equanimous equaimous

10 days of being submerged in deafening introspection within the confines of absolute silence.  Where to begin…it is extremely difficult to find a voice to describe an event such as this.  I can only note that there is a distinct impression of change, a crater left by the impact, but with no strong accompanying emotions.

The recently completed Vipassana course was set in the hills of Pokhara with grand mountain views whose command was only disturbed by the territorial disputes of monkeys and some of the worst DJs (Celine Dion, Akon???) this side of the world.  The requirements for the past week and a half included the abstinence in any forms of communication or external stimulation in order to fully reap the benefits of the exploration of mind and body. 

First, there is still no need to use the “safe word” in regards to a possible detachment from the reality I left behind.   There was no dissolution of the body, no blinding lights, no conversations with Jesus, Buddha, or John Lennon.  I did however gain a much deeper insight into my thought processes, my desires and aversions, and what I would like to believe is an overall sense of a deeper mental awareness.  

The first couple days were more strenuous than I ever imagined.  The daily 4 AM start did nothing to alleviate the burdens of consciousness (nor the fact that our last proper meal was at 11 AM).  Sitting uncomfortably for long periods at a time, meditation with the focus on breath and bodily sensation accounted for over 10 hours of the day. Quite the demanding practice for one who has never previously meditated in a serious way (unless you count marinating in the scent of nag champa with the likes of Mr. Ravi Shankar).  The outstanding feature in the early days was the overpowering loudness of the mind especially in the absence of outside distractions.

The strict vow of “noble silence” was upheld with the exception of an outburst of hysterical laughter on Day 7 when the entirety of my thoughts and memories appeared absurdly comical.  I figure if I ever plunge into the depths of insanity it will likely resemble that moment.  Otherwise, it was actually refreshing to keep to myself.  

The course was profoundly intense, but recommended.  The meditation and even the discourse behind it may not be to everyone’s level of comfort or acceptance, but it undeniably holds a mirror up to oneself.  It remains with the individual as to the commitment, fortitude, and honest internal dialogue in regards to the possible benefits of such an undertaking.  Personally, it is an area that will inevitably continue to entice me at least in regards to insight in in the realms of consciousness. However, there is also a deep sense of relief in the much missed belly laugh and the company of James Brown. 

our assistant teacher with the ladies.

Sitamai

“Early to bed and early to rise is Bergen’s idea of exercise.”

Any attempts to maintain notions of passing time were thwarted by a comparable life of leisure on Sitamai’s Ecofarm.  Depending on the host family, one was either becoming adept at working the rice fields or endeavouring to transcend space and time in the bamboo tree house. I was clearly engaging in the latter, but still managed to clock in a couple hours a day sinking my hands into buffalo shite and setting the stage for the makings of future dal bhats (a Nepalese meal of rice and lentils served twice a day…everyday). 

The three weeks spent in this small village in Chitwan added to a more immersive learning experience and our host and founder of the project, Padum, was full of wisdom about organic farming and the surrounding wildlife.  Although several of his fantastic stories were entertained with a pinch of salt (choking a leopard with an umbrella, jumping onto a rhino from a tree), Padum would deliver on his promises to afford the volunteers narratives of their own.  It’s not every day one gets to hug a baby rhino.  Yeah, hug.  

Sitamai was Narayan brought to life with tropical flora splashed against a backdrop of fields and lush forests wrapped in the warmth of fine company.  Banjo strings, sassy Amas, rocks of rhinos, papaya leaves, dirty fingernails, and the baby next door who peed on my leg comprised some of the more unforgettable moments.  Although my desire for alternative cuisine grew exponentially, I did enjoy the sense of a daily routine in such a tranquil yet often spontaneous environment. 

Now in stunning Pokhara and once again using silverware, a 10 day retreat awaits me.  The requirements are simple: no speaking, writing, reading, listening to music, or making eye contact.  I imagine myself climbing up the walls by day three (at best) as my favourite pastimes now fall into a category of vices.  However, it is a challenge and it is free.  Admittedly I am motivated by both spiritual curiosity and financial interest.  A handful of friends have already completed the session with mixed reviews so the hope is that I either achieve Nirvana or get thrown out in the most glorious manner.  We’ll soon see.

Fitter Happier

It's a fantastic struggle to capture the words that give justice to the depth of connection and sensory indulgence that took place in Jaipur and Delhi.  

My first days were spent with my friend Gaury and her family in East Delhi.  Although we were perfect strangers when I landed in this pulsating monstrosity, I departed feeling like a newly adopted puppy.  Gaury's mother insisted that my mouth be occupied by constantly chewing (I lost weight after I left their house) and her father was a humorous man who clearly doted on his family and thus was slightly concerned by my marital status ("after you get married next year, you'll come back?"), but all was presented to me with such warmth that I could only respond with the same.

I had been bracing myself for the product of over population and poverty, and whilst these elements were unavoidably present, it certainly did not detract from the overall experience that is Delhi.  Houses adorned with garishly brilliant strings of lights, the city danced and exploded during the balmy evenings leading up to Diwali.  The doorways were carefully decorated with a combination of marigold petals and oil lamps.  To accompany the brilliance of glamour and color, Gaury and I adorned ourselves in decadent garments before participating in the ritual puja to ask for blessings of fortune and wealth.

Days later I was trying to navigate the chaotic maze of the Delhi bus station.  Instead of signs and helpful employees, I found myself attempting to locate my bus to Jaipur by following the sporadic shouts of the drivers in between the heckling of men selling cakes and other sweets for the journey. This was at least of more assistance than the men who chose to ignore me point blank while I (politely) tried to get my bearings straight.

The 6 hour ride through Rajasthan was breath-taking.  Rich garments, camels, and rolling hills filled the scenery in between busy towns that one could pray have seen better days.  On arrival to Jaipur I had to do my best to wear an expression that looked both disinterested and knowing as a hoard of rickshaw drivers tried to persuade me of their sincerity and their services.  Moments later I find myself fortuitously in genuine company who want nothing but to make my introduction to Jaipur one that I will never forget.  The days were spent riding on  motorbikes through a whirlwind of the city blare and the rich outskirts.  Monkeys took snacks from my fingers and I left on a cloud of bliss that could only be enjoyed in newly acquired serenity.  On my return to India, revisiting Jaipur is on the top of my agenda.















I currently find myself in Kathmandu, Nepal.  The main reason of this new residency is to apply for a new Indian visa which I am able to submit after 30 days.  In the meantime I aim to take on a couple volunteering tasks at an orphanage and then a eco-farm a couple weeks later.  However, like everything about this visit, all is fluid, so I am not closed whatever else decides to crop up during this time.  Unfortunately, with this mornings eggs being the number one suspect, too much has been cropping up for me today.  Hopefully I will be able to further indulge in this city's offerings by sunset.

You've got to follow your balloon

The stars of SECMOL

cheek mountain

My darling Tsomo with a sideshow

The Ladakhi Paul Weller

SECMOL

Mere days will draw the curtain on the two months I’ve spent here.  Whilst I eagerly anticipate the events to come, I can’t help but feel more than melancholy about my departure.

I will almost certainly pine for the serenity and magnitude of my current milieu although not nearly as profoundly as my daily exchanges with the students.  

SECMOL is something of a mixed bag, but no matter what frustrations I’ve encountered, they were and will always be trumped by the interactions and relationships with the students.  At the end of the day, SECMOL offers much to the students especially in the way of developing self-confidence and social interaction.  Many of the students have described this year as “luxury” and they have yet to utter a disparaging word about the program.

SECMOL is non-government course of education which is mainly offered to students who are taking a year off from their regular studies.  A majority of these students have failed their exams and are attending the program in the hopes of strengthening their knowledge, skills and English in order the pass the exams to progress to the next successive class.  There are no reported numbers in regards to how many of the SECMOL class end up advancing to the next year although the national statistics note that only 25% of children pass their exams. It isoutrageous that the exams are conducted in English when the teachers give their lessons in (depending on the region) Urdu, Hindi, or Ladakhi.  This alone appears set the stage for failure. There is no doubt that this is a wider failing of the educational system in India.

SECMOL attempts to fill in these gaps and the effort and intention is a worthy one.  There is no doubt that it is a program that is of benefit to those who undertake it.  However, there are elements of the organization that were initially quite exasperating especially as I entered this experience blindly.

Perhaps coming from a Western country, I hold expectations or ideals that just aren’t supported amidst this institutional nightmare.  I refer to a broader system outside of SECMOL where teachers are allowed (and at most times expected) to utilize corporal punishment with the students should they make a mistake (heaven forbid).  As a result, students have become adept at memorization without cognition.  However, if the objective for staff and volunteers is to prepare the students for their exams then certainly it would be helpful to know what it is they are meant to understand, what they have already been taught, etc.  

I was taken aback in regards to areas that lacked structure combined with having the responsibilities of several classes shifted onto volunteers.  This wouldn’t be problematic if there were a syllabus or curriculum to follow or if long term volunteers were running classes throughout the year.  However, there are no records of previous lessons nor could anyone provide me with an indication of what level or subject matter to address in a concrete manner.  All in all, little guidance and no monitoring were provided in this respect.  Again, I tried to go with the flow, and feel I managed pretty well considering my expectations, but SECMOL was not aware of what I was teaching or how I was teaching it.  For all they knew, I could have been wildly inappropriate and incompetent (I wasn’t).

My main point is that some tightening up and organization could possibly produce more positive learning outcomes.  I detest unnecessary bureaucracy especially as I was knee deep in that nonsense in my previous work environment, but something as simple as learning objectives for the school yearor an outline of what topics need to be addressed and what has already been covered wouldn’t go missed. On that note, I have mentioned all of the above to the staff here.  It has generally been met with nods of agreement but in a way that a parent might absently agree with their young child who tellsh im or her that it’s better for the environment to buy only recycled products.  Putting something into practice is a whole ‘notha show.

In any case, SECMOL was an edifying introduction to India and my English teaching experience.  I have been informed that many other schools months will generally offer similar practices so I’ll have to make the most of it.  As stated, my feelings about the structure will always be secondary to those of my overall experience and my memories of the students here.

I’ve had a moan and grumble about rats in the night, lack of a nutritious diet, and a permanent staff member who appears to work hard at avoiding work, but I would do it all over again if I could.  Perhaps now that it is the end of the road and I have a good bill of health, I feel that I could spend more time here but 2 months was a psychologically and physically manageable period.   However, I was almost convinced that M, who volunteered here for half a year, was going to set fire to Ladakh before she exited.  It can be a bittersweet experience so one needs to assess their limits and expectations, but unless you don’t have a heart; it will certainly be broken upon departure.

she's so hot she's making me sexist

It’s my second to last visit with the dentist in Leh and I am basking in auditory bliss.  On my way into town, a man who I gave directions to not 30 minutes earlier picks me up in his plush Honda. "Hotel Califorinia" is followed by "The Tracks of My Tears" (God bless you Mr. Robinson) and it's the first time that I’ve heard Western music in a vehicle here, a welcome change from the Ladakhi music which I lack the patience to describe.  

 “You’re very beautiful”

Great.  I politely smile and calculate how many kilometers we have have left.  Silence between us is golden.  Rappers Delight teases my aptitude for nostalgia and after further broken dialogue about Ladakh and my role in SECMOL, he awkwardly makes a play to hold my hand.  When this fails he inquires if I have a boyfriend.  The answer to this question is always affirmative and if there is any further probing I plan on dispensing that he is insanely jealous, weighing in at 300 pounds of pure muscle.  I make an annoyed exit but am aware that I’ve left the situation unscathed.

I grab a bus on the way back to campus.  A middle aged man stands up and insists that I take a seat.  How very generous.  The thought immediately dissolves with the realization that the cost of this act is having his groin pressed against my shoulder.  Before I am able to attach any innocence to this he makes a feeble attempt to stroke my back.  I start applauding myself for tactfully manoeuvring myself at the edge of my seat when the woman next to me vacates her spot leaving the space open for this "gentleman" to sit next to me.  He places his bony fingers on my leg and asks if I am going to Spituk, where I am to change buses.  With this, I twist his arm behind his back and swiftly kick him out of the open door as we pick up speed.  The other passengers erupt in song and cheer on the demise of yet another chauvinist bastard.  Actually, what happens is that he swiftly departs before I can blink, and moments later I also make my way of the bus in search of a pool of holy water.

Feeling wholly violated, I start entertaining the idea of walking the remaining distance to campus, and were the sun still shining in it's full glory, I may have given this more consideration.  It's not long after I start walking that a soldier on the side of the road attempts to make conversation with me. Where are you going, where are you from, etc and relatively harmless.  Of course this is then followed by an all too hormonal, 

"There's a cafe at the military base down there. Can you see it?  I will take good care of you. Do you have a boyfriend?  Do you have a husband?"

It takes little time for my imaginary boyfriend to be upgraded to an imaginary husband.  After further beverage insistence and declination he leaves me in front of an army post telling me that he will be back in 10 minutes and that the army will protect me. Fantastic, but whose protecting me from the army?

The second he turns his back I pick up my pace down the road.  A car stops and inside are two men who are going to the bridge where I often make the serene 5.5k walk back to campus.  The driver has a kind face and tells me that he can drop me off closer to the campus as he and his companion are on the way to the monastery next to SECMOL. Sigh of relief follows as I enter this leg of my journey free of harassment.

 I’ve always remarked that Ladakh would cradle me into my India experience.  Various resources cite Leh as being “little Tibet” and the culture here certainly appears to be more representative of a Tibetan environment as opposed to an Indian one. So, I’ve taken baby steps into this country, bracing myself for the beauty and chaos to come in the next couple of months.  However aside from institutional disorganization, pungent odours, and alleyways lined with waste, I'm told that there will be more of this behavior in "real India".  Jodi and Emiko tell me that they have never been groped more anywhere else in their lives, and Western women are automatically viewed as whores.  It doesn't matter that my body is clothed from head to toe, the color of my skin indicates, in already sexist surroundings, that I deserve the treatment that I get.  Of course this is not the prevailing attitude but one held by those living in ignorance, and when you have a country with 1 billion plus, there is bound to be several who spoil the reputation of a place.  A staff member tells me that I had a bad day and that this generally doesn't happen in Ladakh.  I am inclined to take this at face value given that it was my first experience in the two months that I've spent here; however, I know that India (especially Delhi) will be a different kettle of fish. I anticipate many a scoundrel to fly out of moving buses, but we'll see.

with Jodi and Medea- dressed like complete hookers

Drowning in Saspol

It’s past 6 AM and Max (a new volunteer) and I are dragging what is left of our sorry corpses to the neighbouring home where we were previously greeted with chai and children in metal bathing tubs.  Ladakhi weddings are a force to be reckoned with especially if you find yourself under the wings of groomsmen.

The previous day, Chosang, a SECMOL staff member, had extended an invitation to the volunteers to witness the marriage of a friend of a friend (of a friend?)  Details were sparse but nonetheless my interest was stirred.   Becky warned me against the affair, recalling boredom and the social mores where women make dull conversation and men indulge in gaiety, superior meals, and a spot of chhaang (the homemade brew made from barley).  However, I wished to see the event for myself and was also resigned to partake in all male friendly activities. 

The bus ride to the village of Saspol was decent and no more than two hours.  However the last 5 minutes were cut short as a rogue military wagon flirted precariously with the edge of the cliff which resulted in a Ladakhi traffic jam and those gawking with their own ideas of entertainment.  Fortunately a slow moving crane was called to rescue the situation, but we didn’t have the time nor the patience to observe the scenario played out to completion.  

Our journey on foot was short and pleasant and Saspol offered more of what is expected in a small village.  With several hours to kill, I make my way up to the caves carved inside the nearby mountains.  Enticed by the prospect of seeing my first cave adorned with 11^th century paintings, I tried to race the setting sun for this (possibly) once in a lifetime moment.  I am relieved by my solitude, not only because I bask in it, but because my impatience had led me to forge my own path, which although scenic, is somewhat of a fools route.  After stumbling through thorns, backyards, conduits of garbage, and a wide stream that was not made for leisurely crossing, I find myself in a breathtakingly enigmatic space.  Wary of taking on my inappropriate trail in the dark, I cut my thrills short in the name of sensibility.

When I returned, I was ushered to another house where they others had already started sipping chhaang and grazing on fried barley.  Chosang was dressed in his traditional costume and had taken on an air of austerity.

Chosang’s role in the lead up to the ceremony was an important one.  It appeared that he led the procession to collect the bride to be in the late hours of the night.The bride was a 2 hour drive from the village, but it is the tradition that she stays at her home with the bridal party.  When the procession arrives at her house they must bribe her with the bridal accessories and a large cash sum to come accompany the party back to the village.  If there are any items missing from the bridal booty then the procession will be charged for each missing piece.  The groom’s family pay for all these wedding expenses.  This takes place late at night (after midnight) and during this time, after a rousing game of smack the balloon with small children, we (Max and myself) are invited to join the groomsmen in the adjoining room where they have clearly made bedfellows with a cocktail of rum, beer, and of course chhaang.  They warble on about community and the glories and pitfalls of Ladakh, but the outstanding feeling is one of friendliness and joviality.  

Whilst the procession is driving back we are offered heavy blankets and most people assume a sleeping position on the floor.  My all things wedding weariness is cut short a couple hours later to the loud blasting of Ladakhi music.  My blanket is swiftly ripped off me and the same woman who demands that I try to sleep is now ordering me (pleasantly) to get up and dance.  Dance we do to an odd combination of traditional Ladakhi music, Bob Marley, and poor hip hip.  Shortly afterward everyone gathers outside in anticipation of the bride’s arrival.  By this time it is 4 AM and it is quite cold outside.  Many women and children bring jugs of chhaang to be offered to the procession as it is tradition that they must be paid by the groom’s uncle and father for these offerings.

It seems that years pass when the bride finally arrives, but there is a long period in which there is no sign of her.  I’m told that her aunt is refusing to get out of the car until she is paid a hefty sum (7,000 rupees to be exact).  I still struggle to see why the aunt is able to call the shots.  I love my aunts, but doubt that they would consider themselves to have a financial interest in my matrimonial proceedings.  With a hearty shout, Chosang eventually leads the party to the entrance where the bride and groom bow their heads and receive a blessing.  I am further informed that the bride and her family need to appear to be upset about this whole charade as the family are meant to be losing a daughter.  A whirlwind minute later, the crowd is shouting joyously and money is being thrown in the air.  While everyone is scavenging the ground for financial prosperity, a man thrusts a 10 rupee note into my hand and smiles gleefully.

As everyone is seated inside, the bride and groom sit in a period of meditation whilst everyone watches.  Personally, I would find the whole thing very uncomfortable and I’m told that this bride actually feels quite shy about the whole thing.

Another meal and bout of dancing later, my body is completely spent although in high spirits.  I’m asked if I would ever attend another Ladakhi wedding.  Why not, but preferably with a little more sleep.

Playground Love

"Did you know that your country avoided another terrorist attack by the Taliban?  You guys were lucky.  The Pentagon was targeted again."

I somehow manage to express my surprise whilst my wide open mouth houses some menacing (but sterile) looking utenstils.

"Spit."

Beside me is a trash can which contains what I can only assume is a sea of saliva and dental discards; this concludes yet another follow up visit after my Ladakhi root canal.  Although further work is required in Delhi, I believe the worst to be over at the exorbitant cost of approximately £0.40.  Throughout the process, Dr. Palden exercised great patience and was sympathetic enough to make small talk and dental commentary throughout the procedure.  After my previously detailed moment of brief despair, I came to look forward to my treatments.  I generally hate going to the dentist (which may account for why I've had to undergo a root canal in a third world country....not ideal) but I looked forward to my visits with Dr. Palden, not least because he acts as my immediate news source (his account somehow sounded more dire).  It should be noted that at SECMOL we only get the local newspaper every few days and the focus tends to be on murder, vehicular catastrophes, and government corruption.  People back at home knew about the earthquakes in India before I did.

Aside from oral sterilization accompanied with a mustachioed grin and second hand information, my time in the city has been fruitful.  Every other day I have marinated in the freedom of my solo ventures, visiting the local library (essentially a large room where one can read books- they don't leave the premises), visiting the markets, and eating food that is both nutritious ad easy on the palate.  However, I take the greatest pleasure in solo hitch hiking and hanging out of the local buses.  The only drawback of the crowded bus rides has been avoiding the soldiers whose body weight just happens to press against yours with every bump.  I quickly learned how to position myself so that my uniformed friends would be received with sharper limbs should they continue to entertain thoughts of "affection".

The tokens of physical affection that are welcome come from the students.  I don't consider myself to expend such gestures lightly, although I naturally do not mind being on the receiving end.  However, I am left with little room for distance as the young Ladakhis tend to drape themselves over each other and the volunteers.  Very seldom can I carry out a conversation with without my hand being grasped in theirs. The boys, although affectionate with one another, tend to maintain physical boundaries with the females although a good wrestle or play fight is not lost on them.  These rascals have now wormed their way into my consciousness to a point where they easily become my topics of conversation both in and out of the campus. I only have 3 weeks left with this wily bunch before I make my way to Nepal and I can foresee how difficult it will be to tear myself away.

the canals of my city

"Don't cry.  I am here with you and I am going to make sure that you don't have any pain.  Don't worry, you are not alone."

His words instantly defeated my feeble attempt at keeping the hot sting of my eyes at bay.  While I self-consciously wiped the tears from my face I was grossly aware that he had struck a nerve for the second time that morning.

* * *

Two days ago, during the jeep ride back towards Leh, I was overcome with mortification when part of my molar decided to fall off. (I was just sitting there...minding my own business...) Hours later another small piece of the same tooth decided to jump ship.  Admittedly, this was initially quite terrifying especially as less than one week ago I had a conversation with J about my negative views of having dental treatment whilst in India.  On return to SECMOL the anxiety became but a distant memory with others promising their contacts in Delhi and the assurance that I'll just need superficial treatment.  The ultimate blanket of security transpired when a few of the students told me I would resemble their grandmothers with the onset of missing teeth.  Interesting how the feeling of alarm desists when others are taking the Mickey...

Under the instruction of those with dental wisdom, I eventually made my way to Leh Hospital to meet with the on-call dentist.  He or she would tell me what needed to be done and I would make arrangements for all to be taken care of in Delhi.   That was the plan in any case.  After some prodding, the kindly man informed me that I may require a root canal, but that an X-Ray would determine the next course of action.  This would be simple enough if the X-Ray mechanism was in working order, but I was advised that I should come back in a couple of days by which time it should be fixed.  As feelings of distress mounted, I found myself sitting in a dazed state in the dentist's room.  Root canal???  I was only half cognizant of what this entailed and what knowledge I did hold wasn't at all pretty.

My thoughts spiraled out of control with visions of pain, mounting costs, and of course an awareness that I wasn't within my Western comfort zone.  It was at this point that Dr. Palden interrupted my panicked inner monologue with his words of reassurance.  Despite my ocular reaction, I was greatly comforted by his patience and sympathy.  However, I was surprised that in a moment of uncertainty I almost immediately was transported to a place where I craved the comfort of my mother and a tokenistic "you're going to be fine".  For a fleeting second, I felt alone for the first time and he aptly highlighted this insecurity.  Following an adequate X-Ray, we will see what takes place, but I am adamant that this has all occurred for a reason other than my penchant for sweets.  Perhaps I just needed someone to hit a sore spot.

be.here.now

Adventures in the Nubra Valley.  Pseudo waterfalls, scaling up mountains in the name of gompas, camel rides and visiting the recently opened and untouched lands of Turtuk. Beauty.

 

 

Huckabee

Such a relatively short period of time has passed since my departure from London, but my insides (both figurative and literal) have gone through something of an uncomfortable process.

Before going further, this is not me on the mountaintop… equilibrium has yet to be exposed and I feel light years away from enlightenment of any sort.  I am however, suffering from a case of internal crisis, somewhere between identity and existential.

Social worker cum English teacher, and somewhere in the next year I want to study holistic medicine or massage therapy, but not as a career calling- just something extra on the side.  Profession? Life ambitions?  I was hoping to resemble something of a vagabond until I found my utopia, my niche.

My accent constantly betrays me.  I find myself fumbling for words when questioned about my origins. Hastily I add that I’ve spent the last 6 years in London and have actually just received my British citizenship.  Did I mention that I’m half Peruvian?  Trying to paint a composite portrait of myself in two sentences, when the truth of the matter is that I don’t fully identify with any of these nationalities even in fractions, but it’s a matter of endeavoring to explain who I clearly feel I am not.

I’m not a tourist nor am I a native.  There is no desire to live here beyond the time period of a couple of visas, but when fantasies blanket my thoughts I am not returning to either of the places I once called home.

London captured my heart eight years ago and it saw me undergo a metamorphosis which involved a transition into adulthood as I know it.  I ran with the freedom it offered and lived life to the fullest as best as I knew how.  The big city allowed all to just be without judgement; but time slipped through my fingers like grains of sand and the daily distractions were too much to feel that I was satisfying a deeper sense of self. 

On the other end of the spectrum lies Holland, Michigan.  No one can fault the beauty of the town with its lakeside offerings and seasonal treats (sledding down Van Raalte Hill, the hues of leaves in autumn).  Many who occupy my heartstrings still reside amongst landmarks of my earliest memories.  For this reason my birthplace remains wrapped in cotton wool but it still manages to suffocate me nonetheless.  Inasmuch as I attempt to focus on all of its assets, my vision is infiltrated by a culture of narrow mindedness that I find unavoidable.  One has to reside there to appreciate the paradox or get swept away by rigid codes of shoulds and shouldn’ts, rights and wrongs.  This is not in a moral sense but in the inability to shake an archaic system of values.   Broadly speaking, differences in culture or lifestyle are not celebrated with earnestness and there is an undertone of being threatened by such things.  It wasn’t until I went to university that I felt the influence of my environment lesson its grip on me.  Further to that, the first time I stepped foot London was the first time I felt truly liberated. 

I digress.  The point is that I am finding it unnerving to see aspects of my identity melt away in front of my very eyes.  I am neither here nor there.  I don’t know where to call home when this over.  I am unsure what profession I will follow/take up.  This isn’t forever but the next chapter remains but a mere seed and the fruits it will bear are likely to depend on the unknown events of the next months.  Perhaps this will be viewed as exciting, but it’s highly disconcerting at this juncture.   My appearance now pales to the lengths I would previously go to make myself presentable.  It’s of no consequence that I wander the streets without a lick of war paint (not even eye liner, ladies) and my clothes and body are constantly in need of a good wash.  Social events, weekend behavior, musical discoveries, favorite threads, my love for Gob Bluth, etc don’t amount to a thing.  When children are defecating on the side of the road my dislike for Jennifer Aniston and all the other trivial opinions I hold completely disintegrate.  It doesn’t mean that I’ll give “The Bounty Hunter” a chance (in hell), but it just doesn’t matter.  Lessons of humility and simplicity have slapped me across the face and at feels as though the layers of my being have been ripped off to mere values, ideals, and nerve endings.

 

At least there’s that.

Firsts

Aside from previously mentioned domestic tasks, my 12 days in Ladakh have provided me with the opportunities for many other firsts.  My first polo match, hitch hiking experience(s)*, donkey sanctuary, and my first trip to a foreign hospital to name a few.

So maybe a little hiccup in paradise…

Going back a few days, I’ve had an ongoing upset stomach at the campus which made it impossible for me to arouse an appetite during this time.  At the risk of sounding completely ethnocentric,   the food leaves little to be desired.  It is essentially the same meal everyday which is “skew”, a stew made from overcooked vegetables and spices, and from the onset of my feeling less than regular, it’s been difficult for me to manage the smell wafting into my room - a few doors down from the kitchen.  Following a meal of crackers and peanut butter, M and I made a plan to go into the city for a few days break to stabilize our sanity (will get to that) and systems while the kids were out on a regional survey.  We met up with another volunteer, J, and indulged our taste buds and feelings of freedom.  However, with the setting sun my private party was explosively interrupted, but being one to always look for the silver lining, I arrived at the following conclusions of gratitude: Grateful to not have chosen the guesthouse with the ensuite bathroom as there would have been a great risk of traumatizing my new mates, grateful that our accommodation had a “western toilet” (with water in it and everything), and grateful that my hour(s) of reckoning came at a time when I wasn’t rafting down the Indus river.  It also has to be said that I would rather experience the “Bombay Blast” while in Ladakh than contributing to the daily grind in a full bill of health.  

The next morning, my surrogate mommies insisted on dragging my reluctant corpse to the hospital. To be honest, it was roughly what I expected it to be; I longed for the NHS for the first time in my life, but I also appreciated that it could have been a lot worse.  The nurses appeared to respect a first come first serve queuing system which doesn’t appear to be the case for any other establishment here.  The turnover of patients was dealt with at a reasonable pace, and although the instruments used appeared to be dated by the standards I’m accustomed to, it got the job done and I felt that the doctor knew exactly what she was doing.  The cost of my medication and consultation came out to about £0.43 so I don’t think my insurance will be hearing from me about that one…

sign in hospital waiting area

In relation to the shared frustrations at the campus, there appears to be much less organization than what I was expecting for the teaching curriculum and programme for the students.  Especially when the students are involved with other visiting organizations, the volunteers are the last to be informed about the agenda and what classes are required on that day.  It is early days, but the lack of structure for both staff and students isn’t boding well with me at the moment.  The other volunteers and permanent staff members who have been there for much longer are at breaking point which reaffirms my perceptions.  There is a lot more to be said about the subject, but am wary about going off on one before I attempt to give it my level best.  However, the absence of organization is one of many issues that weigh on my conscience about this particular project.
  

On a positive note, one of the local volunteers is sitting a sociology exam in October.  Thanks to Mr. Zwiers it’s a subject that I almost majored in (until my university professor told me that I could look forward to doing his job) so I’ve started giving one-to one tuition to him in the evenings.  I’ve thoroughly enjoyed revisiting the subject and hope to impart the same excitement that it still produces in me. 

on the back of a truck with Dorjay, the dog who followed us

*Note: Hitch hiking is pretty normal here.  As a woman I was advised not to hail military vehicles, but most people are very accommodating and they usually do not accept if you try to offer them money.  So far, I’ve always gone in groups and I consider myself to be sensible so any worries can be shelved.

Leche

Today when enjoying my now daily ritual of river watching I heard a noise behind me.  When I popped my head above my sand fortress I witnessed the two SECMOL cows chewing the leaves off the tree behind me.  Eager to make friends, I approached one of the cows and lowered a branch for her.  It didn’t take her long to recognize I came in peace as she followed me around the base of the tree enthusiastically grasping the leaves with her long tongue.  She even waited for me while I tried to befriend the other (her daughter, and she wasn’t having any of it).  This may not sound like an event of significance, but it was a moment that will be etched in my recollections of my time spent here.  To top matters off, the students later taught me how to milk the cow.  My main concern was that my untrained hands would be an annoyance, but a decent bucket of milk was produced nonetheless.  For good reason, my lesson took place with the cow whose back legs where braced together with a thin cloth.  I had previously expressed slight apprehension about drinking the unpasteurized milk until I discovered that our daily chai tea was made with it.  Delicious.

Taking the role of a domestic goddess does not come naturally to me (anyone looking for a housewife need not apply).  However, milking a cow was one of many firsts for me over the last couple of days.  Medea (another volunteer) and I had purchased fruit in during our town excursion with the intention of making jam for winter.  And made jam we did.  It was a slightly arduous process of de-pitting (I don’t know if that’s a word, but it is now) but we turned out a gorgeous banana, pear and apricot concoction.  We also spent the last two days cutting several kilos of tomato and broccoli to be dried and stored for the winter.  It is very difficult to get fresh vegetables in the colder seasons so this process is a necessity.  AND, in a move to make Martha Stewart jealous, I hand washed my dusty clothes for the first time.  Again, not a big deal to most, but for someone who has had the convenience of a washing machine her whole life, it was a task conducted with pride.  I’m sure the novelty will wear off in a short while, but for now it’s a badge of honor.