conch, princetonian, writer, artist, photographer
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This blog is dedicated to my loving gram, Mary-Jane Knipp. You know the rest, and I will see you soon.
I have decided that I want to start a business in which I scam people out of their ignorance and money. The concept is this: when people have qualms, they bring their troubles to me. Then I listen and analyze their problems. After some thought, I give them a solution. I tell them therapeutically, “Go travel.”
I went to Jaipur this past weekend and completely forgot about every worry I had during the week. My brain was too busy learning new things and taking in new sights to think about things I should do or places that I should be.
Here are the things that I learned:
The predominant religion in Rajasthan is Hinduism.
Rajasthan has been inhabited by humans for about 5000 years, and was part of the Indus Valley Civilization.
The Rajput Empire was established in the 1500s, under Vikramaditya--a well-known Hindu king.
Amber fort was completed in 1599 AD under Raja Man Singh.
It took 25 years to build.
It's archways were covered with wicking during the summer to provide cool air to the Rajas.
The Sheesh Mahal was constructed under Mirza Raja Jal Singh (1621-67 AD). This is where he met special guests.
Mughal Emperor Akbar befriended many Rajputs and eventually they handed over their kingdoms to his rule.
Hence, the mughal/muslim influence in architecture.
When the Mughal Empire crumbled and the British Empire took over, they allowed Rajputs keep their ceremonial titles with relatively little power.
There are four signs of a happy elephant.
...a swinging trunk, rocking back and forth, a purring noise, and a swinging tail.
In captivity, elephants live to be 70-80 years old.
Elephants eat millet and bamboo.
Elephants recognize humans by their scent.
Elephants at Elephantastic live with their trainer and family (or vice versa).
Elephants have skin that is one inch thick.
Paint can be made from crushed up rocks and water.
Riding an elephant kind of hurts.
Elephant+selfie = “Selephantie”
Elephants have poor eyesight.
Elephants like to be touched on their trunk and under their chin.
An elephant trunk contains over 800 muscles.
Dussehra is the final night of the Navratri festival, and is celebrated with "aga," or fire.
Laddu, Padpi, and Burfi are sweets that come in a variety of colors. I will never know the name of all Indian sweets.
The Chipati in Rajasthan is hard and the cuisine is really caloric. Some of their chutney tastes like straight up ghee and a traditional meal is dahl(lentils) mixed with brown sugar and dense, crumbled up bread.
Kulfa means ice cream, and saffron is yellow.
Gandhi’s birthday is a dry day. Meaning: no beer for Indians, yes beer for tired Americans.
I am good at negotiating with rickshaw drivers. "300 hundred rupees." "No. 50." "Okay."
Jai Singh was into astrology and astronomy. He built 5 observatories in India during his reign. The largest observatory is in Jaipur, and there is no trace of the fifth.
Sasthama means Sextant.
A sextant has two pinholes that the sun shines through when it crosses the meridian. At this time, you can measure the distance of the sun from the equator by looking at the markings engraved on the eastern and western semi-circles.
Rasivayala were used to measure the latitude and longitude of the celestial bodies. There are twelve rasivayala corresponding to the 12 zodiac signs.
The azimuth of a celestial object is the relative angular position of the object measured eastward, starting from the north. It can be found with a ginormous, complex cylinder and a piece of string.
The capital of Rajasthan moved from Amber to Jaipur in the 1700s because of a lack of water and over population.
The Singh dynasty has ruled Rajasthan since the 1700s—although there have been numerous adopted sons. (So does it count?)
In 1949, the Rajput states of Jaipur, Jodhpur, Jaisalmer, and Bikaner were merged into Rajasthan in City Palace.
Under the British Empire, the Raj spent most of their time outside of Rajasthan—playing polo and staying in fancy hotels.
At independence, Rajasthan had a literacy rate of 50 percent.
Textiles and jewels are the main exports of Jaipur.
Rajasthan’s main industry is tourism.
In Jaipur, I stopped stressing about the enormous world around me and looked at the beautiful place in front of me. I learned to forget. I know that I haven't addressed any of the problems that I encountered in Jaipur--poverty, misogyny, petty crime, and scams. But sometimes, it is best to stop focusing on the grand scheme of things in order to be productive. This past weekend, the best I could do was contribute to the world economy one tourist's rupee at a time. Now, I feel better about taking on more substantial work this week. Traveling helped me remember that my time is valuable, and I shouldn't waste it worrying.
"One of these days you'll be under the covers and you'll realize, that all of our days are numbered--all of them, one to one hundred."
What genius shaped the clock
like the face of a man? Sulking in circles, his tics
fall like tears.
They are wiped under his chin,
disappear into the corners of his grinning mouth,
and finally furrow their brow
before beginning again.
How he yearns to twist his shackles
and be free of his prison’s form!
He would go forward—never
visiting a single pit stop or intersection twice—
wandering one sole, winding path.
Did his inventor know
under the same conditions?
Did he account for the context
of his circular creation?
Such a drab simplification
destroyed infinite possibility!
-Morgan Nelson
Pune, India
Strobe lights reflected off of the mirrors on the men’s pants and onto the lawn. I have never seen lights—or a men—move so gracefully. But their beauty was outshone by the twinkles of twirling women. The Indian ladies were dotted in pom-poms and jewels from head to toe, like the meeting of a kindergartener’s art work and a painting by Monet. Their nose rings, earrings, and bangles glittered when they jingled to the hypnotic Indian music.
A young girl performs Dandiya at a Garba in Pune, India
I stood in awe of these radiant women at an event that I attended on Saturday. They were dancing Dandiya—a complex routine that involves a lot of twisting, leg raising, and stick banging. The dance and the sparkling costumes are part of “Garba.” Garba events originate from the Indian state of Gujurat. but are found all over India at the end of September. For nine consecutive nights, women overshadow men at Garbas—in dance and spirit—to celebrate the Navratri festival.
The festival is a celebration of female power. It lasts nine nights because there are nine incarnations of the Hindu Goddess, Devi. The most famous incarnation of Devi is Durga—a ten-armed woman who slayed demons while she sipped wine. At first, the women dancing at the Garba in Pune seemed as intimidating as the invincible goddess. Their arms moved so quickly and intricately that I could have sworn they had more than two.
The Navratri Festival celebrates the ten-armed Hindu Goddess Durga
Women formed circles of about 15 and moved in sync with each other. I was afraid to break into their beautiful celebration of female infallibility.
But the wonderful aspect of most Indian women, is that they are equally as welcoming as they are powerful or beautiful. As soon as I gained the courage to walk up to a group, they opened a space to let me join in the dance. I found the beats in Indian music easy to follow with the help of smiling friends. Female solidarity and flowing skirts without any fancy footwork is possibly the definition of my jam. I fell into the rhythm and spun the rest of the night away dancing Dandiya.
I had so much fun on Saturday night that I decided I wanted to go another Garba the next night. However, it was a Sunday. For some reason, I have it stuck in my head that I am not allowed to go out on Sunday nights. It have the practice of routine ingrained in my brain. I almost didn’t go to the Garba, but my roommate made me. The dancing wasn’t significantly better than the night before, but I had more fun on Sunday because I felt more free.
I broke out of my routine, both by going out on Sunday night and by breaking into a dance circle on Saturday. I often forget that doing the same thing everyday sets up expectations that cannot be met and stifles the imagination. It is this simple lesson that I have learned over and over again: life is better when you try new things. Unlike light or sound, time only moves in one direction. The only circles I ever want to do are twirls.
Robin Pecknold wanted to record the second Fleet Foxes Album in one take. He wanted Helplessness Blues to have the authenticity--"vocal fuck ups and all"--of Van Morrison's Astral Weeks, which was recorded in 6 hours. The idea was eventually scrapped because of the intricacy of a new six-piece band set-up. Still, the addition of stand up bass and woodwind instruments helped Pecknold achieve his goal of a less "pop sounding" sophomore album and many of the vocals are the original tracks.
Originality isn't ever flawless or easy, but Pecknold makes it perfectly beautiful:
"I was raised up believing I was somehow unique
Like a snowflake distinct among snowflakes, unique in each way you can see
And now after some thinking, I'd say I'd rather be
A functioning cog in some great machinery serving something beyond me."
On a personal note, Fleet Foxes have always provided me with great travel-music. I heard their first album Sun Giant during a summer I spent driving through mountains and lakes in Montana. Ever since, I have wandered the world with their rambling folk music on my playlist. In India, I have been struggling with faith and the overwhelming, inconceivable world around me. Hinduism is a mystifying and just religion, yet I could never see myself being a "functioning cog" in any machine. Listening to Fleet Foxes makes me feel less alone in wondering faithlessness. Their music reminds me to believe in the beauty of poetry and art.
The first things you will need are a stainless steel bowl and a teacup. Fill the cup to the brim with water, and then pour the water into the bowl. Place the bowl on the stove-burner—or any open flame. It is not necessary to bring the water to a boil before adding a spoonful of sugar. About the same quantity of tea as sugar should then be mixed with the solution. Measure a half teacup of goat’s milk. After adding the milk, the tea should turn delightful shade of taupe. It now looks like Chai.
The tea must simmer over the flame for a minute before straining and sipping. I reach for the lid to cover the pot, but my elderly Indian host father quickly taps my hand away. The pale-brown liquid in the pot looks like Chai, but would not taste like it—I have forgotten the main ingredient. My host-father grabs the masala spices from the cupboard in his kitchen. I laugh and bobble my head from side to side, nodding “yes” in the typical Indian style… how could I forget? The aroma that wafts from the Chai, with the addition of the spices and the help of my host-father, is remarkable of my time in India.
I didn’t know what Chai was when I was standing in a long, but efficient line in Zurich, Switzerland boarding a plane to Mumbai one month ago. My ignorance was blissfully flagrant because of my outfit. A well-dressed, normal-faced Indian man stood ahead of me. When he turned around and saw the blonde-bobbed American wearing lulu-lemon leggings and an oversized faded-denim shirt, he offered his help, “I think you are in the wrong line.” I checked the ticket folded in my United States passport. “Am I?” I responded. When he saw that my ticket read, “BOM” he laughed shyly. His intentions to help me had been sincere and kind. I was proud to have navigated the Zurich airport and found the right line, but I questioned myself again, “Am I?”
I was suddenly embarrassed of my stupid leggings and how many stains my favorite travel shirt had acquired during its time in Uganda over the summer. When I left East Africa in August, I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life traveling. But during two weeks in Key West, Fl—the time between Kampala and where I stood in Zurich—I had become fully American again. My outfit clung to my home identity tighter than my leggings clung to my @$$. Even though I knew Indian women dressed more modestly, I wore the pants so that I could sleep comfortably on the plane from Newark to Zurich. But I hadn’t slept. Instead, I watched movies with love story plots that made me wonder why I was going halfway around the world from everyone whom I love and everyone who loves me. Boarding the plane to Mumbai, my outfit was out of line with the well-dressed Indians around me but I was more worried about where I had left my heart.
I didn’t feel much better when I arrived at the modern Mumbai airport. It took an hour to find my driver and by the time I was alone again in a half-dilapidated hotel room, my clothes were soaked by a combination of humidity and sweat. I peeled off the leggings and took shower—a bucket filled with water and a cup—but I still didn’t feel clean. I couldn’t convince myself to put on the even the most comfortable American clothes that I had. So I left my basketball shorts in my travelers backpack and lay down on the hard bed in my underwear. After fiddling with a thousand switches to turn off the light, I closed my eyes and went through a now familiar thought process: why would I ever exchange my comfortable bed, my mom and dad, and my tropical island for solitude and sweat? The first night I arrive in a new country alone is always the worst.
The next morning, breakfast consisted of nan and vegetables. In America, breakfast is my favorite part of the day. The spicy Indian cuisine was good, but the thought of making egg and cheese sandwiches for my parents made the food in front of me taste even more foreign. The smiling Indian waiter drizzled coffee into my cup as it drizzled outside of the window. Mumbai (the Bay formerly known as Bom) gets the most rainfall from the summer monsoons—Indian Ocean water carried over the sub-continent by cold winds from the Himalayas. The rain, sometimes only a settled mist over the city, persists for about four months. Residents of the coastal city function normally, and without raincoats, in the damp air. After breakfast, I watched a few hundred of 18 million Mumbaikars walk to work in the rain as I waited for a car to take me to Pune.
The four-hour car ride to my study-abroad program location was dreary, and I was not surprised when I found the city of Pune covered in clouds.
It remained gray for two-weeks after my arrival. Because monsoon season started a month late this year, rain continued to fall on Pune for half of September. Consequently, I spent the beginning of my stay in India trying to absorb culture while sopping up the summer monsoons. As I toured new streets and met new people, my bright blue raincoat stood out amongst the crowds of Indians with dew formed on varying hues of brown skin.
It was difficult to forget the whispered rumors and blaring news stories that suffuse American ideas like monsoon mists saturate Pune. According to popular notion in the United States—more importantly according to my mom—it is dangerous to be a white-skinned woman in India.
I spent my first week in Pune believing that I should not go anywhere by myself. My roommate, Puja, and I walked to school and back home together everyday. But this schedule became as suffocating as wearing a plastic raincoat in summer heat. I learned to go places alone in high school and have since only grown to love my independence more. It is awkward to look sideways to talk to someone and to keep their pace, much less to dodge Indian traffic, while walking. I like to have my own schedule. Near the end of the first week in Pune, Puja needed to go home from school before I was ready, so I decided to take on the 20-minute stroll by myself. It was raining, but I decided it was too hot to wear my raincoat. Although I was alone, I found that people did not look as much as they had when I walked—huddled under plastic hoods—with Puja.
I understand why it is not advised to travel alone as a woman in India. The 2012 Nirbhaya Rape Incident in Delhi inspired massive protests in the capital and became worldwide news, yet from 2010 to 2013 there was an increase of rapes reported in India from 24,923 to 33,707. Stricter rape laws have seemingly done little to reduce the amount of crime in dangerous cities such as New Delhi, Mumbai, Jaipur, and Pune. However, an increase in reported rape cases does not necessarily mean that India should be imagined an unusually dangerous place for women. In 2012, NYC reportedly had 13 times the amount of rape cases than recorded in New Delhi. There is ongoing debate about the accuracy of reports in in both countries. Some claim that rape is under reported in India, while others argue that the reputation of rape in India has been exacerbated by social movements leading to more cases of rape reported.
According to rape statistics alone, it is unclear whether India is a particularly unsafe place for women. Gender equality in Indian society does not meet western standards and Indian women suffer abuses such as female feticide, but there are no statistics that show that white women are more vulnerable to sexual harassment in India.
I have yet to experience staring or anything extremely rude because of my skin color. Some Indians may look at me a half second longer than normal, but it is human nature to observe things that are out of place. And most Indians don’t even give me a second glance. The times I have been looked at the longest are instances in which I do something strange. The raincoat I wore had hidden my white skin and blonde hair, but it clearly made the statement that I was not Indian. Walking home alone skin-to-the-wind, was the first 20 minute step on a long journey to feeling comfortable in India.
My first weekend in India, I resorted to something that ironically always makes me feel at home: traveling.
A group of American students and I took an overnight bus to Hampi in the Karnataka state of India. Hampi was the capital of the Vijayanagara Empire from the mid-1300s to mid-1500s, but historians believe the city on the river was first settled in 1 CE. Ancient temples tower above rice fields and a winding river at the UNESCO World Heritage site. My friends and I road bikes among the fields and explored the dreamy ruins. We got rained while paying our respects to Durga—the goddess depicted riding a tiger and killing a man. Then we climbed up 200 stairs and dodged vicious monkeys to see the view from Hanuman temple. The mountains made of boulders looked as if god scooped river water in his hand and made a vast drip-sandcastle. Like secret-windows dribbled into a tan fortress, temples devoted to Hindu gods dotted the kingdom. Possibly because of my Key West upbringing, I feel at home as a tourist in beautiful locations. Sitting at the top of the monkey temple overlooking the ancient city, I finally remembered why study abroad was the right decision for me.
It is easy to like petting elephants, drinking ginger-tea, learning things, and climbing mountains—experiencing a country as a starry-eyed tourist is new and exciting. It is not as easy to get insight about living in another culture.
Right before I left Pune for Hampi, I had difficulty getting to the bus station. I could not hail a rickshaw or walk the busy streets alone at night, so my Indian host father offered me a ride on the back of his two-wheeler. He did not know that weaving through traffic on the back of a motorcycle is my favorite way to experience foreign countries (sorry, mom), and was nervous that I would feel uncomfortable. We scooted through traffic, festival lights, and crowds cautiously. After we arrived at the bus station, I thanked him for going out of his way for me. He responded, “It is my job to take care of you.”
When I returned “home” from Hampi, my Indian family continued to take care that I find my way in India. They are leading me down the path of consoling my American identity with Indian lifestyle.
Mrs. and Mr. Date told me to call them Auntie and Uncle. In India, it is odd to refer to people who are not your parents as “Mataji” and “Pitaji.” They are the real mother and father of two daughters, now married, living in Hong Kong and Kansas City. Like all modern parents, they Skype with their children while they are abroad. More unique to Indian culture, Auntie and Uncle talk to their daughters several times a day. Auntie says that the daughter in the U.S. liked it for the first month, but now misses her home in India. I understand how she misses home.
I have moved into the place where she is absent. The Date’s apartment above Date Photo Studio has a small kitchen with a nook for daily Hindu prayer, an open living room with an Indian swing and flat screen TV, a bathroom with a bucket shower, a hall way with laundry lines strung across the ceiling, and two spacious bedrooms. I live in a room with Puja. We have two beds, a closet, and a desk. Sunlight comes in through four large windows and reflects off of shiny tile floors. Two doors open to a balcony. We would like to enjoy the balcony more often, but it is hard to hear over the noise of the busy street. On an average day, noise bellows from beeping cars and earth-rattling trucks.
I did not think I was going to be able to live with the noise when we first moved in. But it was louder during the first week that we lived in the room. On top of the noise from traffic, music blasted from permanent parade floats and crowds praising the Hindu gods. We had arrived Pune during the Ganapati Festival.
The Ganapati festival celebrates lord Ganesha—“the remover of obstacles” who takes the form of an Elephant. Of 33,000 Hindu gods and 28 Indian states, Lord Ganesha is most praised in the state of Maharashtra. The largest cities in the state—Mumbai and Pune—have the biggest Ganapati festivals in India. In Pune, the 10-day affair begins with the installation of ornate elephant figurines on most street corners. For 9 nights, music plays and people gather to visit the exhibitions. Similar to floats in the United States, Ganesha displays are crafted all year. On the last day of the festival, the artwork is paraded through the streets. Unlike the parades in the US, this procession lasts 24 hours, cuts through neighborhoods as well as downtown areas, and ends in the river. Because Hindus believe that everything that comes from the Earth must return to the Earth, the clay elephant effigies are left in the water to disintegrate into mud. The theme of the festival is detachment from material substance. Everything that has a beginning must also have an end—including the noisy festival.
On the last day of the festival, Auntie offered to take to watch the succession of people and gods through the streets and into the stream. Auntie and Uncle customarily watch the spectacle on their television. At their age, they like to avoid the majority of 2.8 million residents crowded on the streets of central Pune. But shy, unassuming Mrs. Date ventured out and marched through the hordes to take me to the home of Uncle’s sister, who lives on the parade’s main road. From the sister’s balcony, I could see the bands of Indian drums, flag twirlers, and floats that had been hidden by the crowds on the street. I observed the source the festival sounds in awe for hours. Accustomed to the racket, Auntie closed her eyes and took a nap.
I slept better with the closure of the festival too. However, my interest in Hinduism was just beginning to be awakened.
Hinduism is the largest religion in India. Its festivals are loud and colorful, but I have been more impressed by its influence in routine life. Every day, Uncle prays to the 8 figurines in the nook of the kitchen. According to him, the orderly ritual is about cleanliness. He wears a special robe and “bathes the gods” only after he has bathed. When he is physically clean, he performs “Pooja”—Hindu prayer designed to stimulate all 5 senses. First he removes the flowers that decorate the gods, left over from the previous day’s prayer. In an orderly fashion, he uses water to wash each photo and statue. He drinks some of the left over water out of a conch shell and uses the rest to mix with perfume. The perfume is spread onto fresh flowers for the gods. Then Uncle lights an incent. The fire offers light to the gods. He places milk and sugar in a small bowl in front of the nook as a food offering. Finally, he rings a bell and begins to chant. By stimulating all of his senses, Uncle cleans his mind and soul with prayer ritual.
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About two weeks ago—the first day is stopped raining—Uncle took me to the police station to register for my four-month stay in Pune. I went through a long Visa process to get to India and police registration was the final cut of India’s red tape. After we were done, Uncle bought me a Lassi to celebrate. Everyone knows Indian cuisine for its spice, but I have noticed Indian’s taste for extreme sweet. Along the streets in Pune, countless, colorful Indian sweets glitter in shop windows. I have tried a few, but none compared to my first Lassi. It was cold and white and the sweetest thing I had ever tasted. The unknown-Hindi-named flavor most likely translated to “sugar” or “fat” in English. After I finished my first Lassi, I felt like a kid who had eaten his entire bag of Halloween candy in one sitting. But Uncle insisted that I try the Mango flavor. Out of respect to my host father, I followed the Indian tradition of finishing food that is given to you and dove into my siblings’ stash of Halloween treats. Indian hosts have a tendency to overdue sweetness, in desert as well as generosity.
The sun has been out nearly every day since police registration. This morning, I woke up to the sun reflecting off of the tile in the Date’s apartment and I was happy despite having watched a romantic comedy with Puja last night. Weekends at home with Auntie and Uncle are my favorite part of the week. We don’t do much; I have only just made tea and I am now writing on the couch. But knowing a culture does not come in exciting moments and beautiful views. In order to break through stereotypes and generalizations of peoples, you must be able feel at home with those people. While living abroad, you are able to put individual faces to the names of ethnic groups. When I think of “Indians,” I think of Auntie and Uncle—two individuals whose guidance and generosity has lead me through crowds, prayer, making tea, and tasting the sweetness of Indian culture. Over the past month, they have helped me adjust my American identity to an Indian home. When I go home, I hope to help adjust American perceptions of India. I will start by making everyone I love a cup of Chai.
Alex Clare is a new British artist known for his single "Too Close," released in 2011. Influenced by dubstep and blues, most of his music is categorized in the electronic trance genre. While I enjoy Clare's other beatz, I think he should strip it down to bare-bones music more often.
This plain piano song sweetly simplified my walk home. It made the blaring horns of Indian traffic, the vendors selling incense and flowers and cigarettes, the stray dogs and cracks in the side-walk, the two-wheelers who try to run over pedestrians like horses out of a starting gate, and all of the many, busy people on the Pune streets disappear for four minutes and ten seconds.
Regarding the lyrics, I particularly like that Clare does not mention gender in the song. He does not even explicitly speak of romance. The words elude to love, but the love could be between any two people. This gives the listener accessibility to the emotions that he is conveying--love and loss. Again showing that clarity suits Clare well.
Mumbai and Me: An Epic Tale of Traveling Half-way Around the World and Not Really Getting Anywhere At All
I am in the library at the Gohkale Institute of Politics. Dust has leveled on the blue-tarp clad bookshelves and rickety wooden desks, but the breeze is blowing away the musty smell of old literature. It has taken me a long time to write, but now seems like the best time to start. Since my arrival in India, I have developed the horrible habit of beginning a blog post, becoming overwhelmed by the size of the endeavor, and never finishing it. I have been caught up in every sort of transition possible in the past month—of heart and of mind, of culture and of location. But I have resolved to finish at least some things in this never-ending transient existence. My future posts may seem a little backwards and winding, but blogging amongst the books right now seems like a good place to begin.
I visited Mumbai this past weekend. In a city of 18 million people I met enormous economic equality, iconic peacemakers, a rich cultural history, and ordinary people. But as always, I was challenged most by my own self-awareness—am I an individual or social being? Further, are others primarily individual or social beings? The circular answer to these questions will play an important role in my future and the future of intercultural tolerance and economic development.
While in India, I have been thinking heavily about the course of my life (I’ll finish that blog and post it later). I am thinking about it more than usual because, well, I have only planned up to this point in my life. My goals have always been: get into good college and use money from “good college” to study abroad. Check, check (both checks cashed from Princeton’s bank account).
Post life-goal-achievement has caused quite the mix-up in my mind. The night before I left for Mumbai, I considered—for the first time ever—doing what most sensible people do with their lives: work to earn money. This clearly defined route to self-actualization seems appealing in all of the recent confusion. Once I have a path to take, I can jump hurdles and clear branches and get cut and bruised and what not to get to an end goal. My problem is finding the route to take in the first place. As I often do, I fell asleep contemplating a path to take after my stay in Pune.
In the morning, I boarded a train on the track to India’s largest city. I joined some fellow American students at the station in Pune. We left for a 3-day excursion planned by our study abroad program and arrived in Mumbai four hours later.
The first place we visited was Madi Bahavan—Mahatma Gandhi’s “home” from 1917-1934. Although it actually belonged to a friend of his, Gandhi stayed in a modest room of the house when he visited Mumbai—the epicenter of India’s Nationalist Movement. At Madi Bahavan, the iconic social-activist formed integral plans for India’s nonviolent independence from Britain and promoted thoughts like, “Truth alone will endure, all the rest will swept away in the tide of Time.”
Derived from Hindu philosophy, Gandhi believed in the “oneness” of humanity—the harmony of all souls and the universe. This belief helped him to see the ultimate good in all people. He showed the same respect to his adversaries as he did to his friends. Sparking controversy, he once addressed a letter to Adolf Hitler beginning with the phrase, “Dear Friend.” Gandhi’s noble efforts to treat each human equally—including his enemies—baffled his challengers into stupefied submission. It was his saint-like bodily existence on earth that secured his legacy for eternity.
The memory of Mahatma Gandhi has attracted visitors like Martin Luther King Jr. and Barrack Obama to Mani Bahavan throughout the years. Gandhi is espoused—even worshipped—as a symbol of selflessness by change-makers all over the world. However, his most important contribution to society was as a scholar. He was vehemently devoted to studying a plethora of philosophies. He read and perpetuated religious and philosophical theories. It is Gandhi’s devotion to education and truth that should be recaptured and reiterated by modern leaders.
This, at-least, is the sentiment of Mahatma Gandhi’s great-grandson. Tushar Gandhi is the founder of the Mahatma Gandhi Foundation, an organization created to preserve his great-grandfather’s documents and philosophies. T. Gandhi does not claim to have the scholarly mind of his great-grandfather, but has devoted his life to promoting Mahatma Gandhi’s views of universal truth and human equality. While speaking with us at Mani Bahavan, T. Gandhi asserted, “Truth, justice, and fairness are not universal today. Diplomacy has a point of view. It has become selfish.”
But it is a human inclination for self-interest that allows for T. Gandhi to do the good societal work that he does. Icons are essential to social movements. T. Gandhi admits that pure philosophy should be the driving force behind social progress, but society is not mature enough to make change without iconography. He cites the One Percent movement in New York City and the Arab Spring in 2011 as examples of movements that suffered without a figurehead like his great-grandfather. An idea is easily available to people if it is personified by a “perfect” proxy.
We must always be skeptical of things that are presented as perfect. Even Mahatma Gandhi should not be seen as perfectly selfless. He was driven by faith in the complete oneness of humanity. But even if Gandhi was unselfishly motivated to promote humanity as a whole, his ideas were independent and led to his fame. To be completely selfless would inhibit iconography and the successful restructuring of existing society.
There is awkwardness about Tushar Gandhi’s foundation—designed to promote the philosophies of his Bapu, yet successful because of the name Gandhi. To the discussion of the ideas he promotes, T. Gandhi added, “Even I want to be known as Bapu’s great-grandson.” This awkwardness exists in every person; it is a struggle between being a member of society and being an individual.
In Autobiography of a Yogi, Paramahansa Yogananda notes his father living for one goal: even-mindedness. His father told him, “A man comes into this world without a single rupee and leaves this world without a single rupee.” Our self-worth should be evaluated not by the material goods or power that we possess, but by the fairness of our thoughts.
Ideas of giving, selflessness and “oneness” are perfect. But perfection is romanticized—it only exists in the past or future. We live in the present—where complete selflessness seems necessary for current social inequality, but is too overwhelming to be realistic. If instead each individual practiced fairness of thought, the task of addressing social inequity would be less of a burden.
When I am abroad, or doing any type of “aid work,” I try to approach each individual as I would in the United States. I have been taught certain social norms and I think it is best to not forget my identity while I am trying to understand another person or group of people. Losing my self-interest in each person I talk to would be the same as changing my major each time I encountered a different subject in school—confusing and unproductive.
This is why I had an ethical dilemma with the itinerary of the second day in Mumbai.
The schedule said that we would be visiting a pottery and textile factory in one of Mumbai’s largest slums, Dharavi. I had previously encountered Dharavi through lectures and books. It is the largest slum in Asia—created by the rapid industrialization of India during British colonization. Mumbai was a city composed of 7 malaria-plagued, swampy islands originally. To expedite extractive economic practices, the British developed Mumbai into an industrial port. They filled in-between the islands of Mumbai for construction of mills and textile factories. Then they used their wealth from manufacturing to develop the coast. The British settled into mansions on the coast while the cheap Indian labor force moved into tenement housing near the factories in the middle of the city—creating the slums and manifest inequality in Mumbai.
Now, Mumbai is in the middle of another transition. The Indian economy is on the brink of becoming a major world economy through its IT sector. Development has caused national GDP to rise sharply since independence in 1942. However, GDP per capita remains an unimpressive $3,000 USD. India’s place on the GINI scale—which measures income distribution—leaves even more to be desired. India has decreasingly relied on its textile exports for its wealth, causing factories to shut down. With this transition, the skyline has changed. Glittering high rises reflect the water in the bay, while smokeless smokestacks wilt in the marshes.
With the closure of mills and textile factories property owners wish to sell their land, including the tenement housing, to developers. Although the slums are not glamorous, they are a microcosm of community. They have not only functioned as the backbone of Indian economy, but the blood of many political movements. The heart of the Indian Independence Movement was in Mumbai, in particular the Mumbai slums. The open layout of tenement homes fosters an exchange between families and neighbors—linking people socially and politically. Developers wish to replace the sprawling slums with high-rise apartments, but not like the ones glimmering on the coast. The apartments are less spacious than the tenement housing and leave little room for community in the Mumbai marshes.
I am uncomfortable with inequality and injustice, but I am more uncomfortable violating the basic social standards that have shaped who I am. To my discomfort, our program visit to these “shops and factories” turned out to be a slum tour. We walked through the streets glancing into shopkeepers working in deplorable conditions. Worse, we went into a high-rise apartment. I was not invited into these people’s homes and should not have been there. I approach economic development work without the aim of being “selfless.” I think of each person in every situation as an individual on the same level, including myself. This can lead to a conversation, which leads to development. The break-down of a social norms—the basic decency of only going where you are invited—did not encourage social interaction, much less change.
Continuing with the contemplation of self and social standards, our group went to a visually-impaired sensitization workshop on the third day of the trip. To learn about the challenges of being blind, we were blindfolded for 20 minutes. At first, I thought that this concept was ridiculous. But I think my pre-disposed judgment came from nerves. Right before I put on the blindfold, I felt the way I do before I am about to run a 5k. I tried to think of some way to get out of the uncomfortable situation I knew I was about to experience.
While “blind,” we had to move chairs into groups of 5 and learn the members in our group. Then we had to figure out the amount of currency given to us and try to read braille. The tasks were difficult, but the group aspect to the workshop gave me the most anxiety. Without my vision, the voice in my head overpowered my surroundings. It was so hard to read social cues that normally use my eyes for. I became jealous of the outgoing people in our group. I could hear them chatting and laughing with each other, yet I could not tell if people wanted to speak to me. So I remained quiet as a form of consideration.
Being blind took “even-mindedness” to an extreme. If we are in the dark about the others around us, if we only hear ourselves, how can we hope to have successful social interaction—much less social change?
A friend of mine in Pune says that Hindu meditation is "trying to figure out the darkness behind your eyes.” He believes that the voice you hear—the voice that is writing this paper—is not you (or me). He takes the approach of observing what is happening in his head instead of analyzing it.
I tried going to meditation last week, but I did it wrong. I cried. When I tried to clear my thoughts to achieve inner-peace, I could not focus. My mind went to my grandmother. I was sad because she was gone and I was sadder that I could not make her live in my spirit. I was sad that I had no faith in my soul like the people in the temple around me. I was so sad that I asked my grandmother for help believing in her spiritual existence.
Mahatma Gandhi said, “It is faith that steers us through stormy seas, faith that moves mountains, and faith that jumps across the ocean. That faith is nothing but a living, wide- awake consciousness of god within. He who has achieved faith wants nothing. Bodily diseased, he is spiritually healthy, physically poor, he rolls in spiritual riches. Without faith this world would come to naught in a moment. True faith is appropriation of the reasoned experience of people whom we believe to have lived a life purified by prayer and penance. Belief, therefore, in prophets or incarnations who have lived in remote ages is not an idle superstition but a satisfaction of an inmost spiritual want.”
Faith, meditation and Hinduism, things that I really admire, are things that I cannot enjoy. I wish that I had a belief system, but I have not been able to have faith because I contemplate too much.
Although I promote the idea of introspection for individual and societal health, there is a point where introspection becomes obsessive nervousness, inaction, and depression—a mind that no longer is balanced, but runs around in circles while time moves linearly. I get confused when I am left alone with my thoughts too long, and I get overwhelmed in social settings. I do not know if this is the way that other humans function—if we are truly all the same, our souls and minds similarly constructed like our biology—but I am personally striving for balance between my individual and social being. I want to think and do, listening and speak, read and write.
The problem is that there is no formula for this balance. Like many social entrepreneurship ventures, impact is only something that can be measured after it has happened. The measurement of personal balance is well being: your emotions, how you feel.
I thoroughly enjoyed a visit to the museum on the third day of the trip in Mumbai.
At Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya, I walked around the echoing halls and learned about Indian art and culture—from the Harappa Empire to Mughal rule to British Colonial rule. I loved the sculpture room of Vishnu, Devi, and Shiva. In Hinduism they are the creator, harmonizer, and destroyer of the universe respectively. Shiva is the most depicted god—he speaks of protecting the soul and sets the rhythms of the universe through dance.
I watched the power in civilization transfer from gods to humans in Mughal Empire art. The manuscripts were intricately painted and beautiful. The miniature paintings, originally on palm leaves, depicted gods and their reincarnations. Then, a Mughal emperor—in a perfect display of self-interest—commissioned portraits of himself. And emperors rose to be gods through art. I was also taken by photography of Mumbai in the 1930s. The shadows in the pictures of E.O. Hoppe make the city seem flat, big, and desolate—perfectly depicting British colonization.
But between reflections of gold-flaked gods and monochromatic Mumbai, I spotted an image that especially caught my eye. Unaware of it until the moment after it happened, I had done a double take of a girl I saw in a photo frame. Myself.
Even surrounded by the beauty and complexity of culture and civilization, self-interest exists. It is when self-interest becomes extreme that it is a problem, personally and in society.
I believe that movements for peace promotion, economic development, and human equality must take this notion into consideration if they are to ever be successful. That is why I am interested in a new media—a social media that coalesces self-interest with societal gain. A media that encourages self-interested users—more and more of whom are children—to strive for even-mindedness. A change in the social media could create a generation who genuinely believe in less wealth and status, and more equality.
That being said, I also know that I have to control my own self-interest. I spent too much time last week thinking, so this week I am doing more. I had an interview with the Times of India yesterday. I am going to try to write some articles for them during my time in Pune. I have also been taking my schoolwork more seriously, running, attending dance classes, and doing yoga.
I’ll probably never figure out what exactly makes me happy, and I’ll probably never figure out how to make the world different. But I can try to be even-minded in my approach to society and myself as spontaneous things happen around me.
It is raining outside of the library now. The smell reminds me of the soccer fields of my childhood as the sound is tricks me into thinking that I may not ever want to leave this spot or this moment. But inevitably happiness only exists in moments, and begrudgingly I move forward, winding in time.
The people have gathered, elbows jabbing sides,
to see the spectacle.
Thoughts fly like flags on ships--
beating brains ask, “When is it over?
How do I feel? Is this beautiful?
Those people have a better spot.
Do they like it as much as I do?”
The second that the glow sinks below
the horizon, the show is over.
The members of the crowd stop asking questions.
They turn their backs and walk away,
leaving those pointy elbows.
But did you know the sunset is better
after the sun has already gone?
The colors cling to clouds
longer than the people in the crowd
cling to their clicking cameras.
Click! The crowd clips the spectacle short
when the horizon clips the final ray.
But that is okay.
Those who adhere to night and day--
the hordes-- are only for a brief moment
in the way.
-Morgan Nelson
I wrote this poem about the sunsets I've watched people watch in Key West, Fl. I wrote this poem to recognize the beauty of individual, unique thought.
I like running. I like the feeling of needing to move and the first wind that streams through my esophagus to fill my stomach with new air when I go out for a jog.
So today after a week of mostly sedentary life in Pune, I joined a gym and stepped back on the track. Initially, I questioned spending my time in India at the equivalent of a country club. Shouldn’t I be doing cultural activities and “Indian” things while I am abroad?
I have run in every place I have travelled. In Uganda, I drudged up and down dirt roads on mountainsides. I was chased by students ages 4 to 17, sometimes comically and sometimes threateningly. I have also panted on a flat Kenyan wildlife reserve. The loop was enclosed by wire so that elephants couldn't come charging, throwing tusks like elbows in an 800m dash. Last summer, I circled the Eiffel tower in Paris—putting out burning cigarettes and scorching glares with the sweat flung from my unconcerned brow.
But people told me I couldn’t run in India. It would be too dangerous. They said that Indian culture is more oppressive than angry elephants, snobby French, and unstable "democratic" regimes.
I ran one other time in Pune before today. Last week, I found a track two blocks away from my house at SP college. There were many Indian families there. Young and old walked around the patchy soccer pitch, on the outside of a chain link fence that resembled an ocean wave or a rhythmic gymnast’s ribbon. On my first 1.2km lap, I passed games of cricket, squash, and tennis. There were also games that I did not recognize and barefoot students doing some sort of Indian squats. The women all wore pants in the heat. The seasonal cloud cover did not stop the monsoons of sweat that came from the pants covering my legs. But it was the good type of sweat—no longer from nerves. It was the type of sweat that quiets a mile-a-minute mind. Hush. Huff. Puff. Plop.
Saying that I can’t run is like saying that I have to listen to incessant chattering between my ears for four months: telling me that I have to make a decision every second, that I have to do more, that I have to find balance. Saying I can’t run is constantly having to analyze questions like, “Is it actually too dangerous to run in a park in India? Should I be running in circles in a country club in Pune?”
When I travel to a new place, I want who I am to be influenced and changed by the experience. But sometimes I want to forget who I am altogether and remember what I am. Running is what I am—a pair of white legs and a blonde bob in a bun, with lungs that wheeze and pores that sweat and chemicals that beg me to stop being for just a second-- no matter where I am.
And I think remembering what I am, and realizing what everyone else is, will let me be more open to any culture in the long run.
The song skipped and the music died,
so he smoked cigs to their filters,
and the moon didn’t rise over the marble building.
The grass on the hill was itchy where he sat,
so he watched the people parading in jealousy,
and the moon didn’t rise over the marble building,
The skin darkened in circles beneath his eyes,
and he contemplated all the ways that he could stay alive,
and the moon didn’t rise over the marble building.
So he looked at failure’s idle face
and said, “Moon, I know
that you are you, I am I,
and the world is moving
and that you are there.”
In protestation, he stood
upon the uncomfortable ground
and stamped right onward.
And the moon shadow
followed willingly behind.
-Morgan Nelson
I'm in India, but I wrote this while I was in Princeton. It's funny how the things that inspire you can be the same wherever you are. How the same conflicts-- like inaction versus action-- take differing, but similar shapes all over the world.
I am spending the semester studying abroad in Pune, India. I arrived on Tuesday and I am trying to find a way to get settled-- establishing goals for learning about this culture, my health, and my future. I guess my question right now is, "How can India influence me?" but it should be, "How can I influence India?"
Is it possible to impact a country, a community, or even a single person? I have always been overwhelmed by the vastness of this complicated question. Should I even try or is trying counterproductive? This question persists in Pune-- even with Gunapati drumbeats filling my ears at night, colorful saris mesmerizing my eyes, and monsoon mists melting on my skin. Inaction versus action in India. I'm going to try to sort that out, but because of commitments and demands I probably won't be able to. Stay tuned.
I have just finished watching the evening news with Caroline Kudwoli and her baby. Tonight is my last night in Africa. It also happens to be the 100th anniversary of the Germans invading Belgium, the event that entered the British into WWI (I was watching the BBC). The First World War is cited as one of the deadliest conflicts to date. As a result of new war technologies and stalemate tactics, 16 million lives were belligerently taken by this century-old war.
Tonight the news reported that 2,000 Palestinians have been killed during the past month, 887 people have Ebola in West Africa, 400 lives were taken by an earthquake in China, a grenade took several lives in northern Kenya, and a baby with down syndrome was abandoned in Australia.
I don’t do the math that would show how the evening news is more gruesome today than trench warfare was one hundred years ago. Instead I turn off the television and turn to play with Aidan—an 18-month-old Kenyan boy in footie pajamas, the light of his single mother’s heart.
Mrs. Kudwoli has been kind enough to be a host to me in Nairobi as a favor to Alex Counts. She lives in am apartment in the middle-class neighborhood of Kangemi with her sister. The bed that she has offered me is bigger and cozier than my own at home. Mrs. Kudwoli works as a paralegal for the Grameen Foundation’s Nairobi bureau. I spent today at her office, taking in the sounds of helping people from a distance. The telephones rang and computers hummed. The well-dressed, normal-faced men and women gave presentations between bites of homemade scones during their Monday meeting.
The teams are developing Apps for farmers to bank and “rock star” ways to measure the impact of microfinance—financial inclusion for the rural poor in the form of small group loans. However, one of the organization’s partners has been having some structural issues. It recently converted from a microfinance institution to a full-fledged commercial bank. In order to meet social impact and financial ambitions, the new bank implemented a new individual loan product for borrowers who are used to taking out loans in groups. Additionally, the bank did not properly train its own staff to make this transition. They are now working on non-coercive loan recovery collection.
At lunch time Mrs. Kudwoli, her two colleagues, and I went to lunch at a local restaurant. I paid for matoke, oogali, stew, beans, and chapatti for everyone, so as to thank them for their “karibu”—the Swahili word for “welcome.”
After returning to the office, I wrote a poem and then it was time to leave. Mrs. Kudwoli talked with me about Nairobi’s constituencies, industries, and health care policies as we sat around a roundabout in typical city traffic. We stopped at a market so that I could buy chocolate—something I now eat whenever I want it.
“I think it is evil to deprive yourself of something so delicious,” I told her. And I found out that she adores cheesecake.
When we got home, I wanted to work out. So I did and it felt good. As compared to making myself do something that I think a person should do. As compared to having unpleasant expectations.
I surprised myself by knocking down walls during my work out and then went downstairs for dinner. I joined Mrs. Kudwoli’s sister on the couch. We talked about TV crime series and music in Nairobi while a Mexican soap opera played on the living room television. When the vegetables and chapatti were ready, we sat at the dining room table. Mrs. Kudwoli switched the channel to the news. Whenever I looked away from the conversation about Zumba classes, I could see the horror stories melting and dripping on the TV like wax. The world may be on fire, but all humans burn calories and fuse families from day-old friendships. The best I can do is listen to the cackling and simmering that burn bridges and form stars.
Having the audacity to love someone now
is scary and I've gotten meaner.
It hurts
It helps
to be independent—alone
in a stone fortress, designed by time,
behind a fence, where balls go to stay.
No-no, I will not come out to play.
I do not game or gamble anymore—
I’ve already lost so much.
But it hurts more to know
that they will never know
and you can never let it go
for there is no where for it to go.
It is tattooed on your soul
and stitched to your rib cage—
caged in the coffin, written in the will.
Your tears forever full of doubt,
your years full of wonder.
I wonder— in each place new and old
I now stand and will forever be—
Did you know?
I’ve already lost so much.
-Morgan Nelson
I haven't updated my blog in a while. I have all of the notes from all of my adventures written down and I have been working on shaping them into stories, none of more than personal significance, but I do have stories to tell to myself and the people who want to know them.
However, I didn't have to work or shape this poem. It is largely unedited and uninhibited-- a nice reminder of why I started this blog. Lately I have been writing to please other people: a blog for my mom to know where I am, instagram updates on Facebook to impress my friends, and reports for my boss to "be successful" and "build my resume."All of these formats are very safe writing endeavors, all judged in a good way (and maybe in a bad way). In a certain fashion, having an audience has made me avoid writing this blog altogether. Because now I want it to be good and I have been too busy for it to be anything of the sort.
I was hesitant to post this poem. But I re-read my first blog post and I was reminded that I started doing this so that I could make myself uncomfortable. So that I would be unafraid to be the way I am and have the thoughts I have.
I attended a slam poetry event in Kampala about a week ago. I will have to write about it in depth (poetry so deep) later, but it was wonderful. Good or bad, the poets gave their audience everything that they had with no inhibitions. The headline poet (if that is the name for it?) was a local poet named Jason Ntaro. I enjoyed his poems. But even if I hadn't I would still appreciate his insights on writing. He said that he has never written anything without feeling it. He said, "Writing is pure emotion. You can't escape it." It may be selfish, or it may touch others, but it is release.
When I wrote this poem I stopped crying. It took every emotion welled up inside the person inside the car inside Nairobi inside Kenya inside Africa inside the world inside humanity and let it be something else, something I should not be afraid to share.
Memories of grand summer adventures swirled with the vast landscape like a Van Gogh painting as I zoomed past the picturesque Kenyan countryside. But even as Mt. Kenya, home, Zebra stripes, new friends, soft skies, and welcoming women whirled together whimsically in my mind, I cried. Because all of a sudden, out of my tangle of neurons and abstract art, I was out of Africa and in my Grandmother's white apartment. The couches, the walls and the countertops were spotless as they always are. It was empty, she was gone, and all was still. That place inside of me was blank and it always will be-- despite any beautiful brush strokes that may paint my surroundings.
I was sad when I finished reading Family by Ian Frazier. I was sad that it was over. And I was sad because the book is filled with unrealized dreams and transient life. Frazier told the story of his family from his slave-trader ancestors to his civil war soldier great-great grandfather to his drama teacher mother. The book puts each of their lives in context. The characters are shaped by Stonewall Jackson, the history of Ohio, John D. Rockefeller, American migrations, chemical processes in Lake Eerie, and Protestantism- making Family an informative piece of non-fiction. But between the lines of factual description are simple, deeply sentimental images. I could tell when Frazier was enjoying himself the most in his research. By the end of the book I knew who Ian Frazier was and what he values in life. One of Family’s closing sentences reads, “And all that remains is brave love and the moment that you danced and your heart danced with it.”
Now, Ian Frazier is my favorite author. I did not know this when I met him a few months ago. He came to John McPhee’s class. I sat next to him. He and another New Yorker writer spoke to fourteen students about writing and life. Frazier wore a baseball cap. Its brim tilted upward to reveal his clear, hound dog eyes. He leaned back in his chair and listened to the other author command the conversation. He didn’t demand the attention that his writing deserves and when he answered questions he played with his pencils. He looked more like a student, always intently listening.
At the time of our meeting, the only thing I had read by Ian Frazier had been assigned for the class. I enjoyed those twenty pages of Out of Ohio. In them, he told a story about himself and his experiences without being overly self-indulgent. And the story mentioned my Key West. During the break in our class, I told Mr. Frazier that I was from Key West. At this remark he seemed genuinely interested in my story. He asked if I lived in Old Town or New Town and what the high school was like. He laughed at stories I told about my family- my dad living in a VW bus and my mom owning a toy store. We chatted for about 10 minutes. I only remember one other remark from meeting Mr. Frazier. He found that writers always have the most interesting hand writing. I knew that I liked him as a person before I knew that I liked him as a writer.
Family was thoughtful and honest. On one page, he described a revelation that he had when he lost his brother. One day he noticed footprints in the snow in his driveway. Suddenly it hit him how completely gone his brother was from the earth. I had a similar experience two weeks after I lost my gram. When I looked at the spaces between the numbers in my statistics book, I felt her absence and spent the rest of the night crying. Family made me miss my family. It made me realize how dumb it is that think that I am in Mbale, Uganda and my grandfather is in Ft. Myers, Florida. Because in the end there is only brave love...
…but there are also the moments when you danced and your heart danced with it. I have had a lot of those in the past week. One morning, I was surprised to find that the last . 5 miles of my run was going to be straight up a mountain side. It took me ten minutes to climb/crawl the last half mile. When I turned around the sun was rising over the mountains and banana trees. I coasted back over the dirt road and past the tin roofs to my guesthouse. Last weekend I sifted rice with Ugandan women. They laughed at me when I tried to peel a potato with a knife. The power shut off while I was in the bathroom. I showered in the pitch black. I walked through a market place to buy Kenyan fruit wine at night without feeling frightened. I watched new borrowers at WMI learn the simple importance of saving while the sun burned my white skin. I did the hokey pokey with middle-school Ugandan girls and didn’t worry about being embarrassed. “This is really what it’s all about, isn’t it?” I thought. I watched Dallas Buyers Club and was pleasantly surprised when Jean Marc Valle didn’t show the character die at the end. The last scene was the AIDS victim riding a bull. I drank warm African coffee and finished Liar’s Poker by Michael Lewis.
I could write about a lot of things that are bothering me right now as well. But I’m not going to. I am reading The Blue Sweater by Jacqueline Novogratz. I still want to travel the world and I can still see myself living in Africa for a while. Despite the inevitable sadness of Family and life.
I am eating chocolate right now and I just had a ton of Indian food for dinner. So I am happy. We are staying in Mbale again tonight because the road to get back to Buyobo is too dangerous to travel on. When it rains, the dirt road to the village turns into a mudslide that even the most experienced Matatu drivers have trouble maneuvering. And it rained all day. On us. While we hiked.
We traveled to Sipi Falls this morning from Mbale. It took about an hour and when we got there the skies were grey. Once we got to the first waterfall we couldn't tell if we were getting wet from the spray or the clouds. Thinking about the crowded car ride we would have back to Mbale later, I repeated, "Please don't pour, please don't pour," in my head. It started to sprinkle. Our guides tore banana leaves from the trees and gave one to each of us to act as umbrellas as we hiked to the second falls. We passed by a metal roof that made light rain sound more intimidating than the pitter patter on our banana leaves. The thumping foreshadowed what was to come. As we walked on, the rain got heavier. It landed on our shoulders like it had on the iron roofing sheets. The banana leaves became ineffective, but once we accepted being soaked it was fun. We stood close behind the powerful natural phenomenon in awe, not caring that we were getting splashed because we were already drenched from the rain.
The only time I got cold was waiting for a taxi. I think I have become accustomed to being chilled to the bone by water because of my days as a coxswain in the winter. A little tropical rain and waterfall spray doesn't really compare to being wet during two hour practices in 30 degree weather… even if we did wait for an hour by the side of the road (you can't just call a car in Uganda, you wait until an empty Matatu drives by). When we finally got picked up and began our drive home, I read for about five minutes. Then I felt the sun come through the window and start to thaw my numb hands. "Mmmmm sunshine," I thought and fell quickly asleep.
I was still cold when I got back to the hotel, but luckily the only room with a hot shower (and the only hot shower I have found outside of Kampala) was still available. After warming my skin in the shower, I ordered a mocha and warmed my insides.
By 6pm we hadn't eaten very much, so we went to an early dinner. As soon as Amanda said the words, "Delicious Dishes," I knew that Indian food was exactly what I wanted. We call it "Delicious" for short. Maybe so that we can mutter it between shoveling food into our mouths. The restaurant is a 5 minute walk from the hotel (nothing is really much further in Mbale). The world cup match between Belgium and Russia entertained us when we weren't talking about how grades don't matter once you graduate college. My boss told me that she remembered my resume but not my GPA. We ate samosas, two plates of garlic naan, kumi paneer, vegetable tikki masala, rice, and cokes.
The feeling of leaving a restaurant having stuffed yourself and spent six dollars is more than satisfying. I am excited to go to India, but I already know that I am going to miss Uganda so much when I leave. The streets are slightly broken-- the cement cracked and the shops crooked-- but even in the dark I can find everything that I want for a reasonable price from a friendly Ugandan. After Delicious, I still had room for chocolate so I crossed the street to Bam market. The hole in the wall shop laid out its products, from nail polish to bread to candy, on dusty shelves. I found an 80 cent bar of imported chocolate and set it on the check out counter. The shop keeper looked at me inquisitively. "Mulembe?" he joked. "Mulembe" I replied. “Hello” in Lugiso. "Oo-tiennah?" he tested me. "Boulahee," I am fine, I played along. One further friendly inquiry of my knowledge of the culture that I indulge myself in, "Makuwah?" he asked if there was any news. "Gasala," or “No news,” I responded. He laughed and smiled at my efforts and opened a regular wooden drawer to get me change.
The Ugandan people are very welcoming. So welcoming that I went to a wedding yesterday. Well, it wasn't an actual wedding. It was an introduction. Which is more important than a wedding in Uganda. This is when the bride's family "introduces" the groom. The groom brings gifts-- from baskets of chickens and legs of cows to entertainment centers-- to the bride's family. Traditionally, the bride and groom should not have met before this day but African society has progressed passed this point. Even if it hasn't progressed passed essentially buying a woman from her family and female submission to her husband. In my western view of the world, the meaning behind the ceremony was backwards. But this is the way that most countries still function, and the celebration was merry to say the least. The bride was beaming and absolutely beautiful.
When she finally came out, about 4 hours into the party, she wore a sparkling green Gomez. The traditional Ugandan dress is floor length with pointy shoulders and a thick belt that knots at the waist. She paired it with glittery golden stilettos. Her hair was slicked back with golden wire that twisted into birds and flowers weaved into the bun. It took so long for her to join us because the masters of ceremony needed to “find” her. A Ugandan introduction is basically a theatrical skit. Two men, one representing the bride’s party and one representing the groom’s, have a long exchange about “picking” the bride for the groom. In groups of six, women come out dancing and wearing matching Gómezes. They kneel before one of the groom’s representation. He gives the girls gifts and respectfully tells them to bring out the real bride. After about 8 of these groups, African dancers danced, fireworks were set off, and the Bride’s introduction music played. I could see her stilettos sink two inches into the mud when she slightly lifted her long Gomez to dance.
After the bride was found, the cake was cut. The cake was in the shape of a ceramic pot and had a flag on it. The flag was red, blue, white, yellow and back-- a combination of the British and Ugandan flags. The groom was from the UK and the bride was from Uganda. I got to participate in the celebration because I was pretending to be the groom's "family." The bride had 200 people attending the celebration and before he recruited every white person in Mbale to act as his cousins, he had only had his mom. I didn't know that I was getting myself into such an affair (8 hours) when I accepted my skin-tone-based invitation. But I was promised a traditional Ugandan outfit and free food. I wore a Gomez and carried baskets of gifts on my head to present to the bride’s family. From the pineapples, to the zebra print and yellow decorations, to the people, it was a colorful celebration.
Today, I got sick in an African Market. We traveled to Matufu to visit some of WMI’s borrowers as they sold their products. The market was a jungle. Stray cabbage and banana leaves mixed with mud make for the soft undergrowth of the rainforest floor. In the first layer, I tripped over a tangle of ladies legs. They sprawled their bodies and wares on the ground side by side. They sold cassava (a root vegetable), corn, and eggplant. Some laid out towels and peddled shoes or colorful second hand clothes. It only got wilder as you went up. The understory of a jungle normally receives the littlest amount of light. Around hip level in the market, it was hard to avoid fire. The open flames roasted bamboo, mandazi (dough fried in oil), and chipati (flour tortilla fried in oil). Many WMI borrowers were found and happily interviewed in these layers of the marketplace.
As we worked our way through the bustling crowd I tried to avoid hitting people with my backpack. There weren’t many actual canopies, but sometimes I could avoid a blistering sun by ducking in the shadows of a banana truck. Nestled atop of piles of green bananas, their owners napped lazily under the brown canvas that protected their products. I would have liked to joke longer about “mashed bananas” or “banana hammocks,” but my attention was diverted to not being hit by moving vehicles. Bota-botas (motorcycles) honked their horns and zoomed through the market. I choked on their dust.
But that is not what made me sick. I have been suffering from typical traveler’s stomach the past two days. I was in the middle of the market when I looked at my translator with an uncomfortable urgency. I don’t know what color I turned, but it wasn’t one that went well with the vibrant dishes and clothes. Out of the jungle and into the jungle, down a dirt road, we found a hut. Behind the hut there was a three foot structure of sticks and dried palm frond leaves, an out house. I ducked in to find two planks of ply wood stretched over a hole. I put my raybans in the dust in front of me so there would be no chance of them falling in. I covered the holes in the fronds with my jacket. But through the open door, I could still see two cows about two feet away. They hoofed and mooed at me as I balanced. Scared, but not shitless.
The cows were tied up but I was happy to get out of the outhouse anyway. And out of the market place. Once I was seated next to a topless woman in my Matatu, a 15 passenger white van that typically holds upwards of 20 in Uganda, I had deemed it an eventful day. But the clouds had more in store. Rainy season started a month late this year and seems to be lingering to make up for lost time. It has rained almost every afternoon in June.
I was under the impression that our windshield wipers didn’t work, but it turned out the driver just didn’t want to use them to avoid oncoming traffic as he navigated the one-lane mud road (he turned them on later to wipe away the last drops of rain). Just as the gods dumped the majority of their buckets, we stopped to let a passenger out. The topless woman was nice enough to let me sit on her lap to avoid the rain blowing in the open door. She called me sister. And I guess we were as close as family in that moment.
The man whose business it was to collect the passenger’s money was not so fortunate to have such kinship. He had to help his customer unload sacs of cassava and corn in the rain. When he got back in the van, drops of water ran down the back of his neck to further soak his collared shirt.
But his business day got worse. A few miles from our destination, Mbale, we were pulled over by “traffic police.”The only words I could make out from the conversation were, “excess, excess, excess.” The business man’s white-yellow eyes looked clear and scared. His snaggle tooth tucked in behind his young, full lips. “I am trained. I can pull you out of here with one hand,” the uniformed man said in English for emphasis. I am unsure if the officer would have had the strength to pull the water-logged Matatu owner out of his vehicle. Nevertheless, the businessman went willingly to be arrested. He even closed the door behind him. The taxi drove on with twenty three minus one.
I couldn’t turn my head to look back for fear that I might puke, or hit the breast of my sister. The windows were too fogged to see anyway. But I hoped that the businessman’s family was somewhere dry.
It is hard to take American inequality seriously when you are sitting in the middle of a village in Africa. The whole issue seems so surreal, no matter how eloquently Barak Obama explains the reality of the situation in the United States. In 2005, Obama wrote that the top one percent’s income had increased by 50 times in the past 30 years. “Wow, that is ridiculous,” I think as I read The Audacity of Hope on my front porch in Buyobo.
I can hear the laughter of the kids running through the banana trees. The slapping of their bare feet on the ground sounds like the slapping of knees after someone tells a really good joke. American inequality, ha ha ha ha ha. They would chuckle if they could read what I was reading. But they are in the banana trees instead of in school.
Jane, my curious six year old neighbor, has come to stand behind me. She isn’t in school because she is the oldest in her family and the most capable to help with house hold chores. Sometimes she caries a baby on her back when she comes over. Once she came up to me and handed me the baby and walked away (she returned a few minutes later). Today she looks over my shoulder and stares blankly at the words on the page. What does she see?
She must be looking at my tea. I am suddenly aware of how obnoxiously shiny my pen is. I try to hide it behind the fancy words in my book. But Jane wasn’t looking at my pen, when she starts to stroke my hair I understand. White person’s hair. Blonde and in a bun. She runs her fingers through it as I turn the page in my book. Obama continues about social programs and a safety net for all Americans. We all have the same values he preaches. But we don’t. The large majority of the wealthy are not willing to help America’s poor through social programs. And all Americans are not concerned about the girl stroking my hair. What a miserable place.
I am much happier knowing that I have been touched by what poverty actually is. I am soothed knowing that money doesn’t necessarily make me happy. I know that access to health care, food, and proper shelter is something that I could not live without. But I want to ask every depressed or constantly overwhelmed person in America, “How much do you really need? What is your motivation to get all of that money? What could be better than being barefoot, drinking tea, and reading books? “ Ridiculous wealth is such a silly concept.
Polka means polish woman. Here is a Polish woman in Uganda.
Baby in a Bucket. Classic.
Stealing mangos before they are ripe, Georgie, Peace and Wombosa visit at lunch time.
