A much-needed respite...

I've been in Singapore the past few days and it has been a much-needed rest in a developed society. I didn't realize how much the dust, pollution and noise has affected my mind and body, but I've really enjoyed the short amount of time here.

Singapore seems to be the melting pot of Asia. Four languages decorate the walls of the public transport guiding locals of Chinese, Malay and Indian decent. S'pore is a city unlike any other that I've experienced with it's futuristic architecture as a backdrop while women in colorful saris and headscarves rush around with the bankers in their business attire. I'm still not quite sure what the local cuisine is, although I've eaten my share of Indian, Chinese and Malaysian food here. The cuisine is still a mystery to me, but the national sport is certainly shopping. You can walk the entire span of the city by going in and out of shopping malls. Seriously. You can't leave one without being ten steps away from another mall entrance. And though I despise shopping, the air conditioning has been wonderful in this hot and humid environment. The national car seems to be the Mercedes. They're in every shape and size and sometimes you can spot a BMW, but Mercedes Benz does some good business here in this chic city. As developed and orderly as Singapore is, I must say there are some silly rules. No chewing gum, for example, is sold or allowed to be consumed in Singapore. School children belligerently smack their lips while enjoying this forbidden treat. It's so funny. I've been offered chewing gum twice in the three days I've been here. It's almost like there's a black market for it. I also find it funny that Singaporeans smoke cigarettes like fiends littering the ground with the evidence of their bad habits. Granted cigarette butts are easier to clean, but maybe gum would help them quit??

Either way, Singapore is a wonderful city full of culture, cuisine and comfort. I have enjoyed this little holiday from noise, beggars, hawkers and dust. Thank you S'pore!

Chai - the tonic of India

My first chai in India was from a vendor in a park in Delhi while touring the Mughal tombs. An Indian man I had met a day earlier at a different tourist attraction and coincidentally met again at the park insisted on buying me a chai. We sat in silence and sipped our sweet milk tea.

I've had many many cups of tea in my life thus far. Bitter tea I hated and only drank when I was ill, Breakfast tea in the morning with my Irish boyfriend who had it shipped from home, Chinese tea, Hong Kong tea (very different by the way), and now Indian masala tea. But I have never witnessed tea being such a part of daily life as I witness every day in India.

I have to admit I don't really remember how my first cup tasted apart from milky and sweet. When my new friend asked how I liked it and then commented that we are in the middle of the park, so it can't be that good, I was puzzled, wondering - what's the difference between one milk tea and another?

Well, it's funny how the more you consume something, the more picky you become. Almost like it ruins the innocence of just enjoying something simply. Now I am officially a chai snob choosing a restaurant because of chai with the perfect blend of ginger, cardamom, cloves, black pepper, cinnamon, milk and a bit of sugar.

In India, chai is an apparent part of daily life. The chaiwallahs who are usually young kids walk back and forth from shop to shop with their steel container that carries glasses full of chai to thirsty shopkeepers. Men are heating this magical mixture on every corner of the dusty streets. Chai is at the forefront of almost every transaction I've had in India, whether I was spending a hundred dollars on miniature paintings (I'm sure I got ripped off), or five dollars on a room for a night. Chai is also a main part of India's social life. Families invite me in for chai as I walk through their neighborhood and after almost any strenuous activity (like touring a temple) chai is mandatory for relaxing and composing oneself. I have come to thoroughly enjoy taking part in this tradition. There's something almost medicinal about sitting on a plastic stool outside a tiny shop while watching motorbikes whiz by...

Of course, I have met some Indians who hate chai. They say it's bad for you or it makes people lazy and gives them excuses to stall productivity. Some say it's addictive. Maybe it is. But, for me, Indian chai is a constant reminder of India's hospitality and almost religious focus on relaxation.

The good, the bad and the lonely

The past week has been a whirlwind of meeting people. I move around so quickly and Indians are so friendly and almost desperate to interact with foreigners that somedays I converse with 20 different people. I haven't really felt alone at all. There always seems to be someone right next to me who would love to talk about the weather, history, me or sex of course. I've held off on posting this because I wasn't sure it was totally relevant to all of India, but too many occurances have happened for me to ignore this major part of my experience here.

First off, the looks and blatant stares, I was totally prepared for; It happens in China too. I get it. I look different and it's not rude to stare in other cultures. But in India, in addition to stares you get comments. In the past week, I've been propositioned by men yelling from passing trains or shop windows. I desperately want to sit them down and teach them some manners, but instead I flash a nasty look and try to let it roll off my back. I have since learned that Indian men are very up-to-date on American pornography and have seen all the latest hollywood hits, such as American Pie. These men have also never been to America, so apparently, this is what they believe American life to be like. But I didn't believe that they imagined every woman to be ready and willing to date, marry or have sex within an hour of introductions.

I recently stayed at a guest house that was really nice, and I was able to negotiate a really cheap rate. The manager, who is my age, was very friendly (although I did get a minor creep vibe) and helpful. The second night I ran into him in town and we went for chai together. We had a great discussion, as he is a local journalist, and I learned a lot about the community and local politics. But as we walked back to the guest house, he began with 'Heather, I meet many many people. And only some I feel so comfortable with.' I knew this was going to be an awkward moment of compliments, but I never expected him to blatantly ask me to go to bed with him. That night. OR the next night if that's what I preferred. I was beside myself. I turned him down without being polite and went to my room to reflect.

A few days later, in a different town, I met a young man who was also very helpful. He knew everyone and got me indian prices every where we went. He introduced me to other locals and I ate at places I never would have found on my own. But then it came time for me to leave. He got very angry and sulked. After declining his offer to come with me to my next destination, he continued sulking. The next day I was not able to go anywhere because I was terribly ill (probably from that wonderful food I never would have found without him), and he called all day estatic that I was still there. The next morning I left very early without saying goodbye. He still calls my Indian cell phone at least three times a day.

I have already had men ask me for sex in this new city and I've been here only 12 hours. I don't think there is a "sex tourist" sign on my forehead, and I certainly hope I don't look like the porn stars they've seen on TV. So, what is it?

I drafted this blog entry about a month and a half ago, and must say that the incidents never got any worse than what I mentioned, but I still think it's important that I share these negative experiences along with all of my magical ones.

I have never gotten used to the sexual comments I sometimes hear as I walk down the street, but I don't take it personally anymore, and do admit that they've become less frequent -whatever the reason. I also must specify that most of these incidents have been brought on by uneducated young men who are in constant contact with foreigners. They don't seem to know any better and can't (or won't)comprehend the possible detrimental effects their behavior could have to the tourism economy of this nation.

The middle class Indian men are appalled when I mention my experiences and attempt to make up for the faux pas of their fellow countrymen. So with their effort to 'make things right', I've had homes opened to me, been given a ride, meals and a place to stay on a 12-hour journey, been given official guided tours of palaces for free, been introduced to countless parents of 'ambassadors', been given gifts, consumed countless cups of complimentary chai and enjoyed hundreds of genuine, welcoming smiles.

So why do these young men behave this way? I still, even asking many many Indians, have no definite answer. Maybe they've seen porn, maybe they've actually had an experience or two with a foreigner and think we're all the same, maybe they think it's funny, maybe they don't have any sisters...

Hospitable India

One is never really alone in India. Not only is there the constant bustle of daily life - horns honking, animals calling, people speaking loudly (I don't think it's possible to whisper in Hindi; it must lose meaning somehow...) - but Indians always have time to stop and give directions or show you the way.

There is an Indian ambassador in every city in this country - no matter how remote or poor. These ambassadors aren't official, although you almost feel like it is their only duty - to show you their country, their city, their neighborhood, their life. I have now been in India for nearly two months and have never felt completely alone. If I am lost, most of the time, before I can even ask, someone is asking me if they can help me. Sure, sometimes they want me to go to their shop or eat at their restaurant or stay at their hotel, but in the end they will help regardless.

I have been at the mercy of my intuition and random acts of kindness throughout this adventure. I have gotten on the back of countless motorbikes, blindly followed strangers through poorly lit streets, stayed with people I met a day earlier, eaten curiously fresh food, and shaken curiously clean hands....Granted, my one gift in this life is an ability to read a person in a moment, and of course, I have asked many questions and left my 'trails of breadcrumbs' in my mind, so I always know my way back, but I never expected so much genuine hospitality.

I may not have gotten this experience if I hadn't traveled alone (although it's possible). Some Indians I met randomly (usually middle class Indians) have asked me why I didn't hire a guide, and I reply that I have a guide in every city. And it's true. I typically meet my ambassadors when I've just traveled for hours or when I'm hopelessly lost or at my wits end. They're always patient, as I'm not open to speaking with and trusting random people on the street, but eventually I begin to trust certain individuals and accept their help. And usually I'm happy I did. Whether we shared a conversation over chai, spent the day whizzing around on a motorbike, hung out with their family, or spent the night under their roof; I have many thank you notes to write and pictures to send to my ambassador friends in India.

Chasing Butterflies

I was instantly cured the moment I set foot in Mussoorie. Sometimes moving on is better than giving a place a chance; Mussoorie is much more my style. I caught my first glimpse of the Himalayas today and they are breathtaking; they leave you feeling small, insignificant, and in total awe.

I visited the school, Woodstock, where my grandfather (whom I never met) studied and eventually taught. While on my tour of the school, the librarian, dressed in a beautiful sari asked me, "what has taken you so long to get here?" I just smiled and shrugged.

Woodstock is a boarding school, now for middle and high schoolers, in a gorgeous location at the top of a mountain overlooking basmati rice fields and countless peaks and valleys as far as you can see. The school is known for its music program and as you enter the main gate you are greeted with the song of violins, guitars and pianos - or at least I was lucky enough to have come at the right moment. It's an american school, so the students can take sciences along with humanities, which is often not allowed in India's 'streaming' programs that allow only science for science students and only humanities for humanities students (maybe that's why I'm so scatterbrained).

When in the alumni office, I met a girl who had graduated in '09 and missed the school so much, she came back to show a friend who she was now studying with at college in Mumbai. Kajoli, who was so enthusiastic about her time at Woodstock, could only go on and on about her days at Woodstock and how much she learned from her few short years there. We walked up to the spot where all the students hang out and had lunch while Richa joked that Woodstock was all Kajoli talked about. Kajoli countered with, "well did you disect a goat brain AND then write a thesis statement in the same day??" I can only hope that my grandfather was blessed with a student as eager and playful as Kajoli.

It was very emotional to walk down the streets wondering if he had been moved by the same view of the mountains when he lived there. Or whether he knew the parents and grand parents of the people I was meeting in the shops. And of course what he was like. His picture is on the wall of the brand new gym from 1941 when he taught baseball and hockey. The yearbook said he was 'good-natured and witty', although he looks very serious and pensive in every photo. It's very difficult to think of this man as my grandfather, as he is perpetually young in my mind.

A nice woman in the alumni office emailed some students who may have had him as a teacher. It would be really neat to hear more about him. But for now, I am moving on. Tonight I take a night train to Amritsar, but Mussoorie has moved me deeply. I now know why he chose this place.

Searching...

I'm in Rishikesh at the moment (another holy city, but this one is in the foothills of the Himalayas), and it seems like everyone else has a purpose here. The other tourists (they seem to outnumber the locals) walk down the street with their yoga mats hanging off their shoulders. Some live in the cafes, smoking endless cigarettes and painting psychedelic pictures on the walls while the vibration from the trans music permeates the room.

I feel like I'm walking around this city in a bubble. I haven't found 'Indian' clothes that fit me properly - you can guess why - and so I'm still in T-shirts and jeans. Others are wearing salwar kameez (dresses with pants underneath) and other pretty tops that I'm not able to fit into. Many have been here for months meditating and doing yoga and learning the sitar. I just feel like I'm in this gorgeous place with a beautifully green river surrounded by mountains and yet I can't fully appreciate it with all these tourists. But I am one of them. Maybe I'm just jealous that they have a purpose and are fulfilling their goals. Why can I not be satisfied with my own path?

Pathway to Nirvana

Today was my first full day in the Hindu holy city of Varanasi. This is where Hindus from all over India make a pilgrimage to be blessed by the holy water of the Ganges River and visit a temple in this magical city.

First, I went to the Golden Temple, which I think is the most amazing temple I've ever been in. It's an open air temple with white marble floors and there's water gushing everywhere flooding barefeet with flower petals and leaves and other offerings that have been washed off shrines of Vishnu and Parvati. Upon entering the main room you're pushed (there are sooo many people who have come to visit this place) through to the ultimate shrine which people are dousing with milk (cow's are holy) and flowers. You are supposed to touch the shrine (essentially Vishnu's penis) and then touch your face. As you leave your feet are covered with milk and flowers and then a kind man washes your feet with a hose.

When I left this temple, I was sure the day couldn't get any more spiritual. But as I was walking the river bank, I came to the burning ghat (where they cremate people who have died here), and was overwhelmed with emotion. You are not allowed to take pictures in this area, so all I have are words to describe what happens here. The first thing I noticed were the piles and piles of wood - piled higher than the rooftops. Then my eyes caught sight of burning wood piles in rows overlooking the Ganges. And finally I saw a body draped in gold fabric sitting atop a pile of wood. I stood there for a long while lost in a trance. There was a baby wailing and a cow groaning loudly. Otherwise just the crackling of the burning wood piles that had been left to burn long after the corpse was dirt....Then a man dressed in white approached the golden-draped body with a flame and circled a few times before lighting the pile of wood while others seemed to pay little attention. He said a few words and then just let the body burn. I cannot describe what it was like to watch a human set alight. I realize that we cremate people all the time, but I guess I thought it would be more sterile or private. The buildings surrounding this ghat looked very run down with just cement blocks and no windows or doors. I was told that this is where Hindus come to wait to die when they have no family. They just have to pay for the wood.

It is said that if you die in Varanasi then you will attain instant nirvana. I pondered nirvana as I passed this ghat and an ash flew into my mouth...