Aloo Debbie

Hello, Dalai Lama!

2009-06-09T15:14:00.000-07:00

Four disheveled travelers climb out of the Jeep taxi from Manali and ignoring the locals' advice to just walk into town, we heave our bags onto 2 auto rickshaws to drive us there. 15 seconds later, we arrive at our hotel. Next morning, we set out to explore MacLeod Ganj, home of the Dalai Lama, many other exiled Tibetan refugees and countless foriegn hippies who just can't seem to leave. Dalai's temple is full of monks in maroon robes and shaved heads, who you see all over town talking on cell phones and eating at nice restaurants. The rooms inside the temple have these ornate Buddha decorations interspresed with earthly offerings on display such as Oreos, packaged soup mix, biscuits and other cheap general store staples that alter the mood of the shrine from holy to kitschy. The temple also has these giant bronze prayer wheels that you get to spin in a row as you walk by. Almost like the big wheel people spin to get to the Showcase Showdown on the Price is Right, except these spin horizontally and have Tibetan symbols instead of dollar signs. More people at the temple tried to take pictures of us than vice versa.

Later, Beau & I attended a yoga session where the teacher was singing all the parts of the body and telling us to relax our kidney, however one does that. Beau boycotted the cooking lesson later that evening. Michelle, Lija and I showed up to class, which turned out ot be run by a couple of Tibetan refugees in their ratty apartment. They didn't seem particularly prepared or qualified to run a cooking course. Like, for example, they only had 1 knife. And they'd run off to go cook something without showing us. Nevertheless, we shredded carrots and potatoes by candlelight (as the power kept cutting off) and watched as they pointed and laughed at our poorly formed momos (dumplings) that tasted really bland, by the way. I kept trying to talk about Tibet, their families there, when they are going back as Lija is elbowing me, whispering: "Spred, shhhh. They are refugees, they aren't allowed to go back!"

Soon, it became time for us to return to hellhole Delhi so Lija could catch her flight. Michelle stayed behind, missing the absolutely insane rollercoaster "luxury" bus ride back. As we careened down almost vertical drops against a cliff, I was almost certain the driver was drunk and that the brakes must have failed. I had to push so hard against the footrest not to fly forward that my legs were sore the next morning. Instead of doing any sightseeing whatsoever with our remaining time in Delhi, Beau, Lija and I stayed glued to the pool at the Sheraton for the entire day, only leaving for our last dinner (which was brought out on flaming swords). In fact, on the comments card after the meal, I requested "more flaming swords", to which the manager chased after me as we were leaving to find out exactly what I meant.

With Lija and Michelle gone, it became time for Beau and I to continue fumbling through India just the two of us...

Manali

2009-05-31T02:22:00.000-07:00

Manali is the town where all the hippie stoners go to smoke charras all day, wear parachute pants (the ones where the crotch area falls below the knee), eat German baked goods and do yoga on rooftops. Michelle, Lija, Beau and I arrive in the pouring rain and huddle into this tiny little restaurant with pillows on the floor. Soon, more patrons enter the restaurant, each one more hippified than the next. Israelis smoking out of a marble pipe shaped like a snake, a few Brits decked head-to-toe in hand woven Tibetan garb with ridiculous hats, some robed white guy with his head completely shaved except for a thick tail of hair on the nape of his neck, one fully dreadlocked, shoeless white rastafarian eating a large bowl of spaghetti and talking to no one. The four of us in our Patagonia outerwear and Nike sneakers, asking where we can buy charras, do not quite fit in. Turns out one can buy charras at the laundromat, the chai stand, the convenience store, in fact, you might be hard-pressed to find a place in Manali that does not sell charras.

We wake the next morning to absolutely beautiful weather and Manali is becoming heaven. Even the street dogs are cute and fluffy. All the souvenir shops lining the streets actually sell awesome stuff, like $5 stylish coats they stitch to fit you perfectly on the spot. Views are spectacular. Bedazzled yaks roam the streets. Food is deliciously non-Indian.

After all this eating, smoking, sitting around doing nothing, we decide we are in dire need of full body massages. We step into the little ramshackle parlor and all goes downhill from there. The temperature in the room is ice cold. The masseur is slathering cold oil on my goosebumped skin and like, swishing her hands back and forth quite rapidly. Thunderous construction noises ensue right outside. There is a fly buzzing around my face the majority of the time. Michelle chose the fancy massage option, which included getting about 5 gallons of warm oil poured down her head. I think her choice was better than ours, until we get back to the room and realize there is no hot water. We are all a bit greasy...Michelle is like slick, shiny and probably highly flammable. Having to wait for showers, we decide to eat lunch at our hotel and give the Indian food a try. A few hours later, Beau & I are in a bad, bad way. The food poisoning lasts about 24 hours, our newfound hatred of chicken tikka masala will probably last a lifetime.

Amazingly, we manage the long (gorgeous) ride through the Kulu valley to Dharamsala without projectile vomiting out the car window. Dalai Lama, here we come.

Indian Rug Burn

2009-05-19T08:33:00.000-07:00

Beau and I make it to Delhi just in time to pick up Lija from the airport, who had enough Starwood points to get us into one of the most posh hotels in Delhi...the Sheraton! I promised Lija I would plan the most amazing vacation for us. Once she arrives, I can tell she's suspicious of the fact I've done next to no planning and have nothing booked. Despite that, I manage to get us to the Taj Mahal pretty comfortably. After a minor temper tantrum at the front gate because they won't let us bring in Lija's nut mix, we are slipping on our little white booties over our shoes and feasting our eyes on one of the 7 wonders of the world and the symbol of love. Slightly ruined by the fact that Beau & I are bickering and the stone inlay on the building is supposed to glow at sunrise (which is why we woke up at 5am) but it is too overcast so we are all a little bummed. Once we leave the Taj, my lack of planning really sets in when we realize our only way back to Delhi at a reasonable hour is sitting in the lowest class on the train. We're squeezing into this cattle car, with a million people already inside, all telling us we're in the wrong section. "Only for locals!" I try to assure them that yes, unfortunately we are in the right section. Beau & Lija have to climb up and sit in what appears to be the luggage rack, while I am stuck down below, sharing a bench that is meant for 3 people with literally 10 people, one of which is sleeping on me. We finally arrive in Delhi about 4 hours later than I was hoping, which makes our connection onto Manali (which I haven't yet booked) next to impossible. Especially considering we have another friend (my friend Michelle from Seattle) waiting for us at the Smyle Inn in Delhi.

To top it all off, Delhi is literally a sauna. Even the breezes feel like a hot engine blowing your skin off. And when carrying a 50 lb. backpack down Pahar Ganj main bazaar, with people up in your face trying to sell cheap sunglasses, searching for the Smyle Inn, any opportunity to get the hell out of Delhi ASAP sounds like a good one. So when the smylie man at the front desk of Michelle's hostel told us we could easily hop on the next luxury bus to Manali, leaving in just an hour, we were so relieved, we threw our money at him and followed his lackey all the way to the Old Delhi railway station, where we sat down in the middle next to a "spiderman", crusty homeless guys laying in their own piss and other such company, waiting for the lackey to fetch us our tix for the 6pm bus. And when he hasn't returned by 5:55, we all look at eachother and realize what a bunch of fools we are! At 6:10 or so, lackey actually shows up and tells us just wait 5 more minutes, the bus is late. This time, Beau follows him around like a hawk and he finally motions us over to our bus...a piece of shit, dilapidated government bus. No air conditioning, seats falling apart, petty theft practically a given.

Up until this point, I've been the psycho stress ball on the trip, flipping my shit every time a taxi driver tries to overcharge us by 50 cents. This time, its Beau's turn. He corners the lackey on the bus so he can't run away, and yells in his face "This is bullshit! We each paid 900 rupees for a luxury bus with air conditioning!" Beau grabs the tickets out of his hand and finds out the bus we're about to ride only cost 350 rupees each, and the luxury bus left 30 minutes ago. Lackey won't refund us our money, but Beau won't give up and forces him to give up his cell phone. Shitty bus engine revs up and we reluctantly take our seats, waving the cell phone at the lackey, who is standing on the curb claiming he doesn't have the money to refund us and begging for at least his sim card back. Shitty bus takes off and we depart with the lackey's phone, clutching our luggage and popping Ambien for the 16 hour bus ride from hell. I can tell at this point everyone is steaming at my lack of planning. Lija is visibly miserable. Lackey's phone keeps ringing. I literally shove the bus conductor guy for trying to make me move Beau's huge backpack out of the center aisle.

We finally get to Manali and its pouring rain. But don't worry, it starts to get better...

Goodbye Koraput, Hello Beau

2009-05-14T22:19:00.000-07:00

The moment finally arrived - the end of my placement and the arrival of Beau to India! I wake up at 4am for the 5-hour drive to Visakhpatnam, where I have about 8 hours to kill before Beau's flight gets in. I go to this fancy salon for an ayurvedic facial and emerge with some kind of skin rash. I'm sweating bullets and hop into this insanely overpriced taxi to the airport, where I scream at the taxi driver for about 30 minutes and try to pay him with torn rupees. Beau's flight is miraculously only 10 nail-biting minutes late and we start making out in public (which I think is a federal crime in India for un-married couples). We arrange for a legit, pre-paid taxi and I learn the price of my ride over actually was right. Oops. The next day we make our way to Koraput on this slow government bus, with people hanging off the top and cows speeding ahead of us.

In Koraput, Beau gets to experience all the interesting and annoying things I've sort of taken for granted, including waking up at 6am for a trip to the field, only to discover that no one is ready to take you there until 4pm. Or the obligatory visits to everyone's home, stuffing you to the brim with bony meat dishes and lukewarm lentils. And the bright green paddy fields that stand out against the deep red dirt. And the pooris for breakfast, which are big puffed up round doughboy-ish things.

My going away party was epic, with jello shots, homemade chicken pakoras, ridiculous dancing and one of the girls from the office getting too drunk (again). When it was finally time to pack before an early wake-up call, we lost all power. In the pitch black, I tried to search around my apartment with a candle deciding whether or keep or toss items like my large rotating dolphin light, girl & dog figurine, tribal saree, dirty baskets, etc. I pretty much got rid of everything except this one frying pan that has been quite annoying to lug around Manali and Dharamsala. More to come on those adventures, stay tuned...

Ohhhmmmm-y God

2009-04-16T04:36:00.001-07:00

I always thought of yoga as a way to reach the ultimate zen, where all your stresses disappear. I decided to become the hard-core Zen-master by attending 5am yoga every morning for the past 2 weeks. I've dragged my ass out of bed to head over to the Ram temple when its still dark outside. There are about 10 middle-aged men and women who are regulars, sitting Indian-style on 2 separate sides of the room, doing deep belly breathing when I arrive. I join in to find everyone quick to point out what I'm doing wrong, even when I'm doing nothing wrong at all. I try to relax, but can't stop wondering why we are still breathing through alternating nostrils for 20 minutes straight. I keep checking the clock, which is on the wall next to countless tacky Hindu posters with cartoon gods, except for 1 poster of Sai Baba, this orange-robed Indian guy with a Jew-fro who looks like a motivational speaker and taunts me all through class. Anyway, the teacher keeps repeating, "Always smiling face...Always smiling face..." and I sort of want to sock him.

Then we come to the pose that is 'only for gents,' where the ladies have to wait by laying down on our stomachs with our elbows on the ground, cupping our heads in our hands like we're 1950's pin-up dolls. I can't take it. So I start to do the 'man pose,' prove to them that women can do anything! They all point at me and yell, "Gents only! Gents only!" I hold the pose as long as possible and then sink into defeat, fuming, mind racing. Perhaps I should get up and just walk out! Or maybe keep coming to class and doing the man pose every time and see what they do. Or maybe after class I should go home and do the damn pose for at least an hour! How dare they tell me what I can or cannot do?? Finally after class I confront this sexist yoga teacher and ask him WHY that pose is only for gents. He replies, "Because it is not good for the ovaries."

The more yoga I do, the more irritable I become. In class the next day, I nonchalantly grab a spot on the men's side of the room. They all stare and start pointing and yelling 'Your side! Your side! Move to YOUR side!' I reply, "NO." They give up and continue stretching. I'm feeling quite smug...but still irritable. Later that day, I'm sitting on a bus with an extremely horn-happy driver. The honking is giving me a splitting headache, not to mention there is a woman standing next to me holding a chicken about 2 cm away from my face and laughing. I start yelling, to no one in particular, "Stop hoking the god damned horn! You are a HUGE fucking bus! People can see you from miles away! They all know you're here! Enough with the horn! Horn, NO. Horn, NO!" This tactic yields zero results.

Back at the office, it is 5pm and a couple coworkers ask me to help design their annual report...due in 1 hour. Typical. I tell them I will only work on it if they sit with me so they can learn what I'm doing. Reluctantly, one agrees. He pretends to pay attention for a while, but then starts trying to rush me, saying he needs to leave at 5:30. We don't finish by then, since the so-called 'annual report' is comprised of 7 separate nonsensical documents, none of which utilize any helpful formatting techniques, such as PARAGRAPHS. My coworker asks if I'll just finish it without him and send it to the Secretary. To which I reply, "NO!" The other guy walks in from probably a power nap and a fat cup of chai and asks if we're finished yet. To which I reply, "NO." I get the hell out of the office, fall fast asleep at 8pm and 12 hours later, I wake up relieved to have slept through morning yoga and finally feeling at peace.

Oohs, Ahhs and Ouches in Puri

2009-04-01T22:09:00.000-07:00

Puri is a religious beach town and home of Lord Jagganath, the Hindu God that looks a lot like a South Park character. It also has a lot of foreign tourists, espresso and legal marijuana. Obviously the ideal choice for a weekend get-away.

Ali & I boarded the 14-hour train and 1-hour bus ride and arrived on Saturday afternoon. First, we ordered beers in this restaurant with a garden courtyard. Beers in public! Ahh! We kept spotting white tourists and couldn’t help but stare. I kept smiling at them and trying to get them to talk to us but none were taking the bait. It seemed all the other foreigners (dreadlocked, barefoot, dazed and confused) were there to get ‘immersed’ in India and ignore our invitations to sit at our table.

We did manage to befriend Sabir, a Kashmiri who worked in one of the antique shops and was dating a French girl named Eva. The four of us hung out every night, eating gigantic prawns, pizza and making mojitos on their rooftop.

They recommended we go to ‘Madustan Healing Center’ for the best massage in Puri. It took us forever to find and it looked like some sort of shut-down prison. We entered and walked in on the middle of a ‘laughing yoga’ session. Indian gurus, foreign hippies and children were sitting on mats with self-induced hysterical laughter. Ali & I were sort of hiding in the corner, feeling really awkward and not sure whether to stay or leave. After the yoga was over, we tried to inquire about massages but it was really weird and the guy said we could come back tomorrow for an appointment with the famous acupressure doctor.

So we left and instead went to this ‘unofficial’ massage parlor, where this man and his wife were doing discount oil massages in this really shady hotel. It seemed pretty sketchy at first, I had to lie down on this hotel bed that was flush against the wall in this dingy little room. But soon I forgot where I was as the wife started kneading my feet and calves. She was incredible. Then she proceeded upward. I won’t go into details. Lets just say she massaged literally every square inch of my body. It was a bit odd. I booked an appointment for another one the next day.

Other adventures include our trip to Konark, home of the Sun Temple and supposedly the birthplace of Kama Sutra. After an hours worth of bargaining with 4 different gatekeepers to let us in for the Indian price of 10 rupees (versus the 250 rupee fee for foreigners), I finally succeeded…I am my mother’s daughter after all. The Sun Temple had these carvings all over it and if you look closely, you see all these erotic scenes – like orgies of men, women and children. Blowjobs, handjobs, men doing it while holding the woman upside-down. Two men embracing each other while 2 women where on their knees blowing them. A pretty ridiculous contrast to the sexual repression and conservatism in today’s India.

Back in Puri, we returned to Madustan to get in on the yoga, acupressure and hopefully score that famous massage. The yoga session started with standing on these wooden boards with spikes. It killed. People started actually jumping up and down on the spikes. It seemed like the torture would never end. Then there was some chanting and afterward, animalistic growling. Then we had to walk around in circles with our fingers on our nostrils blowing out snot. Before we got to the laughing part, the doctor was ready for our acupressure session. I thought the wooden spikes hurt until I had acupressure. They were pressing so hard, cracking, bending. I was worried they were going to break something. Then the doctor starts pulverizing every section of my hand, asking which sections hurt. Everything hurt. And each section of the hand apparently reveals the status of a different area in your body, like the tip of your pinky finger is your kidney, and the skin between your thumb and forefinger is your pituitary gland, etc. etc. Soon the doctor uncovered what is wrong with me…I am not a vegetarian. He proceeded to imitate a goat, bah-ing sweetly, and then made gestures that he was getting his throat slit and started screaming and crying like a wounded goat. He warned me to never eat goat, egg or fish again and my health would be restored. That lasted for about 4 hours until I had fish curry for dinner.

On our last day, Ali & I went for a swim in the Bay of Bengal. We tried to avoid the section where the men defecate in the water. I had to go in with all my clothes on because none of the women in Puri wear bathing suits. It didn’t matter though, the water was the perfect temperature and felt so good since it was scorching hot outside. (Sorry for wearing your clothes in the water, Ashley. And sorry I keep wearing this damn outfit every day.)

Heading back to Koraput, we tried to measure our expectations for the trip against the outcomes. We didn’t get to have many exciting new conversations with Westerners, but we did have quite a few drunken rambles with each other, one revealing Ali’s desire to give people true happiness by washing their feet. We didn’t do any all-night bonfire dancing ragers on the beach, but we did do some bizarre moves with the morning yoga crowd. And last, Ali didn’t get to make-out with an Indian girl like he was hoping, but he did get his ass felt by a male masseuse.

The Girl Next Door

2009-03-26T03:33:00.001-07:00

I'm the most popular kid on Rangbalikhumbha Road. I don't know how this happened but all the neighborhood children gather around my house and wait for me to come home every night from work yelling 'Debbie deedee!' as soon as I pull up. Last Sunday (my only day off) I was doing some much-needed sleeping in, when hordes of them started banging on my gates screaming 'Debbie deedee!!! Debbie deedeee!!' Over and over again until I grumpily got out of bed. We played Snakes & Ladders, Caram board (this Indian game that is sort of a cross between pool and checkers) and this lame card game where each person is dealt one card and the winner has the highest card. When there is a tie, everyone just shrugs and looks at me as if I'm supposed to know what to do. The little boy named, "Honey" is the biggest cheater I ever met in my life and he starts crying whenever he's not winning. I started teaching them poker but they all had to leave for lunch. I feel sort of like an unpaid babysitter. They are pretty cute though.

Another hoodrat is Kalyani, a bit closer to me in age (19 years old). She and her mother accost me every time I pass by their house, insisting I come in for some chai and rock-hard bread. Their house is also a bread factory but for some reason they keep giving me the stale bread instead of the fresh bread. I went there last night for dinner and brought my sketch pad to do their portraits. I was about to start drawing and couldn't find the rubber eraser I'd brought with me. I'm feeling around the bed (which doubles as a couch) asking if anyone's seen my rubber. Kalyani flips through my sketchbook and finds a condom I had tucked in there that I got as a gift at Burning Man. That was awkward.

Then they seat me in the special chair and serve me dinner and watch me eat. We put the TV on and I was so excited because 'Darjeeling Limited' was playing on Star Movies. We are watching and I'm trying to explain the plot to them when suddenly, the scene in the movie is showing one of the Americans having sex with an Indian woman in the train bathroom. Kalyani turns beat red, her mother looks confused and before I know it, movie is shut off and we are watching a horrendously cheesy DVD of the latest family marriage.

Dushtu Pila (and other useful phrases)

2009-03-25T21:58:00.000-07:00

I was musing the other day that its been almost 5 months now and I'm getting by just fine on the few Oriya words and phrases I know. Which is sort of funny when you think about it considering those phrases are...

Dushtu pila - Naughty boy
Mate thunda laguni - I'm not feeling cold
Mate bokha lagucchi - I'm feeling hungry
Mu khaili - I already ate
Mu kbaibi - I will eat
Khaiba - Let's eat
Mo ghare ku jibi - I will go to my home
Mo swami America re achanti - My husband/lord is in America
Mate khotoni - Don't cheat me
Stupid kukudoh - Stupid dog
Gay-E-Day - Fuck you (the only one I don't use almost daily)
Maca - That's hot (like, Beyonce hot, not temperature hot)
Mu jane nahin - I don't understand anything

Purple Boogers and Beads

2009-03-13T21:05:00.000-07:00

Annie and I hire a driver and head to Onkadelli, the home of the weekly Bonda market, one of the most primitive tribes in India. It’s a long and bumpy drive, as usual. A cow rams into the car on the way. The scenery is gorgeous in the moonlight. We have no idea where we’re going to sleep. When we arrive, Annie calls her friend Boboli (like the pizza dough), a tour guide she knows that always finds her a place to spend the night. He comes out to meet us and we quickly realize that he’s hammered. He’s hugging us repeatedly, rotating between ear-to-ear smiles and melodramatic tears and insisting we stay at his home. His home is a one bedroom tin shack. Inside, there are two twin beds pushed up next to each other, one occupied by his wife and two sons. The other has no mattress. Annie and I go head to toe on the wood board of a bed, Boboli takes the floor. All night, a fan is blowing full blast in my face and jumbo-sized sewer rats are sprinting a constant path through the room. Our large bag of sweets is in the cupboard right next to my head. Sleep is not an option.

When morning finally comes, we set out to watch the Bondas make their way to the market. The Bondas are basically nude except for long strands of beads around their necks and heads, a woven mini skirt and metal bracelets.

There are also the Gadabas, which have similar dress except they wear these massive metal chokers around their necks that weigh a ton. I’m really jealous of their bodies (is that wrong?) We buy necklaces from one of them and when she takes out her wallet, we notice in the slot where family photos normally go are 2 pornographic playing cards of white women with huge tits. Like straight out of Erotic Photo Hunt. We head to the market and Boboli keeps sneaking swigs of tribal alcohol along the way.

Market day is extra special because its Holi, the Indian festival of colors. People are walking around with plastic baggies of colored powder and smearing it on each other’s faces. I’m getting a nice little finger painting on my face when suddenly I get attacked by a group of rowdy kids who hit me with several water balloons and apparently an egg. I wash off at a nearby water pump and continue to get re-colored all over again. Annie and I are really joining in the fun, getting our own bags of colors and targeting the tourists and drunken men who are hopelessly trying to hit on us.

Just when we both look like a couple of toucans and we’re arranging to get our final picture of the day taken, the kids return and crack yet another egg on my head. My initial reaction is rage. I scoop the yolk and shell from my head and hurl it as hard as I can in the culprit’s face. Annie runs to the rescue and tries to calm me down, but then seconds later is in the middle of the crowd, fists raised, threatening to beat up anyone who dares egg me again. My face feels hard like I left one of those peel-off facial masks on too long. My hair is…gunky. I try to wash off a bit at Boboli’s house while his son is projectile vomiting but I still reek of egg.

Back in Koraput I spastically de-color myself. Purple suds all over the bathroom – walls, toilet, sink. Purple Q-tips. Purple boogers. Purple beads.

Initiation Rites

2009-03-05T20:23:00.000-08:00

I went back to Nua Kerenga village and the tribal women remembered me and started warming up to me a bit...or rather, a lot. They were speaking to me in full conversation, not that I knew anything they were saying. It translated to: "We brush our hair once every 3 days, how often do you brush your hair?" To which I replied, "I never brush my hair". They looked completely flabberghasted and shocked to hear this information and then replied, "Well then how do you keep the lice away?" They said they once had a visitor who had many lice and I tried to reassure them I didn't have lice by showing my scalp and we were all laughing. Then I gave them my hair elastic so they could do my hair. They started pulling on it (quite hard) and put it into one of their signature buns, and then threw the hair elastic back at me, showing they didn't need it. Then, they put a clip in my hair and started putting their necklaces on me. One of the women took out her nose ring and was offering it to me. I was trying to explain that I didn't have a hole in my nose to put it in, but that didn't seem to stop her as she jammed it right into my nose!

Once I looked the part, they started to tell me about one of their village men who was available for marriage - he is a hard worker in the field and also collects metal, quite the eligible bachelor. I told them too bad, I'm already married. Wonder what my husband at home will think of my new style...

Playtime, Photography Lessons and Tampons to the Rescue

2009-03-02T22:39:00.000-08:00

It's funny how for months I couldn't seem to get anyone to bring me into the field and now I can't seem to get out of it. From 6am to 8pm, dust-filled drives from one village to another for the last three days in a row (including my one day off). Nua Kerenga, Umuri, Upper Umuri, Chokliguda, Puki - I've made the rounds. I'm supposed to collect case studies of the children for SOVA's education program but there's one slight problem...all the kids are scared to death of me. Many start crying hysterically the moment they see me. I haven't been helping matters either. Like, in one meeting we had with about 20 children, I singled one out and asked him why he wasn't attending school. He was so ashamed he couldn't stop crying and he had to leave the room. I think his parents are too poor to send him. Good one, Debbie. I revised my strategy by interviewing the kids one-on-one. Their responses to all my questions never went beyond one-word answers, whispered so slightly under their breath you have to strain your ears to hear them. Finally, in my last village I spent about a half hour teaching the kids how to play paddy-cake while singing Miss Mary Mack. There was one girl who was ok but the rest of them sucked. Anyway, they finally started sitting closer to me and laughing and weren't so afraid while I'm increasing my chances of contracting scabies, smallpox and other skin-borne diseases every time we clap hands. Not to sound like a terrible person or anything, but a lot of the kids really did have some serious looking rashes. Anyway, all I could get was one boy to say anything worthwhile about SOVA's program. Forget about getting any of the little girls to say anything. I so want to get all those girls together and like, teach them kickboxing, bra burning, tell them about Lorena Bobbit and make them cheer for Dolly Parton in 'Nine to Five'.

Speaking of feminine issues, the emergency tampon I keep in my purse came in handy the other day when Annie, one of SOVA's donors/photographers visiting from England, got hit by a firework when we were walking to her hotel. Blood was gushing from her cheek and all I had was a tampon (luckily of the super absorbent variety). The funny thing about Annie is that instead of hauling ass back to her hotel immediately (as I would have done), she kept taking out her camera to take shots along the way, having Ali hold the tampon to her face.

I am THRILLED that Annie is here for so many reasons. She is an amazing photogapher, she doesn't wear a bra, she wants to take me with her on her excursions, I can speak to her like a normal person, etc. etc. She brought me along to visit one of the residential schools she is running for 35 really poor girls from the villages. All the girls ran outside to greet her, like hurling themselves past me and practically knocking me over to get to her. We played games with the girls, Annie (with a big bandaid on her face) taught them some English song and dance and I taught them 'Walk Like an Egyptian'. The school was amazing and so were the girls (and they for sure didn't have any scabies or body lice or anything...the school is taking good care of them).

Annie has been giving me some photography lessons...check it out:

Wedding party & firework assault culprits (notice Ali awkwardly dancing in the background)

"Self-help group" members in Nua Kerenga (they'd never heard of a bank before SOVA)

SOVA's Reading Improvement Center in Umuri (some electricity would help...)

Woman at the Sunday market in Koraput

Sunday tribal market in Koraput (right near my favorite chili stall)

Beautiful picture...if only it came with the scent of the fish market right behind her

I'm drawing a portrait of the girl in front wearing the green shirt

Widow with 7 children (2 of which are attending the residential school)

He bought a solar light from "Mr. Jeff" (now he can avoid the insects in his food at night)

SOVA helped these kids from Puki apply for a school to be built in their village...and they got it

Field Trip

2009-02-21T23:09:00.000-08:00

It's already more than halfway through my placement and I'm getting worried that I'll never get to go to the field and see the tribal villages for myself (despite my almost daily begging and threat-making). And then sure enough on Thursday, my coworker Sabya (the one who sings Jesus songs and drunk dials) asked me if I wanted to go with him, we could stay for a couple nights, go see several villages and meet his staff. And he's leaving in 5 minutes. I hesitate for a second, as this is a bit out of the blue, I have diarrhea, no clean underwear, I'm supposed to go get my passport extended the next day...but I figure I better go, now or never! I rush home, pack a blanket, a change of clothes and a lifetime supply of DEET

Off we go on bumpy ass roads for 2 1/2 hours and finally arrive at our first village. The people there are elated to see us, smiling, saying hello, splashing water on our feet, putting flower garlands on me and some kind of flower/rice mixture on my forehead. Yelling some kind of tribal call that involves a lot of tongue movement (I was doing it right back at em'). Then we all sit down on mats (men on one side, women on the other) and I got to talk to them, with a translator, of course.

To sum it up briefly, they were entirely ignorant before SOVA (my organization) came. They'd go to these voodoo local healers with diarrhea and malaria who would like, charge them a bunch of money to sacrifice a chicken or something and they would die anyway. Whenever any of them were starving or in trouble, they'd go to their landlord rather than eachother for help. The landlord would give them loans with enormous interest rates. They didn't even know they had the right to access all these government benefits designed for them, so the government officials would just horde all the money that was supposed to go to them. Oh, and the women were treated like shit, of course. Alcoholism a major problem as well. Basically SOVA has brought all these issues to light with them and their problems have reduced, but they are still dirt poor and the government is still very corrupt.

After learning all of this, its getting very dark and I realize, wow, they definitely don't have electricity. Fumbling our way in the dark, we get to the car and arrive at our residence for the evening, a forest ranger station with no electricity but with lots of very large ants. I spend a sleepless night on the floor with a pillow that is more like a big sandbag.

The next day, we visit 6 more villages, all with their own unique character. The people seem very happy that I'm there (they probably think I'm a donor or something). Lots of stares, but all good stares.

In the course of my meetings, I'm nearly attacked by a pair of chickens, 2 bulls on this cart careen into a hut and almost demolish it, a drunken man from a neighboring village tries to disrupt the conversation and the villagers kick him out, I meet a boy with shockingly severe elephantitis in his mouth & tongue, I observe a landlord on his bicycle yelling orders at all the villagers and I make a small boy cry hysterically.

One of the meetings I attend is a women's meeting of about 40 tribal women from different villagers, who came together to discuss domestic violence, alcoholism, pregnancy and other key issues for them. They talked about how all the men would get drunk and then come home and beat them, and how alcohol was really the root of the problem. I asked if there was anything they've tried to do about it...and my head is racing with possible solutions (brainstorming on coming up with some kind of Indian equivalent of AA, or perhaps a mass awareness campaign, warning labels, etc.). One woman starts to laugh as she reveals that she organized all the women in her village to sneak out one night and break the pot that is used to make the alcohol. The men weren't able to make alcohol anymore and therefore stopped beating them. So simple!

Speaking of alcohol, later that night I taste some of the tribal brew. Of course any sane person would not partake in and thereby condone this sort of behavior. But whatever, I wanted to try it. The alcohol comes from the sap of some local tree. Then they put "medicines" in it, whatever that means) and add salt and chilies. Sort of tastes like a margarita without the rocks.

Getting a bit tipsy, the women insist I learn their tribal dance. I must mention here that whenever they speak to me in their tribal tongue, they think that if they yell it, I will be able to understand better or something. So they are yelling things at me like, 'When you have a child, you will invite me to your home, give me a saree and I will carry your child for you'. So I'm just smiling and nodding and they keep grabbing at my chin and then kissing their hand. Anyway, we get up and put our arms around eachother and do this dance around in a circle.

Then, they ask to learn dances from my homeland. I'm about to bust out some Beyonce moves and just can't bring myself to it. Too embarrassing. So we do the bunny hop.

My coworker Sabya (the drunk dialer) is also feeling tipsy, I can tell. On our ride back to the ranger station, he is going on and on about our dinner plans. 'Debbie, you are such a special guest! Tonight for dinner you can have ANYTHING you want. ANYTHING! We will make a special dinner for you. You can have chicken. You can have goat. Or chicken. Or vegetables. Or goat...You want vegetables? What about goat?...No goat?...You can have goat...So, you don't want goat?...Goat?...Ok, let's have goat!'

We have a big dinner with goat, chicken and vegetables. Another sleepless night on the floor, this time with 5 snoring roommates (whoever they are). And then back home to...civilization?

Here are some more pictures from the visit (check my Facebook for the full album):

A Rural Legend

2009-02-17T22:08:00.000-08:00

A story, or rather, a "rural legend" I will pass on to all of you...

A few years ago an NGO came to Koraput for HIV prevention activities. They targeted a remote, high-risk village and gathered all the people together to teach them about condoms. They used bananas to show how to put a condom on (which brings back memories of a certain health teacher in middle school who had a really weird, obsessive habit of fingering the lubricant all through class, but that's a whole other story). Anyway, the tribal people were fascinated and a few weeks later, hordes of them rushed to the district hospital, requesting more condoms. Boxes and boxes of them. The hospital workers and social workers from the NGO were all shocked and very pleased. Their intervention actually worked! They couldn't wait to report their success. Before they did, they decided to return to the village to capture some case studies from the people themselves. When they arrived, they asked the villagers, 'Are you using all those condoms you requested from the hospital?' To which they replied, 'Oh yes, we are using them. Come and see for yourself.' The villagers pointed upward to the tops of the banana trees, where each and every banana was individually wrapped with a fresh, free-of-charge government-issued condom.

Spicy Picasso

2009-02-12T04:18:00.000-08:00

Not terrible for my first watercolor painting, but certainly not one of my proudest works. I imagine it could have come out better given different circumstances. Let me explain. Every Sunday, I pass by this one tent at the tribal market where this guy sits under this red tent and sells huge piles of dried red chilies. The way the sunlight hits against the tent makes the whole thing just GLOW red and I love it. So I decided I was going to paint it.

Buying the painting supplies alone took quite an effort, searching the entire town for the one store that sells art supplies (for children) and then taking an hour and a half to explain to the sales person that I WANT PAINT...DRAWING...COLORS. The next day, I headed off to my favorite spice tent, and set up shop a few feet across from it, huddling right on in with the tribals who were set up there on mats selling vegetables. Everyone was pretty confused as to why I was about to sit on the ground. I didn't bring anything to sit on, but my spice man ran over right before I sat on the dusty ground to offer me a potato sack. I started to take out my paint supplies and an enormous crowd of people started to gather all around me in awe. It was as if they'd never seen anyone paint a picture before. Maybe they haven't. They were all talking to me but I have no idea what they were saying. Finally they started to disperse so I could actually see the spice tent I was trying to capture.

Then, it was a constant struggle, I'd have a few minutes of a nice clear view of the tent, then entirely disrupted by hordes of people blocking my view to stare at me. I also started to realize what a stupid idea it was to paint a spice tent...as the enormous piles of red chilies were starting to make my eyes water and I was sneezing uncontrollably. Every time I sneezed or coughed, everyone around me started laughing (their nostrils are clearly more used to the spices than mine). The spice man was obviously flattered I decided to paint him and bought me 2 chais over the course of the session. Other interruptions ensued, including a dorky French photographer wearing one of those tan hats that ties below the chin snapping shots of me, a little boy who wanted his portrait done, a cow who would come and try to eat the vegetables and a tribal woman who kept ramming her ass into my head I think because I was on her "territory".

While I'm on the art subject, I'll include a couple other portraits I've done of friends here for anyone who's curious. Hopefully more (and better) art to come...

Girl Trouble

2009-02-08T02:37:00.000-08:00

Being a girl alone in rural India has its ups and downs. For starters, everything you touch turns to rumors. When I got back from the US, my coworker Manoj came with the driver on the 5 hour journey to pick me up from the airport...on a Sunday, his only day off! I gave him a big hug when I saw him and we talked the whole way home. I didn't think anything of it. Two days later, the rumors about Manoj & I have made it all the way up to the Secretary, who gave him a big scolding for accepting a hug from me and for sitting in the back seat with me in the taxi cab. No wonder Satya said, 'no thanks' and took a run for it when I tried to hug him the other day.

The other night, Ali invited me to a badminton tournament. I was so excited that there was actually something to DO here! We show up and walk into an entire stadium full of men. I am the only woman in the entire place. We take a seat in the corner and watch men with tight shorts who seem pretty mediocre at badminton, in my opinion, try to volley the "birdie?" back and forth, but it usually only crosses twice before hitting the ground. As we're watching, some guy with a video camera stands about 4 feet in front of us and just sets the camera on us, which made it difficult to watch the game.

The next night, Ali was going to teach me how to make biryani, so we went to the market. We ordered half a chicken, and watched as this man whacked the chicken against the wall, ripped off the feathers and skin, hacked it up and put the pieces (bones and all) into a small plastic bag. We got a couple beers and vegetables and started heading toward my house when we ran into my Secretary, leading a candle-light rally of a thousand people for stopping domestic violence against women (which is funny that no one at my work mentioned this to me, by the way). Anyway, Ali & I join the rally, (after he hides the beers in his backpack), holding candles and shouting things in Oriya (god knows what). Then, we are invited to the cultural program, which I sort of feel obligated to attend. There, I heard literally the worst singers in my life get up on stage one after the other. Like, a thousand times worse than Cameron Diaz in 'My Best Friend's Wedding' (yes, that is the best reference I could come up with). Suddenly, this guy with a clipboard comes over and asks if I will get up on the stage to say a few words about domestic violence. Before I know it, I am up there singing 'I Will Survive' in front of hundreds of people and they are LOVING it (i think).

I sit back down in my seat when Ali & I realize...the chicken! It's been sitting in his bag for the last 3 hours, bleeding on everything. We get shit for leaving the cultural program early, then we pass by the badminton game and get shit for not going inside. We make it home and Ali's backpack looks like it got its period. Then, we watched, 'There Will Be Blood' on my laptop.

Delhi Wedding, Mother Superior and Drunk Dialing

2009-02-02T20:44:00.000-08:00

Got to experience life in Delhi for a week, crashing at Liz & Serena's flat (2 other VSO volunteers). They are sooo British. We had like 12 cups of tea a day, loaves of toast, marmite (which I didn't touch) and listened to Oasis. On Republic Day, we went to the British Embassy to have lunch with their diplomat friend and her moping dud of a husband. We're sitting there in this posh apartment in a perfectly manicured courtyard that resembles anything but India, eating vegetable lasagne prepared by their housekeeper and drinking French wine, when they start telling us how relieved they are to get their food delivered, as they've already been to the market once and thank god they never have to go back. We laughed because we thought they were joking. Slowly we realized they were not joking at all. Later, we went to see Slumdog Millionaire at the movie theater. It was a packed house and I was surprised to see Indians answering their cell phones and having full conversations during the course of the film. One such person sitting right in front of us was in mid-sentence on his phone when dud-husband suddenly broke from his boring shell and punched the back of his chair with all his might. It was more creepy than bad-ass.

My friend Dhruv from Seattle was also in Delhi for his cousin's wedding, so I got to crash some of the activities. The actual wedding was in Rajasthan, but the entire week prior is event after event only for the groom and his side of the family. Perhaps my least favorite ritual was one where he had to sit and flatten out one piece of dough in his hands and then pour rice from one container to another, while drums were beating and people were pouring spices on his head. Apparently this signifies that he is capable of domestic duties, but no longer obligated to perform any from this day forward. Wouldn't that be nice? The fun part was when all the women and some of the men got henna painted on our hands. Dhruv's was still wet when lunch was served so I had to spoon-feed him, which has probably initiated rampant rumors across the entire Agarwal family now that I think about it. One night, we went on an excursion to an extremely Americanized shopping mall, which would have been a total waste of time except for our taxi driver, an aspiring Bollywood superstar, who was singing and dancing to the "Twist" our entire ride home.

The last day in Delhi, my cousin Matt and his wife Lakshmi happened to be there on vacation. So I met up with them at a convent (which took my taxi driver an hour and a half to find) where Lakshmi's aunt, the mother superior lives. Her aunt is like, big-time in Delhi since she was principal of one of the most prestigious schools and all the big-wigs, like faun over her but she's a nun so she doesn't seem to notice. Except when she informed one of them that Lakshmi & Matt were coming to India, and they got to stay in 5-star hotels with a personal tour driver the entire time. Amazing. I got to tag along on the VIP tour and we visited a bunch of tourist sites and went shopping. Lakshmi haggled with a pashmina seller for like 45 minutes, it was true stamina. Then when she was finally ready to buy, Mother Superior showed up out of nowhere and started re-negotiating. I'm not sure if they have a little scheme going on or what but I got a pashmina scarf for only $4 (thanks cousins!)

Upon returning to Koraput, I started doling out gifts from America to all my coworkers. I gave a couple of Beau's old shirts to 2 of my coworkers, who have already worn them 2 days in a row and counting. I gave a bottle of wine to another coworker (he had asked me for it before I left). Then, he was asking me if he's supposed to dilute it with water, and how much wine one person is supposed to drink. I started to feel like I'd done the wrong thing. At about 10pm that evening, he called my cell phone. I thought it was kind of wierd since he's never called before. Then as he was slurring his speech asking if I'd eaten dinner, I realized...I got drunk dialed!!

Sundance and Jetlag

2009-01-29T04:40:00.000-08:00

I've been halfway around the world and back in 10 days. It started on Jan 16th, watching goodwill hunting on my laptop with Ali in my unfurnished living room when a mouse/rat decided to join us at that critical moment when robin williams is telling matt damon 'its not your fault'. ali and i were screaming like little girls and would've jumped up on a chair if i had one.

needless to say i didn't sleep much until i was picked up for a 4am, 4-hour drive to the airport at vishakhpatnam, where i boarded a flight to delhi on india's version of ryanair (bad idea?). there, i sat next to a self-proclaimed brahman who was trying to argue that homosexuality is some sort of acquired disease. after setting him straight and arriving to delhi safely, i decided to spice up my 10-hour layover with an excursion to mocha, my favorite cafe. there, i ran into my friend serena, another vso volunteer. her mouth dropped to the floor when she saw me and we hung out til it was time for me to haggle my taxi back to the airport and get on the most miserable flight of my life.

at this point, i'm tired beyond belief, but my seat doesn't recline and my feet are freezing. after several attempts to get other passengers and 2 flight attendants to fetch me my bag in an unopenable overhead compartment, i manage to awaken all the other passengers on the plane as i'm yelling threats to the stewardess of how i'll have a seizure any minute now if she can't get me my rightful bag with my much-needed medication (and by medication, i really meant socks). she storms away, leaving me huffing, puffing and stepping all over everyone as i'm trying to heave the compartment open. to make a long story short, i realize my bag is in the adjacent compartment, and the unopenable compartment was actually just part of the plane paneling. i finally get my socks on when i realize my hands are gushing blood from trying to pry open the panel. the 17-year old indian boy sitting next to me is frightened for his life of americans and regretting his decision to move to virginia.

and then the layover at newark, where an abercrombie-esque model tries to convert me into becoming a jehovah's witness, a strung-out teenager loans me her deoderant while telling me how her father remarried someone her age, and an indian couple embraces me with tearful hugs as they tell me how their americanized son won't respond to any of their bride candidates.

and then, 40-some odd hours later, i'm at the line at starbucks in the salt lake city airport (dressed entirely in traditional indian clothing, by the way) when i run into my friend dhruv from seattle. small world? dhruv and i get a ride with someone he met on the plane to park city where we are forced to provide free marketing consulting and taste testing on a pretty sub-par new nut product.

a cheeseburger and a nap later, i finally see beau! finally! we check into a condo with his parents, sister and her boyfriend. and its meat, movie, meat, movie, meat the rest of the way. baby back ribs, chili, more cheeseburgers, veal, steak, i'm not joking. i felt like a fat tub of lard in heaven. saw so many films (in particular, 'i love you philip morris', 'adam', and 'brief interviews with hideous men' if anyone's looking for a recommendation). had lots of starbucks and muffins. basically just...MAXIMUM CONSUMPTION. but the best part was just laying around doing nothing with beau.

it went by so fast, before i knew it i was popping a vicodin on the plane back to delhi and showing up at serena and liz's doorstep.

It's a Holy Cow!

2009-01-15T04:17:00.000-08:00

Where I am:
Tribal people walk all around, always barefoot, their arms the size of broomsticks. They sometimes go months without food, having to borrow from money lenders who charge them more than half of the next harvest's yield, reinstating the cycle. They sit there with mats, selling vegetables in little individual piles for pennies each. Every now and then when they get really hungry, they'll shuck open some pea pods and eat the hard little peas. And there are cows roaming everywhere, enough to feed a village. But they wouldn't dare touch one, because its a holy cow!

Where I'm from:
Squeezed into a big booth at the Newport Creamery in RI, ordering the ultimate in all desserts. Not the Awful Awful shake (Awful big, Awful good) this time, but even better. The motherload. 12 scoops of ice cream, 6 bananas, whipped cream, caramel, nuts, 10 cherries, chocolate sauce and 8 long-handled spoons. We are plotting how we are going to trick the waitress by putting our loose pennies in an upside-down glass full of water when cowbells start ringing and the whole restaurant stares at us as the waiters and waitresses bring the giant sundae our way and shout, it's a holy cow!

On Launching a Website

2009-01-10T01:48:00.000-08:00

It was my first or second week here when I received an email from the Secretary (the boss) that said: "Debbie, re-write the website. -Sanjit". Later that day, I learned the web developer was arriving the next day to implement my changes. To make a long story short, I somehow managed to convince everyone that the site needed a complete redesign (yes, including rethinking the animated oriental jug with dollar bills floating into it to lure people into donating). The web developer and I spent about 2 hours redesigning the whole site in Photoshop and the Secretary smiled, "Haw, Haw, Haw" (which means, "yes", "yes", "yes" in Oriya).

I worked late nights trying to make sense of the Indian/English jibberish on the current site that was just paragraphs and paragraphs long. Then, people in the office get wind of the site changing (none of them have ever even seen the site, by the way) and they all have their agenda of what should go on there. So now I'm searching through documents left and right of more incomprehensible jibberish, trying to make sense of it all. I'm racing to the finish line, trying to get everything done in time for Jasmin (the web developer) to code it into Dreamweaver. Working late nights, dehydrated, sweating, guzzling well water by accident, eyes glossy and red.

But then I realize, Jasmin never comes when he says he will. A month passes with no progress, no Jasmin. A bit annoying considering how stressed I was to get everything written. What's even more annoying is that I managed to come across a copy of the past VSO volunteer's beautifully written website rewrite. None of it had ever made it onto the actual site. No one had ever even mentioned its existence.

Finally, Jasmin comes and its another mad dash as the Secretary changes his mind every day of what the design should look like. So Jasmin & I redesign, code it all, redesign, re-code, again and again. And I am so mean to Jasmin. He's the most timid creature alive, self-taught English, can't understand a word I say, workaholic, bloodshot eyes from staring at computer screens all day. I constantly snap at him and threaten him over the phone to get in the office and work as late as he has to until it gets done. I complain to him constantly of how horrendous their current logo is and how it must be changed, to which he finally replied, "I designed that".

Work doesn't go smoothly. About every 15 minutes, someone needs to use the computer so we have to get up and wait. Sometimes, we'll go to lunch and get back to see the entire computer has been completely taken apart as Manoj is tinkering inside it with a screwdriver. Oh, and about every 2 minutes, a virus warning message pops up that we have to click "Ignore" or "Move to Vault". I'm not exaggerating. This happens literally every 2 minutes.

But alas, it seems we have finally succeeded in building a compromise between the American aesthetic of 'simplicity' and the Indian aesthetic of 'gaudy as hell'. Just the last finishing touches tonight (that is, if Jasmin shows up, he is already 45 minutes late) and if the Secretary doesn't suddenly decide he wants the entire color scheme to switch from red to blue (he's tried this 3 times already and I have to shoo him away).

So it's certainly not the best website in the world, but I think a step in the right direction and it'll only get better. And for me, a huge lesson in understanding cultural differences and learning how sometimes my idea of what's "right" or "attractive" simply doesn't translate...and that's ok. And I'll continue to spend the next 4 months figuring out what does (hopefully less snappily).

Me & Jasmin

Old site:

New site:
http://www.sovakoraput.org

Aftermath

2009-01-07T01:38:00.000-08:00

Apparently someone video recorded my New Years Day Lisa Loeb performance and its gone viral around my office. Thank god they don't know about Youtube.

Meet Alistair

2009-01-06T02:50:00.000-08:00

More commonly known as "Ali", which sounds feminine in the US and Muslim in India. If you've been reading my previous posts, you'll recognize him as the other pasty white person in Koraput. What Ali does not know is months earlier in Seattle when receiving an email addressed to all VSO volunteers going to India, I stalked all 15 or so on Google and he was the only one I could find. Full name: Alistair Stewart, from small town, England. I must admit with a name like that, I figured he was going to be a total arrogant prick. Then again, how many arrogant people devote months of their lives to development work besides me?

My first encounters with Ali were in Oriya lessons, where he would study vigorously each night, clearly outdoing me in class. I was building up quite the competitive spirit until realizing that because of my apparent resemblance to Britney Spears, our teacher, Bimal favored me anyway. Bimal then waited until the final day of class to inform Ali that his pronunciation was incomprehensible and no one would be able to understand him anyway. This isn't totally surprising, as I can barely understand him when he speaks British English. And as it turns out, no one can understand what either of us say the majority of the time. We are becoming master hand puppeteers.

And we count on eachother when we're in need. Like the time I got a parasite, I called him for help but he was drunk and fell back asleep. Or the time his eye got infected with maggots, he called me and I told him I was busy eating at a friend's house.

Oh, and Ali is not an arrogant prick at all actually. His accent could fool you at first, as he does refer to guys as "blogues" and hoodies as "jumpers". But he is really nice (luckily not "too nice" though) and somehow finds himself in pretty hilarious situations. Like after being followed by beggar children for a record high of 10 minutes the other day, he decides to start sprinting away. They chased him but he won...this time. Or his awkward conversations with "the professor", some creepy sounding guy who hangs around Ali's office and sits 2cm away from his face, telling Ali how they are similar in that they both have a certain large percentage capacity for love vs. lust, or something along those lines.

Ali is sick to death of Indian spices and keeps trying different types of imported snack foods - lays potato chips, name brand popcorn, etc. - only to discover they all are loaded with the magic masala. But he can't seem to learn his lesson and gets disappointed every time, like a non-Pavlonian dog.

We tell everyone we are brother and sister, and then i forget and tell them i'm from America and he's from England.

I can't believe I got so lucky to end up in Koraput with someone who doesn't irritate me after spending extended amounts of time together. Ali, you are a rare find.

Happy New Year

2009-01-01T20:54:00.000-08:00

It's starting to get dark on December 31st. I finally get out of the office after a day of zero-electricity in the office, where I sat around looking bored and flipping through sensationalist news magazines about terror in India. Finally, my ride is ready and I get dropped off at the market. I'm looking around for a liquor store when I am accosted by an Indian Jesus freak, grabbing my arm and telling me how grateful he is for Jesus, who has given him everything in life, who makes the world go round, yada yada. do i look like a priest or something? I find Ali and he buys us 2 "very strong" beers and a bottle of smirnoff. Then, a falling-all-over-the-place drunk man insists on buying me a package of crackers. Ali and I head back to my house and the festivities begin.

What a party! If only there were more people besides Ali and I, it really would have been a legitimate New Year's Eve. We made pancakes with jam and honey, ate an entire box of imitation Ferrer Rochet chocolates, popped chili popcorn, watched The Princess Bride, played British and American drinking games (which go by rather quickly when only 2 people are playing), and danced to the music softly playing from my computer. The pinnacle of the night was dancing and singing at the top of our lungs to the Police's "So Lonely", while fireworks sounded like gun shots outside.

He left at 1:30 or so, and managed to join some kind of fire circle outside the hospital with some locals. I had to wake up at 8 because Soumya was coming over to dress me up in a Saree for the big first day of the new year. I am so hungover when she arrives. She dolls me up and then leaves to go to the temple. I go outside to wait for my ride to work, which should be there any minute. An hour and a half later, Soumya calls asking where I am. No one came to get me! Finally, a coworker pulls up on a motorcycle and we ride to the office, where apparently there is a big party with a big tent and all the staff are there with their wives, kids, etc.

Everyone insists I sing a song, so I get up on the microphone and sing Lisa Loeb, "Stay" a capella. Then, we play musical chairs, where I notice the Secretary of the organization and his six-year-old daughter are both cheating. The Secretary won, of course. Then we pulled little pieces of paper out of a hat with tasks like, "dance with jesmini" or "imitate the Secretary" or "do a model walk". I danced and modelled and won a pen with cartoon characters on it. Meanwhile, the sun is getting hotter and I'm deydrated, headaching and starving. Lunch is finally ready at 2pm or so and it is quite the feast. I decide at that moment my new years resolution: to put some real effort into learning Oriya (and to stop eating like such a fat ass).

Christmas in Koraput

2008-12-26T23:54:00.000-08:00

I learned that even in middle-of-nowhere rural India, it's impossible to have a stress-free Christmas. The only thing I thought could shake up X-mas in this town was those Hindu extremists who've been raping nuns and burning churches around the state. We were advised not to travel anywhere on x-mas day in case there was an episode.Needless to say, I was a little nervous heading to the market with Ali (the other extremely white VSO volunteer) to buy some groceries, but nothing was going to stop me from throwing a little party at my house. And instead of bombs and guns, we were greeted with big toothed grins, everyone wailing, "Hello! Happy Christmas!" and giving us candies. There were even 3 men on a motorcycle wearing 3 stylish shirts that collectively spelled out: "Merry" + "Christ" + "Mas".

And in the middle of holiday shopping (which involved going inside every store in desperate search of a grater for my potato latkes), I receive a call on my cell that my 4 coworkers have arrived and are waiting at my house...3 hours early! So Ali and I rush around like mad trying to buy the rest of our cooking supplies. We get back to my place and everyone helps as we make applesauce from scratch, hand-made pumpkin ravioli, pasta sauce, and potato latkes (grated with a vegetable peeler). It was delicious!

Then, my 2 female coworkers start whispering to me about how they want to drink some alcohol. I casually ask the 2 male coworkers if they drink alcohol, and they look at me in horror, as if I just killed one of their siblings. So now I'm secretly trying to spike 4 out of 6 mango juices with Bacardi and the boys keep coming in staring and I keep trying to shoo them out. We all sit down to drink and suddenly everyone becomes incredibly quiet. I pump up the Michael Jackson and try to get everyone to dance, but it is half-hearted at best and the whole atmosphere is incredibly awkward. Then, one of the girls starts swaying all over the place. She is wasted off 2 shots. I learn this is the first time she has ever consumed hard alcohol and she can't weigh more than 100 pounds. I'm trying to make her drink water while she's smiling one second and looking putrid the next. The guys are obviously angry at her and she needs to board a bus to return home to her extremely conservative parents. What have I done??

Everyone leaves and I have worst-case scenarios racing through my head...she's going to end up in the hospital where no one knows how to pump stomachs because women don't drink here, everyone will hate me the next day at work and i'll have no friends, her parents will force her out onto the streets and she'll have to resort to prostitution, etc. etc.

And just when I thought everything had gone to hell, I return to work the next day and everyone is friendly and the same as usual. They are inviting themselves over again and laughing about our little episode. And we survived Christmas after all, just barely.

Ranchi Pictures

2008-12-23T03:49:00.000-08:00

Parasite Vendors

Sex worker refugee camp

Cute toddler (this is for you, Vanessa)

The ex-sex workers performing in an uncomfortably provocative dance performance

The requisite red "blob" they put on your head at religious and cultural events (mine is 5X size of everyone else's, by the way)

Honeymooning in Rourkela

Ranchi Parasites

2008-12-21T20:21:00.000-08:00

I arrive in Ranchi, a medium-sized city in Jharkand, where the VSO volunteer conference was taking place and also where Ashley contracted severe malaria 3 years ago. It only took 18 hours to get there, which is beginning to seem "short". I was so happy to see all the other volunteers there, some I already knew from orientation in Delhi. I was trying to show them how acclimated I am, wearing my Indian clothing and taking them all to an extremely shady street restaurant, with plastic tables and chairs in the back, and the "kitchen" in front, which is a bunch of huge steel pots surrounded by flies. Later that day, we learn that all of our meals are free at the four star hotel we're staying at. Oops. From then on, I absolutely GORGE on the amazing (sometimes even non-Indian) hotel food. I thought it was funny how the Indians hate all the non-Indian food, by the way. I kept trying to make this girl Bani eat pasta and practically force fed her. She almost threw up.

The next couple of days consisted of boring back-to-back powerpoint presentations, one novel per slide in point 8 font, most presentations being read verbatim off the slide. I must gloat that people were blown away by my presentation (thank you, Hornall Anderson).

Then the elections for the 'Volunteer Committee', an hour long ridiculous meeting of 40 volunteers all debating over the selection process - how much time we should have to decide, how many people should really be on the committee, how often elections should take place, how much we need to know before making a decision, at what time should the nominations be submitted...at the end of which, only 2 of us actually still wanted to be considered.

At night, we drank 'Kingfisher' beer on the rooftop and I strutted around in a lime green saree.

And then, 3am, it STRIKES. I am on the toilet every 5 minutes, head is hot and aching, I am freezing. I think I must have malaria. I wake up the VSO program director who has to get up and take me to the hospital, where I am admitted to the 'casualties' room. There, I find out I have a temperature of 101, and I don't find out much else because I can't understand what anyone is saying. Finally, I learn I have a parasite, not malaria and I'm given antiobiotics and oral rehydration salts (which sort of taste like Vitamin Water). Not to mention in just 10 hours is my 18-hour train ride home.

I'm feeling like shit, trying to get ready for the train, and learn one hour before it departs that I don't have a seat (this is the Indian railway system for you). Luckily, Ali (the other volunteer going to Koraput) and a Rupesh from his NGO are also in the same predicament and are able to help me out. We all board the train anyway (ticketless) and sit in the lowest class, on the floor, for 5 hours until we get to Rourkela (definitely not in the guidebook). There, we check into a hotel, which only has 1 room left, 1 double bed for Ali & I to share. This has got to be the nastiest room I have ever seen. The sheets apparently have never been washed. Ali fumbles to turn on the light and the only one that works is a red lightbulb above the bed. We have to say we're married to stay in the room. So now I have two husbands (sorry, Beau).

We wake up at 4am to board the train to Koraput, which takes 16.5 hours. I slept most of the way until I saw 2 cockroaches and a mouse. It feels good to be home.

For all you arborists out there...

2008-12-14T22:56:00.000-08:00

2008-12-12T22:14:00.000-08:00

World AIDS Day

Tramps from the office

Me & Gina (see Ma, I'm not wearing the pink thing!!)

street chalk offerings to Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth

The view from my living room

When you are invited to someone's home in Koraput...

2008-12-11T20:10:00.000-08:00

You leave your shoes at the doorstep. They make sure you have the best seat in the house. The photo albums start coming out. All the babies in the photo albums have thick black eyeliner on which looks really creepy. All the men in the albums have thick black hair and mustaches and look very similar. All the women in the albums have old 'Glamour Shots' photos of themselves with teal or magenta backgrounds. More prized possessions start coming out such as cartoony Hindu statuettes, deformed Mickey Mouse stuffed animals, Jesus motivational posters, a battery powered mosquito killer that looks like a tennis racquet. They'll give you chai. They'll turn on the TV to some news channel or if you're lucky, "Indian Idol" or some other derivative of American Idol.

And then...the food! You may want to go into the kitchen to watch it being prepared. There, you will find that instead of chopping with a knife, they use this big iron thing that they hold with their foot on the ground. You might also see big steel pots with this contraption on the lid that lets out steam like on a locomotive. And when all the food is prepared, you may realize that its all been made for you alone and they can't wait to watch you eat it...awkwardly. When you've stuffed in all you can possibly handle, they fill your plate again with a second helping. And then a third. You must be rather forceful to make them stop. Then, they'll either release you (with chocolate bars for the journey home), or insist you take a nap there until dinnertime. Post-nap activities may include a trip to the market, haggling over designer jeans for son #3, haggling over cauliflower and/or haggling over bangle bracelets. Dinner will probably be the same thing you ate for lunch.

The next day, you may learn that you inadvertently agreed to visit again, not just some other day, but every single day. You will need to find a polite way to communicate that you would like to come again, but perhaps once a week.

But now that you've declined this seemingly ridiculous invitation, and putz around your own kitchen trying to replicate the recipe, it simply never tastes as good.

A Day in the Life...

2008-12-07T20:28:00.000-08:00

7am: Sleep disturbed by someone screaming like a banshee outside. what is a banshee anyway? maybe this person really is a banshee.

7:45am: Crawl out from underneath mosquito net to disable the travel alarm I stole from Maggie (sorry, Maggie)

7:46am: Practice peeing on my squat toilet, followed by freezing cold shower

7:50am: Fill a pot from the water filter

7:54am: Enough water has finally dribbled out of the water filter. Turn on the gas tank and light the 'stove thing' with a match trying not to burn myself. Boil the water.

8:00am: Drink a cup of tea and enough crackers so that the antimalarial pill doesn't hurt my stomach too bad.

8:30am: Put on a 'salwar kameez', which is parachute pants, a matching long shirt thing with slits up the sides and a matching scarf that always falls off.

9:00am: Sit outside and wait for 'Jugga' to come pick me up in the office rickshaw. Fumble as he tries to teach me Oriya.

9:30am: Arrive at the office, try to email as long as possible before being handed a task such as, "Re-write our 40 page annual report today" or, "The web developer has come all the way from Hyderabad today only for you to re-write our website."

1:30pm: Lunch at the office which is a pile of "sufficient rice" the size of my head with a scoop of watery lentils, saag (spinach), potato/cauliflower curry, green bean curry...every day.

4:00pm: Receive a frantic task of some sort of press release or case study that needs to be written and sent out by the end of the day.

4:30pm: Chai break

4:45pm: Race to finish said task

6:00pm: Cram into the rickshaw with 5 other girls from the office.

6:15pm: Stop at the market to eat street food, or buy vegetables which are sold in small piles on mats on the ground. A full bag of groceries costs around 2 dollars.

6:30pm: Get dropped off at home, try to avoid having to say hello to prying landlord.

7:30pm: Cook an extremely amateur Indian dinner. Supplement with a multivitamin.

9:00pm: Read or write or watch a sappy romantic comedy DVD.

11:00pm: Sleep with the howling dogs.

--Repeat--

A Snapshot of Koraput

2008-12-02T02:33:00.000-08:00

My office

Here is the center of town

On the way to work

A children's workshop on HIV/AIDS

Got a marriage proposal from the one in the back

Here is the Indian Michael Jackson

Only One Week and Already in Trouble

2008-12-01T00:59:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting in the office, going through atacks of insect infested, 70's era, painfully designed AIDS training materials when I hear a loud, obnoxious English-speaking voice in the hall. It must be an American. It is an American. Jeff has come from San Diego to deliver these solar powered lights to the villages with the help of my organization. I recognize him because there is a poster of his face in one of the stacks with the name tag, "Mr. Jeff" and the slogan, "Would you know that I am HIV positive?" I don't think Jeff knows this poster exists.

I try and mask my desperate eagerness to have a conversation with someone that goes beyond, "Have you eaten? What did you eat?" He seems pretty relieved to have an American to talk to as well, and soon enough we are undergoing an in-depth analysis of the characters on Sex and the City. We decide to meet up later that evening to eat, as there is nothing else to do here.

He comes to my house and I cooked a god awful pasta that he pretended to enjoy. Then, he offered to tour me around the town, as its been a week and I don't even know how to get to the market. Its a nice walk despite the bats overhead and the obvious lack of any women in the streets. Jeff seems to be very popular with the local men, who all seem to caress eachother and hold hands.

I take out my phone to check the time, and realize I have several missed calls. Suddenly, the phone rings and my boss is calling. I don't answer. 2 seconds later, another call comes in from another coworker. I pick up and she says 'Day-vee WHERE ARE YOU?'
I tell her I am hanging out with a friend.
'WHY ARE YOU NOT HOME? ARE YOU GOING HOME NOW?'
I tell her, 'ok, ok, I'm going home now. I'll be home in 15 minutes.'
'WHERE EXACTLY ARE YOU RIGHT NOW?'
I am near the tribal museum.
'CALL SANJIT (my boss) HE IS WORRIED.'

So Jeff & I start heading back home at the ungodly hour of 10pm, in disbelief. Then, another coworker just happens to pull up on his motorcycle, ordering me to get on. I assure him I'm fine walking home with Jeff. I make it home and the landlord is waiting up for me, saying how worried he was and that from now on, I need to be in the house by 7:30. I call my boss and he confirms, the rule is I need to be in the house by 7:30 or 8pm. Not only that, but I don't need to go to the market because I can just write a list of what I want to buy and someone can go get it for me. I protested, and I think we managed to compromise, but I'm still feeling a little like a prisoner. Little do they know their precious prisoner has Rage Against the Machine on her computer, and is no longer afraid to blast it come 7:30pm. This is war.

Picture Time

2008-11-27T01:27:00.000-08:00

Starting to fit right in...

My new home

A temple in Bubaneshwar

The first family in Bubaneshwar who gives tours at one of the temples. They invited me into their home.

Wedding parade blasting music in the streets of Bubaneshwar. Yes, those are peasant women hired to carry those lights on top of their heads for hours at a time.

Bubaneshwar temple in more detail...

The VSO India volunteers, listening to rock power ballads at 'Sports Bar' in Delhi

Me & Bimal (my Oriya language teacher) in the classroom in Delhi

Greetings from Koraput

2008-11-27T00:48:00.000-08:00

Finally made it to Koraput, my final destination, after a sleepless 13 hour train ride. Some people from SOVA (my new employer) were there to pick me up and bring me to my new home. We drove through the streets through a little city that didn't look much different from other parts of India - shabby little shops, each selling one item, stray dogs, lots of people. The difference in Koraput is that there are way more cows, some of the people are tribals and you can tell because they have lots of nose peircings and tattoos, and the entire city is surrounded by a beautiful hilly landscape.

They dropped me off at my house, where I couldn't WAIT to fall asleep, and then told me they'd be back in an hour to bring me to the office. Superb. Inspecting my new abode, I was pleased to find a large space with marble floors and high ceilings, a kitchen, dining room, 2 bathrooms, a bedroom, an office room and a patio/garden in the back. Upon further inspection, I found some kind of vermin in the toilet bowl, a broken bed and plenty of insects to annhialate.

They brought me to the office which is a modern building sitting alone out in the landscape. There are 70 employees who work at SOVA, a lot of them speak English thank god. There are 3 tea times and a lunch time which has a big buffet of strange Indian foods. Everyone eats with their hands - shovelling huge fistfuls of food into their mouths.

After work, I rode with a coworker on his motorcycle (the scariest experience so far) into the market while the carpenter was trying to fix my bed. At this point, I haven't slept in over 48 hours, yet I'm supposed to now buy myself something to cook for dinner. So I fixed myself some crackers and chocolate and passed out.

The next day at work I wore a salwar kameez (traditional Indian clothing) and people definitely started warming up to me. Everyone thinks I look like Rose from Titanic. This morning one coworker gave me a flower and another named Lipi keeps holding my hand and trying to get me to sit in her lap. I'm still subsiding on crackers and chocolate outside of the office.

A Tour of Bubaneshwar

2008-11-26T01:05:00.000-08:00

My first experience all alone, wandering the streets of Bubaneshwar in search of some erotic temples. There are far less beggars in Bubaneshwar for sure, but certainly more stares. I find an interesting temple and walk through the gate, to be greeted instantly by a man wearing a toga-like ensemble who is apparently my tour guide. He is explaining the goddesses in broken English as bats fly above our heads. I am seriously freaked out and don't understand a word he's saying. I give him 10 rupees (the equivalent of a quarter) and try and get the hell out of there. He insists I come to his home across the street for tea. We go inside a pretty dirty little shack, with a huge TV and fan. His wife brings me tea and a plate of food. I don't know what was scarier, the food or the bats. I ate it anyway, all the while imagining the types of bacterias and things explained to me at the travel clinic. I gave him a dollar from the US, which his son was elated to see. Randomly, most of the Indians I have met so far have asked me for "American coin", and they carry it around like a prized possession. He tried to get more money out of me but I figured that was enough...time to see the next temple.

Get in a cab to the big temple in the old part of town, where I discover non-Hindus aren't allowed inside. So I start wandering the streets, figuring it'd be pretty lame to just head right back. Somehow I find myself surrounded by like 40 toga-clad Indian men encircling me and staring wide-eyed. So I decide to try out my Oriya language - "Mu Odissa bhalapae" ("I love Orissa"). They are thrilled. One of them grabs these two girls (Luna and Parbatshini?) who live next door, and they start speaking to me in English. They invite me inside for tea.

Then the questions start rolling in. What is your age? What caste are you in? Are you married? Did you have love marriage or arrange marriage? What is your monthly income? Do you live with your parents? Is your husband an angry man? Did you wear a flowing white dress at your wedding? What was the date of your wedding? (Ok, now I probably shouldn't have lied about being married because I'm starting to fumble at this point).

Two hours of questions pass, and every 20 minutes I am introduced to a new family member coming in and out of the house. This is my sister's husband's brother. This is my brother's son's friend. And so on. Then they start putting the henna on my hands, right in time for the mosquitos. So I'm sitting there being intricately painted as the mosquitos are feasting on my leg. Of course I can't leave now, as it would be rude and she's putting so much detail into the "mahindi", but I am seriously getting eaten alive in a malaria infested area. Finally, they let me go and call me a cab, as they are extremely worried about me getting home OK alone. As soon as I arrive at the volunteer's house, I get a call from Luna making sure I made it home. Then thirty minutes later, Luna calls again, telling me her mother wants to know if I have eaten. I said yes. She said, "you're lying. tell me what you have eaten." So apparently my answer sufficed, as she let me go.

Luna has since called me every day so far, as she has assured me now we are best friends and sisters for life.

The 24 Hour Train Ride

2008-11-22T21:07:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting on top of my thousand pound bag on the floor of the Delhi train station, watching the birds and rats scamper around the train tracks. Everyone is staring at me, which is understandable as I am the ONLY white person there. Someone knocks a trash can over right next to me, the nasty dogs run over to inspect, flies everywhere. No one picks it up. So I pick it up, which results in even more stares. I get into my seat on the train, which is actually a bunk bed, underneath two additional fold-down bunk beds. Across from which, are 3 more bunk beds no more than a foot away, and 2 more across the aisle. So that makes 7 Indians and 1 American (yours truly) all crammed together. No one speaks for the first few hours. Then, the food starts coming and everyone starts to stare to see what I'll do. Finally, a guy asks me, "Can you take that? Can you take the food?" I said, "Um...yes I think so..." And they all watch in amazement as I start to eat the curry and roti bread, as if I'll break out in some kind of horrendous rash or fall into a seizure any minute from eating Indian food.

Then, the guy asks me if I'm Caucasian and therefore hate Obama because he's black. I assure him that yes, even though I am Caucasian, I still love Obama and skin color makes no difference to me. "Ah," he says, "that is because you are a youth." Finally the other Indians on the train start to talk to me. Apparently everyone speaks English. And apparently Indians love Universal Studios. No one had ever been to Koraput. Clearly its not the biggest tourist attraction here.

I try to sleep (on the top bunk, of course) but its a bit difficult with the bizarre Indian music blasting from the radio, the loud snoring, and loogie hacking going on throughout the night. But I survived the train, all alone, and found a VSO volunteer (Ineeka from the Netherlands) waiting for me at the station in Bubaneshwar (the capital of Orissa).

Had dinner with the "Bubaneshwar babes" (the VSO volunteers here) at Ineeka's house in the city, some kind of Indian burrito and plenty of beer. Now I'm off on my own today to explore the city, which is supposed to have some amazing temples with erotic sculptures. I'll also need to buy toilet paper here SINCE THEY DON'T HAVE IT IN KORAPUT. I can't believe the day after tomorrow I will be living in a town that doesn't sell toilet paper!!!

Beggars Can Be Choosers

2008-11-17T07:36:00.000-08:00

Those little beggar children have it in for me. They were following a group of us repeating 'hello money' over and over again. They were adorable and I wanted to give them money so bad but we were advised not to. So I just smiled and figured they'd walk away. Nope. They started screaming hello money. Then started poking my butt, laughing hysterically all the while. I tried to give them an intimidating look and then they threw a fistful of dirt at me.
We finally made it into a rickshaw after about 20 unsuccessful negotiations. It was quite the deathride to this market - a pretty narrow alley with fruit stalls (mice included), bright Indian clothing, people everywhere, trash, motorcycles racing through, dirty dogs, a movie set, cows. We almost got run over by a cow. The whole time I kept thinking I might die, whether it be getting hit by a car or mauled by dogs...but there was so much sensory overload, the lure & awe of everything quelled the paranoia.
Started my language class today. You shouldn't be surprised to learn my name means "goddess" across all the Indian languages. I'll make sure to remind the children that next time.

Seattle to Delhi: 3 Men and a Cockroach

2008-11-14T20:23:00.000-08:00

Delhi is really fucking far from Seattle. Despite my best efforts to sleep (1. sprawling across the entire center aisle of the plane, my apologies to the guy sitting on the other aisle, 2. setting up shop on a bench at Heathrow for 8 hours like a homeless person, 3. donning the stylish red sleeping mask courtesy of Virgin airlines for several more hours)...there was no sleep to be had.
Along this insomniac route, this I did manage to meet 3 men: a Brit, an Indian and an American.
The Brit is Tristan. We shared a plate of the most foul fish and chips I've ever not even tasted at the airport in London. He was travelling all the way to Bangkok for 3 days just to get laid.
The Indian is Piyush, he was sitting next to me on the plane. He couldn't believe my passport picture and I were the same person. Then he wanted to know if my sister looked like me, or the passport.
The third is the American. Logan from Northern CA. I had to put up with his deep yoga breathing as I was telling him about the volunteering work I'm about to do. At baggage claim, he held out his fist to give me a gift of a tiny incense stick and an almond which has some signifance I was zoning out to. It was really awkward because when he held his fist out I tried to give him a "pound".
Finally arrived in Delhi and was taken to my room, literally in an institution. Its like One flew over the cuckoo's nest, except replace 'cuckoo' with 'cockroach', crawling all over my breakfast this morning. I love it though, because now I feel like I'm really "in it"...cockroaches and dirt. Actually the dirty children begging for money in the street had the same hairstyle as me.
Well, I'm signing off now.
Mosquito bite count: 4
Dog bites: 0
More on Delhi to come.

Goodbye, or as they say in Oriya, "Vidaaya"

2008-11-11T23:50:00.000-08:00

Goodbye Seattle! Farewell family & friends! For the next 6 months, I'll be volunteering a tribal "village" in India with an Indian non-profit called SOVA (South Orissa Voluntary Action):
http://sovakoraput.org/

I can't believe just 5 months ago I sent my resume to VSO (sort of like a Peace Corps for professionals) and here I am, trying to make room for baby wipes in my backpack. If you want to learn more about VSO, check their website:
http://www.vsointernational.org/

You bastards better send me letters like the one I'm reading in this picture. Send them to:
The Amazing Debbie Glasband
SOVA
Janiguda
Pujariput
Koraput District, Pin 764020
Orissa, India

Also, I will have a cell phone there for when the gchat gets old:
(country code: 0091) + 9777140147

And don't forget to subscribe to this blog, I promise it will be filled with pictures, funny stories, maybe some drawings, insane ramblings, and definitely a fair amount of paranoia.

Vidaaya!