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.