Nohting like seeing utter dismay on a 10 year old's face to spark up your day. Its wonderful to know they care so much, heartbreaking to see their sadness as they all rush to say goodbye, to hug you, or to ask when you are coming back...
I doubt I am, maybe someday when all these children are in their late teens and will only remember me as the crazy american who was "super cool and super strict." But I've been having fun these past few days in Bangalore, ready for the next adventure/s whereever they may come from. I only hope I don't meet any more children as cute as the ones I"m saying goodbye to.
On another note, my empty weeknights could have been taken up by volunteering at this orphanage for the mentally disabled that is literally 3 minutes from my school. And almost exactly the opposite. Run by a family from some city in Andra Pradesh, all 11 of them have dedicated themselves to caring for children who have fallen from the grace of men. With beautiful smiles and their own sacrificed lives these wonderful people are giving to these children everything they have, hoping for the scraps that people might donate to their 3 room orphanage, hoping to help a child of eight with Cystic Fybrosis, mentally disabled women who are 28 with the maturity level of a 10 year old, every single kind of case you might imagine... in three rooms and nothing but their bare hands and halting english to ask for aid. And I've been sitting in my fancy dancy school high and dry, never realizing their plight. Never realizing that I might be doing something to help. Not that its my fault, but I wish I had known this place I walked past almost everyday... well, I wish I could have done my part. This image of the child with CB keeps coming back to me, his inability to comprehend the world beyond the pain, his bones and body literally falling apart, legs thinner than any two of my fingers held together.
On another note... well I guess right now there are no other notes.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Monday, February 20, 2006
Bird in a tree
Metallic bees slinging violently past me,
In peace I rest hidden by this long-shadowed tree,
Examining every noisy passerby,
I notice everything with a chirp not quite wry.
Darkened branches warn me of impending night,
And rightfully soon to take to flight,
For when you come back and search the sky,
Only a a brilliant smile may teach me how to fly.
The pavement skids beneath each sullied foot,
While pedals pass and narrowly miss the arbor's root,
Easier this way it must always seem,
For below in the chaos only the critters team.
Prisms' fodder will come again,
And with it you will hear me preach and prim,
Until then my friend, silent company must be kept,
Be ware the stones beneath Solomon's sept.
In peace I rest hidden by this long-shadowed tree,
Examining every noisy passerby,
I notice everything with a chirp not quite wry.
Darkened branches warn me of impending night,
And rightfully soon to take to flight,
For when you come back and search the sky,
Only a a brilliant smile may teach me how to fly.
The pavement skids beneath each sullied foot,
While pedals pass and narrowly miss the arbor's root,
Easier this way it must always seem,
For below in the chaos only the critters team.
Prisms' fodder will come again,
And with it you will hear me preach and prim,
Until then my friend, silent company must be kept,
Be ware the stones beneath Solomon's sept.
Following an extreme dosage of sleep
Free and clear at last, or so I hope, of all those school obligations, on cruise control until I pop a squat on some Indian train engine. Goa is coming towards me at... well right now, no real speed, but if I were on the train it'd be a steady 40kmh. About as fast as my bike moves at top speed.
What happens when you're jealous in a dream? What does it mean? How about when you wake up due to the jealousy and promptly kill a mosquito? Is that aggression the dream's fault, or simply an innate desire to live another day without malaria. Speaking of, I don't have it, I'm too strong (and knocking on wood right now), the shit can't get me down.
Magic exists in this world...
Sound cascades into my sun-abused ears as we settle down to watch as the 1000 year old monolithic statue refuses to sabotage the 100ft high scaffolding on which hundreds of saffron robed monks and brightly colored sari wearing volunteers scamper to and fro. Remaining calm throughout this obvious itchcrazy routine, his silent eyes peer out across a landscape dominated by his tendrils of stone reaching down into the kilometer high hill.
The sun's heat matches my heartbeat, every wave increasing intensity.
We watch, waiting for his holiness to lift his hands and swat away the sycophants, to brust past les ascetiques, to lift a toe and squash the naked gurus prostrating themselves at his feet.
But he doesn't
The music increases in volume, the ushers pushing invited guests (which we were not) to the ground, clearing the viewing area among the press and VIP area (which we were not supposed to be in), squeezing knees into groins, feet into hips, arms into laps as intimate knowledge became common understanding.
The drums pick up their pace.
Everyone around us claps, and the last of the 1008 coconuts is spilled over his head, obviously stinging his eyes, but he refuses to close them.
And then it begins.
First milk, flying from two handed buckets held by honored guests and ecstatic sweating volunteers, soaking his wind softened skin, peeking into crevices, sliding down the channels formed by countless ceremonies. Then blue, then pink, then flour, then red, and white, and orange, yellow and green. Each color washing the previous away, sliding the molecules to the side so the preeminence of each color could be attained. Silver chalices emptied past his weary eyes, yet when flowers pushed by the wind fell upon his stone shoulders, carpeting his neck and torso, flowing down the streams of his long arms and legs.
And I looked again.
And he smiled.
What happens when you're jealous in a dream? What does it mean? How about when you wake up due to the jealousy and promptly kill a mosquito? Is that aggression the dream's fault, or simply an innate desire to live another day without malaria. Speaking of, I don't have it, I'm too strong (and knocking on wood right now), the shit can't get me down.
Magic exists in this world...
Sound cascades into my sun-abused ears as we settle down to watch as the 1000 year old monolithic statue refuses to sabotage the 100ft high scaffolding on which hundreds of saffron robed monks and brightly colored sari wearing volunteers scamper to and fro. Remaining calm throughout this obvious itchcrazy routine, his silent eyes peer out across a landscape dominated by his tendrils of stone reaching down into the kilometer high hill.
The sun's heat matches my heartbeat, every wave increasing intensity.
We watch, waiting for his holiness to lift his hands and swat away the sycophants, to brust past les ascetiques, to lift a toe and squash the naked gurus prostrating themselves at his feet.
But he doesn't
The music increases in volume, the ushers pushing invited guests (which we were not) to the ground, clearing the viewing area among the press and VIP area (which we were not supposed to be in), squeezing knees into groins, feet into hips, arms into laps as intimate knowledge became common understanding.
The drums pick up their pace.
Everyone around us claps, and the last of the 1008 coconuts is spilled over his head, obviously stinging his eyes, but he refuses to close them.
And then it begins.
First milk, flying from two handed buckets held by honored guests and ecstatic sweating volunteers, soaking his wind softened skin, peeking into crevices, sliding down the channels formed by countless ceremonies. Then blue, then pink, then flour, then red, and white, and orange, yellow and green. Each color washing the previous away, sliding the molecules to the side so the preeminence of each color could be attained. Silver chalices emptied past his weary eyes, yet when flowers pushed by the wind fell upon his stone shoulders, carpeting his neck and torso, flowing down the streams of his long arms and legs.
And I looked again.
And he smiled.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Getting better
At riding my motorcycle... I'll need to get a picture of the beast before I leave here and post it up somwhere I can look at it later. The thing is insane, 50cc, 6, maybe 7 horsepower, and its got to lug my fat ass around this stupid city at silly ridiculous speeds approaching 45kmh. Luckily the lack of a working battery cell keeps me from having to worry about using the turn signals although the total disregard by other knights of the road for those annoying little blinkers rendered them insignifcant in the first place.
Tomorrow I go to see an enormous phallic object attached to an even bigger statue, surrounded by hundreds of thousands of other fetish lovers. Can't wait, although I can think of better things to do with my time, like sitting around procrastinating for a project I'm supposed to deliver Sunday for my school. A project every teacher feels is a "slight" waste of time, which may be better used getting the kids to "enjoy" learning, something hard to do when all they do is play. And I'm tired, after firmly establishing Thursday american drinking games night in the pantheon of weekly chores by remaining awake until 4:30 in the morning probing friends' and acquitances' increasingly ductile minds for clues as to why their eyes were spinning in opposite, illogical, and ultimately physically impossible positions. After hours of this, we came to the conclusive that we simply did not know, with a minority opinion that we could be drunk.
In any case, 2200 pages into this goliath of a short-term self-inflicted doozy of an epic has slightly worn me out to imagining the 17-18th centuries. Neal Stephenson is... probably insane, but someone has to be so I can read their stuff. Maybe someone will say the same about me someday.
Tomorrow I go to see an enormous phallic object attached to an even bigger statue, surrounded by hundreds of thousands of other fetish lovers. Can't wait, although I can think of better things to do with my time, like sitting around procrastinating for a project I'm supposed to deliver Sunday for my school. A project every teacher feels is a "slight" waste of time, which may be better used getting the kids to "enjoy" learning, something hard to do when all they do is play. And I'm tired, after firmly establishing Thursday american drinking games night in the pantheon of weekly chores by remaining awake until 4:30 in the morning probing friends' and acquitances' increasingly ductile minds for clues as to why their eyes were spinning in opposite, illogical, and ultimately physically impossible positions. After hours of this, we came to the conclusive that we simply did not know, with a minority opinion that we could be drunk.
In any case, 2200 pages into this goliath of a short-term self-inflicted doozy of an epic has slightly worn me out to imagining the 17-18th centuries. Neal Stephenson is... probably insane, but someone has to be so I can read their stuff. Maybe someone will say the same about me someday.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Brief recap because the lengthy one would require surgery
It seems that in order to get me to write a long email or blog update, I have to sleep for an amount of time that could be misinterpreted as a coma.
In that case, lets begin with a recap that will help me bring all the memories of less than a month ago to the forefront so I can easier salvage them on more lengthy forays into the miracles of writing.
Miss Erica Raber came into town around the 10th of December, well it should have been the 10th, but unfortunately she was delayed in London after British Airways decided to perform midflight brainfarts, followed by mental collapses while on the ground, and a serious hiccup in neuron transfers while talking to the pretty lady. Luckily her intelligent, wonderful personality managed to convince them to let her come to India still, where she expected to find me waiting patiently by the exit gate... consider this a foreshadow of a longer story to come later...I had rented a house for the two of us for her two weeks in Bangalore. Houses without nonfunctioning plumbing.... smell. More on Bangalore later...
Attempting to get your visa extended/registered, I'm not sure which, I just know I am one of the few who managed to do it without a bribe (although with the amount of running around they made me do it probably would have been cheaper to hand over the mulah, but I've got standards!), can be difficult in India. Letting it be difficult so you can spend more time with your best friend helps the stress level...
We got on a bus to Madurai, where we spent Christmas, chilled out with Gandhi's sandals and had super clothes made, then went late night to Thekkady, where we had a horrible time trying to hunt down elephants, although with the proximity to their watering hole, size of their footprints, and fear our guide was showing as we pushed our way through leech infested jungle, I think we may have been worse off if we had found them. Sore disappointment over our failure to find them was tempered by the excellent banana pancakes at the Coffee Lodge near the national park. All I know is Erica is a PIMP for handling all the walking we did that day!Heading West we stopped by Kumily where we searched for a medicine she had found as the only cure for a skin rash that had been plaguing her for the past decade. While we didn't find it, we did find an alternate that was similar and didn't work at all. Afterwards a restaurant tried to poison, and then place the blame on...us. I'm still not sure how that worked, but when I explain it more, maybe you can help me understand.
Varkala has been described as a beautiful wonderful place...it is more, think palm trees, beaches, fresh fish, kind people who openly admit they're trying to rip you off, nice drinks, and all the Coconut, papaya, banana, you could imagine.
Erica petted her first elephant while evan could tell you a couple things about having not enough cushioning on the elephant spine... or hairs...wear pants...and bike shorts... The only regret i have is that we didn't do Varkala last, that way the north would have seemed
nicer after some days on the beach to reflect...Heading north to Kochi, everything was free, except for rooms, food, and walking expenses... everything else was free!!! Young Indian men should come equipped with one of those electric dog collars that only activate when they get to close to Foreigners, especially foreign women...
Coimbature- smelliest place on earth, worse when you're freezing in a trainstation
Mumbai- the cab tried to cheat us, the tea shop cost twice as much and we walked 6 km
in the hot sun, but there was good pizza and even if the indian tourists wanted to take pictures of themseleves with us, WE DIDN"T LET THEM!!Ahmedabad- There is nothing like a long train ride in your own special bed with nobody else in it to make you feel special, then you get out of the train and are assualted by Rickshaw taxi drivers of whom you can imagine and hoping for spontaneous combustion to occur to, walking, and finally out of the seeming mist but actually smog, comes trotting a camel with enormous super crazy big feet. And we saw the world's largest incense stick, and smoked hookah in a cool bar that redeemed the whole city in our eyes. And...
Jodhpur - The sleep bus was fun, the fear in the eyes of our rickshaw driver when we told him our destination was fun, meeting and instantly despising the host of our hostel...not so fun. But we manage to find the two most comfortable shawls imaginable...agoorra-rabbit's wool, and ah ve some great conversations with a bunch of people while climbing and getting lost in market after market, fort after fort...
I guess I could
write more on this tooJaipur - I think the reason I didn't like the city was bec
ause it was pink, but the Ice cream was delicious, rhe rooms comfy and warm, and life almost good.Bharatpur and Keoladeo National Park - Its surprising that Erica would rather be in a large smelly city wandering around lost,
than a hot, silent jungle riding with no clue as to where we were. Luckily the bicycles had no natural balance points so rather than worry about tigers or finding humanity we simply tried not to fall over...
but yeah the city sucked, who else can say they saw 100's of different bird species in a single day... not me!Agra - A description of Fatehpur Sigri warrants placement here, but I won't. We saw everything in Agra, and wandered around for far too long, but the Taj was worth it, oh was it worth it... there was some other things you could say about it, but... you'll have to wait.
Delhi - We left from there
Bangalore - As a simple southern city, i can not tell you how much I did not respect its wonderfulness, yet after dealing with the pollution, sheer humanity, and disgusting personalities found to the north of Mumbai, I can tell you that I have deleted a lot of emotion where I might have been attempting to swear at those rotten bastards...weelll I've restrained myself well until now, lets keep it down. Bangalore was nice.
Obviously, more to come
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