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.