Going to K'stan!

Time to shake the dust off this old blog!

After many months of waiting, I finally got the word from the Peace Corps: On April 16, I'll be leaving for the Kyrgyz Republic! (aka Kyrgyzstan, aka K'stan, as my former prof/dear friend Gail Griffin has nicknamed it)

I am stoked beyond stoked, for many reasons. Including:

- The country is 95% mountains, and they look gorgeous. I'm bringing my hiking boots! http://www.kac.centralasia.kg/

- The national sport, Kökbörü, is "often compared to polo. Both games are played between people on horseback, both involve propelling an object toward a goal, and both get fairly rough. However, polo is played with a ball, and buzkashi is played with a headless goat carcass." 

- The diet seems to be heavily comprised of meat-rice. This surely means I'll get a visit from Andrew Mickus, champion of meat-rice consumption. 

....and many more. The bottom line is that I'm thrilled to know where I'm going, and start preparing for this crazy, tough adventure.

The Final Installment

I haven’t written for a while. When I left off, I was in the midst of wrapping up my time in Varanasi - writing final papers, saying goodbye to the friends I’d made and waiting for my family to arrive for their visit to India. Arrive they did - the plane was only an hour late, which is quite punctual by Indian standards. Apparently four Americans and their luggage were too much for the small car I’d hired to pick my family up at the airport, because it broke down halfway into the city. We split up into two rickshaws and completed the ride to our hotel, during which my mother seriously doubted that she would ever see my father and I (who were in the other rickshaw) again. I’d forgotten to tell her that it’s normal for rickshaw drivers to take a detour to buy some paan (chewing tobacco) along the way - no, they’re not trying to kidnap you, Mom. 

The rest of our time in India was filled with the trials and excitements that should be a part of any trip to India. My family was awed by the sights and sounds and smells of Varanasi. We took a boat ride down the Ganga - although I think they found the careening auto rickshaw ride through the crowded streets to be more of a thrill. We also had dinner with the family of Prastuti Mishra, my Hindi teacher. I was so happy that my U.S. family got to meet my Varanasi family - and eat some of their delicious food!

We left Varanasi by train, the first of four overnight trains on our journey. I was proud of my parents for handling these long trainrides with such grace - even the time we all had to jump onto a moving train and spend four hours sitting on the floor next to a stinky bathroom ended up being laughed about the next day.  We saw the Taj Mahal, in all its majesty - even though one member of the family had to conquer a nasty bout of food poisoning to make it there. We visited the Jodhpur, the “blue city” of Rajastan and wandered through a magnificent centuries-old fort on a hilltop. We saw the sights in Delhi - including the Gallery of Modern Art, the ghat where Gandhi was cremated and Indira Gandhi’s house - and met up with friends the Chopras, who had so wonderfully taken care of me during my time in India. 

After a whirlwind week and a half, my father and sister were headed back to the States. But my mother and I still had a week left in India, so we headed north - to the Himalayas - which quickly became our favorite place in India. McLeod Ganj, a small mountain village outside of Dharamasala, is home to tens of thousands of Tibetan refugees, including His Holiness the Dalai Lama. The town is quaint and clean, with lots of Tibetan babies to warm your heart and delicious Tibetan soups to warm the rest of you. My mom and I visited sites around the town - such as the temple complex that is home to His Holiness, and a Children’s Village that houses orphaned Tibetan refugee children. We relaxed at cafes with our books and wandered the shops. We ate great food - Tibetan soups and momos (dumplings), and even some remarkably delicious Burmese mutton - and took a cooking class, struggling to form dough into delicately pinched momos. (Last week at home we made pakthuk, one of the soups we’d learned, and it turned out wonderfully!). One of our favorite things to do was walk the path that circles the Dalai Lama’s complex - it is lined with prayer flags and prayer wheels, and each day we saw tiny elderly Tibetans walking the path to complete their prayers. All in all, McLeod Ganj was wonderful - clean, beautiful, calm and delicious.

After a nauseating car trip down winding mountain roads, we took a plane to Delhi. From there, my mom flew home - but I stayed another night, with the Chopras. On my second day in India, back in July, the Chopras had shown me around Delhi and welcomed me into their home, insisting that I come back to visit (as I later did) and alert them if I had any problems in India. It seemed fitting to spend my last night in India with them. My first visit in July seemed so long ago; so much time had passed and so much had changed - or maybe just I had changed. 

The next night, December 12, I boarded plane - on to Thailand and then home, to snowy Michigan, just in time for the holidays. The sprawling lights of Delhi disappeared into the dark as my plane took off. Goodbye, India. It had been quite a ride.

Meeting my family at the airport.

Last glimpses of Varanasi.

The fam at the fort in Jodhpur.

Anna at the Taj Mahal.

Tibetan cooking class in McLeod Ganj.

Beautiful McLeod Ganj.

Pilgrims and INDIANS

There wasn’t a football game on TV, nor was there pumpkin pie or even turkey, but this Thanksgiving goes down in the books as one of my best ever. Just like our Puritan predecessors, we Americans celebrated surviving a season in strange new land, with lots of help from people we call Indians. On the brink of my departure from India, it was great to have an excuse to think about the things I’m grateful for and be with people I love.

I’m not sure if turkeys exist in India, so we decided to go with an equally American classic - mac n’ cheese - for our centerpiece dish. We coughed up some rupees for good (and, in India, very rare) farm cheese, and it was really worth it. Mashed potatoes were, of course, on the menu. We rounded out the meal with sweet potatoes, several varieties of roasted vegetables and cabbage salad. And what’s Thanksgiving without dessert? Luckily, the best apple in the world is baked right in Varanasi (who would have guessed?). Add in vanilla ice cream, chocolate cake, homemade peanut butter cookies and chocolates, and we had ourselves quite the feast.

We spent the afternoon cooking. After so many months, it felt great to be back in a kitchen again - peeling and chopping vegetables, sauteing and frying and mashing. Even washing dishes was pretty fun. Guests starting arriving around 7pm - professor Nawal Krishna, Australian friend Michelle, American friend Daniella, Nandini Majumdar and Ankur and Anupriya, children of the gatekeeper here at Nirman - and at 8 we all ate a lovely, gigantic, candlelit meal together. We told our friends about Thanksgiving and went around in a circle to say the things we were thankful for. Even in India, some things are so familiar - that comfy, overstuffed feeling of a bellyful of mashed potatoes and the happiness that comes from sharing a big meal with people you care about. 

Katie in the kitchen.

CHEESE.

Dinner by candlelight.

Mac n' cheese - the star of the show.

My delicious dinner. 

Head to the hills

We spent last week in Mussoorie, a town high in the foothills of the Himalayas. After months of horrendous heat and humidity, the cool mountain air was a dream - and the view of the snowcapped Himalayas, always just in sight beyond the foothills, wasn’t too bad either. We stayed in a drafty, musty, wonderful old guesthouse, and spent the week tramping around the hills, exploring the town and greatly enjoying wearing sweaters. 

Founded in 1825 as a British mountain outpost, Mussoorie quickly became a popular retreat as the Brits - who refused to remove their starched uniforms and multiple petticoats - fled to the mountains to beat the heat. Signs saying “No Indians or Dogs” were common in the downtown during British rule, but Indians like later-prime-minister Jawaharlal Nehru bucked the system, regularly visiting the town despite the fines and ostracism. Luckily, Mussoorie seems to have overcome this unsettling history - the tourists today are almost entirely Indian and the town is a popular getaway for overheated Delhi-ites. 

Our week in Mussoorie was fabulous. One day, we hiked to the mountaintop home of Mr. Everest (yup, that Everest) and a funny old resort called the "Cloud House," where we sipped chai atop the mountain. Another day we hiked to a hilltop town where we found - surprisingly enough - delicious homemade peanut butter. We visited a Tibetan Buddhist community and temple (very cool) as well as a waterfall (also cool, but maybe not worth being stuck in a two-hour traffic jam behind an overturned truck on a mountain road). After traveling many Indian cities, I can say that Mussoorie is far superior in terms of monkeys and streets dogs. Every night, we put on as many clothes as we possibly could and snuggled together under wool blankets. 

On the school’s dollar, we also ate well. Eating lots of Tibetan food (noodle soups! momos!) was a highlight for me, but the best of all was the “Chic-choc.” After five months of significant chocolate deficit, this brownie covered in ice cream and Oreo bits and chocolate chips and hot fudge REALLY hit the spot. 

We left Mussoorie the day before our train home, and headed to Rishikesh, a town on the Ganga River at the base of the mountains, where we went WHITE WATER RAFTING! (Yes, I needed to use all-capitals and an exclamation point, because that’s how awesome it was.) We splashed and paddled through the rapids of the Ganga, even jumping out to take a holy dip at a calm point in the river. It felt great to wash my sins away. Definitely one of the coolest things I’ve done in India. 

That night we stayed in Hardiwar, a pilgrimage city nearby. We spent the day wander the ghats amongst hundreds of pilgrims. Taking advantage of the non-terribly-polluted water, I stepped into the river to wash my face. That evening we hopped back on a 24-hour train, home to Varanasi for our last two weeks. 

Hello, Himalayas!

Coolest monkeys in India.

Ben spinning prayer wheels at the Tibetan Buddhist temple.

Delicious roasted street corn.

Not a bad view, Mr. Everest.

The Chic-Choc rocked my socks off.

Pilgrims bathing in the Ganga in Hardiwar.

Ode to my Flip-flops

You cost me less than two dollars, yet served me so well

Through cow shit and trash piles, I never once fell.

You traveled across India, by rail and by air

Somehow all the travel caused no wear and tear. 

Remember that hike in Orissa one day?

O’er hilltop, through jungle -  you led the way. 

On so many journeys through Indian streets,

I never once worried for the safety of my feets. 

But for one short moment I let you out of my sight,

And you fell victim to a naughty dog’s bite. 

I gasped when I saw you, torn and bitten apart. 

It was as if the dog’s tooth had punctured my heart. 

You made it halfway ‘round the world, but you won’t make it back

 You withstood so much, but not that final attack. 

Oh Old Navy flip-flops, you’ve been steady and true. 

For a buck ninety-nine, that’s one hell of a shoe. 

My poor, defeated flip-flops. 

Happy Diwali from Guria!

I love holidays in India because, for all the ways that they are different than anything I’ve ever seen, the feelings of excitement and celebration are incredibly familiar. Step out onto the street on an Indian holiday and you can feel something special in the air. Women are dressed in fancy new saris, decorations are strung across the streets, vendors set up street stalls to sell idol figurines and candles - add a few evergreen trees and nix the Hindu gods, and it wouldn’t feel that different than Christmas. And, of course, nothing is more familiar than the excitement of children during a big holiday - which is why I was so glad to be invited to the Diwali celebration at the Guria children’s center. 

Guria is a Varanasi-based NGO that I’ve become familiar with in the past few months. They work to prevent human trafficking and forced prostitution. In addition to the investigative and legal work that they do (founder Ajeet spent 9 months undercover in the red light district of Allahbad, gathering information about underage prostitution and police corruption. Total badass.), Guria also tries to prevent second generation prostitution through their non-formal education center. Located in the red light district of Varanasi, the center provides after school programming and meals for the children of prostitutes, giving them support (emotional as well as financial) so that they can stay in school and have futures that don’t lead towards prostitution. It’s a wonderful organization, run by incredibly dedicated individuals Ajeet and Manju. I heard about Guria in conversation, and spent a few afternoons at the children’s center. The kids are cheerful and outgoing, and love any bit of attention they can get. I found it really rewarding to go, and was more impressed with Guria each time I went. 

Celebrated in the days surrounding November 5, Diwali - the festival of lights - is perhaps the biggest holiday of the year. The kids, normally quite energetic and eager for attention, were on a whole new level. They shrieked with Diwali excitement, hugged us and hung on us, sang Bollywood songs and demanded their photos to be taken. They’d been divided into two teams in a decorations contest, and the kids dragged us by the hand to show off their creations. After we casted our votes in the decorations contest, we all headed to the roof for a fireworks show. The kids loved the explosions and lights, and I did too - although the equation of explosives + many small children + small rooftop space seemed a bit precarious to me. But that’s India for you. 

Overall, it was the best way I would have wanted to experience an Indian Diwali. Check out Guria’s website (http://www.guriaindia.org/) and keep them in mind during your holiday season. And, of course, HAPPY DIWALI!

Ben with a friend. 

Decorations. 

Miah and Maya

Me and my man Talib.

Rooftop lights. 

Fireworks!

In awe of fireworks.

36 Hours in Kolkata

Last weekend we took a group trip to Kolkata - the “city of joy,” the headquarters of Mother Theresa’s ministries and former British capital of India. 

The best train in India (so we’d been told) whizzed us overnight to Kolkata and we arrived around noon on Saturday, a bit wrinkled and smelly, but excited to be in a new place. After a long and hot battle through the horrendous traffic, we arrived at our swanky hotel (gotta love school-sponsored trips) and made a beeline for the delicious lunch buffet. 

We’d met our program director’s cousin, Rahul, on a previous trip to Lucknow. He lives in Kolkata, so he had promised to show us around when we came. His secretary picked us up at the hotel after our lunch, and took us to one of the Mother Theresa centers - an orphanage and home for disabled children. Seeing the sick kids was really intense and sad, but I was thoroughly impressed by the Mother Theresa center - it was colorful and filled with light, obviously a place with a lot of love. 

We next went to what we had been told was afternoon tea with Rahul’s boss. It turned out to be some sort of planned cross-cultural discussion. We found ourselves in a small room at a posh restaurant with about eight older Indian men and a few women, being grilled about philosophy and economics and religion and differences between the United States and India. We were all quite bewildered. I still don’t know exactly what the premise of this meeting was or who we met, but it was definitely makes my “top ten most awkward experience of India” list. 

Then, to New Market, an area of outdoor and indoor shops. We bartered for earrings and clothing, ate thoroughly unsatisfactory soft-serve ice cream and enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the open-air market.  That night, we went with Rahul and his family to his private club. We danced to Bollywood music, enjoyed free refreshments and rubbed elbows with Kolkata’s elite. 

The next morning we went to Victoria Memorial, an impressive monument to the British domination of India. A plaque inside, bearing a message from Queen Victoria promising Indian citizens freedom and equality as citizens of the British Empire, was especially ironic. We then went to the planetarium, which just wasn’t quite as cool as I was hoping. Alas. 

After a delicious Bengali lunch - giant prawns were a highlight - we freshened up at the hotel and  then went to Park Street, a shopping area of Kolkata. The best part was definitely Flury’s - a confectionary and pastry shop. I hadn’t tasted anything quite like that croissant in a while! Of course, we ran a bit late and were a bit frazzled as we rushed back to the hotel and on to the train station - only to find, of course, that our train was two hours late. After a few rounds of euchre and III, we boarded a train and awoke the next morning in Varanasi. 

Bumper to bumper...

The outside of the Mother Theresa Center (no pictures were allowed inside...)

New Market.

Victoria Memorial.

The magic of Flury's.