lives up to the standards of the 7 wonders of the world. I honestly have no words that I could use to accurately describe my feelings. And surprisingly it seemed that more Indians were there than foreigners. Hmmm. Back to the hot mugginess of the bus- we were once again harassed by sellers. They practically climbed into the car and I (being as manly as I am) had to get aggressive and push them out so we could shut the door. I know I know how noble.

I’m finally felt like I got the hang of being firm and like D.A.R.E told us : to “Just say no.” Well by golly I did that and more. 

Saving Some Room

So they recommend bringing gifts to the host-family. Ok that’s cool, but how do I even know what to give them when all I know is the names of the husband and wife? Well…not knowing what else to bring, I settled on two University Of Minnesota t-shirts, a deck of cards (have they ever even heard of cards? Or is that a common thing?), and Frisbee, since that is like a big part of college-life, and a tin water bottle (recommended by one of the year-students). The program told us to wait a day or two to give them their gifts so we did.  So anticipating their ‘excitedness,’ Amanda and I got our entire shindig together and combined them into the bag. Her gifts included some grits, craisins, a t-shirt, a notebook and some lotion, very thoughtful. Well, I was pretty excited to give them the presents, especially the water bottle since that was the recommended gift, so at least someone would like it right? So it was the third night, hoping to brown-nose it up a bit more with our gifts, we went out to the living room and waited for everyone to gather, Krishnaji, Ji Singhji, Bulbul and Noni. It was a bit underwhelming I guess, they’ve had host students before, but our gifts were appreciated. “O nice color,” referring to my golden University Of Minnesota t-shirt. “Cards, very nice.”

And they opened the gifts one by one and then it came to the water bottle. The tin water bottle.

Let’s take it back a little. Back to packing. Where I squished 4 months of my life into one black suitcase. I packed things everywhere to save room. You know like the extreme packers who put the socks inside the tennis shoes? Yeah, I was one of those. I even bought those stupid space-saving bags, which actually aren’t stupid because they ended up saving room.

Ji Signhji unrolled the purple tissue paper…

“O what ees theees?”

And then I remembered.

“O wait wait wait!” I hovered over the bag and reached out desperately for the faintly gold bottle, with “Golden Gophers,” written around the edge (in a very classy way might I add). It was all in slow motion like a car accident.

He turned the lid…nooooooo!!!!

“O what ees these?”

And out he pulled…my green sports bra. I was mortified. Three days. Three days I have known these people. I know I know at least it wasn’t that sexy red lacey thong from Vicky Secrets. At least it wasn’t tampons. But come on! Why couldn’t have it been socks? A t-shirt? A headband? Nope Ji Signhji pulled out my green sports bra in front of the whole family. And of course it was my 52-year-old host dad. Sweet life.

He handed back the bra to my humiliated-self.

“O you take!”

My face began getting hot. My stomach felt like it was going to fall out. I began to explain my packing situation to the family. “I just had so much stuff to pack, I was trying to save room. I’m so sorry. O my gosh...”

“Is OK. You try to save room. Don’t worry.”

When in India...

I want to add a picture to each blog. This has NOTHING to do with today's story...I mean do you really think I'd take a pic with Ji Signhji and my sports bra?

Jingle? Jesus? or Jezelle?

Meeting the host family. I was in for a culture shock. The thought and anticipation of “this is where I’ll be living for at least two months. This is the family that will be making me breakfast, lunch, dinner. This is who I will be spending my mornings, my evenings with ,” is a LOT to think about let me tell you. India is a completely different place and I knew that before coming but it all sets in when you are actually there, or should I say here? My house, or should I say the Rajawats house, is simple. 1 floor, 5 rooms, a small but quaint backyard and a dirt strewn front yard, enough to play catch with your 5 year-old son. No grass is growing and a small garden is trying its best to survive the inescapable heat amidst dolls that are tied to the two small trees growing. The floors and walls are all cement, seemingly uninviting at first but it makes perfect sense when you realize it’s about 90 degrees outside and AC is a rarity. The beds are about as hard as those blue fold-up gym mats you’d play matball with in middle school. Most families have a water heater but it’s a different story for Amanda (my rommmate) and I. In order to bath with hot water my host mother (Krishnaji) boils the water first and then we dilute it to our liking while squatting like a frog, butt an inch from the ground pouring the water on our bodies from a cup. Poppycock! Crazy! Squatting, pouring water on myself with a cup, my tush kissing the cold cement tile?! It cannot be! But it is. And weirdly enough it is a great feeling to know how much water you save when using this method. Water is a precious commodity here, and in America we take it for granted to the max. And the rumors about the toilet, are they true? By gosh they couldn’t be more true. Toilet paper is not used here, so when done with one’s business, one fills the cup with water and pours it…well you know where and lightly rubs the get the residue off. And then of course you wash your hands. Thoroughly. Poppycock! Crazy! Wiping my own…with my…? It cannot be! But it is. Hence the notion of the left hand being ‘dirty,’ because you are supposed to wipe with your left hand. What a different culture, and a beautiful one at that.

So now to my host family. Note: when you are addressing someone older you add ‘ji’ like gee-whiz at the end of the name. So Sallyji or something like that, equivalent to Mr. or Mrs. in English. My host mother is Krishnaji, she has a handsome ‘plump’ figure with eyes that light up a room. She is quiet and dutiful (as an Indian-wife must be). Her hair is as dark as the night sky with sunset streaks of red, due to the dye that she uses keep her hair the mysterious black it is. Ji Singhji is the host dad, and my my my is he a clown! With hair only on the outskirts of his head, he always appears either extremely disgruntled or extremely happy (mostly happy). Indians have the WORST time pronouncing my name.

“Ja-zzzz-elll.”

“Zeee-zall?”

No no no. “Ja-zzzz-eeeelllll.” So Ji Singhji has settled on calling me Jesus or Indian. I guess I respond to both. He is always cracking jokes and it took him no time to make fun of me and Amanda. Noni, is my 17-year-old host brother. He is extremely quite and keeps to himself most of the time. I can’t tell whether is it because he is actually shy or if it is because interactions with women here are very seldom, only for the ‘radical, young, hip’ Indians. He spends a lot of his time studying to become an engineer and whenever I try to engage him in a conversation it is usually replied with a one-word answer. Noni is the nickname given to him by the astrologer. When I asked what it meant he didn’t say anything. Later I found out Noni means angel. No wonder he didn’t want us to know. And lastly, Bulbul, Bulbul, is my 15-year-old host sister. Bulbul is the nickname given to her by an astrologer, when I asked what it meant she said it stands for two bulls. Don’t ask. Bulbul is a spunky one, she is always dancing her Bollywood dance, always singing her Bollywood songs. She can’t wait to come back from school and tell us about her interactions with her school-crush Relish. Yep relish like the condiment on a hotdog. She loves ice cream and cheese. She has been a haven for Amanda and I, using her to communicate when there are misunderstandings or when we need protection from all the ‘western-struck’ Indian stares.  And while Ji Singhji has his fun calling me Jesus, the rest of the family calls me jingle. Yes, as in jingle bells. The family dynamic is totally different and is so fascinating to observe. It’s going to be a good semester.

Liberating, Invigorating, Beautiful

We stayed in a hotel the first few nights in Jaipur to get somewhat accustomed to the city, if that’s even possible in two days. Early the next morning some of us went to a park next to our hotel and did some yoga. A group of older men who were walking around the park, stopped to chat with us. They saw Anne (a true yogi J) doing a handstand and wanted to see her do it again. Somewhat weirded out, Anne did as they wished. One of the men, resembling a mix of Elmer Fudd Indian style and a happy Buddha, wanted to ‘try’ the headstand. I could tell all of us were pretty skeptical since he had a total Chinese Buddha belly and do you think Elmer Fudd can do a headstand? So he placed his head down to the dewy grass and slowly but surely curled his legs so it looked as if he were in an upside-down fetal position. And by god he was doing a headstand! He was kicking his legs back and forth like it was nothing. He fooled us all. He had the meaning of balance down pat with no hesitation. As we chatted more and got to know these crazy, funny, and friendly men they invited us to meet them tomorrow morning. “You come tomorrow. We show you some exercises and you show us some exercises.” Deal.

The next morning arrived. 7a.m. was early but we did it. Asha, Anne and I stretched a bit hoping that we hadn’t been ‘stood up.’ But soon enough we saw our new friends. We went over to a different section of the park and about 12 other men joined us as we made a big circle. They all asked us our names and we began by following the ‘leader’ of the exercises. Hold the arms out in front, move the wrists, up, down, up, down, 16 times. Now head, up, down, up down, 16 times. “1, 2 cha cha cha. 1, 2 cha cha cha.” And so it went. Our ‘exercise group’ became quite the spectacle in the park. People definitely stared and I guess I didn’t blame them. I mean really… 7a.m., 3 western looking girls standing in a dilapidated circle with a bunch of middle-aged Indian men…some of who were for sure balding and who barely spoke English. The language barrier was very very apparent. I felt like a little kid participating in simon says where the 12 simons were totally making fun of us numerous times. But it was all in good fun and we all loved it. It was a bunch of silly movements with everyone grinning from ear to ear.

I was told to repeat something in Hindi to the leader of our exercise…well…ok…I guess I’ll do it. So I said whatever gibberish the sentence sounded like and all the men began laughing. Then he explained: “You said ‘you are beautiful’ to him,” as he pointed to the leader.

“HAHAHAHAHA!” O dear.

And all of a sudden us girls were surrounded with a chorus of, “Ho ho hahaha. Ho ho hahaha!” And they all began jumping in and out with their feet and clapping to the beat. “Ho ho hahaha, ho ho hahaha, ho ho haha!”

We had been introduced to our first session of laugh yoga. I guess I had the honor of starting it all out with the first ‘joke’ of the morning. It was liberating. It was invigorating. It was beautiful. We didn’t have to speak the same language to understand the meaning of a wonderful time. And sooner than we knew we were truly laughing while bouncing, clapping and grinning. And to end the session we raised our hands as in a triumphant ‘I just won the Olympics!” admired the blaring Indian sun with our heads tilted back and did a long-lasting laugh. I like laugh yoga. I like it a lot. 

Canada?

Well, so much for the reading packet. I lied there is one boy in our small group of 11 pseudo-Indians. But alas he fits right into the little colony of Americans. I have been here approximately a week and two days, but in all honesty it feels like it’s been a month. And I think I’m comfortable in saying that that’s a good thing, the feeling I mean. So much has happened since I stepped off the plane into the ganja/dust-filled Indian air. I guess I’ll try to pick out a few things to say and comment on so this blog biz doesn’t get too long and boring.

I say India! You say…Young Women’s Christian Association? Leave it to the American program to find the YWCA, in a country where 82% is Hindi, 12% is Muslim and finally a whoping 2% is Christian (hey who said this blog can’t be a little educational? the rest is other). This is where we ended up staying for our first two nights in Delhi before traveling to what would be our home for the next 2 months, Jaipur. It was a decent place, nothing special or extraordinary. Next to our beloved YWCA, where you could enroll in ‘soft toy stuffing,’ and ‘gift wrapping,’ classes among other assortments of random activities, was a Sikh temple. For those of you who may not know a Sikhism is a religion, look it up it’s pretty cool. It was absolutely beautiful. Anywho… I felt like such a tourist. We’re supposed to take our shoes off? Where? Will a boy steal them like in the movies I’ve seen? Is this all some sort of scam to take my shoes? Finally a guy saw our wandering selves (Gretchen, Claire and Anne) looking confused and led us to a place where we could place our shoes. We dipped our feet in the water before entering. Apparently this is supposed to help keep the temple ‘clean’ and to respect the religion. However, after hearing about 10,000 people visit that temple every day meaning 20,000 dusty, cracked, and probably some putrid feet have been ‘dipped’ in that water did nothing to comfort me. But it’s India right? So dipped I did. And the dipping was totally worth it.

The temple was so beautiful and serene. The walls and floor were made of white marble, swirled with silver-gray. I truly did feel at peace.

As we were gazing and strolling an old man squatting on a rolled up shredded red carpet motioned for us to come over. “Where are you from,” he asked. Having previous bad experiences with being known as an American from Euro-trip experiences, I said, “Canadian.”

“Ooooo Canada is nice place,” he said.

“Yep, yep. Sure is.” And we continued walking in the peaceful Indian air night. We rounded the large pool of water that centered the temple and saw the self-claimed ‘night watchmen,’ with our friend Anne but this time he was pointing at us.

“Cheater! Cheater! You are a cheater,” he exclaimed. Confused, we walked up the steps toward Anne. “You from America, not Canada. You cheater.” Anne spilled the beans. “Cheater, cheater, cheater.”

“I am from Canada. My friends are from America, but not me. I am from Canada.” I continued to persist that I was NOT lying in order to save my dignity (if I had any at that point). After much denial of my ‘American-hood,’ I gave in. My lie, that didn’t even matter (because- hey! people actually like Americans here), was foiled. Embarrassment for my lie and myself caught on, and my comfort and serenity in the temple quickly left my body. Welcome to India.

Another day in Delhi and we were off to Jaipur, the ‘Pink City.’ The population is about 2.5 million compared to Delhi’s 13 million. Jaipur is called the Pink City because good ole king Maharaja Ram Singh back in 1867 ordered the city to be painted pink to welcome the Prince of Wales as pink is a color of hospitality. The 5-hour car ride wasn’t too bad with frequent stops and lots of observing. The program directors had us stop at McDonald’s to eat where the menu is significantly different than America, in a good way I think. As you could guess…the idea of beef does not go over well here. I had a tasty veggie burger, quite yummy. I think they should add it to the American menu. As we passed the golden array of mustard and lentil fields swaying in the dusty, hot air, I had plenty of time to anticipate what my host family would be like.

हवाई-जहाज़ (aka Plane...I think)

Somehow I managed to pack what my life should/would consist of for 4 months. I found it is very easy to become crabby and frustrated trying to determine the fate of one’s fashion and hygiene for 4 of months unknown circumstances. Luckily my lifesaver roommate had a bag that was bigger than the one I was planning to take. So I was able to use that. However, it did nothing to help me lower my packing material because when I reached the airport to check my massive bag I found that it was 7lbs over. Fabulous. This then put me in the position of moving items to my carry on which was pretty plum full already, calling my boyfriend Andy to drive back to the airport and ditch some items or pay a grand $50.  And $50 it was. I better not regret bringing anything.

This should last me 4 months...NOT!

3hrs and 30 minutes, 2093 miles to my destination: Delhi, India. I’ve traveled 5655 miles so far, and not going to lie it seemed to go by pretty fast. Sleep sleep and more sleep. I’m totally OK with that. I had planned to read the homework packet, supposedly 30 hrs of reading, that was given to me to get it over with since I neglected it over my break, but I failed miserably at that. Oops.

I met the girls who are in my program on our flight from Newark to Delhi. No boys going to India, I’m also totally OK with that. I think we’ll get along just fine. It’s weird to think they’ll become some of my best friends in the next few months and I barely know them.

August 15^th. For those of you who are smart, you would know that this gracious day is the day I graced you all with my wonderful presence, a.k.a the day I was born. August 15^th is also India’s independence day. Ironic eh?

While waiting at the gate to go to Delhi a little Indian boy started to play with us. He was so cute, and his smile was from ear to ear. He gave me a salty chip as some sort of gift, and when I told him I liked his shirt that said, “Roasted Marshmallows,” and had a little marshmallow man on it with flames on his head, the little boy got pretty defensive. I’m pretty sure he thought I wanted him to give that to me too. That was the end of our 5-minute friendship.

As soon as the words, “We will now begin boarding our Elite Class (First Class),” absolutely everyone herded to the front. No line was formed and everyone squished as close to the front as possible. The attendant had to yell for everyone to step back like they were the crazy shopping ladies who want that $299, 50’in HD TV on Black Friday. Either everyone was really excited to get on the 14hr plane ride and sit really close to complete strangers, or that’s just what Indians do. I’m going to go with the second guess, mad chaos.

There is no toilet paper in the bathroom and no tampons are sold. 4 months of showering out of a bucket, and only eating food where I can see steam rising. Mentally preparing for this journey is damn near impossible. Especially when you’ve had about 5 phone calls in the past months with your estranged birth father and his wife, in hopes of meeting a family you’ve never met. I know I have to try, and yet I have not a clue exactly why. An epic change in my life? To fill the gap of a ‘family’ I never knew? To learn more about India? Maybe all, maybe none. Am I expecting to find solace in who I am, or just doing this to make more craziness in my life?

Only a few more hours until I begin some sort of journey, of which the outcome is totally unknown. Maybe I should start reading that packet…