Keeping Up with India

The last few weeks of my time in India have been punctuated by some very diverse experiences, as I tried to make clear in my last, rushed post from the dusty town of Hospet in Karnataka before my bus took off. For most of the last week, I lounged on Palolem beach in south Goa, one of the nicest beaches that I have ever had the pleasure of lounging on, and really did nothing but read, play volleyball, swim, and, for one day only, rent a motor scooter and buzz around southern Goa (I had some pretty ambitious plans, but they ground to a halt, as did I, as soon as I felt the hot, muggy weather and saw the idyllic beach, ringed by palm trees, internet cafes, little hippy clothing shops and beach-side restaurants). The experience of lounging Goa was one that I desperately needed; it relaxed me, let me catch up on sleep and get back to the basics of a good book and lots of free time. But it is not the subject of my post.

Instead, I would like to write a bit about an aspect of India that may come across as surprising for my Western audience, that being my two experiences with the hip, young, affluent Indians. Especially in metropolitan areas, the middle class, and even upper-middle class has really noticeably begun to spread its wings, riding on the back of India's booming economy and IT sector in particular. In such places as Delhi, Bangalore, and Pune, the 4-million-person city where I am currently, late-model cars clog streets that were not built to accommodate so much traffic, and where street stalls and local shops once lined the roads, now McDonalds, coffee chains and Western clothing stores have become ubiquitous. In city centers, no longer are saris and dhotis commonplace--in fact, I am often the only person in sight wearing Indian-style kurtas, while everyone else wears t-shirts and blue jeans (even in 110 degree weather!). This new and ostentatious middle class drinks beer and cocktails, goes out to restaurants frequently and even enjoys a nightclub or two, as I learned first-hand this past Saturday night in Pune. While the image of the Indian middle class may be hard for Westerners to imagine, given the stereotype of Indian destitute poverty, in cities here it is very much a reality. Although this affluence has left the towns and villages untouched, it is clear that urban centers are become middle-class oriented and middle-class dominated.

The aforementioned two brushes that I have had with Indian urban affluence have come in Bangalore, where my friend Suma and I stayed with her 30-year-old cousins for a week, and here in Pune, where we have been staying with a friend whom we met together in Mussoorie. Suma's cousins, Ananth and Ashita, work as an interior/commercial designer and an executive at Nike headquarters, respectively. Rahul, our friend in Pune, works as a freelance journalist, writing pieces for several national and regional papers, while his wife Shubana is an executive at Infosys, one of India's largest IT companies. They are both lovely hosts, and they have both wined and dined Suma and I to a degree that was totally unexpected. And, because of them, my experiences in Pune and Bangalore have been far from what I expected, at least when I decided to travel to India--different, but still lots of fun.

I think that Pune and Bangalore are very comparable cities. Both have grown massively over the last 10-20 years, more than doubling in size. Both are fairly affluent, or at least boast sizeable middle classes, which in the case of both is at least partly due to the IT industry--the two cities are number one and two in India in terms of IT investment. They are of comparable size, and both have lovely weather, being up in the hills of the Deccan plateau instead of on the hot and muggy south Indian coast. Neither one is renowned for its historical monuments and tourist attractions, but both have strong reputations as excellent places to lounge, to bar hop, and to enjoy nightlife (and I have!!).

In fact, my salient impressions of both places have been the excellent food that I've eaten, the cocktails that I've enjoyed (for Western prices!! I never thought I'd drink a 5 Dollar Rum and Coke in India!!) and the Disco where I went dancing with Rahul, Shubana and Suma this past Saturday night. There have been some amazing places...from the Cosmo lounge and the thirteenth-floor restaurant Ebony in Bangalore to Rahul's brother's South East Asian restaurant here in Pune. Very chic and modern decor in all the places, very stylish clienteles, all of it much more posh than I could have afforded in the States. As I said, I have been very surprised to enjoy this kind of existence in India of all places, where I thought I'd be roughing it on the streets!! So, everyone out there worried about me--please don 't: I'm living it up more than you are back home!

Being in this kind of environment is fairly amazing for me, because it seems like a very new phenomenon. Lifestyles are changing so quickly here, and many are having a hard time keeping up. New cultures and trends clash with traditional values, and everyone is left trying to find out where they stand in the new society. People like Rahul, Shubana, Ananth and Ashita represent not only a new generation, but an entirely new cultural phenomenon. In India, the metropolitan areas are jumping from a conservative culture to a postmodern culture--imagine, if you will, the West jumping from the Victorian age to the present in one generation, and you will have some idea of what this is like. There is a lot of discussion and disagreement about whether this is the death of Indian society, or a vast improvement, and in this argument I can honestly see the value in both sides. For me it is a bit sad to witness a sea of blue jeans, to go to a disco and hear western rap music played, and to see shopping malls constructed coming up all across cities in what is an ancient and sophisticated society that has functioned without all these things for thousands of years.. But then again, who am I to judge what is culturally decadent and what is enriching? And I am happy to know that this modernization has improved the lives of countless millions of Indians, even if it has yet to reach the furthest points of Indian society. But, as my experiences in Bangalore and Pune have shown me, whether I want it to or not, and whether Indians themselves want it to or not, India is a country which is on the move. Where it ends up is a question that will entertain me for a long, long time.

Like A Rolling Stone

Hello everyone after a very long hiatus!! I am currently sitting in an internet cafe in the dusty, grimy, noise little southern Indian city of Hospet, in which there is literally nothing of interest. I figured that, while I have nothing to do but wait for my 12 hour, cheap local bus to the tiny beach resort-strewn state of Goa (bus leaving in an hour...I'll have to type quickly), I might as well dust off the old blog and let everyone know that India has not quite killed me off yet.
There are many things that I could theoretically blame on my month long break from blogging, including but not limited to: language school, too many going away parties, the Taj Mahal, Delhi's 110 degree heat, Salman Rushdie, monkeys, India's frequent power outages, early trains, late trains, ancient ruins, you get the picture...after all, this is the country that runs on IST (Indian Standard Time, which runs as late as is convenient), and where, grammatically speaking (in Hindi at least), no one can ever be late--lateness just happens to you. But, in reality, I'm writing in English, where one cannot get away with using the passive voice constantly, so I will have to actually come up with a viable excuse. The best one that I can think of is that, while in Mussoorie I didn't have anything interesting to report, since I left Mussoorie there has just been too much to say. That and, jumping back to my Hindi-speaking self, laziness happens to have happened to me.
So What have I been up to? You may have noticed that I've somehow moved almost a whole subcontinent away from where I was a month ago. I am no longer taking Hindi lessons, having completely and unquestionable mastered the language. I'm officially on the move, wreaking havoc on South Asia--as I have been for the last two weeks or so. I've steamrolled through Agra and Delhi, to take in the Taj Mahal and the oppressive heat, respectively. I've spent an entire week bumming around the super posh and super chic city of Bangalore, in the southern part of the country, enjoying the city's happening nightlife--that is, until 11:00 PM, when all the bars, clubs and lounges are simultaneous invaded by breathalyzer-wielding policemen who pound the floors with their nightsticks as people try to buy time to finish their cigarette and their beer. Most recently, I've spent three days in Hampi--a kind of South Asian Machu Picchu, except set in between banana plantations instead of on a mountain--but no less fascinating and captivating, even if it is a bit less dramatic. And now I'm off to Goa to rent a scooter for a few days and motor my way from beach to beach across the 50 miles of coastline in the state.
A lot has happened to me in the last month, and that is in addition to completely and unquestioningly mastering Hindi. I've had lots and lots of South Indian dosas, kind of fried pancakes eaten with this spicy soup called sambaar and pale green coconut chutney. I've been attacked by cows on at least two occasions, and survived them both. I've been attacked by rickshaw and taxi drivers on many more occasions, and haven't quite survived all of them: even if I've still managed to escape with my life (sometimes just barely), my wallet seems to be conspicuously lighter after unknowingly paying five times the fare to go somewhere. I've been through the standard line of questioning ( "Whatisyourname? Whichcountry? Marriage? Whynomarriage? Whatyourfatherworking?) at least once or twice per day since I last blogged, and I must say, I've come up with some pretty creative responses. I've gotten lost many times, been very uncomfortable, spent long chunks of time exhausted, had the Delhi Belly on several occasions (do you really want me to explain what happens to your belly in Delhi? Use your imagination)---in short, its been an exhilirating and unforgettable trip; and there are still four weeks to go!! (during which, I will dare to promise, I will get off at least a couple more blog posts.)

Language School

(Landour language School--the big church behind the tree)

थोड़ा समय पहेले मुझे मालूम हुआ कि यह ब्लोग की प्रोग्राम हिंदी की लिखाई कर सकाता है। जरूर है कि इसलिये मुझे बहुत कुशी लगी। मालूम करते ही मुझे अभ्यास करना पड़ा। तो, अभी भी मैं जानता हूँ कि कोई नहीं मेरे शब्द समझ सकेगा, मैं ये वाक्य लिख रहा हूँ। मुझे आशा है कि आप लोगों को पसंद हो जायेगा।

So, the preceding paragraph has nothing to do with anything, except for the fact that I just found an application through which I can type Hindi in English script, and the words are automatically transliterated to the Devanagari (Hindi) script। I am really excited to have found this, even though (as far as I can tell) it really gives no practical advantages. It is still very cool.

So, given my new toy, I think it is time that I wrote a little about my Hindi lessons, which incidentally are going extremely well. I will start by assuring you that yes, what I wrote above is real Hindi and not something I made up off the top of my head, although it would have been exceedingly easy to do so. You'll just have to take my word for it.

I'm now in my sixth week of Hindi language instruction, out of eight weeks in total that I will be in Mussoorie. Landour Language School is actually one of the premier places to study Hindi in the country, and routinely loses teachers to European institutions. Of course, to enroll in this prestigious institution requires that you pay the tuition, which at 4 dollars per hour of one-on-one lessons is quite outrageous compared to most Indian institutions. It draws students from all over the world, and in the height of the tourist season (which is now just beginning, as the temperature in the rest of India becomes unbearable) this part of the already laid back Mussoorie essentially becomes a foreign colony, with people from everywhere congregating to study Hindi. It really is a wonderful place to meet people; I've developed fairly strong relationships with people from Australia, Edinborough, Hamburg, Vienna, Seattle, Belgium, France, Italy, Canada, and, of course, India itself. My social life has been quite interesting as a result.

I arrived with next to no Hindi skills, but was immediately able to recall nearly everything that I learned during my five weeks at the school six years ago. So, I had a pretty substantial base upon which to begin. Since then, I have been adding constitently to my linguistic repertoire. Tenses, verbs, phrases, adjectives and clauses, they've been piling up until I finally have a decent well of information from which to draw. I have had class four hours per day, with a couple hours of study afterwards. This has made for quite a full schedule, although it may not seem like much; I'm in India, after all, and studying all day is not only I want to pass my time.

So far, my weeks here have revolved around a fairly set schedule--namely, my Hindi classes and the set mealtimes at my guesthouse. Because of this, the time has passed much more quickly than I would have thought. I really cannot believe that it has been five weeks since I set foot in this country! While I would not refer to my situation as boring (although realistically, how exciting can intensive language study be?), but I have come to appreciate the odd interruptions. The parties on Friday nights with 10 people from 8 different countries. The frequent monkey-related dramas (monkey's stealing my bananas, monkeys with cute baby monkeys, monkeys attacking someone, monkeys breaking into out kitchen--all of which I have witnessed in my time here). The games of Ping-Pong with the language school teachers, all of whom have to play with their left hands to give me a chance to win. The trips into the city of Mussoorie (about a 30 minute walk downhill, which takes you down 200-300 meters) for beer and momos (Tibetan dumplings, served steamed, fried, in soup, with chilli sauce--you name it). The odd Bollywood movie, seen on someone's laptop. These are all the little things through which I am becoming very attached to my time here. It is not the language instruction (the whole reason I'm here!) but the distractions which I will carry with me as the fond memories of my time in Mussoorie. Here you meet people with the most unlikely stories, and you form the most unlikely friendships. Despite the bad food at the guest house and the lack of water for long portions of the day, it really is a fantastic place to spend time.

But not to forget the Hindi, by far the most useful thing I'll be doing here. Well, let it suffice to say that I am almost sure of my desire to continue studying Hindi in college. India has certainly got me. I already find myself looking for an excuse to come back.



For the first time I can actually write what I mean to say. So, a nice नमास्ते (namaste) to you!

फिर मेलेंगे!

A Tale of Two Cities

In this post I would like to tell about two side trips that I have made in the last two weeks, to Haridwar and Rishikesh. These two cities would appear to be alike in many regards- they are both fairly small cities, they are both situated on the banks of the holy Ganges river and thus both constitute Hindu pilgrimage spots, they are both both full of ashrams where one can study yoga and meditation, they are both completely dry cities (no alcohol is served), they are both quite hot this time of year, and they are both manageable weekend outings from my home base in the mountains, Mussoorie. Given these similarities, I thought it was safe to assume that my experiences in Haridwar and Rishikesh would be similar, but after visiting both of these holy cities I realize that it could hardly be further from the truth.

I visited Rishikesh two weekends ago, leaving on a Saturday morning and coming back for dinner on Sunday. It is about four hours away, reached from Mussoorie by a series of two unpleasant public bus rides. You may have heard of Rishikesh; it was the place where the Beatles holed themselves up in an ashram for two months and wrote the White Album while studying yoga. Nowadays, forty years after John, Paul and George (Ringo didn't like it and immediately went home) hung out there, it is still a very chilled-out and hip place. The streets of Rishikesh are full of white tourists, most of them of them twenty-something Israelis, most of the guys wearing skirts known as lungis. the little shops along the main bazaar sell tye-die shirts, cheap shawls and scarves, colorful bags, sandalwood pieces for carving and flashy jewelry. Nearly every restaurant had a lounge where the floor was padded, the tables were 18 inches off the ground and everyone sat barefoot sipping chai and eating organic food. There were advertisements everywhere for ayurvedic massages, yoga lessons and, of all things, rafting in the Ganges.

The river itself dominates the geography of the city. At Rishikesh, the Ganges is a hundred yards wide, bridged only at two points. From the ends of these two bridges the bazaars sprout, stretching in a long line parallel to the river on each side. There are saddhus all dressed up, imploring all the tourists to give them a rupee coin--but it is generally a hassle-free place, where westerners come to relax.

When I went to Haridwar last weekend, I expected somewhat the same thing. I was greeted by absolute mayhem. While Rishikesh has western tourists on a pilgrimage to smoke marijuana in the same place that the Beatles did, Haridwar has one of the holiest sites in Hindu India, and tens of thousands of Indina pilgrims each day. While both cities are on the Ganges, Haridwar ranks much higher in terms of importance as a religious place. Har-ki-Pairi ghat (see picture above) has a major connection to all three major deities. It is Brahma's abode in this part of the country. It is where Shiva was placated and coronated after defending his daughter's honor, and it is where Vishnu left a footprint to mark the spot where the Ganges officially emerges from the Himalayan mountains. In Haridwar, near Har-ki-Pairi the streets were absolutely packed, even when we arrived at 9 o'clock on Good Friday evening. I could hardly get from the bus stand to the ghat, a straight walk of 3 kilometers down the main road, without being run over by riskshaw, cow, scooter and people alike. I thought there must have been a festival; but no, Haridwar is always like that.

If Rishikesh is a city for tourists, Haridwar is a city for Hindus. The twisting and dark streets of the bazaars sell no western food, only Indian. There are no tie-dyed clothes, only kurta pyjamas, saris and salwar cameez. The shops are full of religious propaganda and periphernalia, not tourist trinkets. Along the far bank of the Ganges is a slum area whos people literally live off the river, depending on it for drinking water, bathing, clothes washing, etc. The city is much more intense, much more Indian.

The differences between the two cities is best explained by my experiences at Ganga Aartis (devotional services to the Ganges on the banks of the river). In Rishikesh, the devotional was a show. There was swaying, clapping, a choir of boys dressed up for the occasion. There were huge numbers of western Hari Krishnas, converts who are, not surprisingly, the most fervent of demonstrators. In Haridwar, the service was solemn, with everyone joining in the chanting in unison. Afterwards, people purchased little boats made of banana leaves, filled with flowers and candles and sent them down the river with their prayers. It was, for me, a much more moving and genuine display. There were no foreigners among the ranks of the devotees.

Although I did like both cities, I have to state my preference for the one that I found to be more genuine. Rishikesh was more relaxed and hipper, but much less Indian--Haridwar struck me as being a powerful testament to the power of the Hindu religion. I emerged from Haridwar sweaty, sunburned and exhausted, but I will never forget the site of thousands of people gathered on Har-ki-Pairi, sending their prayers to Ganga Ma.

Settled in Mussoorie

It's now been over a week since I came to Mussoorie, and I continue to be amazed by the scenery which is surrounding me. the city of Mussoorie is literally perched on a mountain (picture is Mussoorie from below), 2000 meters straight up from the state capital, Dehra Dun. The ride down the winding road to Dehra Dun is quite literally as exhilarating as any roller coaster, especially at the speeds at which the bus drivers take the numerous hairpin turns. From most parts of the city, there are great views of the Doon valley below, and the surrounding foothills to the Himalayan mountains. These are foothills, and still they are four or five times taller than the tallest peak of the Allegheny mountain range in which I abide.
My place of residence, DevDar Woods hotel, is a guest house another 200 meters above Mussoorie, which makes for a heck of a walk, but which gives even better views. DevDar is on the far side of the mountain, which means it faces not towards the plains but north towards the incredible snow-capped peaks of the bona fide Himalayas (picture of DevDar Woods hotel)

In the Guest house are, at the moment, eight other language school students, most of whom I find very nice and interesting and only a few of which really get on my nerves. The group isn't as young as I would have liked, purely because of demographic issues like prefered bed time, conversation topics, etc. There are, however, a couple of people which whom I really get along well. My room is great, and the freezing cold temperatures of winter are finally subsiding, leaving us with 70 degree days and 40 degree nights, by all means acceptable weather by my standards. We get hot water, which is a bonus, and three home-made meals a day, most of which consist of potatoes in cost-cutting measure taken by the owner (our complaints have not found hard ground as of yet). I have my own bathroom, and overall I am very satisfied with my room for what I'm paying: somewhere around eight dollars per night (picture of guest house kitchen and group)

Well, it's time for me to get off the computer. Language school is going very well, but I've got lots and lots of homework to do. Namaste!

India, Day 3

Hello, this is Sam in Mussoorie, my home base for the next couple months in India. I arrived this morning after an excrutiatingly long bus ride overnight from Delhi. I enjoyed the capital city much more than I thought I would; I had terrible memories of a hot, sticky, dirty, incredibly loud place where masses of beggars acosted you at every corner. My actual experience turned out to be significantly better than this preconception led me to expect, partly because I am older, more experienced, and better able to cope with with trying situations, but also because Delhi itself has been an enormous beneficiary of India's surging economy in the past years.

In Delhi, I stayed in the heart of the most oppressive area of the city, the Paharganj area, a densely populated neighborhood whose streets are lined with shops catering to tourists, and which houses nearly all of Delhi's backpacker community. Tourists are everywhere among the masses, and all of the locals, hawking one product or another, seem to view a white person as a walking bank account. There are loads of cool people to talk to--not only fellow foreigners, but also Indians, if you can figure out that they are not trying to sell you something, (wich is rare, I must admit). It is a hassle, but if you don't let it get to you, everything is good.

Much more genuine for me was Old Delhi, where the crowded masses moving in the streets contain only the occasional white face, and where businesses cater to the common person's needs. My favorite areas were the district in which all the street food stalls, selling curries and lassis and chai, were clumped together, and the area where all of the fabric dealers congregated--a veritable rainbow of color.

Delhi was a very tiring experience, and I ended up exhausted or sleeping much of the time because of jetlag. But, as I inched my way along the streets of Old Delhi, surrounded by people on three sides and moving traffic on the fourth, I felt strangely happy. It is amazing how, in the midst of what would appear to be mayhem, everybody knows their place--what they are doing, where they are going. It really is fun to be a part of.

Now, I am out of Delhi, up in the mountains where it is much more quiet--almost eerily quiet after being in the constant horn blowing of Delhi. Tomorrow, Monday morning, I begin my language lessons, which should occupy a large chunk of my time for the next eight weeks or so.

You Know You're Going to a Third-World Country When...

Sam's medical pack

-You're taking along more pills than a 75-year-old with high cholesterol (need those vitamins)
-You have more Gatorade powder than a high school football team (fight the travelers' diarrhea)
-You need travelers' cheques, a debit card and cash because either of the former two might not work in any given city
-Your mom makes you take enough Purell hand sanitizer to sterilize a surgical ward
-You're pack isn't save without four master locks and a bike chain
-You have eight copies of your passport and visa stashed in different places around your pack
-You just got injections for Hepatitis and Tetanus, and those malaria meds are already making you feel looney
-Two thirds of your bag is taken up by emergency medical supplies
-The only thing you know how to say in the native tongue is "No, I don't want any"
-Your upcoming trip will also serve as your weight-loss plan, because you know you'll get sick at least once a week for the next three months

Incidentally, all of these circumstances are true for me. It has been a hectic day of packing on the eve of my departure, and there is still way too much to do. Packing, repacking, cleaning, doing laundry, saying goodbyes, all with massive amounts of adrenaline both pumping me up and draining me at the same time. Tomorrow's the big day.

In Lieu of a College Education

This is my introduction to the world of blogging, a day I honestly hoped wouldn't come for a long time. Despite my sometimes dilatory resistance to becoming a technogeek like the rest of my family, I have finally concluded that blogging is just the most convenient way to avoid mass hysteria with mass emails that never get to everyone.

Almost everyone who reads this should already know who I am--but I'll reintroduce myself for those I haven't seen lately. My name is Sam, and, after I graduated from high school last summer, I wasn't ready to go to college. My graduation from Huntingdon Area High School removed a massive time constraint from my schedule, and I wasn't about to surrender my freedom in a couple of months when freshman orientation came around. I'm still going to college eventually--I start at the University of Chicago this fall--but until then I have more important things to attend to.

In the summer and into the fall, I took off on a whirlwind backpacking trip through Europe, exhausting myself and my bank account with a steady diet of late nights, cheap food, long train rides and the occasional beer. I went to museums and concerts, dance clubs and churches on a crosscontinental whirlwind. I came back from this trip in early October in need of money and time to relax. Now, nearly five months later, my wallet is replentished and it's overdue that I go spend all my money again.

Finally, to the point of the blog. In two days the work and relaxation portion of my gap year is over, and I take off on my next adventure. On March 7th, I will be leaving the country again en route to Mussoorie, a gorgeous town of 40,000 in the Himalayan foothills of northern India, where I will be spending the next three months. When I was thirteen, I came to Mussoorie with my family while my father was on a sabbatical. This time, I'll on my own and independent. I will be studying Hindi, the language of northern India, in a a language school, living in a boarding house, and traveling on weekends. I can already smell the spices and taste the chai--real chai, not what they give you in Starbucks, but massive vats of the stuff simmering for days over a gas fire, into which little glass cups of the spicy concoction are ladled. My mouth waters thinking of the curries and lentils andrice--Indian is the best food in the world. All the cheap artisanry, cheap food, cheap transportation, cheap everything...

So this is the introduction--I'll start actually writing when I get to Mussoorie, not until next week. Before I go, as a disclaimer--I have never been good at communicating. Sorry if I start out strong and never finish, but that scenario is pretty likely. Just to let you know--and I still love you all.

Namaste!