Community Destruction Day

I was looking through my old posts, and found this little gem from back in January that for some reason I forgot to publish:

Electricity goes out quite frequently in my office in Shanan. The power outage usually lasts anywhere from 10 minutes to 2 or 3 hours. But one time, back in October, the power went out for the entire day. During a power outage, we cannot do work because, obviously, the computers are off. Instead of working, this is what happens:

some people read the Hindi newspaper

others sit around looking badass

and some people gossip (shh! don't tell!) and laugh

and others pretend to do work (here, Harsh and Mudit are translating something into Hindi that has already been translated)

and some go crazy with the boredom

but really, I have no idea what's going on.

On this particular day, our boss decided that if we couldn't do work, we might as well do something else useful: Community Clean-Up Day. People in Shanan litter, so we should pick up the trash. Sounds like a good idea, right?

Wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.

I knew something odd was up when a coworker grabbed a box of matches before going outside. Matches meant fire. And why was fire necessary for picking up litter? Oh no, I thought. They're going to burn the trash! Because that's environmentally-friendly. I grabbed my pollution mask in preparation. And it was a good thing I did, because my suspicions were right: people threw the trash they had picked up into an ever-growing fire.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, my coworker Dinesh came running toward us wielding a machete. Where did he get a machete? And why did he require a machete in the first place? To my horror, I watched as he started hacking at a tree.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!" I yelled in English, too shocked to think in Hindi.

But Dinesh could not hear me over the roar of the fire.

"I think he's cutting down the tree," Shatabdi explained.

"Yes BUT WHY?!" I cried.

"I... don't know."

Then Harsh and Negi explained, "there is a lot of trash in that tree."

So let's get this straight. Instead of picking out the individual pieces of trash from the branches, Dinesh decided it would be more efficient to CUT DOWN THE TREE.

Wait, I think we need to back up even more. The goal of the day's activities was to clean up the environment. Instead of helping the environment, we were KILLING it. Oh, so that tree has a lot of trash in it? I have a brilliant idea! Let's just get rid of the tree altogether! Then surely the trash will be gone too! ...I guess that logic makes sense. Except that I thought we were ridding the environment of trash to save the trees?! Cannot. Comprehend.

Now, cutting down the tree was not enough. As I have mentioned earlier, the standard way to dispose of garbage is to burn it. Since there was trash in this tree, naturally the tree must also be kindled. The tree that never should've been cut down in the first place. The tree that, if it must be burned, could have been at least utilized to fuel a traditional stove.

The tree, though small, is still a tree. The fire grew quite large and probably threatened the surrounding houses, fields, and natural vegetation, hence threatening not only the environment, but also people's shelter and livelihood. But the worst was the immense amount of smoke. The entire village became enshrouded in it. Even my pollution mask was rendered useless as the smoke from the forest-and-trash fire penetrated through its filter and into my lungs. Great for people's health. Basically, Community Clean-Up Day had very quickly become Community Destruction Day.

Dinesh pushing the tree down the hill after his final chop, amid the smoke from burning trash

burn, baby, burn! felled tree on fire

final scene of destruction: trash and tree burning

All this turned out not to matter, because a construction project that started in December has completely leveled that hill. Nothing is left but a pile of brown dirt. [NOTE: Since January, that pile of brown dirt has become a paved parking lot for bus servicing and repairs.]

At the time, I was furious. Like tomato-red-face, steam-coming-out-of-ears (or was that just smoke from the burning trash?) furious. But now I cannot retell this story without laughing like a crazed hyena. Seriously. I could barely type this post I was laughing so hard. I'm sure there's some lesson to be learned from all of this, but I'm not quite sure what that lesson is.

Braving Hanuman's Lair and the snow

The day before I left Shimla, I decided to be a tourist for a day. I had never seen the sights before, and I didn't want to pull another Pondicherry (despite living there for an entire semester, I never visited the touristy places in Pondy).

First on the tourist agenda: Jakhoo Temple. That's right, I finally braved Hanuman's Lair, even though I swore I never would. All the tourists go, so I figured I had to see it.

And it was every bit as terrifying as I imagined it would be.

At the entrance, there was a man warning people to remove their glasses (so the rumors about monkeys stealing glasses off of faces are true!! luckily I had come prepared, with my contacts in) (I probably wasn't fully prepared. I bet monkeys can steal contacts out of eyes, too!) and renting out sticks. Apparently, these sticks are meant to ward off monkeys. Of course I had to rent one; I needed any form of protection I could get! Nevermind that I could have just walked two feet into the adjacent forest and gotten a stick for free--that would've required risking my life at the opposable thumb-clad hands of crazed forest monkeys!! I thought my life was worth the Rs 5 ($0.11).

monkey weapons for rent. Rs 5/stick. because you should only enter this temple fully armed.

Walking from the gate toward the temple felt like walking toward an electric chair, but the killing device would be even more "cruel and unusual." This was it; I was walking into certain death. I now know what it feels like to be on Death Row. I suddenly wished my previous dinner--my last supper, if you will (and you will)--was more extravagant than Maggi (though I knew it was the right way to go, and let's be honest, I wouldn't really have it any other way) (unless I had cheese) (or maybe some combination of Maggi and cheese. yes, that would have been divine perfection).

This walkway was crawling with monkeys on all sides. To my left was a playground--not that a child could ever play on it, mind you. Monkeys and their babies were climbing up and subsequently sliding down slides, thereby making it completely unsafe for young children. Or even adults. Fine, I must admit: I laughed. It was legitimately cute.

climbing up the slide (note the one in mid-air on the right)...

...and sliding down.

But I shouldn't have let my guard down. The monkeys must have sensed my vulnerability when I laughed, because suddenly I found myself surrounded. Desperately trying to hide the fear that must have been so obvious on my face, I semi-squatted into my basketball boxing-out position (...that I haven't used since middle school) and swung my stick around threateningly. This somehow seemed to work and the monkeys left me alone.

Upon reaching the temple, I saw something absolutely horrifying: a monkey jump on a woman and unzip the front pockets of her jacket. A MONKEY. JUMPED ON. A WOMAN. AND UNZIPPED. HER POCKETS. As you can imagine, I panicked. I didn't know if I should turn around and run as fast as I could out of the temple (not that I could ever dream of outrunning monkeys), or if I should keep going (I came this far, right?), or what. I defaulted into boxing-out position, holding my stick like a sword, and froze like a statue. Finally a group of Gujarati tourists approached my paralyzed, petrified (in that I was both terrified and turned to stone) self and calmed me down. (Ok not really, but they tried to call me down.) Somehow they convinced me to walk the last 50 feet to the temple, sword-stick at the ready.

The temple wasn't worth it. It just wasn't. It was tiny and simple. No fabulous architecture, no extravagant decorations. Nothing more than your average local temple. Just a small orange-roofed house with some idols inside. This is what so many people risk their lives to see?! I wasn't expecting anything nearly as spectacular as Konark or Khajuraho, but geez I was expecting something tourist attraction-worthy, especially for braving all those monkeys. I was baffled. I didn't get it. I still don't get it. I feel so robbed of a morning I could have spent without fear of death.

really? REALLY?!

The rest of my day was less eventful, other than the fact that I had been wearing only a thin fleece (it was 60 F when I left my apartment) and the temperature unexpectedly dipped 40 degrees and it SNOWED. Yeah, needless to say, I was freezing. And unprepared. But at least the Oxford-like Viceregal Lodge (where British India was ruled in the summer, where Partition was signed, and which now houses the Indian Institute of Advanced Study that has hosted such scholars as Aung San Suu Kyi) looked especially beautiful in the snow!

dancing in the snow on my way toward the lodge because activity keeps me warm when I'm wearing weather-inappropriate clothing

Viceregal Lodge in the snow

4 hours and a visit to the tailor later, I mailed my packages.

I left Shimla and am now in transit to Varanasi for an intensive Hindi course. More on that later. For now, here's how I spent my last day in Shimla:

Naturally, I couldn't take everything in my apartment with me, so I had to ship some stuff home. I put everything in two cardboard boxes and headed to the post office, thinking this would take only 20 minutes.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

At 2pm, I arrived at the Sanjauli post office to find my landlord's wife Geeta staring at me from across the counter. This was my first surprise: I didn't know she worked at the post office! I thought she worked at a bank. Anyway, Geeta informed me that the Sanjauli post office does not send "parcels," as they call packages here in India. "But it's the post office's job to send mail!" I insisted. "No parcels." "But parcels are mail! The post office sends mail! Therefore the post office must send parcels!" "No parcels." "But you received my parcels when my mom mailed them from the US!" "No parcels. Go to Shimla."

I went to the Shimla post office--not that close, by the way, especially when you're carrying two boxes amounting to 18.8 kg. En route I passed a few private couriers and decided to check them out, but they were all absurdly expensive. So back to the post office plan.

I arrived at the Shimla post office with my two packages, certain that these people would be able to send them. "Seal?" the postal employee asked me. I was prepared for this, I thought. I purposely kept my packages open, because in Delhi they had opened up my box anyway to see the contents. I knew not to waste any tape this time, and I assumed the guy was asking me for a seal because he saw my boxes were open. In response to his seal inquiry, I smiled and held up my tape. "I have a seal!" I exclaimed triumphantly. A look of confusion crossed his face. "No, not tape. Seal. SEAL!" Now a look of confusion crossed mine. "But... tape does seal the parcel. Tape is the seal." "No, no, SEAL!" then rapid-fire Hindi that was too fast for my slow mind to comprehend. Luckily Harsh was with me, so he explained that the postman was telling me that I needed my parcel wrapped in a very specific white cloth, said cloth must be sewn and not stapled, and a "M.O.M." seal made of red gooey stuff would have to be stamped along the seams. Now this sounded familiar to me; when I sent a package from Kolkata in June 2008, the postman there wrapped and sewed my package for me (but this had not been required in Pondicherry in November 2007 nor Delhi in June 2010). I handed my packages over to the guy, assuming he would do all this. But no no no, I was told to go to a tailor.

Thus began the hunt for a tailor with the right cloth--not just any ol' white cloth, mind you, but a very specific material--and MOM seal. I went to the alley of tailors in Middle Bazaar below the Mall and had to visit several tailors before finding one with the right material. First the tailor asked me to come back tomorrow, but (a) I wouldn't be in Shimla the next day and (b) I'm not leaving a box with semi-valuables at a tailor's!! I insisted it was an emergency, and he agreed to do the job right then and there. But the tailor took AN HOUR AND A HALF to wrap the packages. I have no idea why he took so damn long. In Kolkata, I swear it took the guy about 5 minutes. AND the tailor charged me more than I pay for a salwar kameez. Ridiculous.

And then the tailor didn't have the MOM seal. Even though he said he did. So I had to run around with my packages to find another tailor who did have the seal. Luckily, he turned out to be only two doors down.

Finally, FINALLY my packages were ready. I RAN to the post office--and I do not like running--to mail them. I showed up at 5pm, and the post office closes at 5:30pm. Barely made it! I thought. Or did I?

"We don't accept parcels after 3pm." "I was here at 3pm, and you didn't tell me that. And there is no sign that says that. The post office is still open." "But we don't accept parcels after 3pm." "Why not?" "Because that's when the day's parcels are sent." "So? I don't care if you send them tomorrow. Why can't you accept my parcels and just send them with tomorrow's batch?" "We don't do that, madam." "But that makes no sense." and the conversation went on like this for a while.

Then I remembered: this is India. When you keep your voice at normal decibels, nobody listens to you. I turned into the madwoman I would never recognize in the States but I so often turn into in this country. I yelled at the postman, telling him the whole story, starting from Sanjauli. I think I ended with "why on earth does one have to go to a TAILOR to MAIL a parcel?! and if you're going to require something as stupid as white cloth, then why don't you provide the wrapping services yourself?!" The postman sat there stunned (I think my ranting in English--when I'm flustered my Hindi pretty much goes out the window--was way too fast for him to understand), and he sent me to the postmaster, the guy in charge of the post office (and no, he was clearly not intending to get his superior involved before I raised my voice). Harsh came with me to explain the situation in Hindi, and the postmaster agreed to send the packages. By this time it was 5:30pm and the post office was closing. This of course led to another argument, because the employee didn't want to stay overtime, but I won. It took a surprisingly long time for the guy to register my parcels in the system, but at 6:02pm on March 11, 2011, my packages were put in the mail room for delivery.

A thought...

I lost my Stanford hoodie in Delhi (I have since replaced it, don't you worry).

An Indian guy, who did not attend Stanford, was wearing a Stanford hoodie.

Connect the dots...

Next time I see him (if there is a next time--he might now avoid my bus stop like the plague), I'll have to check if the drawstring in the hood is missing and the kangaroo pocket is unstitched and floppy on the left. If so, HE IS WEARING MY SWEATSHIRT. Like, a sweatshirt I actually owned for 5 years. THAT WOULD BE PURE INSANITY.

Stanford in Sanjauli

This morning, while waiting at the bus stop on my way to work, I noticed a cardinal-colored hooded sweatshirt out of the corner of my eye. At the angle he was standing in relation to me, all I could see were the letters "ORD." But that was enough.

I became stupid-excited. I ran up to this stranger, and as I expected, it was indeed the same Stanford hoodie that I have owned since high school and still wear with pride (oh how elitist I am). I practically yelled in Hindi, "मेरे पास यह स्वेटशर्ट है! मैं स्टन्फोर्ड गयी!!" ("I have this sweatshirt! I went to Stanford!" In retrospect, I'm fairly certain "sweatshirt" is not a word in Hindi, and I should've said "sweater.") His response? He spoke no words but shot me a look that whispered "please don't molest me."

Of course, I continued to molest him (not physically, only verbally, I promise):

Me: "Stanford? University? I went there!"

Victim: Stare pleading, "please get away from me."

Me: "Your sweatshirt! It says Stanford." Pointing at his chest: "See, STANFORD!"

Victim: Glance upwards, asking Vishnu or other Hindu god, "why won't this insane woman leave me alone?"

Me: "Stanford is a university, I attended that university, and I have the same sweatshirt you're wearing!"

Victim: Shifts his eyes back and forth, and then spins his head around, in a desperate search for someone, anyone, to rescue him from his attacker

Me, excitement subsiding: "FINE. I'll go."

Ok, I lied. My excitement still hasn't subsided. SOMEONE WAS WEARING MY FAVORITE STANFORD HOODIE, THE ICON OF MY UNDERGRADUATE EXPERIENCE, TODAY!!!!!!!!!!!111oneone.

(No, I do not know how Indians manage to get American university sweatshirts. I have seen Maryland, Florida, UMiami, Harvard, Ohio State, Nebraska, Brigham Young, etc. I assume these sweatshirts are donated by Americans to some organization or another, and then they end up being sold for super cheap in secondhand markets or on the street in India. How the sweatshirt travels from point A to point B is beyond my comprehension.)

2 more reasons to hate monkeys

1. A week or so ago, two opposing troops of monkeys staged an epic battle utilizing my terrace as their boxing ring. After hearing an unusal amount of squealing (a little bit is normal), I looked out my window to see six monkeys fighting to the death. The result of the war? A sleepless night (so much squealing!) and a new carpet on my terrace--a carpet of feces. Unclear if these feces were flung as ammunition, or if the monkeys just had to poop as the battle raged on for hours (at some point, you just can't hold it in anymore). And guess who has to clean up their mess? Ugh, damn monkeys, clean up your own filth! I am not your maid!

2. I finally got my water back today, after a week with no water. I had to buy bottled water for everything, including bathing (I would boil water so as not to freeze, then add some cold water so as not to burn) (by the way, boiling enough water for a shower takes quite a long time). Naturally, this resulted in, well, not bathing (2 boiled-bottled water "showers" in 1 week. I'm so sorry for my stench). So why did I have no water? One word: monkeys. Apparently the monkeys had messed with the pipes feeding water into my apartment. These pipes were broken and leaking, so no water reached my faucets. (And my landlord had been away in his village for the week and only returned late last night, so no one could call the plumber until today.) It's like the monkeys want my life to be as stinky as possible. First they precipitate shit on my terrace so it's covering it like a blanket of brown snow, and then they cut off my water supply so I can't properly bathe. Thanks a lot, monkey assholes.

...or should I say, monkey terrorists:

Translation: "MONKEY TERRORISTS." And an explanation about how you shouldn't feed them, because that will only encourage them to terrorize you and all you love even more so. (ok, I think the literal translation is actually "monkey terror," but a friend explained to me that "terrorist" is what the sign means.) This sign is posted in colonial Shimla but should probably be placed at intervals of every 5 feet all over the greater Shimla area.

The Most Awkward Office Party Ever. EVER.

Today was the last day of work for a coworker, Tarachand. I think he found another job somewhere else, so he's leaving after a year and a half here. To thank him for his service and contributions, our organization threw a farewell party for him.

I had assumed this would be like TERI parties. There would be food and drinks laid out on a desk or table, and we'd all stand around in small groups schmoozing. You know, like a normal office party.

I was wrong. So, so wrong.

Everyone walked into the conference room (which is where I work because it's the warmest room in this freezing building) and sat down around the table. And everyone was completely silent. They didn't talk to me or each other. Not even a hello or namaste. This is strange, I thought. It's like they're coming to an execution, not a farewell party. Then the director and his wife walked in, and everybody stood up. Well, this is oddly formal for a party. Is this a meeting now? Or are we paying respects to the executioners? The director gave some brief farewell speech that lasted no more than 20 seconds. Everyone continued to sit in silence. You could taste the tension. Finally Bhim, the office cook, brought down some chai and pakoras (check my glossary if you don't know what this is), which taste significantly better than tension.

But the tension did not disappear. After 6 minutes of complete silence--no, I'm not exaggerating, I checked my watch--the ridiculousness of the situation hit me (a party of endless awkward silence sitting around a conference table?! qlwkasjdoarslkcs!!) and it took every fiber of my being to control myself from bursting into a giggle fit. I took my tea cup, though it was now empty, up to my face in an attempt to hide my toothy about-to-laugh grin. I had trouble breathing, it was so difficult to control.

Shreshtha, who was sitting next to me, noticed my suffering and passed me the plate of pakoras, just so that I would have to move the cup away from my face. I glanced at him and shook my head, keeping the cup in front of my mouth. "Kuch lena [take some]," he whispered, his voice dripping in sweetness. Switching into English, he continued menacingly, "You know you want to." It was a cruel joke. If I put down the cup and reached for pakoras, I would lose all control and crack into obnoxious cackling! And that would be beyond embarrassing in this room of deathly silence! Luckily Harsh saved me and broke the silence by posing a question to Tarachand about his experience at our organization and what his next step in life would be. Once Tarachand started talking, the awkwardness decreased slightly and I could regain composure. Sort of.

As soon as the "party" ended (by the way, it lasted all of 15 painful, painful minutes) and everyone left, I finally let the laughter pour out of me. I'm fairly certain my coworkers in the next room heard my chortling.

This story was probably neither entertaining nor funny to you. BUT THE AWKWARDNESS WAS SO INCREDIBLE. A new feat of awkwardness has been achieved today, and I think we should all be proud of ourselves.

The Cheese Hunt

One of my favorite foods in the whole wide world (perhaps second only to Maggi) is cheese. Unfortunately for me, finding cheese in Shimla is no easy task. There is no glorious heaven filled with angels and rainbows and sunshine and fluffy-white-clouds-that-somehow-can-hold-the-weight-of-happily-dancing-people-despite-being-composed-of-suspended-water-droplets-and/or-ice-crystals like The Cheese Ball in Delhi.

One Sunday back in October I spent seven hours looking for cheese. I wish I was exaggerating, but my watch, which as far as I know never lies, told me my hunt lasted from 11am to 6pm. I scoured Sanjauli, Dhalli, Chhotta Shimla, New Shimla, regular Shimla. All the Shimlas. But I found nothing. Not a single slice of edible non-paneer cheese (I did find plenty of slices of processed cheese, but those have the consistency and taste of plastic--actually, they taste worse than plastic--and frankly don't count as edible). Luckily, however, one shopkeeper informed me of a small grocery store (probably the only grocery store in the entire Shimla area) that carries Western goods but is closed on Sundays. So I went on Monday and voila! cheese! :)

Today I schlepped all the way to regular Shimla to this grocery store solely to buy cheddar cheese. (It legit takes an hour to get there from my apartment.) To my dismay, they were completely sold out of cheddar cheese. Don't these people realize how much I struggled to get there? (If they don't realize, I'll tell them: 15-minute walk, followed by a 20-minute wait for a bus, followed by a 20-minute bus ride, followed by a 10-minute walk. See, that's more than an hour!) After I undertook such an arduous journey, how could they not provide me with life-sustaining cheddar cheese? However, my spirits were quickly lifted when I found what would be my long-lost treasure chest of Aztec gold had I been a pirate of the Caribbean: a shelf fully stocked with the new Maggi flavors. I proceeded to buy 8 packs of Tricky Tomato and 6 packs of Thrillin' Curry.

rejoicing in my bounty

Shame? I have none.

Also, I still want cheddar cheese.

Me & Meri Maggi

I have my own Me & Meri Maggi story to share.

Wait, let's back up a sec. What is Maggi? Maggi is basically ramen (instant noodles) for the Indian tastebuds. The basic Maggi is "masala" flavored. Obviously, as a person who is super lazy and can't cook, I eat Maggi with greater frequency than I should. Maggi was an integral part of my diet in Delhi, and it still is in Shimla. Yeah, I'm that ramen-eating grad student, but without the grad school.

traditional Masala Maggi: my source of sustenance.

And what is a "Me & Meri Maggi" story? Basically Me & Meri Maggi is Maggi's 25th anniversary ad campaign. Maggi eaters send in their personal Maggi stories ("meri" = "my" in Hindi), and the best stories get "published" on the backs of packs, made into commercials, or featured on the Maggi website. It is best explained by this video:

Now for my Me & Meri Maggi story:

Recently (as in a few months ago), Maggi came out with new flavors. Somehow some of these new flavors managed to be better--significantly better, in my opinion--than the original Masala flavor. I didn't know such a feat was possible, but I can't get enough of Tricky Tomato or Thrillin' Curry.

new Maggi flavors. om nom nom.

Unfortunately, neither can the rest of Sanjauli. I can never find Tricky Tomato or Thrillin' Curry. The general shops (as they are called; basically, little convenience stores) (Sanjauli doesn't have grocery stores) carry only a limited supply of the new flavors, and they are almost always sold out. Except of the Romantic Capsica flavor. Because honestly, who really wants capsicum-flavored instant noodles? And who thinks of capsicum as "romantic"? That was a poor choice, Maggi.

More times than I'd like to admit I visited every single general shop in Sanjauli in search of Tricky Tomato or Thrillin' Curry. And most of those times, I came up empty-handed and had to buy regular Masala Maggi. One time I got so frustrated with the search I even called my mom to whine. "I can't find Tricky Tomato Maggi! And I visited 20 shops already!" "Why don't you just buy a different flavor?" "Becaaaaauuuse I want Tricky Tomaaatoooooo! Waaaaah!" This is how I waste money on long-distance phone calls: calling from India to the States to complain about the unavailability of instant noodle flavors.

(By the way, a few minutes ago I talked to my mom on the phone and told her about this blog post I'm currently writing, and she claimed to have zero recollection of this conversation. I swear I'm not crazy, it really happened. She probably doesn't remember because at the time she was bored of my trivial noodle dilemma and zoning out.)

One time I found a general shop that actually had numerous Tricky Tomato packs (usually, since there is such high demand and such low supply, shops only have 1 or 2 left, if they have any at all, which they most often don't). I shamelessly bought every single one, so that I could hoard for the future. I have returned to this same shop multiple times in hopes of restocking my kitchen, but alas they have been sold out of both Tricky Tomato and Thrillin' Curry every single time.

So, Maggi makers: fix your distribution! Send more Tricky Tomato and Thrillin' Curry to Sanjauli!! I promise my demand can single-handedly consume your entire supply. For the entire town. Pinky promise.

I hope this tale of desperation ends up on the back of a Maggi pack one day.

(PS: "2-minute" noodles is a lie, especially here at altitude. It takes well over 2 minutes for my water to even boil! I'd say making Maggi takes me 8 minutes. And even in Delhi, which does not have the slow-cooking-at-altitude problem, it took me 5 minutes. I'm fairly certain making Maggi in 2 minutes is not possible. Maggi, I know you know I'll eat you anyway, but I don't appreciate false advertising. Please stop lying to me!)

(PPS: I'm aware that this blog post could come across as an ad for Maggi. I promise they are not paying me to write this. It's just that Maggi is such an important part of my life in India I thought I should share this with you all. ...I realize how pathetic I sound.)

(PPPS: This is my life: Maggi and monkeys. If you ever had the idea that my life in India was full of glamor and adventure, you thought wrong. My life is full of instant noodles and simian shit.)

(PPPPS: When I first wrote this post, I spelled everything the British way without even realizing it, e.g. flavour, glamour. I've been in India too long.)

Hanuman strikes again.

I'm back from Cambodia and Thailand. It was awesome, as you can see:

Angkor Wat, Cambodia

a tree growing out of--and devouring--a temple
Ta Prohm, Angkor Thom, Cambodia


Dr. Fish massage--the fish are eating the dead skin off my feet. and it tickles.
Siem Reap, Cambodia


another tree swallowing a temple
Ta Som, Cambodia

Cambodia's answer to India's autorickshaws and Thailand's tuk-tuks: the remork-moto. Yes, that's a motorcycle with a carriage attached to the back.
road between Siem Reap and Beng Mealea, Cambodia


one of Angkor's temples was left as found, without cleanup or restoration, and you can still climb all over the place Indiana Jones-style. here, I conquered a pile of fallen stones, some with carvings.
Beng Mealea, Cambodia


Vishnu between my legs is probably offensive. But fallen carvings and vines inside a temple! And vines you can sit on!
Beng Mealea, Cambodia

Did I even take pictures in Thailand? Yes, but apparently none with me in them.

Now that that's out of the way, let's get to the real issue of the day (of every day, really):

Monkeys.

Remember when I bitched that the monkeys are multiplying? It's not my imagination. My neighbors are all commenting on how many monkeys there are--more than they ever remember, and some have lived in Sanjauli for 20 years. And they are all quite surprised by this. Apparently, Himachal Pradesh attempted to sterilize Sanjauli's monkeys. Key word: attempted. Fail. The monkeys and their impregnation abilities are clearly out of control.

And I'm here to tell you why. Or at least to tell you my neighbors' explanation.

Shimla recently completed constructing the largest Hanuman idol in the world, appropriately at Jakhoo Temple. According to my Hindu neighbors, the larger the Hanuman, the larger his monkey army must be. Thus, with the new huge Hanuman in town, Shimla's monkey army must grow. As a result Hanuman ensures that his troops are impervious to any population control efforts. (My Hindu neighbors claim that, as Hanuman is Shimla's protector deity, these simian soldiers are actually defending the town, but I have to disagree.)

I am 100% serious. Big Hanuman idol --> monkey population explosion. That is the only logical explanation anyone can think of here. ...and I might just believe them.

Don't let them fool you.

Monkeys. As a young lass in the US, I thought monkeys were cute and playful and pretty much the best land animals ever (but my favorite overall animals were, naturally, whales). At age 6, I had a plush monkey with exaggerated arms and velcro on the hands so that it could hug things (and me) that I bought at the Baltimore Zoo. I loved that toy. I even went through a phase in middle school when I only wore Paul Frank, the monkey-lover's answer to Hello Kitty (it was an awkward time in my life, ok?). Seriously, just ask my mom, Jessie S., and Mayan, and they will tell you: 12-year-old Emily loved monkeys (by the way, Jessie S. and Mayan were totally guilty of going through a monkey phase too! And I was totally jealous of Jessie's Aeropostale monkey pajama pants, even though I had the Paul Frank version. Her monkey design was just cuter).

This was all before I came to India, a place that has shattered my dreams of adorable monkeys playfully swinging through trees and not threatening human life. My earliest evil monkey encounter occurred in Gingee (pronounced Sinjee), Tamil Nadu. A bunch of us in my study abroad program decided to take a fun weekend away from campus to visit the fort in Gingee and the temples in Tiruvannamalai. Fun, we thought. Until we were attacked by monkeys.

Gingee Fort

view from the fort

When we finally reached the uppermost section of the fort, we decided to stop and eat lunch. As we were eating, we slowly realized that more and more monkeys were approaching. Soon, we were surrounded by monkeys on all sides, with nowhere to go. One monkey even snatched Fred's bag of dates right out of his backpack! They clearly intended to steal more food from us. They hissed, bared their teeth, and crouched in about-to-pounce position--very intimidating. So we did the only thing we could: we ran. I remember jumping off the structure because monkeys were blocking the stairs. And I ran all the way down the hill. I then refused to climb up to the second area of the fort, because I had had enough of these monkeys (Zeliha would later tell me how the monkeys at the second section tried to steal her juice box right out of her hands, and I was happy with my decision to stay put).

evil monkeys who stole our food

Unfortunately for me, Shimla is the epicenter of monkey madness. Shimla's monkeys are infamous all over India. If I tell an Indian I'm living in Shimla, one of the first things they ask is "how do you handle the monkeys?" Indians often mention monkeys before the beautiful mountain scenery, the colonial architecture, and the (relatively) pleasant climate. These notorious monkeys steal ice cream out of children's hands at the Mall and glasses off of faces at the Jakhoo Temple.

Jakhoo Temple is appropriately dedicated to Hanuman, the Hindu monkey god. This temple surely must be Hanuman's Lair, as thousands of monkeys--every single one of them evil--populate the area. In fact, these monkeys are particularly evil. A neighbor once told me that she saw a monkey pry a 4-month-old baby out of his mother's arms and then bring the baby up a tree. The monkey only released his hostage after banana negotiations. In my opinion, it was terrible parenting to bring such a young child to Hanuman's Lair. Needless to say, I will NEVER step foot in these glasses- and baby-stealing monkey-infested temple grounds.

monkeys on the Mall plotting their next attack. as you can see, I tried to keep my distance.

The state of Himachal Pradesh has tried numerous measures to control the monkey population, but to no avail. The most recent desperate attempt? The state has declared open hunting season on the monkeys; farmers can shoot to kill these monkeys if they feel their farms are threatened.

The monkeys in my neighborhood are no exception. They are just as menacing. My landlord installed grills on my windows so that monkeys would not break into my apartment (yes, it happens, usually through the kitchen). I hang my newly-washed clothes to dry on the terrace, despite the risks (I have heard stories of monkeys ripping up expensive saris left out to dry), and I have paid the consequences. One time, a monkey unclipped a kurta from the line and threw it over the terrace onto the street below. Luckily, a shopkeeper picked up the now-filthy garment and returned it to me. Another time, I found all my underwear missing; clearly, monkeys stole my underwear. From time to time, monkeys leave me gifts: their feces. I'm afraid to go out onto a my terrace at night, because sometimes I hear monkeys fighting and shrieking out there. Or even if they're not fighting, they are hanging out there and G-d only knows what they'd do to me. Every morning I'm woken up by the monkeys and dogs having an all-out epic battle, and there is no question in my mind that the monkeys win every time.

The monkeys in my neighborhood gave birth recently. There are tiny--and I mean tiny--baby monkeys stumbling around everywhere or clinging to their mothers' undersides. Adorable? One might be fooled into thinking so, but let's not forget that these monkeys' mothers will train them to become monsters. So another generation of devils has been brought into this world, and I am not happy about it.

spawn of Satan

In conclusion, don't let these monkeys fool you: they are not cute, they are evil menaces to be shot by angry farmers.

Re: The Roads of My Life

Tonight I was telling some neighbors about the Ice Road Truckers: Deadliest Roads TV show and how they featured our beloved NH-22. Their response? "Oh yeah, we saw them filming. Right here. We weren't entirely sure why those trucks had cameras surrounding them and thought it was अजीब/ajib [strange]."

So there you have it. My neighborhood was filmed in IRT. Sweet!

The Roads of My Life (Mom: please do not read this post.)

This is why my mother cannot sleep at night:



(Mom: for the love of G-d and your sanity, do NOT watch this trailer. Or even read the rest of my post. Please.)

I take a short section of that road, National Highway 22, a.k.a. the Hindustan-Tibet Road, to and from my office every day; my office is actually located on this road. And I have taken that road between Chandigarh and Shimla 6 times (so far), and the road past Shimla to some villages for field work several other times. And to Kalpa for a fun mini-vacation weekend with Helene. In fact, I've gone the full length of the NH-22, all 459 km of it, from Ambala (Haryana) to Khab (Kinnaur, Himachal Pradesh), over various trips. So yeah, pretty familiar with the good ol' NH-22, and yes I recognize sections of the road from the trailer. The crumbling piece of road at 0:53, for example, drove within inches of that just 2 days ago (yes it's still there; maintenance on this road is difficult due to the rough terrain).



I think it is unfair to call these Ice Road Truckers "today's toughest truckers." I mean, there are Indian truckers and bus drivers who take these roads EVERY DAY, and I bet they aren't nearly as afraid as these North American truckers. I, perhaps naively, have full confidence in my bus drivers. I'll admit there have been moments in which I've thought "OMG WE ARE SO CLOSE TO THE EDGE OF THE CLIFF OMG THAT TRUCK IS MILLIMETERS AWAY FROM MY BUS OMG WHY DO WE HAVE TO BE THE ONES BACKING UP AROUND A HAIRPIN TURN OMG WE ALMOST HIT THAT HERD OF GOATS OMG THIS BRIDGE HAS HOLES IN IT OMG WE ARE GOING TO DIE OMG" but those moments are not that common. Because you know what? These Indian drivers DO know what they're doing. They have experience. They know the unwritten, unspoken rules of the Himalayan roads. So I trust the bus drivers. I trust them because I have to trust them. If I didn't trust them, I'd probably live my life in fear and never leave my apartment. ...which my mother would probably consider a good thing, because then she'd have much less to worry about. (Mom, I wish you would have as much faith in these drivers as I do! Seriously, it will make your life so much less stressful.)

PS: That trailer, and probably the TV show (I've never seen it), dramatizes how dangerous/scary the Himalayan roads are. I swear, they're not nearly as bad as this trailer makes them out to be.

Contrary to popular belief, I am not English.

I have encountered something in Himachal Pradesh that I have encountered nowhere else in India, even after spending approximately 1.5 years here and traveling all over the country: people calling me "अंग्रेज़"/"angrez," or "English."

I have been called many things in India (usually "गोरी"/"gori," or "white"), but never "English." And I haven't just been called angrez once or twice in Himachal Pradesh. No no no, I've been called angrez more times than I can count, all over the state from the Punjab border to the Tibet border and on a near-daily basis in Shimla. I don't know why Himachalis call all fair-skinned people English, but it drives me पागल (mad). Whenever I hear someone say "angrez"--whether to my face or talking about me right in front of me as if I don't understand a word of Hindi--I automatically get all defensive and yell "मैं अंग्रेज़ नहीं हूँ! मैं अमेरिकन हूँ!!" ("I am not English! I am American!!") Honestly, it has never annoyed me when people call me gori. Because I am gori. But boy do I hate when Himachalis call me English. Why? Well, mostly the following reasons:

• There is a lot of negative colonial baggage associated with angrez people. Because, you know, they ruled over India for a few hundred years, and in a pretty brutal manner. But hey, wait a minute, my people never ruled over you! Don't think of me as one of your former imperial overlords! I don't want the baggage of angrez associated with me.
  
• Indians generally like Americans. Yes, you may think there would be negative baggage associated with some American foreign policy actions, but there really isn't much (though people express curiosity as to why the US supports Pakistan so much). The vast majority of people's reactions to hearing I'm American are very positive and excited. I actually think it's one of the best foreign nationalities you can be in this country.
  
• I'm proud to be American. There, I said it. And don't think I won't start singing the song, because I can. I can and I will.

So, my dear Himachalis, despite what you may deduce from my white skin, I am not, have never been, and never will be English. Please stop calling me अंग्रेज़. If you're not going to recognize my American citizenship (...or my status as an Indian resident, like you'd ever recognize that! HA!), I much prefer being called गोरी or even the semi-derogatory फिरंगी. Thanks!

University of Maryland Elephants?

This is a picture of my landlord's living room (taken on my cell phone, hence the poor quality):

I was, of course, nothing less than shocked to see a University of Maryland rug on his floor. Of all the universities in the world and on sports-themed rugs, he chose the one from my home state! That's just crazy. It turns out he did not know what "Maryland" meant (he thought it was a word, not a place or university) and thought the terrapin was actually an elephant. Yes, he thought a turtle was an elephant. Fear the Pachyderm?

Friendship with Mudit and Shatabdi = Destiny

I'm fairly certain that I was destined to become friends with Mudit and Shatabdi. And here's why:

Last week I was showing Mudit and Shatabdi some pictures on my laptop. Shatabdi had mentioned that she worked in Orissa, so I decided to show them my Orissa pictures. When she saw my pictures of the Adivasi Mela, she exclaimed, "oh my god! I worked on the committee that organized that mela! I can't believe you were there! I organized so much of that!" She had something to say about nearly every picture. When I showed a picture of the entrance, she exclaimed "I designed that gate!" Several pictures evoked a "that was my idea!" But the biggest coincidence of all? I have a picture of the organizing committee's work shack, and ALL of Shatabdi's coworkers are in my picture. Shatabdi pointed to every single person in my photo, telling me their names, what their jobs were, and what she thought of them (whether or not she liked them). At this time, she had been inside the shack figuring out some last-minute logistics (and was the only organizer missing in my photo). She apparently emerged from the shack two minutes after the picture was taken. I was literally two minutes off from taking a picture of her. Insane. Clearly, our friendship was destiny. (Or India is just really small for a country of 1.1 billion people.)

You know how else I know our friendship was destiny? Mudit and Shatabdi first met at a work training session held at the Indian Habitat Centre, where the TERI office is located (they were trained in Delhi before being sent off to their respective field offices--Patna, Bihar for Mudit, Bhubaneshwar, Orissa for Shatabdi). Yup, I was in the same office complex as them when they met each other. Probably just a couple hundred feet away.

I wore a scarf I bought in West Bengal the other day, and Shatabdi, who is from West Bengal, said she had the same one. Again, destiny.

Destiny. (To Nadeen and Ellen: Beauty.)

(As a side note, I really need to make more friends than just one married couple.)

The Impossible Apartment Hunt

The office of my NGO is not actually in Shimla, as the title of this blog suggests. It is actually in a cluster of buildings on a truck bypass road in a place called Shanan (but Shanan is located in Shimla District, so I'm not a total liar). People call Shanan a village, but don't be fooled. It is no village. I'm fairly certain it only exists because this bypass road was built here to accommodate the hundreds of trucks that pick up apples from Shimla (apples = Himachal's biggest source of income). Aside from my NGO's office, a couple of houses, and two tiny shops that carry so few items they don't even have bottled water, there is nothing here. A village has history, has traditions, has people who have been rooted there for decades if not centuries, has a real sense of community (and that's why I love villages). Shanan has none of that; it was probably built 3 years ago when the road was.

The closest market is in Sanjauli, 30 minutes away by bus, and Shimla is another 30 minutes away. But the bus from Shanan actually stops on the opposite end of Sanjauli than the bus to Shimla, so it's a 20 minute walk between buses. So without waiting time, that's 1 hour 20 minutes to get to Shimla. But last week I had to wait quite a bit for each bus, and it took me 2 hours to get to Shimla from Shanan!

So obviously this truck stop isn't a place I want to live. I want to live in Sanjauli, the closest town with a market. A 30 minute commute to work wouldn't be terrible, and a 30 minute bus ride to Shimla isn't bad either.

But alas, there are no vacant apartments in Sanjauli. I have been looking for two weeks, and there is nothing. NOTHING. I'm extremely stressed out because (1) living and working in the same building is driving me stir crazy (I'm staying in a guest room here), (2) I can't even get basic groceries here, and I'm getting sick of the cook's diarrhea-inducing food, (3) I can't open a bank account until I have a signed lease to show for proof of address, (4) I can't start volunteering, taking Hindi lessons, taking cooking classes, etc until I know where I'm living and the commute from Shanan takes too long anyway, (5) there is no way to meet people outside of work in Shanan, and (6) there are no laundry facilities here, if I bucket-wash my clothes they'll never dry because of the monsoon humidity* (usually if you take stuff to a "press" (guy who does ironing), the clothes will be dry), and I'm running out of clean underwear. Basically, my entire life is on hold until I find a place to live.

And I don't know what to do. I've tried everything. I've asked my coworkers for help, bothered shopkeepers, even gone door-to-door. I'm at a complete loss. I feel hopeless. SOMEONE PLEASE FIND ME AN APARTMENT IN SANJAULI SO I CAN BE A REAL PERSON AGAIN. Thanks.

*to clarify: it's not hot at all, and this humidity isn't going to make you sweat. In fact, you don't even feel that it's humid. But there is definitely moisture in the air, because everything I own is slightly damp!

emilyinshimla: שנה ב / साल दो / Year 2 in India!

I just accepted a new job in India! A different job than the one alluded to in a previous post. That first job fell through, but luckily I found another one! This means I'm officially embarking on שנה ב / Shana Bet ("Year 2" in Hebrew; what some Jews call an American Jew's second year in Israel, usually between high school and college) (I guess it would be more appropriate if I said Year 2 in Hindi: साल दो / Saal Do).

I will return to India in early September to work in Shimla, the capital of Himachal Pradesh and the former summer capital of British India (so yeah, it's pretty colonial). It's a town of ~160,000 people at ~7,000 feet in the Himalayas. Sure it's not the village I've been dreaming of, but at least it's not 16 million people like Delhi! [Anyone else notice that I always live somewhere with a population of 16 * 10^n? 16 * 10^0 households in Gangzur, 16 * 10^6 people in Delhi, 16 * 10^4 people in Shimla.] [Actually I'm not 100% sure on the numbers in Delhi and Shimla; the populations seem to vary by source.] I'm hoping to do some field work in villages, so hopefully I will get some rural experience.

"A" marks the spot of Shimla - thanks Google Maps!

I might change my blog a bit (new title, new picture, new color scheme), but I will keep the same URL so it's easier for everyone to keep following. So stay tuned to emilyindelhi.blogspot.com!

See you back on the subcontinent in September!