Volunteering with Umbrella Foundation

Some pics

Lightbulbs

We needed a light.

It was 9pm on a Wednesday night and the light in our (newly leased NY apartment) bedroom was out. The romance of reading by headlamp had passed – even though our air mattress resembled the comfort of most hostels we stayed at during our travels. We wanted to tuck into the sole pieces of furniture in our new apartment – an air mattress and two pillows - and read.

Ironically, changing a lightbulb in our new apartment is not easy. We were fortunate to find a beautiful brownstone walkthrough with ten foot tall ceilings and amazing natural light…during the daytime. Having retrieved a ladder from the landlord and laboriously unscrewing a complicated light fixture, we agreed I would go buy the lightbulbs. It was 9pm in New York – everything should be opened. Two blocks later, and the grocery store and Duane Reade were closed. Enter: our local bodega.

I walk into a male dominated bodega and hear the sounds of rapidly spoken Spanish – the kind of Spanish that leaves an English speaker marveling at how quickly a tongue can pronounce so many syllables. “Como puedo ayudarle mi AMOR….?” Boomed from the round, bald man behind the counter. (How can I help you my LOOOOOVE?” ) I smiled at him. “Lightbulbs”, I said.

Having understood his initial question, he was eager to hear where I had learned Spanish. I smiled again and told him in Nicaragua. He beamed back. He was from the Dominican but I somehow felt I had passed an important test. He pointed to the lightbulbs right before my eyes and we continued on a discussion about energy efficiency. He did not have any energy efficient lightbulbs in stock, but I should come back tomorrow where he also owns the $.99 store next door. He then introduced me to his son behind the counter and the combination of the personalities alone made me quite excited that our local bodega can fit so much personality. I soon shared that I am new to the neighborhood, 112th and Manhattan to be exact. His face lights up and he beckoned me a little closer as if about to share a deep secret with an intimate friend.
“You know that abandoned church on 111th and Manhattan – right across the street from you?”
“Yes”, I reply with a little trepidation.
“Well that’s my property, I am going to turn it into a sports bar. Soon. You just wait. A sportsbar right there!”
With teasing skepticism I reply, “Great. But are you going to serve Guinness?”
The look that followed was priceless. His eyes darkened and the first signs of seriousness crossed his face. In a Bollywood meets Latin America type of way, he soon looked like I had offended his deepest sensibilities. “Guiness?” He shook his head, dismayed that I did not already know. “Of course, Guinness. That is my favorite.”
As he finished speaking, he grabbed my hand and escorted me to the beer aisle of the bodega. He extracted a bottle of Guinness from the fridge and, as if we had been friends forever, suggested we split it. Right there. In the aisle. I politely declined and he smiled as if that was also the right answer. So instead he slipped a cold Guinness into my purse. I asked in Spanish, “A little gift from the neighborhood?” He assured me it was and that I would be welcome in Ricki’s shop anytime.

I left the bodega with light steps, returning to Paul with a story and a Guinness…but no lightbulbs. I love our new neighborhood!

Our arrival in NYC

New York City. There is no town like it.

It may be dear, but after Delhi, it is certainly not old or dirty! It feels good to be back in my dear New York City!

It has been a while since we wrote, so as a brief overview:
July 24th: Arrive back in the U.S.A. Laundry. Lots of laundry. Eat fresh New Jersey corn and a big, raw salad.
July 25-27th: Apartment hunt. Paul finds THE ONE. A newly renovated brownstone with beautiful details and just enough space – translate: HUGE for NYC standards. In the apartment, Paul would have a 15 minute walk to his office cutting his commuting time by an 1 hour and 45 minutes! He falls head over heels in love. Paul finds out what we need to do to get the apt while I interview for some jobs.
July 28th – August 2nd: Visit Kate and Shawn in Massachussets. Marvel at Kate’s beautiful belly. Drive to Maine for Jeff Tillinghast (Bowdoin) and Sarah Hurley’s wedding. Jubilate with friends. Vow to move to Maine one day.
August 3rd: Say farewell to beautiful Maine…for now… make Vacationland a part of our 5 year moving plan. Pick up three lobsters on our way South. Call our new neighbor and dear friend Eric Kane and let him know we will need a large pot around 7PM to cook three huge Maine lobsters; one for the each of us.
Evening: Blow up our air mattress. Boil the lobsters. Pop a bottle of Chardonnay. Hope that the last meal in our apartment is anywhere near as good as our first.

Our official move-in day is this Sunday, August 9th. First, we are off to another wedding, this time of our friends’ Travis Buchanan (Bowdoin) and Julie Leff (NYC) . Should be a great Bowdoin crowd to celebrate with on the beach! On Sunday morning, the inevitable wonderment of how we collected so much stuff at the ages of 27 and 28 respectively will settle in. Paul will encourage me to downsize. I will lament that I cannot possible give up my Halloween costume from sophomore year in high school – I may need the parts again for this year. Nevertheless, we are eager to settle and establish our lives again in NYC. Move in day will be a long one as we begin the day post-wedding in southern New Jersey, load the moving truck together in Princeton, NJ and then unloading in NYC. Luckily, we will have the help of two good friends on the NY end. More to come post-move…

A hard bite to swallow

“How on earth did I get this cold?” Paul asks frustrated and bewildered.

I smile back, “Really?”

I remind him of two nights past.

It was our last day at Sugarloaf. We knew something was planned for us earlier in the day when the boys asked us how to spell our names - Paul and Devi. We returned to the house in the afternoon to silence. No playing on the roof. No rough housing in the rooms. Everyone was crafting – some were trying to cover their work with their little elbows, others blatantly asking, “Do you like this? It is for you!!”

We spent the late afternoon christening the rooftop in full glory. Kites were flown, four square tournaments were played and I even played a competitive round of Bullseye Pebbles! Of course, I also saw how easy it would have been to cheat at this game. Bullseye is not just an exercise in hand-eye coordination (which I like to deem luck) but also in counting (which I have a bit more training than the boys at.) Inevitably, all of the little ones would come up to me and confirm their score with me. Finger touched to their nose (the Asian way of pointing to oneself) they would declare,

“120+90 is…….210. I have 110! I have 110!!”

“No, Monesh, it is 210. 120+90 is 210.”

“Huh?! 210! I have 210!?!?” ...Pause.....“I HAVE 210!!!!! I HAVE 210!!!!”

Each one would miscount by approximately 100 points to then be overwhelmed with shock and delight when they realized they were further along than they thought. (Conveniently, they would never forget or miscount my own score, which was often easier to tabulate. Recall: zero)

In the evening, after dal baht and some more rough-housing, the boys started to congregate in a circle. The water tap to the house had broken the night before and you could smell that many of the boys had not yet had a decent wash since then, but they were still ever eager to play and cuddle. As they whispered and some began to sit, I was expecting another of their Michael Jackson dance routines, which had won SugarLoaf first place in an orphanage wide talent competition the previous month (prior to MJ’s passing). We sat with the boys in a circle until the eldest of the group requested that we take a seat on the bench. I was completely ignorant of the Nepali ritual that would consume the next hour. ..

Paul and I sat next to each other, along with Caelie, another departing volunteer. One by one, each boy approached us and put a dab (or a huge blob – depending on the boy) of a sticky rice mixture brightly colored with red dye on our forehead. They took this very seriously, sometimes looking at us in the eye, other times humbly looking down. Others would giggle at their attempts to hold the large rice bowl with their left hand (being sure not to contaminate the rice with their left hand) while trying to put the rice on us with their right hand. The exchange allowed for a special moment with each boy, being able to look at them closely and wonder what they will make of themselves.

Once the rice was placed on our forehead, they ceremoniously exchanged the rice bowl for an apple bowl. With their clean right hand soiled by red dye, they innocently picked up a piece of apple and hand-fed us.

18 little boys.

18 pieces of grimy little apple.

Fed into our mouths.

With an unwashed left hand.

At first, the swallowing did not come easy. Paul and I looked at each other and giggled. 18 boys to feed us, 36 eyes on us. There was nothing to do but grin and bear it.

We walked home with huge smiles, warm hearts, unease in our belly and a mess of red rice all over our face. Even the monks at the monastery could not stifle a giggle when they saw us. The boys had done a number on us – in more ways than one.
Two days later, Paul wondered where he got his cold and I started my first round of Cipro! An experience we shall never forget…

Bulls-eye with the Umbrella Foundation

"Sister! Sister!"

"I am so happy. I have 65 points and you have zero. I am so happy!"

We have committed 4 days to the Umbrella Foundation, a local NGO that runs orphanages. 4 days and it took about 1 minute for the children to win my heart.

The house we were assigned is home to 18 children, 16 of which were recently "rescued" from a corrupt orphanage. Ages 6-8, the boys slept on the floor and were asked to beg for money during the day, or collect vegetable scraps from the market for the night's meal.

Via e-mail, we were told our project would be to paint a roof. Thoughts of tarring roofs in the hot afternoon sun in Appalachia came to mind. I envisioned 4 days of hard labor to make up for 6 weeks of self-focused travel. Oh, how I was wrong! We have a dream job!

Our task is to make a recreational space for the kids. Equipped with red, yellow and blue paints, Paul and I are creating a magical rooftop kingdom with games such as four-square, twister and bullseye (with Pebbles.) We are having a blast! On Day 1, we chalked our ideas on the roof to see how the kids took to them and they were a hit! More than that, they were creaming us at our own games!

"Sister, sister, you try this pebble. Easier for you. You have zero."

"Sister, sister, it's your turn. Stand here."

(I assumed the name "sister" as I think some people find it strange calling me Debbie - pronounced Devi - oh holy master of the universe.)

Little hands found mine as we waited in line for our turn at Four-Square. Heads rested against my hip during the rare nanoseconds that the boys were not consumed by a remarkable level of energy. When rain threatened, we sought shelter inside. It did not take long for Paul to become a human jungle gym. Soon, all of the pint sized boys wanted Superman rides from the fun, tall American who can speak Nepali.

After a long day's work today (Day 2), our magical kingdom is about 50% complete. The majority of games are painted and now it is time to get creative with the details. We hope the rains hold off a bit longer!

Trekking in the Himalayas: Giggles and Jycoos (Leeches!)

Much to our delight, Ashley (one of my college roommates) and her partner Jimmy decided to join us for the Nepal leg of our trip. Our itinerary was loosely planned; we would meet in Kathmandu, spend a day or two in the valley before seeking out trekking opportunities in Pokhara, a 5 hour bus ride from Kathmandu.

From Day 1 I was reminded that there is nothing, nothing like giggling with a dear girlfriend. A cloud of silliness consumed Ashley and I while the four of us were applying for trekking permits at the Tourist Trekking Association in Pokhara. It was the type of cheeck-aching, gasping goofiness that lasted about 25 minutes. Paul and Jimmy looked at us with curiosity and suspicion, as men do, when girlfriends or sisters engage in silliness together. Our mood was triggered by the warnings we received from a woman at the Permit Association. She asked with curiosity and concern why on earth we were in Nepal now, during monsoon, rather than in October/November when the weather and trekking were better. (This was a common piece of unsolicited advice throughout travels). She told us that the trek we planned was nice – but we would likely not see the mountains…we should come back in October. There was little water on the way and the beautiful rhododendron trees were not in bloom….we should come back in October. She warned us we would be wet…because it was not Oct/Nov. What put us over the edge was her description of the leeches that we would encounter. She said they were everywhere and that we should pack a hat and lots of salt to detract them. By the end of the conversation I was expecting leeches the size of small bats to come flying from the sky and suck our noses of. The only reasonable reaction Ashley and I had was to laugh – and to put salt on the shopping list. The giggles began.

A few hours later, equipped with approximately 1 pound of salt, iodine tablets, rented gear and a sense of adventure we felt ready to go. We were told that the trail was well marked (we just needed to follow the donkey dung) and that guesthouses were available in the many villages populated up the mountain. Even with that information, there was a nagging concern in the back of my mind. This was the Himalayas – not the Catskills. We agreed we should at least meet an independent guide who would travel with us and make sure we did not get terribly lost. If we did not instinctively trust him or if he did not seem to fit with the group dynamic, we could try and brave it on our own. No problem. Krishna was recommended by our guesthouse and would cost a whopping $15/day.

Krishna approached our picnic table overlooking the lake. He smiled. He had us at Hello. Hiring him was the best decision we made, and not just for his experience and skill – which we ended up needing, but for his companionship and sense of humor. Mr. Don’t Worry Chicken Curry saved us!

The trek would have us ascending 3210 meters (almost 10,000 feet) – the highest I have ever been. Krishna warned us not to expect much – it was monsoon season – but there was still hope. He proceeded to show us pictures of the views and scenery on the hike from Oct/Nov.

We started early on our first day, which was supposed to be our “lightest” of the 4 days. In my case, this was a good thing as I had made the ultimate traveler’s mistake the night before. It is a beginners mistake. Excited about our trip and comfortable after 5 weeks of travel, I believed the waiter when he said that the ice was made from purified water. I ordered cocktail. Big mistake. HUGE. Purified water it was not. AAfter a restless night, I was dehydrated and empty by the morning. Paul took one look at me and was threatening to call the trek off. The dizziness was compounded by an altitude medicine I was prescribed to ward off the sickness I had previously known while skiing at similair heights. Krishna asked me to not take it again. It was too powerful. Some immodium and hot ginger water throughout the day restored me to functional. We made it to out goal on Day 1 with the help of Krishna carrying my bag part way and Paul worrying around me like a good husband. By evening, my spirits were back and I was ready for more, though lesson learned. No cocktails in remote Nepal.

By the second day, the group found its rhythm hiking up the mountain – Paul (named Aakash, meaning “sky” in Nepali) walked with Krishna practicing his Nepali while while Ash, Jimmy and I passed the time reminiscing, singing and joking. The path passed through small villages, rice paddies and revealed beautiful vistas. It is planting season in Nepal and entire communities were out – the men plowing the land with water buffalo while the woman bent in impossible angles planting the rice seedlings at warp speed. We passed donkeys and mules carrying provisions of flour, lentils and beer up the mountain to the guesthouses. Men carried everything from chickens to filing cabinets via a rope attached to their forehead. We hoped the delivery charge was worth it!

Mezmerized by the lush landscape, we were thankful that it was not Oct/Nov when other tourists would have crowded the path. The clouds reminded us of how high we were climbing and the fresh air was amazing. On our second day, we climbed 3280 steep stone step…all before 9:30AM. We continued up until 5PM finally arriving in Goripani at 2910 meters. The mountains has been enveloped in clouds for 2 weeks straight hiding the mountains right across the valley. As we settled down to dinner, the clouds began to part to reveal majestic, snow capped Himalayas. It was breathtaking. The clounds quickly returned but Krishna had a renewed light in his eye – this was a good sign for the morning!

The rain pounded down on the tin roof that night as if we would be washed away. We went to bed with high hopes but low expectations. We awoke at 3:45AM (that’s 3:45AM) to ascend Poon Hill for sunrise. Stars remained in the sky making us optimistic that the view would not disappoint. 400 vertical meters in 45 breathless minutes and we felt like we were on top of the word. We were speechless. Krishna was stunned at our luck. The air was so clear you could see snow blowing from the peaks. The views felt spiritual and we watched in awe as the sun rose.

We descended back to Goripani for breakfast in a festive mood. Mother Nature had been so good to us and we felt GREAT! We were not plagued by altitude sickness or sore muscles, even after two intense days straight UP.

Of course, what comes up must come down. Our good fortune during the ascent was met with a healthy dose of adversity during the descent. We liked to think it was to restore our karmic balance. After the gorgeous views on Poon Hill we had 7 solid hours of hiking down ahead of us (the trek is normally done in 5 days – we chose to do it in 4). No gym machine, stairmaster or amount of walking can prepare one’s knees and calf muscles for 9,000+ feet of stone steps. The first 3 hours went relatively smoothly as we followed a meandering river down the mountain. I met a woman hiking with her Dad who was about to matriculate into Wharton this August. We stopped for lunch with shaky legs and rejuvenated ourselves with dal baht (Nepal’s national dish consisting of rice, lentils, curries and usually a vegetable side) and a competitive game of Hearts.

After lunch, things began to change.

Ash’e ankle rolled during a particularly steep section. And then it rolled again. And again. On the fourth roll she jumped as if a snake had bitten her. The first-aid kit Dad packed for us came in handy and Jimmy wrapped Ash’s swelling ankle with the ace-bandage. We had no choice but to jeep on walking. Not even the mules could travel this particular path with weight on their backs. Krishna carried Ash’s pack as Jimmy protectively supported her down steep rocks. We continued at half pace with 5 hours of normal paced hiking ahead of us. Ash was such a trooper.

And then came the rain. Monsoon rain. The type of bone-drenching rain that no “breathable” raingear can protect you from. From 2PM to 9PM, when we finally arrived at our intended village, we were completely soaked with limited dry clothes to change into. Paul and my feet, strapped in glorified close-toed tivas, had been stepping in mud and other mysterious puddles for 7 hours. My toenails were a site!

But the rain was the least of our concerns. With the rain came leeches. They were everywhere. Hungry, slimy suckers that managed to crawl under socks, up pants and over shirts. We poured salt all over our shoes and stopped every 10 minutes to pull the persistent blood suckers off. Every time we stopped, more would climb on. They were relentless. Our clothes were blood-stained from where the leeches had had their full and dropped off of our bodies before we could get to them. It was what nightmares are made of. We finally understood what the woman from the trekking association was talking about, though this time we were not giggling.

By 9PM our bodies and spirits were exhausted. We entered our respective rooms and pulled several more large-blood filled leeches from our bodies. I believe Jimmy won the award for Captain Leech – the most number of bites. Ash wins for the worst placed bite; the bellybutton. I like to think I win the title for the bloodiest picture post removal, thanks to Paul’s way with the camera. The only reasonable reaction was to laugh – with what energy we had left (Recall: 3:45AM wake up). The little squirts had gotten the best of us. The memory that remains will be one that is sure to crack me up when I least expect it.

On our last day, we reluctantly awoke at 6AM to a deaf man trying to listen to a Nepali radio show at full volume. Our joints felt like they had aged 50 years. The clouds had passed and the early morning sun brought another beautiful view of the mountains. Ash’s ankle was in better shape and we began our last full day of trekking down. The sun warded off the leeches and Advil made us functional again!

Towards the end of the trip, Krishna approached Paul and I with a very serious look on his face. On the trail, I caught Paul and Krishna talking about love. He asked me, “Devi, how did you know Paul was your favorite?” I looked at him and beamed, “Oh, I KNEW!!!” I dramatically told the story of our fateful meeting in the high school hallways. Krishna covered his mouth (partly to hold in the chewing tobacco) and laughed during the entire story. Later, he pulled us aside and said in a stern tone (by this point I was called Bijou – Krishna’s sister-in-law), “Aakash, Bijou, I think you are very good couple. Not just because you are good. But because you have good names. Aakash means sky and Devi means the holder of the universe. These are lucky names.” He clapped and folded his hands in the air as a demonstration of our coupled luck. “You are very lucky.”

What does a “v” or a “bb” matter? I would like to think he is right!

Mumbai

Victoria Station, I think...


Gandhi's room when he stayed in Bombay


Gandhi poster


Yes, good luck


Balcony off of our hotel room in Mumbai

More Sri Lanka Photos

Arugam Bay


Arugam Bay sunset


Arugam Bay is known for its great surf


Catching a wave at daybreak


Sri Lankan surfer off to catch another wave


Monkeys rehydrating


Pottuvil Point


Our cabana in Arugam Bay

Adventures in Nepal...to be continued

There are some memories that tug at the corner of your mouth and evoke a smile – maybe even a giggle - far after the moment has passed. For me, these memories often come when I least expect it – walking down the street, on the subway, or in class. I find myself smiling – and then beaming, perhaps even laughing out loud –remembering fun family times, fits of giggles with girlfriends or embarrassing moments.

The past 9 days with Ashley (a dear college roommate), her partner Jimmy, and Paul have been filled with the type of moments that will inevitably crack me up on the subway.

Uhp! This internet café is closing, but stay tuned for a post about our trekking adventure in the Himalayas…

We are off to volunteer at an orphanage for the next 4 days but hope to find internet at night.
Love from Bahktapur…

Day 2 in Mumbai: Slums and flying men

On our second full day in Mumbai we awoke early and rented a car for the morning ($8). We saw the Gandhi museum, dobi ghat (where most of Mumbai’s clothing is washed by hand), Haji Ali mosque (where we were the only foreigners and periodically caught people sneaking pictures of us on their mobile phones when they were too timid to ask, as one large group of teenage boys did for a picture with Paul). The afternoon we went on a slum tour – an experience that was probably the most packed 4 hours of learning we have had on the trip. Home to 1 million people, this slum was recognized by the government and as such, it could not be torn down. The government provides water, electricity and schools, making it one of the most desirable places to live for the 55% of Mumbai’s population that live in slums.

Desirable was not the first word that came to my mind.

The slum is divided into commercial and residential districts. The primary industries that operate from the slum are pottery, leather making and recycling. We first toured the plastic recycling district. It quickly became apparent that the illiterate, partly-blind man sorting pens with corporate logos likely understood more about globalization and the scope of a corporate supply chain management than any U.S. college grad. Recyclable plastic was imported into the slum from parts of India, China and the U.S. There, it underwent an intensive breakdown process of separating, cleaning, cutting, drying, reshaping and coloring before it was sold back to a middle man, and then to larger companies. This was all done by barefoot men making approximately 100 Rupees ($2) a day.

The sense of community throughout the limited part of the slum we were able to see was apparent and strong. The only way to get a house within this particular slum was to know somebody. The land was saturated with homes. The walkways between the cinder-blocked homes were not bigger than a petite man’s shoulders, permitting just a crack of light to shine 3 stories below. The rats were the size of large cats. The people were busy in all different types of activity and trade. New York has been labeled the city that never sleeps, but this slum surely is the heavyweight champion for the title. Whether working, socializing, cleaning or studying – everyone was busy.

The poverty in this particular slum was neither mind-altering nor heart breaking like the kind I remember seeing while visiting Nicaragua and El Salvador in my teens. I still don’t know if that’s because I have hardened from seeing it or if because the strong sense of community buffered what would otherwise be heartbreaking. What was clear was that it was among the hardest living I have ever seen, and still people smiled. Children skipped around us.
The tour group we used, Reality Tours, was run responsibly and no more than 6 people were permitted on our tour. We were not allowed to take pictures. The six of us ended the afternoon with mud and feces caked to our feet and an overwhelming sense of our fortune.

What came next I can only describe as flying men.

We were dropped off at the train station to make our way back to central Mumbai during rush hour. We were told the train to the city would not be crowded but that we would be greeted with over-eager passengers in the Mumbai station (Churchgate) wanting to enter the train to claim a seat for the long ride out of Mumbai. Specifically, we were told to stay in our seats or in the center of the train as the most eager passengers scrambled onto the train. Once they had found seats, we could exit with ease.

We took this advice with a grain of salt. Accustomed to rush hour trains in Tokyo, how bad could the violation of personal space really be in Mumbai? As the train slowed and approached the station, Paul approached the door. The five of us waivered in-between, with me playing anchor, firmly positioned in my seat and heeding the advice of our guide.
What came next is beyond description.

Only a video would do it justice.

Mobs were not the concern.

Groups of 10-15 men came FLYING into the train-car like Spiderman. FLYING. They ran along side of the car or simply timed it correctly and leaped in while the train was still moving at about 7MPH. Paul ducked and stepped back with utter amazement splashed across his face. We could not help but laugh. There were no other large crowds to be concerned with – just the select men FLYING (and I use this word because it was not just a sprint or a leap into the car - these men pulled Super Hero like moves, all for the sake of a seat home) into the train. We exited onto a relatively empty platform.

We ended the day, our eyes full with images, at easy Leopold’s Café again with our friend Kasey, whom we met at the airport. This time we did not discuss theoretical physics. We sat in an exhausted state among a crowd of Brits watching the Roddick-Murray match (Wimbledon) until we could not fight our eyelids any longer. We collapsed for a deep 4 hours of sleep before catching our flight to Kathmandu.

I already can’t wait to return to Mumbai – maybe next time with a female shopping companion (Mom?!?!?)

Next stop: Nepal

Day 1 in Mumbai: Shopzilla and Chowpatty Beach

I LOVED MUMBAI!!!!!!!

LOVED IT! LOVED IT! LOVED IT!
The city girl in me came out in full glory!

We arrived in the late afternoon and met a young man (our age) in the airport who was in India studying. We shared a taxi into the city discussing theoretical physics. The adventure began there!

Our arrival in Mumbai marked the day a long suspension bridge opened. It was famously marketed in the metropolis for decreasing the commute to Colaba from about 1 hour to 7 minutes. 45 minutes later we joined the crowd as they leaned out the windows of their cars taking pictures of the new bridge. Families of 7-8 people were packed into small vehicles, all so they could take the journey across the half completed bridge on its inaugural day. Our taxi driver grimaced, we enjoyed the people watching and related to the traffic described in our books.

We found our hotel and headed to Leopold’s Café, a famous and infamous jaunt among expats. The Café plays a prominent role in both of the Mumbai books we were reading at the time (Shantaram and Maximum City). It was also a victim in the Nov 26th shootings, killing 70. Bullet marks and cracked windows were an unsettling reminder of one’s own vulnerability in such a diverse, vast city. I swallowed the magnitude of what happened right where we sat. Leopold’s famous beer and tandoori chicken soon arrived and we joined the rest of the patrons in the festive mood.

After two long travel days to get to Mumbai, and with only two short days to see everything – we dove in, full speed ahead. The city girl in me took over and I dragged Paul around for approximately 48 hours until we collapsed back on the airplane en route to Nepal.
Specifically, the Shopzilla in me, dormant for 3 weeks in the countryside, took over the morning of Day 1. I window shopped and browsed like a champion, while Paul patiently read his book. Many of you know that there is an inner-shopper in me that peaks its bargaining, irrational head at times. The fabrics and colors of Mumbai egged me on.

But a new urge in me is developing – one far more zealous and powerful than sparkly treats for myself and friends: BUYING TREATS FOR MY EXPECTED NEICE! If I knew Katie wouldn’t kill me, I would have packed a suitcase with adorable Indian fabrics and saris for our little lady. Not even the monsoon rain coming down could stop me from browsing!

‘Twas not all shopping – we also walked around different markets, visited the Taj and Victoria Station , ran into some Wharton students and people watched. Later in the afternoon we headed to the Bangana Tanks – worlds away from the commercial district that we exhausted ourselves in during the morning. We walked the 9km back to our hotel along Chowpatty Beach and Marine Drive. The Drive is considered to be a prime people watching spot as courting couples take a romantic stroll and young professionals blow off steam from the work day. The waves would periodically smash against the stone wall of the Drive sending crowds squealing and giggling away. (From the looks of it - you do NOT want this water to touch you!)

The beach was a microcosm of what Mumbai represents. On one end of the beach/drive pavement dwellers rested, taking in the waves before they would be forced to move their scraps of cardboard and few plastic bags from the area. Small children, naked but for an oversized Western shirt, jumped in puddles left from the rain, seemingly oblivious to their circumstances. Next to the skipping children we saw a woman start to get beaten by her husband. A man violently pulled her by her hair and slapped her face as she screamed for him to stop. I was frozen only a few meters away, not sure whether I should or could make it stop. I have heard and read about this – but to see it with my own eyes created a vile knot of hate in my stomach for this man. Luckily, I did not have to contemplate my move for long as a friend of the woman’s intervened and swatted the raging man away. I can not get that image out of my head.

Farther down the beach, women in burkhas sat catching up with children on their laps, children continued to play around us as children do, and men and woman in Western clothing sat in large crowds socializing. Men approached us selling ridiculously large balloons and other useless items to a traveler. Joy, lightheartedness, survival, entrepreneurialism, anger and toughness were all before our eyes. It was everything to love and hate in a city, right before our eyes, and I sided towards loving it.

The Rajaguru Family and me


Deb at the Dalida Maligawa


Rosemary, me and Maya


Kandy Town

Waves in Arugam Bay

We are now in Arugam Bay, the surfing capital of Sri Lanka. It took 3 separate hair-raising buses, totaling about 11 hours - over the river and through the woods to get here. We descended about 6,000 feet, cleared four armed security checkpoints and passed herds of WILD elephants (50+!) and peacocks before arriving to a land of cheap cabana huts, big waves and lots of surfers!

Our tuk-tuk driver at the end of the trip seemed to know everybody we passed. Soon, our cramped, glorified motorbike was filled by one Sinhalese driver, one Muslim Tamil, an armed soldier with an AK-47 (or some other VERY large gun), two overstuffed backpacks, a travel guitar and Paul and I - Lonely Planet in hand.

Arugam Bay was hit hard by the tsunami. On a regular day, the waves are HUGE and crash hard on the sand - often taking you with them. If you dare the water, as we did today with boogie boards, your suit will inevitably be filled with buckets of sand ....if it stays on at all! Though I love the water, the strong waves are a bit haunting as I try and fight the undertow. I have retired my board!
Most of the hotels have been repaired and further inland, homes have been constructed by international NGOs. The rooftops are painted with big, loud block letters declaring which UN/EU agency donated the home. People openly share stories about the tsunami and its aftermath is still apparent.

The beach is a bit more expensive than India or other parts of Sri Lanka, but with our own Cabana, a private outdoor shower, a warm breeze and a nice hammock - it indeed feels like a vacation

More Hampi Photos

Nostalgia in Kandy

After monitoring the situation in Sri Lanka over the past six months, and having contacted my host brother, Deshan, Deb and I decided to head down for a week long visit to the land of serendipity.

The war is effectively over, as the LTTE has been squarely defeated and Prabhakran killed. I will only say that if the killing has truly stopped, I am glad, but as in every war, there is no innocence.

Returning to a place that I love has filled me with nostalgia. I have again been humbled by the beauty and generous spirit of the Sri Lankan people. It feels a little bit like returning home.

Deb and I went directly from the airport to my host families house in Kiribathkumbura, about a three hour bus ride. Walking up to the front door, eyes alight and weighed down by our bags, I yelled, "Deshan! Amma!", and after half a minute began to hear the shuffling of footsteps from within. Deshan opened the door with his arms out, calling back, "Amma, Paul has come!"

Returning conjures complex emotions. Time has passed, six years, and slight changes permeate. Hair styles, furniture, a new building next door. Confronted with both the constancy and change of returning, I am thankful.

MJ and Kandy

"Have you heard the news?"
It is 7am and the endearing owner of the guesthouse approaches us with coffee and an excited grin.
"Have you heard the news?" he repeats

We respond with a pre-caffeinated, "What news?"

"Michael Jackson is dead!!"
The morning serenity of Kandy is interrupted in a New York minute with my alarmed, "What?!?!!?"

"Yes, a heart attack, he was only 50" the owners says with an even bigger smile. The smile is partly the Sri Lankan way and partly his own excitement about being able to share news about an American icon with us.

I sit in shock. Thoughts of singing, "It don't matter if you're black or white" in the mirror rush to mind. I was actually scared of the Thriller video as a child. The album Scream came out when Kate got her lisence and the music brings waves of nostalgia of driving with she and Tracey Michaels around Westchester singing along to, "All I want to say is that they don't really care about us".

While I am flooded with memories of karaoke renditions of Man in the Mirror, Paul grins and says, "The American media is going to go crazy". No doubt he is right.

We spent 4 days in Kandy, Sri Lanka - the city in which Paul spent 6 months studying abroad in 2003. Since then, he has often spoke of Kandy as an idealic kingdom in the mountains with the perfect climate, good-natured people and just the right amount of busyness. So is his love for the city that when we read the Sunday NYTimes I often catch Paul looking up property in the area. Prior to arrival, a slight part of me worried that he had built Kandy up in his head and that the magical land would seem a bit less so after 6 years of living. This is a fair assumption...for someone who has not been to Kandy!

The city is delightful! Complete sidewalks line the streets, pedestrians have rights and drivers assume that the art is dependent on vision, not hearing.
The quiet $.67 bus ride (2 hours) from the airport had us traversing mountains, climbing past tea estates into the clouds where the climate is cool and the clouds hang low before the sun burns them away.

We took the bus straight to Paul's host family's home where we would have dinner. Paul eagerly looked out the window of the bus and I soon realized he had no bloody recollection of where to get off. How would we tell the bus driver where to drop us if nothing looked familiar? One turn of the corner later and he jumped up grabbing me with him. The driver slowed just enough for us to hop off the bus without it coming to a full stop. This is the Sri Lankan way.

One of my favorite joys of the trip so far has been watching people's reaction to Paul's return. The evening unfolded in such a way that is one I hope Paul will never forget. I will certainly do my best to make sure he doesn't.

Deshan, Paul's host brother open the door and beamed, "PAUL!" Seconds later, a delightful, petite Sri Lankan woman flew into the room - arms in the air, dancing - "It's my Paul! It's my Paul!" The joy in the eyes of the Rajagurus made me understand why this felt like such a homecoming to Paul.

And then we were fed. Jewish grandmas and the world over - beware! Nobody can push food on you like a Sri Lankan amma! And once you try the food, you won't want to stop eating! Coconut shavings mixed with lime and chili - lentil curries - egg hoppers and apa - they are all delicious!! The family looked a bit dismayed at the meal when Amma said, "I did not add spice, Debbie can't eat. Not yet." "No spice" in Sri Lankan terms translates to spicy in the rest of the world. The food made the lips tingle just enough to want more. Paul later confirmed that Amma went VERY easy on me!

The next day we headed to the ISLE Center where Paul took most of his classes. There, we were greeted by Rosemary with same warmth as the night before at the Rajagurus. She asked questions about Obama while we asked about the end of the war and the future of the program. THe overwhelming sentiment is that the West is being far too harsh in criticizing Sri Lanka about the human rights of the internally displayed persons, which there are approximately 300,000 of. I kept my mouth shut!


Any return to where one studies abroad would not be complete without a visit to your old stomping grounds -the local pub. In Kandy, those stomping grounds are creatively named, "The Pub". On our walk there, Paul slowed his pace and a smile spread across his face. From the ground I hear, "Paul! My man!" A small, bearded Sri Lankan man, crippled in the legs is smiling warmly at Paul. He is sucking the very end of a cigarette and his smile exposes a toothless grin. Bevis is an artist - sans legs, though we are not sure how. The locals greet him and shake his hand. He clearly remembers Paul well and without prompting asks Paul about his family, guitar playing and his studies.

We arrive at the Pub and the ever-curious wife in me begins asking questions, "Uhmmmm...how do you know him"? Stories unfold from studying abroad about the artist community, weekend trips, the street community, etc. Our respective study abroad experiences - mine in Geneva with the UN, and Paul's in Kandy could not have been more different. Nostalgia overwhelms us as we sip a proper draught beer.

Our time in Kandy also included a visit to an elephant orphanage, making friends with some traveling Slovenians and and a daytrip to Nuwera Eliya.
The average visitor at the elephant orphanage is approximately 7 years old in a white school uniform, accompanied by 70+ classmates. We soon realized we were a far more interesting spectacle to behold than the 90+ elephants milling about. Before long, the questions come, "Hello. How are you? What country?" We are given rambutans (cool looking little fruits) by little girls who scurry away in a fit of giggles and wait until we eat them. The 60 year old ivory tusked elephant touching distance away is ignored by them as we snap away pictures.

Nuwer Eliya is a 3 hour bus-ride up the mountains - in "up country" and is considered to be Sri Lanka's little England given its damp, rainy climate. Hearing this from Kandy I could not imagine being cold, but lo and behold, immediately upon arrival I dawned all three of my long-sleeved layers and my plastic poncho from the Imperial Ming hotel in Thailand. I was about to experience Little England in style!
Little England could not have been a better daytrip! We hiked up a mountain for 90 minutes straight without seeing people, cars and without sweating! Our appreciation of the small town and its quaint gardens was complete when we found a Pub that served dark, chocolatey stout! Our first TV in 3 weeks was CNN News. As expected, news of Michael Jackson consumed the airways . Needless to say, we had missed the stout far more than the news!

Next stop: Arugam Bay

Photos of Goa and Hampi

Goa


Near Arambul Beach in Goa


Beautiful Hampi


Queen's lotus palace, Hampi


Hampi ruins


Temple in Hampi


Deb in Hampi!


Our rock sculpture

The headbob

In most of my travels, the smile has been the ubiquitous greeting of respect and welcome.

In India - it is the headbob.

With a slight left/right movement of the head (think Bobble Head give-aways at hockey/baseball games), inquisitive eyes will be instantly transformed into beaming smiles. To date, I have found it the universal cure to unwanted male attention.

As Paul mentioned, in Cochin the buses and ferries were segregated by gender. I am surrounded by the beautiful patterns and colors of saris. Hair beautifully washed and pulled back with flowers. Babies are passed around to strangers, or whoever has a more convenient seat to hold a small child. Fuschia mixed with turquoise next to vivid greens and golds. New York black has no place in India! I look back to catch Paul's eye and am greeted by a sea of male observers all dressed in the standard male buttondown...and a lodji (think short serong). Paul and I bobble heads to each other and the back of the bus smiles together and bobbles back. In a country that makes no attempts at gender neutrality, these smiles are priceless.

The bobble - which I am slowly mastering, illicits a different reaction among women. Sometimes it is a slow smile that lingers. More often then not - and especially if I am the first to do the bob - I will be greetd by a fit of giggles. I am still learning the rules - much to many locals' enjoyment.

Before India, the most terrifying car ride I had ever taken was a taxi from Shanghai airport to downtown. Accustomed to Asia, Mom and Dad looked unfazed while I gripped the headboard with white knuckles, praying I would leave the videogame-like experience alive. This terrifying car ride even trumped an experience in Nicaragua, when Bonnie Gordon and I swirved out of the way of a large, previously cemented metal pole that had fallen out of the garbage truck in front of us. We joked of the videogame experience to make light of the situation, but by no means did it make the rides more 'enjoyable' per se.

Compared to India, those videogames are for guppies.

Whether in a bus, taxi, tuk-tuk or as a pedestrian, the street experience is a terrifying and noisy one here. We have learned that the honk means:
hello.
i am passing.
my car is bigger than yours.
you are driving too slow. see you at temple.
fish for sale.
thanks for letting me pass you.
the bus is here.
and last but not least - holy bloody hell - move out off the way before I hit you.

As summarized by the book Holy Cow, trucks and buses are the kings of the road. Pedestrians and bikes are at the bottom of the 'highway' caste system. The more steel in your vehicle frame, the more permission you have to drive like a total lunatic. This was confirmed during our 10+ hour government bus ride to magical Hampi. Everyone else better get out of the way if a bus or truck is coming or you're squat. The only exception to this seems to be with the cow. Everyone stops for the holy cow

When traveling, I am often dubious of men that approach to start a conversation. This is not always the case here. Sure, there are some that inevitably will turn the conversation into a request to come see the shop, or 'use my rickshaw', or use the opportunity to just look a bit closer. But what we have also found is a desire to practice English - with two main questions: "Hello. How are you? What country? Nice to meet you. Bye bye." End of conversation.

We have spent the past 2 days in Hampi - marveling in the unique rock formations. We could spend at least 4 more days here walking among the rocks and temples, but we are off to Bangalore tonight to catch a flight to Sri Lanka. Hampi is our first stop where you can feel the waiting of the monsoon. The land is dry and the crops clearly need more rain. To date, our monsoon of a summer has been somewhat of an anomaly - the sun shines bright in the day and rain comes to lull us to bed at night. Given the monsoon nightmares shared by friends, we realize how incredibly lucky we have been! But for the sake of Hampi, I hope rain comes soon - especially as we head north!! :)

When not exploring, Paul has taught me how to play chess and we have been glued to our books. Paul is reading Shantaram and I am reading Magnificent City: Lost and Found Bombay. Both are gripping!

More pics of Hampi to come.

Goa & Hampi

Deb and I have had a whirlwind of a week. We first took an overnight sleeper train from Kerala to Goa, followed by two buses to Anjuna Beach in the north of the state. Goa has only been part of India since 1961, when the Portuguese were forced by the Indian army to give up control. Its beaches were discovered by roving hippies from Europe and the United States in the 1960s and 70s, and have been inundated with tourists ever since. In the 1990s, Goa was infamous for its huge rave parties. It has since calmed down some, largely because of regulatory steps taken by the government.

From Goa, we took a 12 hour government bus due east to the medieval town of Hampi. Hampi was once the site of a large kingdom that stretched west to the Arabian coast and south to the Indian Sea. It is famous for its temples and unbelievable topography. Huge boulders balance one on top of the other, surrounded by cactus, banana groves, and palm trees. I will have to wait to upload photographs until we are in Bangalore tomorrow, as it is not allowed at this internet service.

Until then...

More photos of Kerala

Cherai beach, about 1 hour north of Fort Cochin


Kerala backwaters


We were in a similar type of vessel


An Indian family enjoying the sunset on the beach in Fort Cochin


Paul


Deb


Woman with daughter in Fort Cochin


Jew Town, in Cochin - near the oldest synagogue, home to a group of Sephardic Jews, in India


Street in Cochin


Deb on street in Cochin


Near our guesthouse in Cochin


Our first evening in India


Chinese fishing nets off coast of Fort Cochin