Amritsar and the Pakistan Border

After our first weekend in Vashisht we knew that the second weekend may not compare. After a week of fairly tame Indian elementary school it was decision time; either Mandi's sacred lakes or Amritsar's holy temples, etc. Since Mandi is on the way to Vashisht we decided that we would see a different part of the country, and headed west to the farthest reaches of the Punjab. We met our pint-sized cabbie at about 1pm on Friday and set out on the 5 hour drive to Amritsar. More will be said about Sanjay the taxi driver, probably in the form of a ranting diatribe by Weezie in a day or two. The drive began nicely; Sanjay was eager to learn about me and willing to share about himself as well. The drive wasn't nearly as mountainous as the previous weekend's.

After about 60km Sanjay had to stop in order to replace his broken cigarette lighter/power outlet. Little did we know that this would become a common theme of the trip. Apparantly little Sanj had no idea how to get to Amritsar. Once we crossed the Himachal border into Punjab we stopped nearly every 20 minutes to ask for directions (they were almost always "Go straight").

After a hellaciously hot and dusty drive into the plains of Western India we arrived in Amritsar approximately 5 hours after leaving. The intense heat was matched by the intensity of the traffic and market vendors of the city. The comparison between Amritsar and the easy-going agrarian life of Palampur is as polar as night and day. So, as we sat for some dinner and an ice-cold Kingfisher beer we planned the next day's activities. We decided upon the Golden Temple, the "mecca" of the Sikh faith, and the infamous Jalianwala Bagh. The latter is a memorial to thousands of Indian protesters shot down in cold blood by British troops in 1919 (Google for exact dates and information).

We soon realized that our ambitious ordering habits yielded too much food for only two people, and invited Sanjay the cabbie to join us. He kindly accepted our generous offer and came to dine. The rest of our experience with little Sanjay eerily reminds me of the children's book "To Give a Mouse a Cookie" and its counterpart "To Give a Moose a Muffin". If you give Sanjay a bite of dinner, he'll want lunch the next day.

When we awoke the next morning we went downstairs for breakfast and prepared to head to the Golden Temple. As we walked out to greet Sanjay the little rascal attempted to force bus to take an autorickshaw. Naturally, he didn't know the way, and told us there was no parking. After a short argument I went into the hotel to get an honest answer and, with the issue resolved, we forced baby Sanj to drive us to the temple. We stopped a minimum of four times on the way, which was down a straight road with the towering spires of the temple staring us in the face. Once we arrived in the Old City we ditched Sanjay and began to wander around.

As we approached the temple, little boys surrounded us on all sides, trying to hawk postcards and headcoverings, which must be worn in the temple. After shaking them we were finally at the entrance to the temple. We left our shoes with the temple-sanctioned receptacle (like an ape shit crazy version of the coat check at American restarants) and made our way inside. We were astonished by the sight. The purest white marble, inlaid with semi-precious stones, created an other-worldly fortress surrounding a lake. In the center of the lake lies the epicenter od Sikhism, the small Golden Temple itself. Walking to the edge of the water, we bathed our feet in the sacred, emerald green water beside Sikh pilgrims (they go for the full body rinse). Within 30 seconds we had our first request to take a 'snap'. This would be a reoccurring theme. We lined up for a picture and then began our clockwise journey, around the pond, to the line for the temple. On the way we were stopped a minimum of five times for 'snaps'.

Now, we had been asked for pictures before, but this was something new. Seemingly everyone we saw wanted to take a picture. We realized later that, especially in spots popular for domestic tourism, people like to do this. They take pictures with 'their new American friends' and show them off to friends and family at home. They supposedly treat this experience as a 'feather in the cap' so to speak. Little do they know that their celebrity friend is a 22 year-old kid with no job. As of the time of this posting I have taken pictures with the likes of grannies and babies alike. I have even held small children in my arms at the request of their parents.

The entrance to the line for the Temple (yes, the entrance for the line) was exquisite. Ornately designed brass (polished to a high sheen, so as to appear golden) was topped off with a crystal chandelier and the 'standard' white marble and gem stone on the walls. We waited for about 40 minutes with hundreds of other pilgrims and tourists for an opportunity to enter the most holy shrine. The process is essentially two palace guards (men who wear saffron-colored turbans and wield peculiar looking knives) with a 'limbo' stick who let in about 60 people at a time. They raise the bar, withstand the rush, and abruptly slam the bar down until the next interval of tourists. Weezie and I, luckily, were the last ones through in our particular wave.

As we stood in the line we heard the faint sound of four gurus, playing traditional Sikh and Punjabi instruments, singing verses of the holy Sikh book, the Guru Granth Sahib. When we entered the temple we saw the most clean and ornate temple, beautiful in every way imaginable. In the middle was the supreme Guru, reading from the holy book and performing ritual. To the side were the four gurus singing the verses of the Granth Sahib. Crammed into every corner were pilgrims of the Sikh faith, reading along as the holy men recited their verses.

We passed through the first story and made our way to the upper floors. The second floor was, again, packed with people following the prayer, as well as another guru following along in the original Guru Granth Sahib. Our resident Sikh, Vicky, told me afterward that this is the original holy book, of which one copy exists. This was, in itself, a sight to be seen. The book is massive, with tremendously long pages (not top-to-bottom, but spine-to-fore edge) and is kept and prayed to only in the Golden Temple. After a short stay, in which no pictures were allowed (sorry) we were out and on our way back to the dull marble fortress surrounding the temple. On the way out we stopped to visit the Sikh/Punjab museum and I bought a replica Sikh knife.

A short walk away from the Golden Temple is the memorial sight of the infamous Jallianwala Bagh massacre of 1919. The site was witness to a peaceful protest of Indian nationalists during April of that year when it was fired upon by Reginal Dyer's men. There were said to be anywhere from 350-1200 casualties (British and Indian figures, respectively) of the incident. As the story goes, men, women, and children all ran to the Bagh's well and jumped inside to avoid further rifle fire. Now the site is popular for Indian and foreign tourists alike, and is home to a beautiful memorial, etc. You can still see some of the bullet holes, left in the brick walls, which were fired by Dyer's men.

After a short visit we were ready to head back to the hotel. We excaped the 120+ degree heat and had a short nap before our intense Pakistan border experience. We re-met Sanjay at 4:15 and made our way to the Wagah border. Once we got close (within 5km) traffic had slowed to a standstill. In the intense heat this was no real fun. After 45 minutes of waiting we were finally able to park our car and try to head to the border. The experience reminds me of seeing cattler herded into a small pen. A literal mob scene ensued. Weezie thought that she would be cunning and squeezed beyond me in the crowd. Within 5 seconds she was being whisked away with the over-eager Indian crowd, erstwhile screaming and crying as if her life depended on it. Shocked, I bolted across the seats of two rickshaws in an attempt to reach her. I wasn't able to get to her before we were inside the customs area.

Not to worry, some Indian man was just looking for a little fun. After scooping her up in his arms he let her go right after we got inside, as he was sprinting for a good seat in the bleachers. After a few minutes of regrouping and wiping the tears away we were ready for the ceremony. We met another American in the process of all this, a nice guy from Denver who has been travelling the world for just over a year. We were ushered to the special VIP section of the stands and awaited the ceremony (about which we had heard a great deal).

The Indian side of the stands were packed with what I suspected to be anywhere from 2,000-4,000 'fans'. The scene was like a high school pep rally, as the head cheerleader, microphone in hand,

Weekend in Vashisht

I realize that this post is being written more than a week late, but our internet connection has proved to be suspect, at best. Since I last wrote we have completed a week of school, two weekend trips, and two more days of school. I will begin with our first weekend to Vashisht. Posts regarding school and our weekend in Amritsar are to come.

We began our weekend at about 2:30 on Friday afternoon. We ate lunch at the home base and waited for our taxi driver to come pick us up. In traditional Indian fashion he was running quite late. Our program directors told us of Manali, a traditional Indian tourist spot in the mountains. The city of Manali, which is surrounded by 'suburbs' of Old Manali and Vashisht, is a well-known domestic honeymoon spot, as well as a family vacation hotspot. We were told that a taxi ride would take about 5 hours. As we set off under the blazing hot sun this is what we were expecting. After about 15m I realized that our expctations would be shattered into a million little pieces by the time we reached Manali (if not long before). While the route to Manali is only about 200km it took us just under eight hours.

The journey out of the Kangra Valley is characterized by sharp elevation and direction changes, large buses, and a healthy population of cows and goats. To add to the hastle of passing buses on mountain roads, these roads are usually built with a comfortable 1.5 lanes. This means that one bus and one motorcycle can occupy the same slip of rocky pavement at the same time, but there is no hope for a bus and a car. Two cars (if they are the luxury go-karts which we ride around) may possibly fit, but only in a wide spot on the road. Two buses have no shot in hell. We found this out primarily around the city of Kullu, where buses play 'chicken' in the crowded bazaars, only to realize that one has to back up and let the other through. This is hard when bumper-to-bumper traffic has accumulated for about a half of a kilometer in either direction. In Kullu and the bottom of Manali we sat stagnant for nearly 20 minutes each time; after a 6 hour ride it was absolte torture.

When we finally arrived in Manali it was dark, but the city was alive and well. Everyone in the car (four volunteers plus driver) was ready to turn around and head back, when we realized that this was not our final destination. As we crept through the busy main street we eventually made it up to higher ground, following a river upstream, until we reached the quiet little town of Vashisht. We got out of the car, had a much needed stretch, and found our hotel rooms to be clean and comfortable. Each room had a running shower with hot water and a television, both real luxuries in Indian life. We then set out for dinner. We strolled up the hill, past the temples and natural hot springs, to a second-floor restaurant called Rainbow Cafe. There we proceeded to stuff ourselves with butter naan, chicken momos, and various other Tibetan/Indian cuisine (as well as some much-needed beers, lukewarm of course).

We stayed there until all of the candles had burned out and the tired owners kicked us out. We weren't about to turn it in on our first night of real freedom, so we walked back down the hill in search of a place to listen to music and perhaps enjoy a few more drinks. Enter, Blue Heaven Cafe.

From the outside this place looks like a run-down brothel, with dim lighting permeating dusty second floor windows. The New York City "fire escape style" stairs are adorned with a red banner which reads "Pictorious View on Rooftop", while the windows are painted with phrases like "Play Cards Here" and "Delicious Breakfast". We nearly passed the place by, but decided to take a closer look because it was the only place which showed signs of life at such a late hour. If we had done this it would have been the worst decision of the weekend, if not the entire trip. As we clanked up the rickety stairs a friendly Tibetan man came out to greet us. We began to apologize for bothering him, but he merely stood aside and said "Please come in, my friends!" There was no way that we could resist. We would later come to know this kind man as Mohinder, the owner of the building and restaurant on the first floor.

As we entered the dimly lit room we saw three other men. The man closest to the door was the waiter/lackey for Mohinder's restaurant and lounge. In the corner was a peculiar looking man with a bindi (dot) between his eyes. We found that he was a Spaniard, from Majorca, who only responds to the name "Ohm". The next day we realized that his bindi was actually a small picture of the Hindi symbol "Ohm" (the same one used in meditation practices), hence the name. The third man was a young Kashmiri from Leh, a small city/town at the top of the Tibetan plateau. We found out that he was a tour guide heading for Delhi. We also found out that he was fairly drunk from all the Himachali whiskey that he had been drinking, so we saw him off to bed shortly after meeting him. Mohinder called for a bottle of wine to be brought so that his new "family" could better enjoy their time. It turned out to be a nice apple wine that was produced a few months before our arrival; Manali's finest. After sharing stories, asking questions about everyone adn their stories, as well as finding out some neat insider knowledge about Vashisht and Manali we finally called it a night. We promised to return to Mohinder's Blue Heaven for beakfast the next day, so that he could show us all the best places to visit from the comfort of his "pictorious"rooftop.

On Saturday I woke up earlier than the others and went out on the town. I had no real goals other than to see the market during the daytime, but I ended up finding a store which sold traditional Himachali hats. I was able to purchase a woolen vest and hat for Rs 300 ($6 US). I proceeded to show my buddies the new purchases; they couldn't stop laughing at how I looked. A picture is in the corresponding web album. By this time the others were ready to go walk around so we hit the streets. We started by eating breakfast on the rooftop of Blue Heaven, where we said hello to our friends from the night before and met some new ones. The most notable new friend was an old man; a tailor named Dalat, who goes by the alias "Bakubaya". I thought that this was his real name, but I was informed that it was more of a running joke. Besides this being the most common phrase to come out of his mouth, it is also his outlook on life. It is common to hear him throughout the day uttering "Life is life, bakubaya."

We wandered the market of Vashisht and visited the hot springs and various temples of the village. These were especially neat because they are Hindu, but have a distinct Himalayan feel to them. We met some Indian honeymooners who were eager to take "snaps" with us while showing 'thumbs up' and the like. When we had had enough we reconvened at Blue Heaven for afternoon tea. It was at this point that I pulled out my new hat. Everyone complimented the hat, and then if I had bought it from our friendly tailor friend. When I explained that I didn't know that he was also a hat maker I was harangued by everyone in the lounge. After the initial shock I was told that Bakubaya makes a special brand of hat - apparantly he sews magic into every hat that he makes. That was it, I had to have one.

I immediately jumped out the door of the lounge and into the door of his shop (literally beside each other, which explains why he spends so much time there) and asked if he could make me a hat. He showed me a wide variety of hats which had already been made, but they seemed too small. He measured my head and, in his mother tongue, made some remark about how large my head was compared to the Indian standard. He found the largest stump (his hat forming tool) that he had in the shop and started to see what he could do. He found one of the larger hats and stretched it across the stump, then began his ritual.

He soaked the woolen hat in water and let it sit for a few minutes while he lit a cigarette and helped the next customer. As an aside, this man is a master of his craft. He proceeded to make a vest for the man beside me. It went from raw wool to a finely made vest in less than 10 minutes. After my hat had soaked for a time he picked it up (still on the stump), observed it all around, and nodded his head once, as if to reasure himself that it was worthy of his ritual. He took a homemade dowel with cloth on top, dropped it in the water bucket, and began to christen the cap. He slapped the dowel onto the center of the cap (in the center of the forehead). He then gave three taps on either temple and swiped the dowel across the brim. After this he snipped the thread which held the corners of the front 'pocket' to the hat and began ironing.

There is a wives tale that follows these caps. All the hats are sewn on the corners of the bill, which doubles as a large, flat pocket, and upon purchase the threads are snipped so that the pocket flips out on the side, creating 'wings'. These wings are said to ward off evil spirits. When an evil spirit approaches you from behind and tries to creep into your mind it will be caught by one wing and fly out the back of the other wing, similar to a putt that has just lipped out of the cup.

After Bakubaya was done he gave the hat another once-over he smiled to himself, took it off the stump, and proclaimed "Bakubaya!" He tossed the hat to me and it was mine. I asked the old man what type of 'magic' he kept in his own hat. He looked up, as if to think about what he might have up there, took the hat off, and looked inside the front. He smiled at me as he pulled out a needle and some thread, a business card, and some loose matches. I ordered the two of us some tea and we headed into the lounge to hang out until dinner.

The girls headed out for massages and I went to the room for a shower, then we headed back to our home away from home. Dinner was good and we enjoyed spending time with our new friends. Two of them were Serbian refugees from Toronto, who had just returned from Leh (an adventure destination at the peak of the Tibetan plateau). The rest were our buddies from the night before, plus Bakubaya and some elderly Indian honey whom he was trying to reel in for the evening. Festivities abounded and we eventually turned it at about 12.

Sunday morning brought an itch to explore the surrounding areas of Vashisht. We had bee told about a nice waterfall just on the outskirts of town, so we went to go find it. I was with two girls who claimed to be troopers.

We hiked out of town and came to a river crossing. Not knowing which way to go we began to make our way up to the source of the stream, which we thought was at the top of the enormous valley. The beginning wasn't so bad, but the morning sun eventually beat down on us as we continued to reach higher elevation. Weezie was struggling, but our friend Lily Corvo was keeping up. We finally got into the upper reaches of the valley and, both wearing flip-flops, the girls decided that they had seen enough. Asking me to scout ahead they took a seat and began to chat about God knows what. I found two or three small waterfalls, all about 20-30 feet, and retured with the news. They deemed that it wasn't enough for them to move, so they began to hike down the valley.

When we got to the bottom, and the stream, I decided to take the more prominent trail across the creek to a small restaurant. They were ready for a shower and "time to relax" before we left Vashisht at noon. The time was 10:30. I crossed the stream and made my way to the small shack of a diner. When I got there I asked a small Himalayan man where the waterfall was and he pointed directly down the path. He said it was no more than 5 minutes away. I took the nice hike through a pine forest and made my way up to the sound of a much larger waterfall. When I reached the floor of the next valley I was greeted by two small stone huts (Hindu shrines) and a waterfall measuring at least 500 feet, but most likely taller. It was more than I expeccted to see, so I hiked halfway up, found a nice rock, and sat with the cool air from the falls rushing by me. I have decided that, while my time here is short, I will return to Vashisht so that I can hike further up the falls and swim in the 'sacred' pools at its base (which is a fair way farther up the valley). After about 15 minutes of enjoyig the scene I set off for the hotel, so that I could pack and shower.

The rest of the story is pretty uneventful. Though we passed a large processional of drums, horns, and Himachali hats it was not much in comparison to the rest of our weekend. The drive back was not as long as the drive there, and when we returned we were full of stories for everyone. We missed Vashisht already. We missed our new friends and how time seemed to stand still there (everyone was surprised to know that it was actually Sunday when we left). I realized that if heaven is anything like this place then I am going to have to be very good. For this weekend we had no worries, but we knew that the trials and tribulations of school awaited the next day. That is how it goes I guess. Life is life, Bakubaya.

Pictures

I have finally taken the time to sit down and upload pictures from the trip. They are in seven albums, which can be found at http://picasaweb.google.com/wduckett.

More updates are to come, but for now I am going to take a little break. Check again tomorrow for the story of Vashisht, as well as the happenings of this week.

Excursion to Palampur Tea Estate

I neglected to mention in the last post that Weezie has a new nickname, given by the nice Nepalese folks at 'Carpe Diem' in McLeod Ganj.  To begin, no one knows how to say "Weezie" here, yet they try anyway.  Her name usually comes out as "Beezie", "Peejie", or something along those general lines.  Every Indian, regardless of age, gender, or religion also loves to imitate the pitch and tone of Weezie's voice.  All of these points culminate into the glorious new name of my travel buddy - Moojie, pronounced Moo (like a cow)-Jee (as in the seventh letter in the English alphabet).

As we were paying our tab for dinner last Wednesday, Weezie thinks it a good idea to ask the jolly little waiter if he remembers her name.  He then goes into a few guesses as to what it actually is, and when she corrects him he says "Ahhhh, Moojie!".  He does all of this with a particularly sinister grin and then laughs to himself.  After a few seconds he leans over and half-whispers to us "Moojie mean bad word in Nepalese... It mean this (as he gestures to the seat of his pants)." We realize that this joyful young man has just referred to Weezie as a particular part of his rear end (or the whole thing; we're still not sure), and before we know it he is strolling away giggling.  I have no idea how I failed to mention this before now, but I simply could not let it stay in India with me.  I know that Weezie goes by a myriad of nicknames, but from here on out the prominent one should be 'Moojie'.  She thinks that it is funny by now and hopes that it will maybe replace 'Squishy'.

Now that the tale of Moojie has been explained, this trip to the Palampur Tea estate may bore you.  Stay with me; it was actually pretty neat, and the pictures of our tour guide are comical.  To begin we drove from Green Acre (our home base) to near where most of our schools are.  We found out that one of the doctors who lectured us last week is actually the son of the owner of this particular estate, which spans roughly 100 acres (40 hectares).  As we approached the estate we begin to recognize the smell of a freshly paved road, and soon are told that we have to get out and walk because the small gravel road to the estate is currently being 'metalled', or steam rolled.  We all got out of the cars amidst 50 gallon barrels, from which plumes of tar smoke were rolling out.  The walk was quite sticky, but when we cleared the smoke we found ourselves surrounded by embankments with millions of tea plants on either side.  After another 5-10 minutes of walking down the path (still non-metalled at this point) we reached the main processing barn for tea and were greeted by a rotund and amiable man with a large white mustache.  He smiled at us and said "Shall we walk?"

We began by cutting down a path to the bottom of a ravine, where he stopped and began his lecture on the art of growing tea.  We were told that the weather here has been entirely too hot and dry to produce the type of lush new leaves that are required of the best tea.  He explained that every one of the bushes on his plantation, if properly pruned and maintained, will yield suitable tea leaves for over 150 years.  The current crop is a result of seeds that were sown during the British occupation and colonization of India in the 19th and early 20th centuries.  Since then the plants have been hand-weeded and hand-pruned by the staff of 100, who live on the premises.  Their daily wage is determined, very simply, by the quantity of tea which they pick and harvest.  In the hot summer months before the monsoon they surely do not make much.

As we climbed the hill we began to see some of the quarters of the farmhands.  Children were playing and mothers were washing the family's clothing.  The living quarters were modest, by Indian standards, and consisted of a one room common area and an upstairs common bedroom.  I cannot say for sure, but I am almost positive that there is no electricity, only a cold water pump for four households to share.  Before anyone cries out in the name of human rights violations consider two things.  First, there are millions upon millions of Indians who live in worse conditions than this and go to bed hungry nearly every night.  Comparatively these people live a rather comfortable lifestyle.  Second, if anyone is trying to change any part of Indian culture then more power to them.  There are institutions and social structures here that long predate the discovery of the 'New World' in which we live.  No one person (not even Mahatma Gandhi) can change such establishments, they can only attempt to bring light to injustices which result from such things.  Usually any type of progressive idea falls upon deaf ears here.

Beside the meager houses there were orchards of small trees.  We asked what these were and the old man replies "Kivis".  Though they do not bear fruit yet, the estate cultivates kiwi for sale in the market of Palampur.  Beyond tea and kiwi, there are also jacaranda, lemon, mango and lychee trees.  As we began to circle the plantation we heard what sounded like a man practicing his drum cadences on a large tin box.  When we asked what this was the old man replied "They are scaring away the parrots!"  Apparently he employs two to three farmhands each day to sit on a ridge and beat on metal boxes so that parrots don't destroy his corp of lychee fruit.  We all laughed when he snuck up behind one of the 'drummers' and scared him to death.

When we had made our rounds and arrived back at the processing barn we were invited inside to see how black tea is made.  To begin, he asked us how many types of tea there were.  After some brilliant answers of "Golden Tea", "Diamond Tea", and "White Tea" he laughed and explained that the only types of tea are the green and the black varieties.  The two are simply processed in a number of different ways.  We also learned that Lipton Green Tea is not actually green tea at all, just black tea with the name of "Green".  

We walked up to the second floor where the tea is dehumidified.  At the time of picking, tea leaves contain about 70% water, and after the first process is finished they contain about 5% water.  After this the leaves are pushed down a large chute to the first floor, where they are sifted and broken down into smaller particles.  There is a machine, which looks like a conveyor belt with different gauges of screen at each point, that sifts dry tea leaves into anything from pure powder to half-leaves.  The finest powder and leaves are packaged for sale inside tea bags.  The courser tea is packaged into different lots, all sold in either Delhi, Mumbai, or Calcutta to the highest bidder in an open market.  The process described above is that for black tea (or chai masala).

For green tea the process is nearly the same; there is just one extra step in the process.  With green tea the fresh leaves are roasted for about 5-10 minutes prior to the aforementioned drying process.   This lessens the taste and bitterness of the tea, while bringing all of the natural antioxidants of the tea leaf out.  Beyond this there is no difference between the two; they are even picked from the same plants.  The old man then let us see some of the auction books which are sent to him on a bimonthly basis.  Every plantation in India sends their tea to be bid upon (bids are based on a small sample of each plantation's tea) under various names.  The man showed us what some samples might look like and then asked us if we had any questions.  As we had just learned more information about tea than we knew existed, we declined any questions and thanked the nice man for the tour of the grounds.  We wished each other well and went on our way, back across the fresh tar and lychee trees, back to the cars.

All in all this wasn't the most exciting day, but it might have been one of the most informational.  A large majority of the tea consumed by the entire world is grown within 50 miles of this place.  The Kangra Valley is world-renowned for growing and producing the finest tea leaves in the world, and the log books of auctions gave us an idea of just how much tea is sold on a bimonthly basis.  It is amazing what the actual mark-up on tea bought in America ends up being.  Needless to say we learned a lot and got another insight into the distinct culture that is present here.  More to come from the weekend in Manali/Vashisht.

Week Two: School Happenings, Norbulingka, and McLeod Ganj

Excuse the lapse in time from the last post.  I began this post last week, but the power has not been on for more than an hour at a time since last Wednesday.  The weekend quest to Vashisht was made sans-computer as well, so the next three posts will be a catch-up.

This week (last week by now) has been pretty tame by Indian standards, which is why I have neglected to post a blog until now.  Yesterday was a different story, however, as we continued our exploration of Tibetan culture, art, and society with trips to the Norbulingka Institute as well as an evening excursion to McLeod Ganj (just up the mountain, but a 45 minute taxi from Norbulingka and lower Dharamsala).

A post wouldn't be complete without a little update on our school.  The kids are doing well, and we have settled in a bit as teachers.  Weezie has gravitated toward the Grade 3-4 class and I usually split time between the Grade 5 class and the Grade 6 class.  We are still running into trouble with the kids not actually "knowing" anything and simply memorizing anything that they need in order to 'get by'.  I have found through my work with percentages that the Grade 5 students may not have any idea what a fraction actually is.  To them numbers are just a memorized system of numbers; times tables are the same.  They have never been made to know how numbers work in unison with each other.  They cannot understand that 1/4 is the equivalent of 2/8; they just see the numbers as different and no nothing of the concepts which they are learning.  I have had a semi-breakthrough in realizing that much of a child's potential to learn lies in the abilities of the teacher.  More importantly, the ability of students to learn lies in the ability of the teacher to explain (many times through simplification) what they know.  This becomes increasingly difficult with the language barrier and the universal tendency, inherent in all 10-12 year olds, to get bored in 5 minutes and stare at the wall.  Will all of this said, we continue to find joy in the small things which we are able to get through to the kids.  The smile and 'lightbulb' look that comes with the realization of a new bit of information brings a tremendous sense of self-worth and accomplishment to the teacher.

On Wednesday we (the CCS group) took an excursion to the base of Dharamsala to visit the Nurbulingka Institute.  This is, more or less, the epicenter for the preservation of Tibetan art, culture, and history.  Set in an idyllic sanctuary of lush gardens and meandering streams, the pastel reds, yellows, blues and greens of the buildings draw your eye.  The serenity of the atmosphere is compounded by the young Tibetan artists peacefully painting small shrines throughout the grounds.  The compound is host to a beautiful guest house (with well-equipped rooms going for Rs 1500, or about $30 per night), a central temple, dormitories for all artists and staff, the workshops of all the artists, a small gift shop and an art gallery.  

The name 'Norbulingka' means 'Jewel Garden' and was derived from the summer residence of His Holiness the Dalai Lama.  With occupied Tibet undergoing the tribulations of life under communist China's rule, the institute has taken the initiative to preserve the roots of the Tibetan culture.  The institute is dedicated to handing down, and restoring, the traditional standards by providing training, education, and employment for Tibetan refugees.  It seeks to provide a safe haven for Tibetan families, while raising awareness of Tibetan values and their expression, through art and literature.

Tibetan masters provide guidance to young artists in the disciplines of thangka painting and embroidery.  A picture of such painting will be posted, but one cannot fully appreciate the ornate decoration and painstaking process of such works until they are experienced first-hand.  An artist told me that masterfully-made paintings can take anywhere from 2 months to 2 years to complete fully (one man at one canvas for 6-8 hours per day).  In my mind this is relatively astounding.  The other forms of art include thangka applique (add French accent on the 'e'), sculpture, and woodcarving.  The skill and detail expressed in each piece of art is truly remarkable.  The artists of sculpture hand-chisel every detail of pieces as large as 6 feet tall and as small as 3 inches tall.  There are no casts to be filled with molten brass or copper, just very very small chisels and a steady hand.  Likewise with the woodcarvers, who work without the convenience of power saws and such.  To them, these machines are too clunky and do not create any detail.  Each splinter of wood is painstakingly (literally, I saw three guys wince in pain in a matter of one minute) chipped away until a masterpiece is constructed.  It is a wonder that such beautiful things can be made by such skilled hands, and I hope that everyone can experience seeing this at least once in their life.  If you cannot make the trip to Northern India then see the Norbulingka Institute online, at http://www.norbulingka.org/ .

After the short trip to Norbulingka a small group of us decided to take the afternoon off in McLeod Ganj, which is the upper market area of Dharamsala.  Set on the top of the mountain, McLeod is a busy (and dirty) backpacker's dream with outdoor markets galore.  The town is comprised of two main streets, which run at a parallel and converge into the main square at the top.  At this point you can take one of three roads, either up the mountain or west, to another sleepy little mountain town.  Most of the market vendors peddle handmade Tibetan goods, such as toboggans (known as 'winter hats' to any Yanks reading the blog), mittens, shoes, yak sweaters, and various tidbits and handicrafts such as fake jewelry, etc.  We stopped to have tea on a rooftop and ran into three young Tibetan gentlemen who were enjoying the mountaintop view as well.  We introduced ourselves and the larger group began asking questions about home, the town, and the community of Tibetans who live there.  It was very nice to have such hospitable guests, and after our tea we shook hands and parted ways.  From here we needed a place to eat and went to the much-recommended 'Carpe Diem' for a meal.  The friendly Tibetan owners invited us up to the rooftop seating area (a covered porch with small tables and seating for about 15 hippies, sitting Indian-style on cushions on the floor/roof) where we found the menu intimidating.  They make everything from traditional Indian tandoori (my favorite, and my pick at this particular place) to Chinese fried rice, as well as pizza and burgers (veggie or chicken, of course).  We enjoyed the view, the company, and our Kingfisher Lager to the utmost extent possible.  At about 8pm it was time to catch a taxi home to Palampur.

This was a wonderful day, as you may be able to tell through the length of the post.  I believe that in McLeod Ganj we have found an afternoon respite from excitable children and long school weeks.  The hourlong trip is just short enough to allow for a full day after lunch, and the hustle-and-bustle of the mountaintop town and market provide a different kind of energy than the agricultural valley town of Palampur.  We hope to visit Norbulingka again, especially for hand-made gifts for our friends and family.  

The next post will be comprised of our nice trip to a Himachal tea estate, followed by our incredible trip to Vashisht for the weekend. 

Guest Post by Weezie T.

Namaste from Palampur!  I write to you on one of the prettiest nights that we've had here so far, as I am gazing out at the Himalayas (sorry Daddy, I just HAD to rub it in one more time), digesting yet another yummy dinner (American tonight- veggie burgers and "finger fries"!), listening to the Cricket tournament and the friendly screams of the staff in the background.  I've had a lot of time to process my thoughts/feelings from the past week in my own personal journal, but this whole blog thing is new to me, so here we go...

I may not have acquired the best of reputations around here in the first week, but boy, did I have a good time!  I quickly became known as the "smelly" one in the group since I didn't shower for the first 4 or 5 days (fine, maybe it was 6...).  That I could deal with, but when it turned into the "sweaty" and "skanky" (not what you think, explanation to follow) one too, I started to realize that there were a few things I needed to adjust in my routine here.  So, I took the plunge and have enjoyed my fair share of "bucket showers" on  a semi-regular basis.  I realized that wearing a backpack over a thin, white shirt in the market in the mid-day heat (usually about 110 degrees) shows more back-sweat than one ever wants to see.  And, lastly, that no matter how hot it is, always wear long pants when leaving the confines of our home base.  I guess I didn't realize just how "sexy" ankles were until Will finally pointed out that every person in the market, both male and female, was staring at me in shock (and disgust) that I could possibly go out in public revealing so much (mind you, I was wearing a 3/4 length sleeved shirt, baggy pants and sneakers- hardly sexy)!  Needless to say, I haven't made any of these mistakes again, and I think I'm finally beginning to fit in here (well, kind of...)

Since Will has done such a thorough job of keeping you informed of all of our daily activities, I will keep this brief and summarize my favorite moments/memories/experiences so far.

1. Walking up the stairs on our first day of school and witnessing the daily morning Assembly. I'll never forget the sound of that 6th grader's voice screaming "Attention!  Stand at ease!" to the rest of the children who were standing in perfect military formation, besides the handful of 3 year olds who had absolutely no idea what was going on, were staring blankly at us and then began to sob uncontrollably.  The loud bang of the drum to signal the next portion of the assembly did not help these poor little ones, but Will and I certainly got a kick out of it, especially when the 6th grader in charge rattled out the headlines from the newspaper: "Serena Williams storms the quarterfinals of the French Open" and "Air France flight still missing." Not exactly what I expected these children's education in a small rural village to consist of.

2. The entertainment that our 5'1" driver, Pinku, provides me with on a daily basis.  For those of you who have seen the TV show "Chelsea Lately", he is remarkably similar to Chuy!  He is he oldest CCS staff member who drives the extremely large red van around, which he takes great pride in as he dusts it off every morning, even though I'm still baffled by how he is able to reach the pedal.  Will and I have decided that this is the reason why his flip-flops are about 3 sizes too big for him, to give him those few extra inches.  Riding with Pinku is always an adventure!  Not only does he play the best Punjabi music, but his commentary and reactions to the crazy things that happen on the roads here are priceless.  He never seems to be bothered by the herds of cows in the middle of the road or people, for that matter, as he just holds down the horn for however long he wants.  He started giggling in a sort of malicious tone the other day as he approached an old, seeminlgy deaf man on the side of the road, and I had to remind him that "hitting people is not funny, Pinku".  Besides his road rage, he is one of the sweetest people I have met here, and is always up for a card game, cricket or kicking the "football" around.  I'd feel bad about laughing at him so much if it weren't for the fact that he is the butt of most jokes made around here.  Pictures to come...

3. Driving up into the hills in the pouring down rain (our 1st glimpse of monsoon season) to visit a Buddhist monastery.  Not only were we able to roam around the monks' dormitories and meet some of the "gurus" who answered any questions that we had, but we were allowed into the main temple and a shrine of the mummified remains of one of the original Master's Disciples at the very top of a hill.  The view was fantastic, despite the rain, and I still get the chills thinking about the fact that I was a foot away from a dead body. 

4.  The "function" that Will and I were invited to by the teachers at our school.  What we thought was going to be a family member's wedding turned out to be a memorial service for the 4th anniversary of the death of the Principal's husband.  We didn't realize this until we arrived at the Principal's house, so we just had to play it cool, pretend like we knew what was going on and go along for the ride.  We had a ridiculously good meal (I was introduced to my new favorite dish, sweet rice), and were immediately welcomed and treated as the host's "daughter" and "son".  Yet another example of the incredibly generous and kind nature of the people that live here.

5. The scenery.  We are completely surrounded by the Himalayas.  For as large as the mountains are, they surprisingly disappear in any picture that is taken...it is impossible to capture the essence of their beauty, but I promise, they really are here!  Not a moment goes by where I am not in complete awe of where I am.  The commute to our school (about 20 minutes) just keeps getting better and better each day, as I find a new house that I want to move into, a new spot by a stream where I want to read my book or a different angle of the highest mountaintop.  Even the dirtiest and most impoverished areas of town are colored by the beautiful people that live here.

I could go on and on but, as promised, I will keep this brief.  Will just informed me that I will be allowed one guest post per week, so I guess you'll be hearing from me again soon.  Until then...

Thoughts from Week One

What an intersting week this has been... I had no idea what to expect from my initial experience in India, but I can say with certainty that is has been fantastic. Friday and Saturday went off without any major obstacles. Teaching is getting more manageable, and the hours don't seem to pass so slowly. Weezie and I are gradually thinking about exciting lesson plans instead of strictly teaching out of the textbooks, and everyone else seems to be acclimating well to the new environment.

I have learned a few things about education here in India. Naturally, some are good and some are bad. The children here are especially sharp; they can do mental math in a heart beat and enjoy learning new things. This makes coming to school and teaching a real treat. I have noticed, however, that education here is centered around results and not any sort of process. When doing math of any kind the children can give you the answer quickly, but when asked how they arrived at such an answer they are completely spellbound. Things like English and science are simply memorized and not truly learned. I think this comes from the system of discipline here, which involves a meter stick and small knuckles. The kids are much more interested in knowing the correct answer and not being reprimanded than applying a process and missing a small step along the way. Resultingly they are very well-behaved and attentive, but not really learning anything. I have come to realize that this is nothing that I will be able to change in eight short weeks, but something which I feel should be changed eventually.

I have also noticed that the teachers here are more than willing to let me take charge of absolutely everything, while they sit in the principal's office and chat. This is a negative of many levels (translation help, etc.) but my main worry is that nothing that I do (whether good or bad) will be learned by them and used later. If the teachers are not present during the school day then when I leave they will just revert to the same practices and principles which they used before I came. This is extremely frustrating, and makes me feel that my hard work may be completely in vain. This, again, stems from the existing system of Indian education. We have been told that it is illegal to fail any child until the ninth grade, meaning that teachers are never held accountable for what children learn up to that point in a child's education. They simply show up, collect a paycheck, test the kids once every three months, and pass them along to the next grade. Many of the volunteers here have found that this leads to an enormous discrepancy in the ability levels of chilren within the same grade. Beyond these things everything is just gravy!

As I briefly mentioned before we attended school on Saturday, as we missed Monday due to travel. The children attend school every Saturday, then have one day off on Sunday. On Sunday we all slept in a bit more than usual and left the home base around 10:30 to have a picnic nearby. The site was only about a 5 minute drive away, down some rock stairs, and settled in a pine forest which borders a large field. The partition of the two settings is a serene little stream of clear mountain water. As we sat in the shade of the pines we could see local boys playing a game of cricket in the field. After we ate we went to watch them. The game was quite intense as we found out that they were playing for Rs 45 (just less than $1 US) and lasted almost until we left. When we returned home most people went in to sleep off their lunch of rice, chicken, and potato chips.

Another observation that I have made is the Indian obsession for cricket. While hockey is considered India's national sport, no child in the country wants to be anything other than a world-class cricketer. Part of this obsession is due to the fact that the Twenty20 World Cup is currently being held in England. T20, as it is called, is the most exciting rendition of the game, with matches lasting only about 2.5 hours. The other versions call for either 8 hour or 5 day matches (probably the reason why we Americans, with such small attention spans, never watch the game). We have been up late at night every night to watch teams from around the globe (all of them former British colonies) attempt to play their way into the final stages of the tournament. India won its first match and plays again tonight.

All in all I could not have imagined a better first week. There were obviously setbacks and uncomfortable moments, but the positives far outweighed any negatives that were present. The people here are kind, the living is easy, and the scenery isn't too shabby either. Nothing that requires noting happened today (Monday) and school promises to be more routine from here on in. I will continue to post with as much regularity as I see fit, but do not fret if a day or two go by without a new post. In the meantime I will add some pictures of Dhauladhar School (which Weezie and I have been accumulating over the past week), as well as pictures of the staff, other volunteers, and perhaps the home base and surrounding areas. I will also try to add captions to the pictures and clean them up a bit, but I am having some trouble with the limited formatting options available through Blogger.com. If anyone has requests or questions please feel free to email me and let me know. Namaste.

Cross-Cultural Experiences

Let me preface this post by saying that today was, by far, the most interesting and enriching day that I have had thusfar. Wait until there is ample time to read this.

I suppose I will start with my school day, which ended early for reasons which will be discussed later. We began the day with a worksheet on the uses of "in, about, beside, above, etc." and this went over relatively well due to the fact that we had practiced two days ago. After some English practice (consisting of my reading a sentence and the children repeating it aloud) we moved on to math. The reason for the switch was that the kids eventually stopped looking at their books and were just looking at me and emulating the sounds which I made. The highlight of the day was that I was allowed to teach some science and English to the 6th grade class.

This class is especially bright and attentive. I am almost positive that this is due to the fact that all but one of the students are girls. I have found that girls are much more willing to learn in a classroom setting, whereas boys tend to make faces, slap each other in the face, and pull the girls' pigtails (which all girls wear). We learned about cellular respiration, both aerobic and anaerobic. For what seems like a difficult subject they caught on quickly. They asked questions like "Why do we need ?" and some others. I explained the body in terms of an automobile, and how a car needs petrol (gas) just as our bodies need food. The faster the car goes, or the more we exercise, the more energy we expend. The released energy come out in the form of exhaust from an auto, and in sweat and heat from our bodies. This was the most accomplished moment of my young teaching career. Even as I sit here writing I am smiling at how well they received such a difficult concept. Around 11:45 the school day ended, and this is when things got interesting.

We knew that we were going to leave early, but with the understanding that we were to attend a Hindu wedding of one of the teachers' sister. We could not have been more wrong. As time went by "wedding" became "ceremony" and finally "function". So we hopped into the car and drove toward home, only to stop half way at a house. We soon came to find out that we were attending a Hindu death ceremony, for the husband of the principal of the school. I was told that he died four years ago from cancer, and that this was the annual rememberance ceremony. As we walked up to the house we saw a large number of people, both old and young, sitting out of the porch of a large house, with some visiting inside the house. We walked up and greeted everyone with the traditional "Namastar" or "Good morning". For the elderly men and women you greet with "Namastar Ji", which is a Hindi term of endearment. We were prepared to visit for a few minutes and leave, but we ended up being invited for lunch!

As we approached another side porch we were asked to remove our shoes and sit in one of two lines, one for men and one for women. Each person sits with legs crossed, beside one of their own gender and facing one of the opposite gender. A large 'plate' of leaves stitched together with small sticks was placed in front of me, followed by men serving a large portion of rice and seven smaller portions of traditional 'fixins' which are mixed with the rice and ingested with the fingers. The men beside me took great pleasure in the fact that I ate with my left hand (the one which most Indians reserve for cleansing themselves post-restroom) and word quickly spread down the line. Thankfully I am used to the food at this point, and the meal ended up being fantastic. After the meal we were greeted by the principal and her mother, who gave Weezie and I huge hugs. She then (in Hindi) said "You are now my son, and you are now my daughter." with what resembled tears welling up in her eyes. I have said it again, but with each experience I come to realize how genuine and hospitable Indian people really are. We were not just invited to this ceremony out of nicety, we were truly invited as guests of the family and treated as such. I was also amazed that in this culture everyone eats as equals. There are no sterling silver table settings, no mahogany dining tables. Every man, woman, and child (caste willing) sits with one another on the floor, eating from leaves. From the most affluent businessman to the poorest farmer, everyone comes to eat as equals in India. Even if a poor family hasn't enough food to feed themselves they will offer a king's ransom to you as the guest. If this doesn't exemplify the traits of compassion and hospitality then there is not much in the world that does.

We left the meal with smiles on our faces and a deep sense of gratitute in our hearts (and stomachs) and prepared to head back to the homebase. I was ready to call it a day worth of cultural exchange and it was barely 1pm. We soon realized that we had yet to scratch the surface of Indian culture for the day. At 2:30 we piled in the cars again (this time with the 7 other volunteers) and made our way to Tashi Jong Gompa Monastery and Baijnath Temple.

After a pleasant 30-40 minute ride through the countryside of Himachal Pradesh we reached the semi-secluded setting of the Tashi Jong Monastery. The friendly little community is home to a community of 150 monks and about 400 refugees from the areas of Tibet and Bhutan. The complex is home to many young men and women who are there to study the teachings of Buddhism in the hopes of one day becoming monks (and perhaps even gurus) of their religious and philosophical framework. From the ages of 16-26 these young people study and are not allowed to leave. If they decide to leave then they are excommunicated from the community for life. We were allowed to enter the temple in which they learn, which also doubles as their dormitories, and then we moved on to another temple which holds small memorials for monks who have revently died. On each memorial site they place various things such as money, fruit, cookies, juice, and other food; these are the things that they will need to survive in the next life. We then walked to the very top of the mountain to see the shrine and memorial to a guru who died a few years back. The story is that this man was one of four disciples to follow the original guru from Tibet and the last one to pass away. In the house where the teachers live, on the top floor in a corner room, there is a small box in which the mummified remains of the last guru are preserved. This box is covered by silk cloth in the traditional Buddhist (and Tibetan) colors of red, yellow, and blue and surrounded by numerous pictures and a great number of gifts for the afterlife. You will see in the pictures that a picture of the last guru hangs on the wall to the left-hand side of the box. After this we made our way back down the hill, spun the prayer wheels (always in a clockwise direction) and saw a few young students debating. This was an intersting sight as the young men debate their philosophy by standing quietly, with their hands behind their backs, and when they have their answer they quickly step forward with a loud clap of their hands. They then proceed to calmly explain the teachings of the Buddha, and their views on his philosophy. For having never been to a Buddhist monastery this was a unique and delightful experience. After this we piled into the cars (in the pouring rain) and headed to the Hindu temple.

The Baijnath Temple is said to have been built in 804 CE and has been an important pilgrimage place ever since. It is a shrine to the goddess Shiva, who is worshipped and celebrated for her help with female fertility. The large stone building is surrounded by an outer fortress-style wall which also houses three smaller shrines (one again to Shiva and two for local dieties). One of the most interesting things that we found were the monkeys that live in and around the confines of the temple. The girls went wild about these little fellows and snapped about 300 pictures. I had read about not getting too friendly with monkeys here so I kept my distance. This proved to be a prudent move as one of the girls was semi-attacked after she got too close and looked a monkey in the eyes as it was eating food (this is the monkey body language equivalent of saying "Bring it on!"). This culminated our experience and all the girls (7 out of 9 volunteers) left in a mess. I had an incredible time visiting both the Buddhist and Hindu places of worship and seeing how both religions practice their worship. I hope that we will have the opportunity to do more of this soon.

When we got back everyone was ready for some down-time and we sat around watching Indian music videos while Pawan (the cook) sang along to every word. The Carrom board inevitably got pulled out and tense games ensued. Vicky and I had a tough time, but with such bad luck we surprisingly lasted for a few hours before losing all of our Carrom men. After such a tiring (but tremendously exciting and enriching) day it was time to hit the hay early. We had to go teach on Saturday because we missed Monday this week. More adventures to come tomorrow.

A New Day in Dhauladhar School

I write from the Carrom board, where I am getting demolished by Vicky and our cook, Pawan. While this is the worst that I have played I cannot complain, because today was a much better day than yesterday (and I'm still not out of the game at this point). Still, the amount of trash talk that is going on in Hindi is enough to keep anyone amused for hours. Vicky just 'scratched' the striker (a ten point penalty) to cheers of "Catob!", or "Good Shot!" in Hindi.

Whereas I felt overwhelmed and a bit shocked by the events of yesterday's school day, today I woke up with a sense of determination to succeed. After a great deal of thoughtful reflection I determined that the first day was one of chaos and awe. The second day was one in which I felt helpless and powerless. Today I decided that I needed to do my best, regardless of circumstance. Having a plan for the day helped out a great deal, as did having the younger children in the morning and the 5th graders in the afternoon. I took a more businesslike approach in that I wasn't afraid to be firm and demanding of both teachers and students. It ended up being a much better day as a result. I realized that as much as I would like to be on vacation, during school hours I have a serious job.  Having a plan for the day helps a great deal too (seems like a no-brainer but this is harder than it sounds), such as teaching things like geography.  

I took a large world map to the fifth graders today.  Pandemonium ensued.  Not only had they no clue about where America was, but they couldn't recognize where Palampur was within India.  This hit me hard, as I realized how small their worlds are (and indeed the worlds of a majority of the inhabitants of Palampur and Himachal Pradesh).  Things like this put learning subjects such as the solar system into perspective... How can I teach the ideas of the sun, moon, and planets when these children have never, and may not ever, see things as simple as a fresh water lake?  This all made me realize that teaching nearly anything would be an enriching and worthwhile experience for these kids, and it helps me see their side of the equation when we are having a tough time learning.

After school we came back for lunch and had a nice relaxing afternoon.  We had our compulsory Hindi lesson after lunch and then had a wonderful lecture from two Indian doctors at 5pm.  They spoke about the state of the Indian healthcare system, but we diverged onto topics ranging from the marriage customs here to he marijuana plants that grow on the side of the road.  Both the old doctor (perhaps 65 years) and the young one (29) were laughing hysterically as they told and showed us how to harvest the resin from these plants.  They continued to tell us about where to find the best stuff in the province.  Quite an experience, to say the least.  

Now I am torturing myself over the Carrom board, but am going to call it a night.  Tomorrow should be interesting (we are traveling to a Buddhist monastery and an ancient Hindu temple) so I will be writing to let everyone know how it goes.  

Palampur Update - My First Days of School

Yesterday was a new experience, to say the least. I woke up around 5:30 and walked around our complex, checking out the Dhauladhar Range (the Himalayan ridge which in Hindi means "snow covered" and is also the name of the school in which I am teaching) and reading my book on Gandhi and Churchill. At around 7 I helped Pawan (the cook) make Chai and some breakfast. We hung around the homebase until 9 when my adventure for the day really started...

The drive to our school is only about 15 minutes and actually quite pleasant. When we arrived we were greeted by the sound of the children (about 50 total - grades K-6) performing their daily morning prayer and assembly. This is a feat in and of itself, and I will have to take some video for those of you at home to truly appreciate it. Just to whet your appetite it is pretty much a 3-12 year old military processional which is led by a handful of 6th graders, one of whom beats rhytmically on a large drum. After prayers they do an exercise where they stand "at attention" and "at ease" about 15 times, followed by some light calesthenics and their Indian pledge of allegience (which includes an allegience to their parents and family names). Once the kids realized that we were standing behind them watching it pretty much fell apart; apparently they were just as excited to see us as we were to see them. Upon our saying "hello" they all responded with "Good morning sir; good morning madam." Following this they all filed into their classrooms and we met with Pinky (the only teacher who speaks even broken English) and the Principal, who was visibly very shy and excited to have us. We were supposed to sit and observe the classes for a few hours and then return to the home base. Instead, what ensued was one of the most taxing (emotionally and mentally) two hours of my entire life...

I took a chair into the 5th grade class in order to sit and observe, and Pinky just sat there and looked at me. Apparently she wanted me to teach the entire lesson for the day! "Oh my God, what do I do!?" Talk about pressure - I have now been placed in front of six young kids who speak only what they have been able to mindlessly memorize in English, and I have no idea what to teach them. Fall-back plan: review what I think that they may know in math ('maths' to everyone here) and English. We began with the standard (in a slow and deliberate tone and pace) "Hello, my name is Will. What is your name? I am from the United States. I am 22 years old. Where are you from? How old are you? Do you have any brothers and sisters?" Thankfully this lasted about 15 minutes, but then I found myself stuck again. After standing in front of the kids and teacher for a few minutes with the standard "Umm, uh" and sweating my ass off I decided to grab one of the kids' maths book and do some review of everything from fractions to multiplication and division, telling time and even some basic geometry. We ended with a little English and then it was on to the 3rd and 4th grade class (which are held in the same room due to a severe lack of space. Pictures are to come, but I thought that it might be too much of a distraction for the first few days.

This was one of the most tiring two hours of my life and, judging by the amount that I sweated, about as stressful as any interview that I have ever completed. Everyday when we are done we have to complete a log and journal of the day's proceedings so we did this before our lunch at 1pm. Lunch was followed by our first Hindi lesson of the trip and a 'drop off' exercise where we were abandoned in the market of Palampur and given various tasks which we had to complete. This wasn't really very hard and we had a great time walking around the market (a true market in the sense that every single door for a few miles is a shop) and seeing the town of Palampur. We came back and had some down time before dinner, in which we played the first game of cricket.

This was very fun because we have been watching cricket for the past two days and I have been furiously asking questions about the rules, scoring, etc. of the game. For anyone that isn't serious about the game I do not suggest trying to learn. Scores routinely reach between 150-300 points and there are ten different ways in which a batter can be called out, just for starters. We played for about three hours (until it got too dark to see the ball) and then retired to dinner. After our meal and a quick meeting I fell dead asleep at around 8:30.

Today began at 7am (pretty late seeing as how I have been waking up at sunrise, or about 5:30) with some chai and a nice phone call from my family. We went to school and left about 12. I'm not sure why, but I had a pretty big wave of angst come over me after school today. Some of it may have to do with the cultural change, as I haven't experienced much (if any) negative culture shock to date. Mainly I was a little discouraged with the state of the school in which we work, how much responsibility we have been given, and how hard the educational exchange is with such limited common language. After venting to Weezie and having her talk some life and enthusiasm back into me we headed to the market, which greatly raised my sprits (though I didn't realize it until we had come back to our homebase). While there I found some great shops in which to buy cloth for traditional Indian clothing and some souvenirs, but the purchase of the day was a few CD's of Punjabi Hip Hop music (the choice of our drivers) to which I have taken a special liking. We got home and jammed the new tunes, played Carrum, and watched our meal being cooked in the tandoor (a large cylindrical oven which plays host to cooking chicken, potatoes stuffed with cheese, and flat bread called naan which is slapped on the side of the tandoor). This was the best meal that we have had, in everyone's opinion. We found out that this is a traditional send-off feast which was prepared for our friend Eliza, who has been here for four weeks and is leaving Palampur tomorrrow to travel south.

Now that the sun has gone down people are sitting around writing in journals, playing Carrum (which I have decided will be a definite investment when I get home, if I can find a nice set), and swinging in the chairs which sit out on our lawn. I have to go because I am being summoned to the Carrum board by the staff (could be an intense game tonight), but I will keep writing as much as I can.

Arrival in Palampur

We have been waking up early here. The sun usually rises about 5AM and we are up about 5:30 or 6 (to the sound of the farmers driving their cows in the fields, in Palampur) and we will just hang out until breakfast at 7:30. Yesterday we arose and I asked Suresh Bai if I could help make Chai. In his usual stone-faced (but happy) way he showed me how to make it. It took about 45 seconds for him. He put some fresh ground Chai leaves into a pot of water, added some cardammom, sugar, long cloves, black pepper, and fresh ginger root (beaten to a pulp). Boil and strain - Chai tea is ready. After this we sat for about an hour and a half to listen to the lecture of a brilliant retired professor of comparative political history on the over 5,000 year history of India, its people, and its incredible diversity. This really puts the culture and contradictory nature of the Indian people in perspective, but is too much to go into now. After this we piled into vans and headed to the airport for our flight to Dharamshala (followed by the hour car ride to Palampur).

When we arrived we were greeted by the CCS drivers, a delightful Sikh named Vicky and another tiny man named Pinku (whom they call "Okay"). The 'National Highway' that we took was interesting. By 'National Highway' they mean a two-lane paved road (riddled with potholes and fauna of all sorts) which makes its way into an even smaller one-lane paved road around Palampur. Car sickness in the back seat of a car is one thing, but sitting in the back facing another student was almost enough to make me lose my meager lunch. Thankfully I didn't. I find it pretty incredible that all animals here know exactly what a car horn means, and do not hesitate to jump up from their sunning spot in the middle of the road before getting run over. Large bull cows are the expection to the rule. The best thing about the drive here? The road signs. Two of my favorites read "Better Late Than Never" (referring dually to the dangerous road and the Indian idea of not really using clocks to tell time as they are always late) and the best... "If Married, Divorce at Speed". This was an actual government-sanctioned road sign.

When we arrived at our homebase we were all amazed at how ideal it is. The facilities are modest by American standards (as most are) but extremely nice for India. We are in about an acre worth of outdoor seating areas, a field of grass on which to play cricket, badmiton, and soccer, and a nice covered area where we eat, watch cricket (an obsession in India, but especially now with the 20Twenty World Cup coming up in a month) and play Carrum. They staff here plays Carrum every night and the matches are always tight, highly disputed, and much publicised. You cannot pull the board out and start playing without every man on the staff coming to watch and give advice, as well as a good deal of grief on every shot.

The best part about Palampur so far? It has to be a tie between the incredibly hospitable and fun staff (we may as well be best friends already) and the fact that every morning I step out my door to the sight of the snow-capped Himalayas looking over the Kangra Valley. Compared to the hustle and bustle of Delhi, this is a much-needed respite. This is a place that is known to the locals for its beaty and the curative properties of the pine-scented air. Pictures are sure to come, but I have to sign out here before I miss my breakfast and chai (it is almost 7am). More to come tomorrow.