Hey, Wanna Throw Up?

There are a lot of things that happen in India that just would not fly in the States. Riding on top of trains, referring to other cultures as “savage” in outdated anthropology articles, and traffic rules in general are all good examples. But now, I feel like I have really gone beyond the tip of this concept’s iceberg.

Some practices in yoga are dedicated to cleansing the body by cleaning intestines, sinuses, or stomach. Most of these can be done through specific poses designed to relieve constipation or clear air passages, but today in my certificate course we did something special. “Jalaneti” in yoga is when an individual cleans their sinus passages by pouring water into one nostril until it comes out of the other. We did it for the first time this morning, and although a little strange, I realize it really is not that foreign of a practice (it's like a neti-pot).  After a few unsuccessful tries in which I mostly just ended up with nose-water sputtering out of my mouth, I was finally able to get a powerful stream from left to right, and then right to left. My sinuses felt a lot better afterwards, and I was glad I did it because it turns out we’re going to be tested on how well we can shoot water through our head.

This is all very charming and light, but Jalaneti is not what this entry is about. The next thing we did would probably be viewed as insane and cult-ish back home. “Vamanadhouti”, another cleansing practice, is intended to clean the stomach.

We had all been warned about Vamanadhouti beforehand, so we walked into class mentally prepared for what was to come. In this practice, the individual drinks 5-6 glasses of lightly salted water until he or she…well…vomits.

I’m being so serious.

We all came in with an “I’m going balls to the walls and conquering this shit” attitude. (For the record, I would recommend this attitude to anyone who is going to travel in India. It really helps when you have to do things like sleep on top of a luggage rack between two suitcases while a Muslim family is staring at you. That happens more often that you’d like to think it would.) The bulimia jokes began flying and my friend Tucker even skipped the glass, picked up one of the pitchers and chugged it straight. I only got about three glasses down before my stomach started gurgling and I couldn’t take it anymore. What can I say? I’m a light weight.

It was a picture perfect moment, all of us in a line throwing up. The only thing that would have made it better is if we all had been holding hands. To us, it was something Hallmark worthy. If you’ve ever been sick at the same time as someone, either at a party or from actual illness, you know that it is a bonding experience. I remember one occasion I shared with my good friend Aaron first semester freshman year where we both got sick at the exact same time- just in different bathrooms. This picture-perfection was enhanced by the fact that our head teacher was snapping pictures of us with my friend Alexis’s disposable camera.

Our head teacher, Rao (or Grandpa as we call him), is an older balding man with a white moustache, a melodious deep voice, and a hearing aid so useless that you have to shout at him during class and completely ruin any sort of inner peace other people may have. He used to be a very talented yogi before he got into a bike accident, and now he mostly teaches us theory while another man demonstrates the physical postures. Thankfully, this unpleasant portion of his past has not killed his sense of humor. I don’t know if you were aware, but there is a science behind vomiting. You usually begin by throwing up just a little bit, and gradually each heave empties bigger and bigger quantities in your stomach. Every time one of us would let loose with a huge amount of vomit, he would laugh and take pictures of us with the camera, exclaiming gleefully,

“Good! Good! Everyone vomit together!”

At one point he got so close to my friend Jeff while he was vomiting that Jeff said he could feel Grandpa’s chin on his shoulder, while he repeated “Good, good!” in his ear much louder than necessary.

After throwing up, my friends and I immediately felt better. We took a good look at each other with our red watery eyes. Our faces were messy and we offered one another rags and water to clean ourselves. We weren’t just yoga students now- we were fucking vomit warriors. We now shared a bond that could not be understood by ordinary people. However, I wouldn’t say that I felt “cleansed”. The Jalaneti made me feel great, but this practice…not so much. We went back inside the Yoga Center where we did some post-vomiting breath exercises. Then Grandpa informed us that we “might feel strange today” because the Vamanadhouti “cleanses you from head to anus”. AKA five minutes after eating breakfast I shit a brick, and I guarantee you that within the next hour I will shit another brick. By the end of today, I will have enough bricks to build a house and a yoga mat wet with nose water to remind me of just how disgusting our bodies actually are.

Senses

When I first got to India, every aspect was sensory overload. Little things would mesmerize me and regress me into a second childhood. The sound of drumming and music seemed to float everywhere. Colors were so bright, and everything was so new. I didn’t know how to speak to anyone, didn’t even know how to use the toilets properly here. I literally had to be taught everything again. I remember walking down the street and hearing the call to prayer in the middle of the day- I thought it was a concert. It wasn’t until I heard this music day after day that I finally realized what it was. We all know what learning from experience is like, but it had been a very long time since I had to learn such basic things just by living them.

The first month every day would make me so tired. Not only from the heat and the bike rides, but from sheer sensory overload. Life is either so beautiful you want to cry, or so awful you want to do the same. There is no middle ground.

After it rains the weather releases a torrent of dragonflies and butterflies. Thousands emerge from all over the huge green campus, so much that I have to dodge them when I ride my bike to class. They flutter through the air aimlessly and make me feel like I’ve stepped into a wonderland, or a time portal where nature is preserved and development is not overwhelming. The body takes in so much when I’m at home and I never even realized it. The next time you walk down the street, think- and I mean REALLY think- about how many senses you experience, and how fast you register them. What do you smell when you walk past a gas station, or the green grass of your front lawn? How many different colored cars pass you on the street, and what kind of dog just dodged out of the way of one of them? How does the air feel? Cool, hot, heavy, light? When a car honks is it high or low pitched? What language do you suppose the man waiting for the bus was speaking? Bite into a snack and close your eyes. Is it crunchy, sweet, fried, soft?

Our senses are capable of taking in vast amounts of information without us even being conscious of it. But here in India that first month, I was quite aware of EVERYTHING. And it was exhausting. People always talk about how much more “intense” things are here. The smells, sights… But I wonder if it’s not actually more intense, just new. I wonder if my senses won’t be just as magnified when I go home, because for a few weeks, everything will be rich again.

Now when I walk to class I don’t register the sound of drums as quickly. They fade into the pulsing background of Hyderabad; muffled among the honking, shouting, and the rest of the persistent chaos that surrounds everyday life. It is a little sad that we grow so accustomed to life over time. However, I believe callousness has its place in this world; a person cannot walk around being constantly mesmerized. They would be a useless child. But sometimes, in the form of a blessing, a gust of wind will pluck leaves off of their branches, and fall into a spiraling whirlwind. The rain will release of torrent of dragonflies, and I will wake up and hear the drums again.

Genius

This is a story that I’ve been dying to tell, but just couldn’t quite get it to fit in anywhere. So I’ve decided that it can be its own entity, a little break from the usual blog entries.

There are points in people’s lives where embarrassing and awkward things happen to them, but somehow they manage to narrowly escape them. And when you do escape, you feel like the luckiest human to be alive. Even a slight sense of smoothness is restored, replaced by an “Oh, that wasn’t such a big thing” idealism.

Often these situations happen when you are meeting people for the first time, or getting to know relatively new acquaintances. Situations where explaining whatever predicament you’ve gotten yourself into only makes you seem spastic and anxious.

I feel that these situations happen to me more than they do to others, but I don’t know…maybe I’m just the only person that talks about them. Either way, I believe at this point that you know what I’m talking about. We have all been there.


I mentioned Kashmira and Dadi before, and the wonderful Sunday lunch where they took me out and made me feel incredibly welcome. On the way back to school in their little red car, I spied a mosquito in the back seat with me. It was doing its usual mosquito thing- flitting around and buzzing, inching ever closer toward my virgin arm skin.

I decide this is the perfect opportunity to test how quick my reflexes are. I lie in wait in the back seat, listening to Kashmira talk about the next wedding she is planning. Then, silently, when the mosquito is in my reach, I strike.

One handed I grab it, and Kashmira and Dadi in the front are none the wiser. Those famous words from Mortal Kombat echo in my head, “Finish Him!”, and I open my palm slightly- squish it with my other hand to make sure it is really dead.

Feeling rather accomplished, I open both hands so that I can flick the mosquito’s carcass off of me and into the oblivion of the dark carpeted interior. But I am not pleased.

My hands are covered, just covered, in blood.

It’s like the little fucker went for a Happy Hour on my body, drunk off of its indulgence, which explained its easy capture. But now I have bigger problems.

“Shit,” I thought, “They’re probably going to want to shake my hand when we get back to school. I can’t give them blood-covered hands. That’s gross.  They won’t want to have lunch with me again…”

These thoughts go ripping through my head. I wonder if I am being overdramatic. I decide that I probably am, but nonetheless, there's blood on my hands and that's not cool.

I look over in the back seat at my water bottle. Perfect. All I had to do was just slightly tip it in my hand, just enough to rinse the blood off. I slowly twist open the bottle, raise it to my palms, and-

CLUNK.

We go over a bump. Water goes everywhere.

I tilt the bottle back up quickly and look up to see if Kashmira and Dadi notice, but they don’t. They are talking about business. I look down at the floor.

Dammit.

The floor is not carpeted after all. It has one of those little rubber mats over the floor to keep shoes from getting mud everywhere. Water does not soak into rubber. They will wonder how all this water got here, perhaps even why I didn’t say anything. Even a casual “Whoops”, or a “Sure is bumpy!”, might have done the trick, but now it is too late. The road is smooth again. The bump has passed, unnoticed, not important enough to mention.

I slide my feet over the water. Maybe- maybe if I just keep it covered, it will dry before we get to school. We still have a little ways to go. I’ll just keep my feet over it and-

“Amanda, these are the pictures of the next venue. Isn’t it beautiful? Look at the fabrics!”

Kashmira is leaning into the back seat to show me some swatches of material. I clench my feet together and shift my weight, blocking the view of the water.

“Wow, it’s so pretty! You put it all together, right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Make conversation. Distraction. Anything. You’re a genius, Amanda, keep up the good work. You’ll get out of this unscathed.

When Kashmira turns back up into the front seat, I slide the mat ever so slighty- into the sun. Where it cooks, simmers, evaporating the watery shame from its rubber face.

“So Amanda, what is your favorite subject at school right now?”

I flinch, covering the water back up again; but it is Dadi speaking, and he doesn’t turn around because he is driving.

“Oh, well, you know…I think I really like yoga the best.”

“Ah! Yoga. Is that so?”

This continues on for the next 10 minutes. I am on edge.

Maybe if it isn’t evaporated they won’t notice. After all, they have no real reason to look back here once I get out of the car…

But then I imagine Kashmira getting an important phone call from one of her associates. I am gone, dropped off at Tagore House, and she reaches into the back seat to pull out a glossy photo of the venue. Perhaps they are talking about flowers, or chair arrangements, any normal thing that wedding planners talk about. She pulls out an importance piece and her hand slips- dropping it into the rubber mat water. She will think, “How did this water get here? My photo- it is ruined! That was my only copy!” And the jig will be up, even though I won’t know it.

I think about these things all the way until we get to UH. As we pull up to my hostel, I finally look down.

It is gone.

…Mostly gone.

A few droplets remain, but other than that I am safe; unscathed, as I said before. Completely filled with that “Oh, that wasn’t such a big thing” idealism.

As I get out of the car to shake their hands (blood-free, I might add) I feel a certain sense of serenity. Everything has worked out. The sky has cleared, the fat woman sang, and I sped up a process of evaporation. My mistake is literally in the clouds.

I am a genius.

Sitar-licious

Okay, drop whatever it is you’re doing. If there are other windows open in your browser, if you brought this blog into the bathroom to read while taking a shit, or you’re just listening to music- you need to pause. Everything else about India has been small potatoes compared to what I’m about to tell you next:

I own a fucking sitar.

And I’m taking lessons. From an awesome man who barely speaks any English and has indentations on his hands to rival a construction worker’s. I’m serious. Guitar players get mad calices.; Mr. Singh has permanent lines on his fingers.

We started the lesson off by learning how to sit. You cross your right leg over your left and let the sitar rest on your left foot. You hold the weight strictly by balancing on your left foot and using the right thumb, because the left hand has to be available to move up and down the frets. When you strum down, it’s called “Da”, and when you strum up, it’s “Ra”. The scale is as follows:

Sa Ri Ga Ma Pa Da Ni Sa

I thought about making up lyrics to the tune of “Doe- A Deer” to help me remember. But it’s sort of hard.

Sa- A thing you use to cut
Ri- A word that means repeat
Ga- A noise that babies make
Ma- New Jersey’s word for “mom”
Pa- Another word for “Dad”
Da- Your Russian grandfather
Ni- It really hurts right now (from the way we have to sit)
And it brings us back to SA SA SA SA…

But so far it’s not very catchy, and few share my enthusiasm for this system, despite its obvious genius.

Because Mr. Singh doesn’t speak much English, he can’t really communicate what he wants us to fix. But we’ve got a system:

“So the strumming really hurts my wrist. Is there a way to make it relax more?”

“Wrong! Fix.”

“Oh…okay. I know. But how do I-“ But by this time he has forcibly removed your hand and fixed it for you, so it all works out.

I’m learning a lot about the different performance arts here. For one- they are all interconnected, and most revolve around Sanskrit. So while it is not a language widely spoken, practitioners of the arts, yoga, and Indian Literature buffs pretty much need to know it. Take for example my Kuchipudi Dance class. It is taught by a woman named Aruna, who has a beautifully dry sense of humor and has been dancing since she was 4 years old. Kuchipudi is heavily based off of Sanskrit, because there are different hand motions that go along with each word. By pressing your index and middle finger to your thumb and straightening the ring and pinky, you will make the sign for “The Face of An Insect”. By extending all fingers out (but keeping the pinky and others in a little bit) you’ve made the sign for “Lotus”. Combine these two into one dance movement, and the dancer communicates “The Face of an Insect that Sits on a Lotus”.

Kuchipudi is INCREDIBLY different from any style of movement I’ve ever done before, but sometimes you can rely on the similarities. Between all the stomping and hand positions (called Hastas), you have to keep your upper body very straight and rigid, like ballet. They even have first position (Sama Pada). Aruna is also very helpful:

“Amanda,” (Pronounced like A-mawn-duh, as I don’t believe the second sound exists in Hindi or Telugu) “Make your arms more like an ‘L’ shape. This is not Karate.”

“I know, I know. I can’t help it. When I have to keep my palms flat like this I just think ‘Ninja’”.

I decide not to explain why.

“All of you need to make your movement looser, easier…Are you ok? You all look so red when we do practicals. It makes me nervous. I know it is just your skin, but I feel like you will drop right in front of me.”

“No, Aruna, we’re ok. This is normal for white people.”

So between Kuchipudi, morning certificate yoga, and Yoga Theory and Practice, most of my homework ends up being physical. Which I’m perfectly fine with. There is a difference, however, between certificate yoga and TP Yoga. The certification class is all about physical discipline. We are expected to learn all the postures, the Sanskrit names for them, as well as how to get into and out of them correctly, and the benefits each one has for the body. Even though getting up at 5:15 Monday-Saturday and biking the 3.5 km to the Yoga Centre (British spelling, good ol’ colonization) is a bitch, it really does make you feel good when you’re done.

Then there is Yoga Theory and Practice, where our teacher, Yashoda, just makes you feel so darn good about yourself that you leave on a cloud. Yashoda the Yoda gives you inspirational words like, “If you meditate on your purpose in life, and ask the Universe to reveal it to you, it will be done.” Yashoda’s Yoga is more based on simultaneous breathing and movement, which I find ultimately more relaxing. We end each practice portion of the class with meditation, during which we try to “Detach ourselves from our body and our desires, which will eliminate Duhkham (Suffering)”. Then we move on to theory, where Yashoda will draw happy diagrams of people sitting in Lotus position, explaining the history and purpose behind the practice of Yoga. Needless to say, it’s my favorite class.

I only wish that my other classes could be as enlightening as that one; but unfortunately, I do not have many good things to say about the style of teaching in India. It is all lecture, memorization, and spitting back what you’ve learned. Almost no critical thinking, very little discussion. I have 3 in-class evaluations for each class that lead up to the final exams in November. For Anthropology of Religion (now my only direct-enroll class with actual students at UH) all I have to do is summarize an article and present it to the class. I’m not complaining- trust me, I’d rather do that than a test or an essay, but you get the general idea of what it’s like to go to school here.

The mosquitos are pretty terrible. We’ve all been investing in these large tubes of cream called “Odomos Naturals”. It’s citronella and aloe vera, one of the few products we’ve found that’s meant to be put on your skin rather than sprayed around a door or window. It works pretty well, but we still get bit. And when it gets bad we use…

Toothpaste.

White cream toothpaste.

That’s right folks, all the old wives’ tales you’ve heard are true. Just put some toothpaste on those suckers, curl up in bed, and the next day you will be itching considerably less and NOT having your limbs look like they’re covered in boils.

Fun fact: Did you know that mosquitos explode if your flex your muscles while they’re biting you? It’s true- try it some time. They can’t handle the sudden rush of blood and they literally explode. Just be wary, because it can be a little messy. I swear, the things I’m learning here…

But the most apparent part of India so far is the kindness of the people. I have two contacts right now- Suresh (man in Hyderabad) and a couple in the neighboring city of Secunderabad. The Indian people as a whole are so welcoming that they put southern hospitality to shame. Suresh offered to take my friends and I to a Hindu Temple two Saturdays ago, where he guided us through the idols, the offerings, the prayers, and everything else we would never have known had he not been with us.

And oh my God, this temple.

It was gorgeous, only a few years old. Mostly white with marble floors. I wished I could have taken some pictures, but it would have been rude, so I didn’t. Large temples housing multiple Gods and Goddesses are walked through and the idols are visited one at a time. Each temple always begins with Ganesha (the elephant), who is said to ward off all obstacles. From there on, you visit each idol as you please, watching as the priests do their ritualistic prayers. Many of them light incense and go around the idols in a circle while chanting. Then you are given herb water; you drink a little, and smooth the rest over your hair. The exception to this was the God of money (whose name escapes me), where we were given fresh sweet milk. Sometimes rice was sprinkled on our heads for purity, sometimes not. At all idols the priests had a flame going, where we wafted the smoke towards our third eye. Next, the priests perform the practice of Shataari, where they place a metal crown (called a kalasam) over our heads very quickly before moving on to the next person. This generally marks the end of your visit with that idol.

Outside of most temples there is a place to buy coconuts. If you buy a coconut and bring it in, it will be filled with flowers and given back to you (most places- some places also just keep the coconuts). These flower-filled coconuts are gifts from the Gods, and it is forbidden to put them on the ground or treat them with disrespect. But it is not all too formal:

“So Suresh, what do you usually do with these coconuts?”

“Oh, I’m not sure…most of the time I give them to my mother. She uses them for cooking.”

“Aha.”

Then there was lunch with the couple, Kashmira and Dadi. Kashmira plans weddings, and Dadi works with banking software development. They picked me up at noon on Sunday in their little red car, and took me out to an extremely nice buffet in Hyderabad. It was the best food I’ve eaten since I’ve been here.

The restaurant was soooo relaxing and Kashmira and Dadi were so kind that I immediately felt at ease. We talked about everything- they offered to let me stay with them for a weekend, and at the end of the day Kashmira handed me a bag full of snacks. They were probably the nicest people I’ve ever met before.

That’s at least one thing from India that America could really benefit from- they treat foreigners here as if we are all their personal responsibility. Everyone is a diplomat. They want to take you out for coffee, or let you borrow something you need, or give you food, help you through the train station and the airport, keep you from getting ripped off by a rickshaw driver. In America, we see foreigners and…eh, we might help…until we realize they can’t speak English. I have literally communicated using only hand signs and facial expressions with women on the bus to find out what the next stop is going to be. If you try hard enough, you can figure out what someone is saying to you. We just don’t make an effort.

Catch Up

It’s been a damn long time since my last entry, and a lot has happened. For one, my class schedule is essentially finalized, which means I am taking:

Kuchipudi Dance
Indian Philosophy
Yoga Theory and Practice
Anthropology of Religion
Indian Society

In addition to my academic classes, I’ve also enrolled in a 3 month Yoga Certification course, held Monday-Saturday from 6am-7am. Assuming I go every day and pass the 3 tests in October, I will be a certified yoga instructor when I get back to the states. So between two yoga classes, a dance class, and riding my bike everywhere around this huge campus every day, I better have the thighs and ass of a goddess at the end of this semester. I’ll be pissed if I don’t.

As far as life in the hostel goes, I am more than comfortable adjusted. Comparative to the rest of India, I have it VERY easy. I’m pampered here, really. Breakfast food in the morning AND English-style toilets?? This is practically heaven on Earth.

And speaking of food…the adjustment has been relatively painless. I will tell you that solid shits were a rare commodity here in the Tagore International House for awhile, but all is now well. South Indian food can be very tasty, it just takes some getting used to. A lot of lentils and potatoes, tons of rice. The only thing I’ve come across so far that I really HATED were Idlis and Wadas.

I tried to insert a picture, but blogger sucks. Go type them into Google images.

Deceptive-looking, I know. From the picture they look delicious. Some people like them, but to me they are tasteless, strange textured little bean cakes that should be abolished from the entirety of India. The sauce doesn’t really make it any better.

I’ve had a couple of really good dining-out experiences. The Chinese and Thai food here is amazing, of course. If I ever get tired of Indian I default to those. It used to be that when I was hungry, I was still craving things like grilled chicken sandwiches and waffle fries. Now when I’m riding home from class I think, “Oh man, I hope they have those cauliflower and noodles again today”. I gotta tell you, it’s really nice to be mostly adjusted to the food. It can also have it’s downfalls, though.

There is a Hard Rock Café here. The Hyderabad Hard Rock, if you will. I had the pleasure of dining there on Saturday night for my friend’s birthday, my first Hard Rock experience ever. I was really hoping for a salad; it’s been such a long time since I’ve had lettuce. But you still have to take your precautions:

“Excuse me, sir? Do you know if the kitchen washes the lettuce in tap water?” I say this very slowly, because while English is widely spoken in India, the accents are completely different and hard for both parties to understand. Sometimes I wonder if slowing down my speech actually helps them, or if it just makes them think I’m mentally challenged.

“Why yes madame, they do. They always wash!” And the waiter says this very proudly, like it’s a good thing, something comforting every white customer wants to hear.

“Ok…thank you.”

I ended up ordering a chicken burger with avocado and salsa. I’m sure the waiter told the bus boy to take it to the retarded girl in the gray top. (Consequently, that was the most meat I’d eaten collectively within the past two weeks, so afterwards I felt disgusting.) We all waited for our food while watching the waiters dance on the counter to the Village People. We sang along, too, but mostly out of a feeling of obligation. Every time it got to the chorus, the DJ would drop out the music so the crowd could sing

“Y-M-C-A!”

But the Indian crowd of the night just was not having it, so when the music dropped, all you could hear was a lone table of 15 whiteys singing along to a very homosexual rock song that, for some reason, maintains popularity even in the Eastern Hemisphere.

And SPEAKING of homosexuality…well, there isn’t any in India. No gays here, nope. Don’t exist. But if you want to find some Hijra, you’ve come to the right place.

I finally figured out their loophole. I kept wondering where the hell the gay community was in India, how they communicated, etc. A Hijra is not a gay man. It is a “third sex” (usually born physiologically male or sexually ambiguous), or a man who has renounced his lifestlye as a man. Hijras undergo a ceremony of emasculation (total removal of penis, testicles, etc) and live out the rest of their days as females. But, as I’m sure you can imagine, they are not especially popular here. Job opportunities for them are scarce, and most make their money by begging.

And there is a lot of begging here in India. It really breaks your heart. Especially when it’s children. And they’re never aggressive, they just smile up at you and tug on your shirt, or lightly touch your arm, saying “Madame, please, Madame”. The best thing you can remember in those situations is that a lot of beggars belong to rings. A lot of them don’t end up with the money you give them, it all goes to someone else at the end of the day. If you really want to help the poor in India, a charity is honestly the best way.

The class divisions between rich and poor are just as bad as you’ve heard. There are people living in tarp huts cooking their food with fire on the side of the road, while limousines with private drivers go by, taking men and women dressed in expensive American clothes to clubs and pubs in the richer parts of the city. Banjara Hills, the High-Tech area, these are all places that are very popular at nights and on weekends. I went to a bar for a Ladies’ Night the first Thursday I was here, and it was pretty interesting. The drinks are all very American. None of the people would be caught dead wearing Indian clothing. From 8pm-10pm all that plays is old music from the 90’s and early 2000’s, and they sing along religiously, knowing every word and some looking over at us, like they’re saying, “Yeah, we can do it, too.” Then when the dance floor opens, you’ll hear things you heard right before you left, except in super-trendy techno remix form… When it comes to American culture, India seems like it’s about 10 years behind. It’s almost there, but not quite… Most people with T-shirts in English have the ones that say things like,

“Sexy Girl”

“My Girlfriend is Out of Town, That Means It’s Not Cheating”

Or my favorite so far:

“Teamwork is Best! Together We Can Do It!”

That last one was actually quite endearing. I wanted it.

Also in Banjara Hills is the nicest movie theater I’ve ever had the pleasure to sit in. Movie theaters in India are much nicer than ours. The seats are more comfortable, and in all of them you can order food and have it sent to your seat. I recently had the pleasure of seeing Inception with Mysore Suresh (awesome movie, by the way) and he reserved a few backs seats for our party. I basically watched a movie in a Laz-E-Boy recliner. It. Was. AWESOME. I wish that American movie theaters had that option.

I’ve yet to see an Indian movie or a Hindi play here, but I’m jumping on it the first chance I get. I DID go to see “Waiting for Godot”, though, as weird as that it. It was being presented as part of a High School film festival that’s apparently pretty popular every year. The production wasn’t very good…but it was still interesting to see a South Asian interpretation of Western Theatre. I could barely understand the actors, however. This wasn’t just because of their Indian accents; they thought it necessary to try and attempt French accents, as well. Needless to say, it was almost unintelligible. The style was very Vaudeville-esque and overplayed, but I suppose I’ll accept that as an actual directorial choice, no matter how much I disagreed with it. And then again, I have to remember, these are young kids and non-professional adults. I’ll let you know once I see something professional.

As for the people I live with, they’re all pretty awesome. Everyone here is so laid-back and always up for an adventure. Intelligent, very into spirituality. An average conversation with the girl down the hall will end with,

“Ok, I’m going to go chant. I’ll see you at dinner!”

And that’s that. And it’s totally normal. No one questions it.

There is so much I’ve been learning from the people here. Not to mention my classes themselves. We learn nothing about Eastern Literature in school growing up, but we should. The Vedas, the Bhagavad Gita, all are things that Indian culture is based off of. It’s my goal to read as much as I can before I get back, and then keep reading even when I’m there.

Link to videos:

http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=470714019847#!/video/video.php?v=470699844847

http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=470714019847

http://www.facebook.com/amandafacemire?v=app_2392950137#!/video/video.php?v=471678944847&ref=mf

Arrival!

I have been trying to load videos into this entry, but unfortunately it hasn’t been working. I can’t tell if this is Blogger’s doing, or the connection here. I mean, if I had to take a wild shot in the dark I would guess that it’s the latter… So I will be using facebook to provide links to videos.

Electronic things here are strange, to say the least. The power goes out in the hostel randomly. The switch for one of the hallway lights is located inside my room, so I control whether or not people have light. In essence, I have the ability to give a catty “Fuck you” to anyone at the water dispenser.

The weather here is beautiful right now. Monsoon season has started in India, but Hyderabad is in a region that comparatively does not receive much rain. When I arrived Saturday morning it was raining pretty hard, but Sunday morning was sunny and beautiful and after awhile it turned overcast, which really helped the heat.

I’ll say this about the heat in Hyderabad- it’s still not as bad as Hotlanta. Just as humid, but not as hot.

A few details about the trip:

I left mid afternoon Thursday from Hartsfield-Jackson in Atlanta, and finally arrived around 8 AM in the Hyderabad Airport Saturday morning. I felt the grossest I have ever felt, tired, and generally just worn down and pissed off. I would never have even made it had it not been for a financial analyst from Dallas named Jean that I found in the Mumbai airport. We navigated the terminals together and eventually found our separate flights. The Mumbai airport is a nightmare, and if you can ever avoid it you should feel lucky. There are small passages expected to allow traffic for passengers coming and going, as well as luggage and staff members. There is a nicer terminal that I flew out of, but you have to take a bus because they are under construction to connect the two.

My roommate came in Sunday! Her name is Megan and she is originally from California. Cheerful girl, liked her the moment I saw her. I also met a ton of kids the first night who are in a different program. They invited me to go into town with them yesterday, which was perfect because I needed to pick up more converters. I had been using this kid named Rob’s to charge my laptop so I can keep in touch with all of you back home.

Speaking of which, I should mention that I am 9 and a half hours ahead of you all in the States right now, so hopefully that will provide some insight into appropriate skyping times ;)

A few things about my living conditions:

-I have a pretty good sized room. About the size of a normal room in Hughes at UE.

-I have hot water for showers after all (in my video I mention that I don’t, but it’s actually solar powered.) I can have hot water if I shower sometime in the afternoon…

-The AC in my room is surprisingly nice. I have a remote controlled LG air conditioning unit. I also have a fan that, I believe, goes the speed of light.

-I am in a temporary room downstairs in the hostel right now. There are still summer students here that have yet to leave, and once they are all out Megan and I will be moving upstairs, where I will be able to have internet in my room, as opposed to just the common areas.

-I have 3 meals a day and the food is actually pretty good. An average meal for Lunch and Dinner might be curry, spicy potatoes, rice, vegetables, fruit, and curd (yogurt). Breakfast is more American, with cereal and pancakes and such. Always toast and marmalade, good ol’ colonization.

Whenever you go abroad, I think it’s always the little differences that tend to throw people for a loop. Not the big things. Most people expect that they won’t be able to show their shoulders and knees, and that they’ll be surrounded by poverty, but they don’t realize things such as, say, that wiggling your head from side to side is the Indian way of nodding. I thought people were just saying “maybe” to me for at least a good two days.

“So my laptop is set up to the WiFi now?”

head wiggle

“Um, so do I need to keep it with you a little longer?”

Then they’ll stare at you like you’re an idiot, and you just sort of tentatively take the laptop and walk away quickly.

The dress here is expectedly conservative, as well. No cleavage, no shoulders showing (for men and women), no knees showing, no tight fitting pants and shirts. I’ve seen younger Indian women rocking tight American style jeans with loose fitting Indian style tunics (called a kurta). There are also things called Salwar Kameez, which are leggings-style pants paired with tunics. I’ve seen those more often because they are more traditional.

Older women are more often seen is saris (which I have bought material for, and will have specially tailored for me tomorrow for about 150 rupees). There are tons of different ways to wrap them.

Today I went into a traditional Crafts Market a little outside the city (University of Hyderabad is about 20 km out, so we didn’t have to take a taxi too far). I bought a full Salwar Kameez outfit, as well as loose fitting pants (the name of which I can’t remember, but will report once I do). I am now having major electronic regret because I forgot the card reader for my Nikon Coolpix, so I’ll have to hope that someone in the Hostel has a chord. Between that and how long it takes me to upload Flip videos, I think I will be doing way more actual writing than I originally intended.

As soon as I find a way, I will upload videos. Even if this means I have to buy a card reader at one of the malls here, which are very Americanized.

I also had my orientation today, so we picked out our classes, talked about the rules of the hostel and UH, and got my bike! It’s a pink one with a basket and a little bell J I’ll be getting a lot of use out of it. They don’t want us to drive it off-campus (a wise decision, as Indian road laws are virtually nonexistent and their driving is death-defying), but the campus is huge, so tomorrow I plan to explore around with a few people and see what can be seen.

The amount of people Indians can cram onto a bike or motorcycle is awing. Whole families of 5 can be seen riding along auto-rickshaws on highways. Sunday when we went to the city mall we saw a man texting on his motorcycle, while another was holding a full-length ladder riding on the back.

And SPEAKING of the mall, if you want to talk about a sexually frustrated culture, then you’ve come to the right blog. Victoria’s Secret and cellphone ads featuring beautiful (light skinned) half naked women riddle the walls, juxtaposed alongside covered women in burkas. Men are not allowed to touch a woman, but Indian radio plays music with lyrics such as “Let’s get together baby, just me and you. You know you want to.” India seems to be a nation of blue balls, and I am not sure if this fairly new media is making it worse or better.

Being white in India is like being a celebrity, or being the only skinny kid in fat camp. You walk down the street and people stare, probably thinking, “What are YOU doing here?” Sometimes they even ask to take pictures with you.

So for now I’m just sort of muddling my way through, getting used to India time (which is almost the same as stoner time) and trying to get registered with the police department so that I can get a SIM card here. But surprisingly, I am acclimating very well and very quickly. During our orientation today, the director (a very beautiful and intelligent woman) told us that the phrase “culture shock” is virtually outdated. And I believe it.