Adjusting

Happy New Year~

I write from Kovalam Beach; 48 hours back in the (apparently) real world and still reeling. After 4 weeks in peaceful, disciplined, sattvic ashram setting, every little thing about life outside is abrasive. My sister and cousin have been waiting here patiently for my course to finish, and it is a joy to see them in India. We are trying to smile over all the little bumps of adjustment--but it's hard to convey exactly how much, of the littlest things, shocks me. (Just as, I imagine, so much of India shocks them but is now normal for me). Speaking before 9 a.m.? Having to choose food from a menu? Clothes strewn on the floor and un-made beds? Exposed bodies and the general, unending noise?

The background tune playing in my head: snatches of all the chants and devotional songs (kirtan), a comforting reminder of the sanctuary I've left, a literal bit of energy carried from there to here.

It's going to take awhile to make sense of the past month; of the events leading up to it and of where to carry it from here. I know at least that my experience of ashram life, and the Yoga teacher training course, were completely transformational--transformed to what, time will tell.

I am going to post themed installments over the next 2 weeks, beginning with "Auspiciousness," a reflection on the Mumbai attacks and my arrival at the ashram. Please check back in, and have a peaceful New Year.

Om Namah Sivaya.

LUNGS

Today was our day off. Saturday. "Off" meaning we rose for satsang at 5:30, did two yoga classes at 8:00 and 4:00, and will have satsang again at 8:00. (Off: no lectures....the knees and hips rejoice; that's only 3 hours of sitting today instead of 6!) 4 hours of free time in the middle of the day was absolutely overwhelming--too much choice, what to do--and I am looking forward to week two beginning tomorrow.

I chose not to go into Madurai. I don't think I'll leave the ashram until I have to. So...this post is probably it until January; the ashram internet connection is too slow. Sorry, folks, I'm very happily on retreat. The experience will be described in detail, here, next month.

In the meantime...Merry christmas, Happy New Year, Om Namah Sivaya.

Om Namah Sivaya

I'm in.
It's been one hell of a few days and I have rarely felt this emotionally, physically, mentally tired.
Not exactly the state in which one wants to begin such an intensive program...but it truly seems like the universe was sending messages along the lines of: the time is NOW.
Swami Govinanda calls me "lucky girl" and shakes his head in disbelief every time he sees me. I'll tell you why on Friday, our day off, when I'm heading into Madurai for a decent internet connection.

In the meantime...please drink a glass of red wine, several espressos, and eat a steak for me.

A la prochaine...

From camel safari to ustrasana in 24 hours

Not going north with friends on the trip we've been planning since August (itinerary, below right). PiA has, reasonably, asked me to wait a week or perhaps two before they can give the go-ahead for North India.

It's sad and frustrating and feels a little like caving to a culture of fear; and a whole lot like a missed opportunity.

Or a gained one. I've got no desire to hang out waiting in Kody, or even on a Goan beach, for two weeks. So off to the ashram we go, for perhaps one of the scariest things I've ever undertaken: four week yoga teacher training.

It's on my list of things to do in life.

It's a hell of a lot cheaper than flying home for a month.

It means I don't have to worry about packing for cold North and hot Kerala...

And it's not for sure, so please cross-fingers that, when a colleague and I show up later today there will be space, they'll let me join at the 11th hour, and will give the Indian rate...

If yes, I likely won't be posting here until January. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! Be safe, Northbound friends!

Namaste.

Mumbai Attacks

Kody's been drenched, wind-whipped and shrouded in fog since Sunday; my apartment hasn't had power for 3 days. I've enjoyed the rain/fog/cold: from the classroom, kids high on sugar cookies singing Rudolph over and over, glitter strewn everywhere and nothing but Christmas parties and slush "lessons" unfolding, the white swirling fog looks almost like snow...

I slept at a friend's place last night. She's got power (most of the time), and hot water, and a tv. We went to sleep around ten--when the power went out--and woke up to it still out. As is often the case when one lives far from home and close to violence, I got first wind of what happened from concerned family half a world away. I guess the attacks were better timed for your news cycle than ours. Plus the whole power-out thing. What is there to say?

Appalling. Pathetic. Yeah, again, Pathetic.

It's been a long day here at KIS. Exams finished yesterday, and students are heading down the flooded mountain, one busload at a time, home. Home to Chennai, Bangalore, Delhi. Mumbai. Lots going home to Mumbai. The vice principal's office says: All flights to Mumbai, going ahead as scheduled. Home to Seoul, Singapore, Dubai, Frankfurt, London, New York, Vancouver. 16 students can't get home to Thailand (and quite a number of staff can't start their vacations) because the escalating political situation there means all airports are closed. All this was announced at closing assembly, 11:00, on the covered courts. 600 students and 300 staff and faculty, huddled under high tin roofs, rain whipping in from all sides. Thank you to the departing teachers and volunteers, best wishes to those students moving on, a moment of silence for the KIS alum, chief of Mumbai Police, killed last night. Students and staff families are all safe. A final prayer and then they let us, freezing and wet, go back inside.

Two American colleagues have cancelled their holiday trip. They were going to Rajasthan, and then Delhi, and then coming back South. Now we're wondering. It would be overreacting, I think, to modify our plans. But then it's just so tempting--on this tired, sad, uncertain day at the end of a long teaching semester--so tempting to think of home; of a return flight that would only cost a little more than a month travelling in India; of shopping malls, mom-food, reliable electricity, real coffee; of watching Raptors basketball on a blue couch by a warm fire (dry wood!) while white snow whips the window pane.

Gazing, Grazing

I recently came across an interesting article on white expats in Jakarta and their experience of being, usually for the first time, in the racial minority. It was about the "Othering gaze," about being stared at, about no longer being white-invisible. The typical reaction is to do anything to escape the gaze: sunglasses, ipod, look down/up/blankly ahead/away, avoid gazing crowds. Avoid, distance, create a hermetic seal between self and gazing other.

Here, tourists gaze. Kodaikanal locals are used to the foreigners who have been here with the school since before there was a Kodaikanal town. It's gendered, though--or at least, my reaction is.
The gaze of Indian male tourists is unpleasant and I usually react as described above, occasionally giving a dirty look, occasionally responding with a real hello, depending on my mood. It is easy to imagine they are not only staring at whiteness, but are also objectifying a body; who knows what is truly behind the stare.
I've become a little mischievous with female tourists who stare. Usually, they come in school groups--or at least walk the lake in large, somewhat ordered packs. They REALLY stare, and it has a different quality, it is a gaze at the strange. I am strange. They stare hard, and nudge each other, and whisper, and point. So...I've started matching their stare. For amusement. I will meet their eyes with even deeper intensity; it usually takes a few seconds for the poor girl to realize I am looking right back. Caught. She then looks away, hides her face, smiles sheepishly, even shrieks and ducks, while her friends buzz. I try to smile while staring--as if to say: It's ok, have a look, I know I'm whiter than white, have short hair, am wearing jeans...but why not say hello, or vannakam, while staring?

Yesterday I was having a coffee and doing some marking (Hilltop bakery has finally accepted the fact that I will show up daily and sit for close to an hour); a group of seniors was talking loudly at the next table. Privileged Indian youth, heatedly debating whether to apply to colleges in the UK or the States. One young man was arguing in favour of the States--preferably the midwest--because whenever he walks the streets of Paris or London, he creates a spectacle. In the States, he disappears. Magnified/melted away. A young woman countered that America has no culture, so she will be applying to UK schools instead.

In exactly two weeks, I will be boarding a train in Chennai, bound for Agra...Delhi....Rajasthan...Rishikesh....Varanasi...then back south for two weeks of yoga at the Neyyar Dam ashram and Kerala beaches with Ficklius and our cousin. It goes ever faster.

Pics: someone got into our trash, check out his toupee; mum's package with bestest new thermal top and earrings finally arrived:

Diagnosis: Diwali

I have a case of mountain fever, with a touch of frazzled nerves. The tourists came up in droves, starting last Friday, for Diwali, and were an especially rowdy group. With fireworks. Lots of fireworks. One even threw a firework AT me and a friend while we were strolling around the lake.
So I've been feeling a little antagonistic towards this town, school, this country, bovine creatures and their offerings to every street and footpath, incessant honking, the monsoon....

A little homesick, a lot cranky, certainly not in the mood for Diwali.

But then monkeys were playing outside my living room this morning!
Le singe ne fume pas une pipe, Eddie. Mais les singes sont sur le tuyaux!
And no school after lunch!
Afternoon visit to temple for Diwali puja!
The chance to wear a sari can work miracles.
So can impromptu photoshoots of gorgeous silk kurtas and new saris!
(No cameras allowed inside the temple...)
Evening sweets! and (sigh) more fireworks.
Dark mood banished....

Happy Diwali ~ Namaste.

sigh....

A Tuesday morning pause: no classes until 1:00 and my mind wanders from a daunting pile of planning and marking. Staff computer lounge on main campus. A full-of-light room; skylights and tin roof overhead (a full-of-noise room, too, when the rain pelts the tin roof) and a whole-southeast-wall window. The giant eucy tree outside of ever-changing bark colour and pattern, and tiny pert green and blue birds that gently tap at the window panes.

I am contemplating a nose stud. They are just so beautiful; a little point of light near the eyes, near the smile. Spencer's sells little bindi packs for 5 rupees and I got a set of 10 stick-on diamondesque jewels yesterday. Left side? Right side? This is one to contemplate for at least a month.

chats et chiens

The monsoon has arrived.
Apparently, what we had before (warm sunny mornings, mist rolled in and temperature dropped at noon, heavy rain between 3 and 5, clear evenings) was just "weather."
Last Saturday night, I walked out of a social gathering to heavy heavy fog. Woke up Sunday morning to the sound of rain falling--first time waking up to rain in Kody.
It has been alternately foggy, drizzling, or full-on downpouring since.
They say it'll be like this til the end of November.

My ayah hung the washing out to dry on Monday afternoon. Rain? No matter; the clothesline is strung under a 6-foot-deep roof, well protected from all but the most driving side-pour.
Tuesday: clothes don't seem to have dried at all. Hmmmm.
Wednesday: clothes are wetter than when they emerged from the washing tub. Curious, I observe the line from my doorway in the middle of a particularly drenching bout of rain. No raindrops reach my laundry. It is definitely not getting rained on.
Thursday: yes, still getting wetter; and drawers are getting very empty. Is my wet laundry absorbing moisture from the air? Yes. My wet laundry must be absorbing moisture from the even wetter atmosphere.
Logical solution: string a clotheline in the sitting room and keep the fire going til the clothes dry.
25 matches, several bins' worth of crumpled newspaper and good kindling later...no go. No fire. Even paper won't burn. It just sort of steams. The kindling will catch....then sizzle, then go out. Logs? Hah.
This could present a problem. I'm already working with a meagre wardrobe. 6 more weeks of damp or dirty clothes?

Noah and the Archaeoceratops

KIS is a Christian organization. At the elementary school, the students learn a verse of scripture every week and have regular classes in Religious (Christian) Education. Last week, the coordinator mixed things up a bit; instead of a Bible passage the kids learned about Noah's Ark, and the Arky Arky song.
(Remember? The animals, they came in, they came in by twosies, twosies,
The animals, they came in, they came in by twosies, twosies,
Elephants and kangaroosies, roosies,
Children of the Lord....)

Every grade level at KIS elementary studies a different theme each month; Language Arts, Science, Social Studies, and specialist classes are all supposed to integrate this theme. I loosely tie Art units to the theme: for instance, 4th grade is starting a geology unit, and we are going to do clay, and learn about the physical properties of clay that make it mouldable, how it forms naturally, etc.

I brought Two by Two, my favourite Barbara Reid book from Canada, with the intention of using it to set up a unit on plasticene. Two by Two tells the story of Noah's Ark. So when the Arky Arky song sprung up all over campus, I thought, Aha! Opportunity to integrate Art plan with Bible Studies instead of the usual themes, and score major brownie points with my boss. And, I am just about to start a new unit with my pre-K, KG, gr1, gr2 nightmare class....we could start plasticine instead...yes...perfect. Hmmmm, how could it work? 1 class singing the song and talking about the story, then read-aloud Two by Two...talk about how the pictures were made...look closely at the pictures. Next class, get familiar with plasticine and just play. 3rd class; make animals from the Noah's Ark story, or just make your favourite animahhhh----

Uh oh.

Grade 1/2 just started a new theme: dinosaurs. They have been drawing dinosaurs, talking dinosaurs, and playing dinosaurs out the wazoo for the last few days and I see no reason for this to let up until the end of October.

In fact, I've already told the class that for their next unit, we are going to be writing stories and making books about dinosaurs. (so cool: texture-rubbings in various colours, then free-form cutting of dinosaur shapes and dinosaur-era fauna to produce collage illustrations, a la another really cool kiddie-lit author, Eric Carle. Except he uses paint instead of rubbings...doesn't matter).

Someone is going to want to make a plasticine dinosaur.

Someone is going to ask whether there were any dinosaurs on Noah's Ark.

Someone is going to ask WHY there weren't any dinosaurs on the boat...which leads to....Miss Mac? Miss Mac? Are there dinosaurs in the Bible, Miss Mac?

Hmmmm. Can I run with this? Could we turn it into an integration of flood-story and fossil-record evidence that the earth is way way way way older than the Bible says?

Is it possible I won't get severely reprimanded for planning (delighting in) this project?

Maybe we can write a story as a class. And then illustrate it. With texture-rubbing collage scenes and photographs of plasticine sculptures. About why Noah wouldn't let the dinosaurs on the Ark. "How the Dinosaurs Went Extinct; the Biblical Version," just so.

My inner scientist/archaeologist/secular humanist cringes.
The part of my brain that isn't sure whether this will offend certain member of this community quavers.
But the writer, illustrator, rebel-teacher, in me wants so badly to nudge the kids in this very creative direction...

Potential plot-lines:

1. Noah lets the dinosaurs on the boat, but when they walk up the plank it cracks in two (cracks in twosies?) under their weight. They fall into the rapidly rising flood waters and drown.

2. While Noah builds the boat and his sons and their wives gather food and other supplies, the dinosaurs decide to record this epic event by painting and drawing the humans and all the animals on some cave walls in southwest europe. The dinoartists get so into it, they miss Noah's All-Aboard call. In the meantime, glaciers descend from the north, covering all of Europe under a sheet of ice three miles high. When the dinoartists emerge from the cave, finally happy with their art, they starve and freeze to death in the glacial climate.

3. Noah was going to let the dinosaurs on the boat. When all the various dinosaur species showed up at the loading dock, Noah said that due to space restrictions, only one dinosaur species would be allowed to board, to continue on the name of all dinosaurs forever and ever. Understandably, the various species thought this was a little unjust. Their chicken-sized brains were incapable of coming up with any solution other than to charge the loading dock, a dino free-for-all competition to save themselves from extinction. T-Rex decided (1) he was king of dinosaurs and so should be the one allowed on the boat, (2) this was an excellent opportunity to feed. He ravaged the melee, killing every dinosaur and enjoying a most excellent meal. Unfortunately, the meal turned out to be his last: just as T-Rex stepped onto the plank to board the boat, his mate at his side, a very small meteor (about the size of a pea) plummeted from the sky and struck T-Rex directly in the temple. Instant death. T-Rex toppled sideways off the plank, knocking his mate off balance and carrying her with him. They fell into the rising flood waters and drowned.

4. Noah decided that that the dinosaurs were too big to come aboard. However, he recognized that some of the dinosaurs were aquatic, and encouraged them to swim behind the Ark along with all the other swimming creatures. They did. Unfortunately, the Ark (with the swimming creatures in tow) was drifting somewhere over the north of Scotland when the flood waters started to recede. Just as the Scottish Highlands were about to emerge from the water, the Ark turned south, and the swimming creatures followed, including Mr. Swimming Dinosaur. Mrs Swimming Dinosaur was last in line, and got trapped in a valley-cum-lake, where she remains to this day (Mr. Swimming Dinosaur died of grief).

5. Noah, wisely, decided that adult dinosaurs were simply too large and ate too much to be permitted on the boat. However, in the interests of future biologists, he brought two dinosaur eggs aboard. They would be carefully nurtured aboard the ark, and allowed to hatch, grow up, and reproduce in the new, post-flood world. Unfortunately, on day 39, someone forgot his scientific ideals, got hungry, fried the dinosaur eggs and enjoyed them with three rashers of bacon, black coffee, and toast.

Baby Face

Just a quick one to say THANK YOU to my family and friends, all over the world, who sent birthday wishes today. And THANK YOU THANK YOU to my big Kody family for your birthday wishes, cards, gifts, hugs, and one helluva good birthday dinner (pad thai loaded with fresh, colourful, crisp veggies; coconut chicken curry, brown rice, heineken acquired godknowswhere, and my favourite warm blueberry cake....HEAVEN). I feel truly blessed to know and be stuck on this mountain top with you all. Even in the ridiculous rain (Bonfire? Meh. No point having one til the marshmallow shipment arrives, anyway).

Down the Mountain

At the end of first quarter, KIS packs up and disperses over Southern India for field trip week. I begged off of the elementary chaperone list, and onto the 8th grade bus heading north to Bylakuppe. In 1961, the state of Karnataka granted 1200 hectares of land to TIbetan refugees. Since that time, the Bylakuppe settlement has grown to support approximately 5000 Tibetan monks and 10 000 refugee laypeople.

It was my first trip down the mountain since arriving in India some 2.5 months ago. Therefore, in addition to experiencing vastly different, very Tibetan Bylakuppe, I had the shock of train and bus travel on the Tamil Nadu plains and a visit to Mysore city; my first taste of unquestionably Real India(s). (Please read this for context in which I use the term Real India).

This post threatened to be about 5000 words and 3 weeks overdue so I'm taking the visual route instead...enjoy the pics and remember you can click on them to enlarge!





Bylakuppe's Golden Temple: to enter, you first walk the monastery perimeter (several hundred meters), a covered walkway lined by fluttering prayer flags on one side, and prayer wheels on the other. I spun every single wheel, accumulating the equivalent merit of having recited the mantras contained within about a hundred thousand times. Maybe. Also pictured: the Golden Temple's 60-foot gold plated Buddha.



When I entered the temple it was empty and silent, long rows of mats, low tables and prayer books lying still before the awesome golden Buddha. A long low horn broke the silence, followed by countless hurried footsteps; hundreds of monks poured into the temple, prostrated to the statue, and took their places. I stayed as long as I could, for about 20 minutes of chanting, drumming, recitations, tea-drinking.










Monks debating: most evenings, monks at a certain stage in their training gather for paired debates on the texts studies and discussed that day. One monk (standing) poses questions, delivered with a dramatic step, wind up and loud clap. The seated monk responds. We were granted special permission for female students and chaperones to enter the monastery after dark, in order to watch roughly 2000 monks debate in a monastery courtyard buzzing with question, response, sharp clap after clap.













Thangka studio: specifications for even the tiniest details of content, dimensions, and colour are laid out in Buddhist scriptures.









Tourist monks from Bhutan







Tourist monks who wanted to pose with a fig tree


We played football (boys) and volleyball (girls) against students from S.O.S. Children's Village, a school and home for orphans and child-refugees whose parents are in Tibet. Many of these kids crossed the Himalayas on foot to get out.














Morning assembly and the rush to class.

Reincarnation?

Sorry for the long absence. Excuses:

Death by viral fever Tuesday night.

Death by bacterial infection, a.k.a "Kody stomach", Thursday morning.

Death by Quarter Reports all weekend.

But I'm feeling all better, first quarter is done (!!!), and I'm on the road to enlightenment....or at least to Bylakuppe, Karnataka for field trip week with the 8th grade. Bylakuppe is a Tibetan settlement and I'll be chilling with Buddhist monks and nuns for the next 6 days.

Tons of pictures and a good post on my return, bien sur.

Grounding

This afternoon my head touched the floor in prasarita padottanasa. For two years the floor was miles away; the last few months the crown of my head has been a loooong three inches from the floor. Like a good little yogini, I have hung out there, breathing, not forcing, strong in the legs and core, waiting. Waiting for today? Inhale, lengthen, fold forward. Inhale, lengthen to straight back, fold...and....an ever so gentle boom.
Crown.
Ground.
Incredible.

Finally grounded today, perhaps, thanks to Ganesha, Remover of Obstacles. Thank you for removing those last three inches of air, and a belated happy birthday to you. All of Kodaikanal seems to have delayed your birthday: the town was quiet on Thursday, the actual day. Today I woke to wild drumming from all directions, and what sounded like gunshots at 2 or 3 minute intervals. The booms and bangs increased in frequency all morning, until one "atom bomb" was going off every few seconds. Several processions of drumming, dancing men led multiple Ganeshas (mounted on tractors and cartops) through the streets--back and forth all morning, with no apparent destination. I was just informed at dinner that sometime this afternoon (perhaps right about when my head was grounding??) the processions ended at lake Kody, where Ganesha had a bath.

Sad I missed it, but...MY HEAD TOUCHED THE GROUND IN PADOTTANASANA!

Happy Happy Birthday also to my dearest Ficklius. Your gift from afar: I spent most of the day planning our Kerala/Karnataka itinerary for January. Big cyberspace hugs til then (can't wait).

Imagined Realities

On the Real India:
Recently, conversation with some friends here has meandered onto the subject of “the Real India.” The somewhat muddled and troubled concept came to my attention well before leaving home. During PiA orientation, a fellow intern made a rather offhand (and unfair!) comment that implied my position was not “real service” and would be an inferior PiA experience because Kodaikanal, and KIS, was not “Real India.”
I will neither waste this space responding to the argument that teaching isn't service, nor will I validate the idea that PiA posts can be compared in any meaningful way, let alone ranked.
However, the question of whether Kody is Real India might be worth pursuing, and you can count on my returning to the topic in the future. Thoughts thus far:
*There is no The Real India (singular). That’s a well-accepted idea. As a political entity, India exists [of course, only to the extent that any state “exists.” Nation-states are imagined, aren’t they?] But everyone knows that politics aside, India is better defined as a hundred nations in one, as the most diverse nation in the world, best characterized as uncharacterizable in its confounding diversity.
*The idea of Real India (or Real Indias) is not just a Westerner’s concept. It has also been implied by comments made by several my new Indian friends. I can’t imagine of what their notion consists. But I can imagine, that as a figment of Western imagination, Real India must be made of: temples, dusty rural poverty, filthy urban slums, a small but incredibly wealthy urban elite, blaring Bollywood music and a rainbow of saris, dusty crusty poverty, squat toilets and cows and eating with one’s fingers, begging poverty, colourful zany Hindu temples, maybe with the odd mosque or church or turban thrown in, Raj remnants, more poverty, elephants, incense and yoga and spice.
*As a figment of Western imagination, Real India is diverse. But this diversity has impermeable outer borders. In other words, people and influences from outside aren’t part of Imagined Real India. (Exception: the Raj is Real India, because it is Real history that has shaped the Real present.) Outside influences are threats to Real India (so what happens when this present becomes history?) A person who imagines such a Real India might think that KIS, founded by American Missionaries and consisting of about 50% non-Indian students and teachers, is not Real India. All the food and water consumed at KIS is imported from Europe at 6-week intervals. And every time the hot water geyser stops working, a plumber flies over from Cleveland to fix it. Best of all, we get paid American salaries in USD. Hah, hah.
*Last weekend I chaperoned the 11th grade trip to Poondi camp. I ran the Zip Line. High Ropes courses on the outdoor education properties of private IB-curriculum schools are not part of Imagined Real India. But the path through the woods leading to the Zip Line was also used by wild bison, water buffalo and wandering cows. Walking back to camp at the end of the day, I slipped and fell on a particularly fresh, slimy green cowpie. It was definitely Real.

On the Real Kody:
Wednesday night, I had dinner at my friend’s cozy little flat on main campus. Over ratatouille and a precious bottle of red wine, then plum cheesecake and black coffee, we wondered at the fortune a similar flat would cost in Boston, Paris, Sydney. But for the occasional blackouts, we could have been in any of those places. Surely not the Imagined Real India. Is our community a bubble, picked up from Somewhere Else and plunked down on this mountain top? It's more complicated than that--too complicated to be able to draw a line between some Real India, and whatever this place is. The world today is more complicated than that. A snapshot of the following day (maybe this is Real Kody?):
After school Thursday, I went to the bank. The bank tends to be a trying errand--crowded, hot, and incredibly confusing. I am used to plastic cards and pins; here, I actually have to fill out a paper slip to deposit or withdraw, then stand in a "line" for the wicket. Eventually to hand over the slip to a man sitting in front a of a giant safe whose door is periodically opened, in full view of the entire bank. While "waiting in line" (i.e., using elbows and a nasty glare to hold my ground), there was a sudden commotion near the bank door. I turned to see a man, holding the door ajar, kicking at something near the ground. A flash of brown; a monkey's retreating tail, the door slammed and bolted shut. About a dozen monkeys were camped on the bank steps, some of the larger ones especially interested in the door handle, others peering through the glass. Any time someone tried to leave, the monkeys would crowd the door, and it was slammed shut again. We were held up (ahem) for 10 minutes, and I was nearly late for staff yoga.
It's not the Ashtanga I know and love and learned in France and Canada (not in India, not Real Yoga?). A different yoga, a breath-ier, slower yoga. It’s not insta-butt-sculpting yoga. Easier on the body, but so much more difficult (more Real?) Taught by an English colleague (less?) When I put the crown of my head on the ground and rise up in headstand, Indian ground supports my weight.
Walking home after yoga, I navigated around zooming motos and cows, past stalls manned by thin, poor, brown Real Indians. Was stared at, whistled at, leered at. By Real Indians. Even in this town. A foreign white giant woman outside invader of Real India. Almost home: just past the Temple (Hindu), then round the corner and up the hill. Thunder overhead and the monsoon nightsky opened—through the pounding rain I could faintly hear the Muslim call to prayer drifting up the hill.
Through the gate. My umbrella is leaking, my sneakers soaked through (Real rain, Real puddles). Laughter, singing, guitar strumming coming from the dorm common room. It is dorm devotions night: as a study break, the boys gather for a led prayer or song or Bible discussion. I pause in the doorway to look in: two dozen teenagers, about half the faces a palette of Indian Browns, the other faces mostly Korean, framed by incredible moussed and blowdried 'dos, every one of them singing about Jesus. Real voices, Real smiles.
Later there’s a knock at the door. “Ma! Ma! Dhobi, ma.” I open and the dhobi hands over a stack of pressed, folded linens, tshirts, and jeans; I hand him 20 rupees (about 50 cents). My clean (slapped and pounded against a rock in a river, a river fed by overflow from mercury-tinged Kody lake, a river fed by monsoon rain that washes the shit and dirt from Kody roads before rushing downhill towards Dhobi Town) clothes smell faintly of smoke; in this wet season clothes are dried on scaffolding set up over eucalyptus fires.
The Dhobi walks off into the dark, wet Indian night. I return to my French marking, but within minutes, the room disappears into blackness. Power’s out again. Outside, the generator thuds into action; through the windows I see some dorm lights flicker on. Mine do not. Sigh. Rotten luck—or maybe not. Papers can be marked in the morning; teeth can be brushed by candlelight; delicious sleep delivered early by deepest darkness and drumming rain.

On Time and Space

The new year has always begun in September not January, and I’ve always thought an academic annual rhythm would survive the end of my student days. Certainly, it would persist if I taught! But—here I am, September coming tomorrow, already 6 weeks into a school year half a world away...and time has lost meaning. It didn’t feel like September 6 weeks ago, either. August 31st brings news from my other worlds: last swims in the ocean, last waterskis, last visits, blackberries galore, frantic shopping, packing, relocating, returning. Reports of both jitters and of weary sighs: new semesters, new jobs, new programs; or back once again to the same-old. It’s hard to imagine: I left in early July, when the Canadian summer was just warming up, and in my mind home remains frozen in that spacetime. Meanwhile, over here, a shocking reminder from the principal: quarter reports due in 10 days. Quarter?!?! (I’m still operating without a semester plan for most classes). Reports?!?! (You mean actually assess these kids? But we were having so much fun just learning…)

Poondi Camp

I slipped on a cow patty on Saturday.
Walking up the hill at our outdoor ed. camp.
But we had s'mores and banana-chocolate boats at campfire.
So we'll call it even?

Feeling Regal

Indian Independence Day (Friday August 15th) at KIS: a sleep in, 3 hours of speeches, dance and music recitals, and an early start to the weekend. It was really all about the clothes. Our diverse students and staff came out for the morning in national dress…and those of us from rather dull Banana Republic (ha, ha) or GAP nations adopted Indian dress rather than wear jeans and tee’s.


Every woman in the world should dress like Indian women dress. (A gross generalization—not of every woman in the world, but of how Indian women dress—because this nation is really several dozen nations, each with its own styles of clothing. But I am talking, generally, about the sari and variations on the sari; and about the salwar kameez, and variations on the long tunic and pants.)

Both are cool and comfortable; varying fabric, style, and accessories make the sari and SK into appropriate wear for everything from manual labour, through school/office and weddings.More importantly, the sari and the salwar kameez can flatter any size or shape of body. (I have yet to see a woman, of any national origin or physique, wearing one, and think ‘oh, dear—not the best choice for her!'). Whatever the body underneath, these garments can be stunningly beautiful on their own: beaded or embroidered cottons and silks in every colour.

Every woman in the world should wear saris because one feels beautiful in them. My friends here concur—we plan to make Wednesdays sari day at school (otherwise all those gorgeous new purchases will sit in the closet). No more painting or clay on Wednesdays. One feels more than beautiful: graceful, regal, and respected; like you should be looked at, for all the right reasons.
That’s all I have to say on saris. I’ll show off now: pictured; Ficus with her favourite Korean student (I was way more comfortable than she was!)

J'aime le weekend

Ah, weekend. Still trying to strike the right balance of hiding out to recover from teaching, and going out to make the most of being here

Two weeks ago I packed it too tight: a Saturday hike, dinner with friends,shopping, the Tibetan Engagement Party [In brief: we have a sizable Tibetan population in Kody and teaching at KIS; one staff member's daughter, a KIS alum, flew in from London with her new fiance for speeches and a meal (followed by top-secret dancing for the Tibetan community only?!?) at the local country club.]  It felt a little awkward given that I didn't know the family at all, but the fun of dressing up Tibetan-style and eating lots of delicious momos triumphed.

Pictured: Smiling Red Ficus and a Tibetan Rainbow (there are only so many shops in Kody...). I've got no pics of the couple or their ceremonial table, as per the family's request. 

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This past weekend I bailed on the hike (sinus infection continues...) and made no firm commitments or plans. Two completely unstructured days led to:

1. The discovery of a little coffeshop/bakery. A decent one. Right here, in Kody. With two little tables out front. Where I can actually sit and watch other people. And maybe pull out a notepad. They brew it (not instant!) strong enough that it'll take milk, and they'll hold the sugar when asked. Sipped from a tiny paper cup (or two), yummy buttery date pound cake served on the side on a garish (mangoes, oranges, roses and greenery) plastic tray. The Daily Bread will be seeing much more of me. 

2. Walking Sunday market...Heaps of produce and the odd vendor of trinkets, clothing, housewares, pulses. Trucks arrive loaded with more coconuts, potatoes, squashes arriveand people, motorbikes, cows somehow squeeze around. Vendors hiss a cow down the street; it passes the hotel just as a puppy wobbles out to the gates. The puppy barks at the cow with such force enough that he is propelled backwards; the cow stops and gazes vaguely in its direction. The puppy continues to yap; the cow blinks and releases a rush of steaming piss. The nearest vendor leaps up to roll back his tarp and wares (hair pins and scrunchies); the puppy silenced. A visual of  why I have pretty much gone veg...chickens are butchered right on top of their cage, with the tethered goat as witness. It's just a little too much. For now, at least. 

3. Sunday morning I woke to drumming--hard, fast, and coming down from the hills behind Bruten dorm. Soon it was street-level, and when I left for market it seemed to have stopped. Anyone I asked said, "bah, it's just some Hindu thing," (time to make some friends out side the KIS community?) Three hours later, walking home, the drums suddenly started up again; closer this time. Rushing out with a camera, I caught the procession as it turned onto the main road behind our dorm....and am trying (failing) to get a video upload here. 

These lovely ladies were watching the procession too:

A la prochaine. 

Shaky Foundations, Plugs and Voltage

Night falls, and I’ve just returned from cafeteria dinner to my annex apartment. Thank you, Universe, for (somewhat) functioning electricity and three out of four wireless bars. Some of my neighbours— two dozen high school boarders—are playing football in the driveway, their laughter and shouts nearly drowning out Dorm-mother, who yells that it’s time for study hall. Prayer-call drifts up the hill from a mosque (I’ve been told it’s the adhan, but it doesn't match my memory, and I wonder whether Tamil-accented Arabic is as distinct from Arabic and incomprehensible as Tamil-accented English is from English).

I’m putting aside a pile of French tests that need marking, and some demo-fish that need painting, and an IB assessment guide that needs reading…to write, and relax, and rest. I’ve got a nasty headcold (thank you, germy children!) and taught one too many classes today. The schedule's been finalized. Art/ESL somehow became French/Art/Math/3rd and 4th grade Language Arts. My favourite age-group and subject, YAY! And I have been encouraged to incorporate a lot of visual arts into their lessons. Double YAY! And the 6th graders report that they like French because I make it fun (triple yay, but whispered cautiously, because now I wonder whether it's too fun).

The youngest ones continue to be a real (and unpleasant) challenge. I feel like a babysitter. A grumpy one. With a sinus infection. Walking up the hill from elementary campus this afternoon, feeling sour and sorry for myself, I looked up and notice that I was schlepping along behind three Tamil women. Barefoot, in dusty saris, gracefully navigating the cows, motos, buses, taxis. Balancing on their heads bundles of firewood, each bundle at least five times as big around as one of their waists...

It wasn’t that moment. It wasn’t a piercing realization that I can’t complain of having 3-year-olds in my art room twice a week, when these women carry firewood on their heads, uphill all day long every day, for a hand-to-mouth living. It wasn’t; I’m not quite there yet. And I’m not sure I will get "there" anyway, not sure it ever means much to compare fortunes or misfortunes, because each of us can only ever have our very own experience for reference. But I did notice, I did stop to think.

To those of you who snuck a peak (via my friend’s blog or facebook) at pictures from the Tibetan Engagement party that I haven’t yet written about…booooo! Tsk! I’m waiting to get better pics from another source.

Being an over-prepared and organized traveler, I bought several plug adapters in Toronto. They’d be widely available and cheap here, I was told, nonetheless I wanted some on hand (the main reason: recharging my laptop in Frankfurt airport. FYI, there are no accessible electrical outlets in all of Frankfurt airport). While shopping, it seemed strange that the various universal plug adapters were labeled with every region or nation in the world save India, and that India was missing among country-specific adapters. India is not exactly an obscure, untravelled destination. The closest I got to an explanation came from a MEC salesperson (http://www.mec.ca, these guys are normally fountains of hard-core travel information) who frowned, picked up this plug (the small, black one)  and said, “wellll…..hmmm….yeah, I think this one is the right one. I’m pretty sure. Take this one.”
Cool. I’ll trust the MEC guy. Two flat prongs become two round prongs. Simple. Except that also pictured above are two varieties of adapters that I bought here...they've each got 13 holes on the flip side, none of which fit my two-round-prongs and my local appliances. It gets stranger:

Plug on a local appliance; fits some of the variety of outlets in my apartment. Also, two of the variety of electrical outlets in my apartment, note that the two-round-prong plugs do NOT fit any of the holes in any of these outlets. 
 You’d think they would.
Confused? I was merely confused, even amused. Until last night, when I needed to plug in phone charger (local), camera battery (not), speakers (local), and computer (not), all at once.
Speaker plug (local) + adapter #2 (local) + outlet in sitting room wall (obviously local) = BIG sparks + smoke + charred speaker plug + scary knocking sound all around in the walls - functioning outlets in half my apartment. Confused becomes amused becomes petrified, though not electrified, and relievedtobealive-but-withoutpower-withoutnewspeakers-annoyed.

In even the littlest ways I guess we live closer to the edge, farther from everything tested, inspected guaranteed functional, sanitary, safe. Maybe I’ll tell you about Almost Dying at the KIS infirmary next time.

At least it wasn’t an encounter with E. coli

New Friends; Disaster Class

Last night I had dinner at a new Keralite friend’s place. Channa masala (chickpeas in spicy tomato sauce), chapattis, carrot-coconut-coriander salad, and Bird’s custard (!!!) with pomegranate. I stopped by in the afternoon so that we could go shopping together—I’m looking for some salwar kameez and she offered to help sort through the overwhelming choice of pattern, colour, style, not to mention help with bargaining. T was prepping for dinner and I walked in to the loud hammering of coconut on cement floor. T is a tiny, tiny woman and wasn’t having much luck getting the coconut open sans axe. We took the coconut upstairs to a neighbour, who loaned an axe and some upper body strentgh—coconut in left hand; axe in the other, and THWACK—the axe came right down into the coconut, cracked it, and stopped just shy of the left thumb.




The rhythm of life here so far feels very much like University—minus the swimming. Most of the day is spent working on campus. Occasional jaunts outside the gates to shop or eat are usually in the company of diverse, warm 20-something staff members who hail from all over India and the world. I think I’ve spent more time socializing in the last three weeks than I did all of senior year at Princeton…which probably says more about my general nerdiness and antisociality than it does about life in Kody.

This morning was a total teaching disaster. I’ve got pre-K through grade 2 all together in the same art class, and haven’t figured out yet how to give multiple lessons at once. (Necessary to keep it age-appropriate. I can’t even figure out what is age-appropriate, let alone teach a 5-year age span at once. So far every lesson has vastly overestimated their basic vocabulary and skill levels. The 3-year-olds can’t draw stick figures, wash their hands, or really do anything without supervision; the 7- year-olds are ready for realistic drawing, theme studies and beyond…but still young enough to want constant attention and feedback). Let’s just say it ended with twenty sheets of lovely, hard-to-come-by extra-large sheets of paper gone to waste, a 30-point raise in my blood pressure, and paint all over half the kids. A winter jacket ruined. Why did she put her winter jacket back on OVER the smock when my back was turned? How did she manage to paint the ENTIRE sleeve and hem before noticing her arm was dragging on her neighbor’s painting? Why are these kids even wearing winter jackets in August in south India?!?!.

On the flip side, I was sitting behind some 4th and 5th graders at lunch and caught my name ("Miss Mac"). "Who?" Asked a 6th grader sitting with them, who I don't have this semester. "Miss Mac!" They said. "She's teaching lots of things. And she's our favourite."
So....it might be worth it. At least with the older ones :)

Orienting

It’s 3 weeks, now, since a taxi dropped me at the school gates. I’m still riding the arrival roller coaster; going so fast I can neither see the surroundings, what’s coming next, nor appreciate whether we’re rightside up or upside down. There are clearly ups and downs, though, even without sight…the stomach never lies!

Kody is a town of about 30,000 that over the last 100 years has grown up, in and around an American missionary school. KIS campuses are scattered around a large, man-made lake; steep streets meander away from the school, lined with restaurants, hotels, countless touristy shops (clothes, carpets, cushions, jewelry, knick knacks from Kashmir, Tibet, Kerala), and a handful of useful shops (grocery, general, tailors, hardware, dispensary). Beyond to the outskirts spread homes, schools, shops and chai stalls servicing the people who are here to serve the school community; the outlying hills and valleys are farmed, forested, and sprinkled with villages. On weekends, the hillstation that grew to support the school becomes clogged and crowded with busloads of tourists up from the hot plains. Families ride horses or walk around the lake, go for paddleboat rides, and shop in the touristy Tibetan, Keralan, and Kashmiri shops; herds of young men come for local weed and for the views—namely, of foreign women. Their stares and catcalls trump even those of Kuwaiti Geezie’s. I’ve got tailoring orders in for especially conservative local dress to save just for weekends.

You could read that description of Kody in any guidebook, and I haven’t had time yet to delve much deeper. Work started the day after arrival, with orientation, meetings, and a staff retreat. Before jet lag even wore off, and before I had a place to live, classes began. Panic! Planning and getting organized has been extra challenging because my schedule and responsibilities keep changing. I was hired to teach elementary art, ESL and French; as of Friday I’m teaching some art, a lot of French, no ESL, a 12th grade art class, and 3rd grade math (and who knows what will have changed as of tomorrow morning). To be honest, so far, I really don’t like teaching. That might change once I figure out how to plan units and lessons, but…well, it was a gut reaction that hasn’t really wavered. At least the kids are sweet and I’ve got a solid team to work with.

3 weeks to backlog, but Monday morning looms…à la prochaine.