Made in India

This is a video I made for a fellowship application.

Hot hot hot!

I walked to the presser (iron guy; he 'presses' our garments) at 9:15am under the pretense of getting my clothes. I knew he wouldn't have them ready, because when I dropped them last night he said tomorrow 10am and I said "9:15" and he said OK and naturally I knew he was lying. Nevertheless, I had to go at 9:15 and ask angrily why he hadn't finished my laundry (or even started), in order to assure he finishes it by 5pm when I go back to get it before packing; if I didn't go this morning, I would go at 5pm and it wouldn't be done. It's just part of playing the game.

When I left the fan-cooled breeze of my house to walk 3 minutes to the presser's shop (which is more of a makeshift hut with a tarp that he pulls over the hut when he is closed), I broke into a sweat, even though I had just finished a somewhat cool bucket shower. When I returned to the house I ate breakfast under the fan. I went in my room to pack my bag, and as the fan was off I broke into a sweat in the 45 seconds it took me to pack my bag.

Tonight I am taking an overnight train 14 hours South to Chennai/Madras, a big city. I'm nervous about the journey because I am going sleeperclass, which means no AC and lots of hot, sweaty people all packed together. I checked the weather this morning and the projected highs for this whole week in Hyderabad were 40Celcius, which is 104F. We have two more months until the monsoon, and my coworkers say it gets up to 45C (113F). I don't mind the heat so much, except when it's so hot that I can't sleep. The ceiling fans help a lot. Our India supervisor is reconsidering the AJWS policy of air conditioning not being considered essential for volunteers' houses here (she is living in Delhi).

I am going to Chennai for Passover. I am meeting several friends and several random people, it should be a good time. My Spanish friend Blanca is there; Nalasa is going to be there; the brother of my Hyderabad friend (also now our friend) lives there; Leah and Rachel form AJWS will be there; and some more. Armed with 2 haggadot but lacking matzah that the Mumbai Chabad Rabbi promised yet failed to send us, we are going to do an elaborate makeshift Sedar in an ovenless house in South India.

Goa is not in India

Despite what you may think you know, Goa is NOT in India. No, it is not. When we got off the plane, jumped into a land rover and were driven 90 minutes to Arambol beach, we became convinced of this, and our long weekend in Goa confirmed our theory. As we drove towards our destination, we began to see what we thought to be an anomaly in India - white people, tons of them, in skimpy clothing. The further we drove, the whiter (blonder, to be exact) the people were, the longer the dreadlocks grew, and the skimpier the clothing became. We grasped hands across the car in fear - where were we? The roads overlooked gorgeous oceans flanked by palm trees, white couples on shared motorbikes drove around like they owned the road wearing bathing suits, and the landfill we drove through, aside from the putrid smell, was almost beautiful. We definitely experienced some initial culture shock when we arrived in Goa.

Goa is a small state in the southwest of India. It used to be a Portuguese colony and is now a tourist and hippie paradise. It is known for its many beaches and is has been an extremely popular tourist resort for both Indians and foreigners. Goa has received a lot of attention in the media lately as a 15 year old girl died there in February and was possibly murdered; it seems like the Indian police handled the investigation quite badly, doing superfluous tests to confirm her age for example. The beach she was on is known for its tourist drug culture, which maybe played a role in hear death. We steered clear of this beach, choosing instead a beach in the North of Goa called Arambol. We faced no trouble in Goa at all; rather, we had an incredible and refreshing time, and it was a lovely way to celebrate Shlayma's 25th birthday during our long weekend (Monday was the Telugu new year).

To fly to Goa, we took an auto to Keyes High school, then took a 90-minute shuttle bus to the new Hyderabad airport, which opened two weeks ago, replacing the convenient one that was in the center of the city. The new airport is out in the middle of nowhere. At one point I wondered if we had gotten on the wrong bus somehow... The
New airport looks like something out of the future. It is huge and looks out of the space age, like the bangkok airport. All of the food is really expensive and not very good like other large airports in the world, whereas at other airports in india, like delhi and the old Hyderabad airport you can get two samosas for like a buck
and other cheap things.


We arrived on the beach and found huts with electricity and mosquito nets and running water and toilets that were $6.50 a night for two of us. We would get up in the morning, walk 100 meters, and see the ocean. Another AJWS fellow and her friend met us there for the weekend, and our friend Blanca came on the last day with her sister and two other Spanish friends. We hung out on the beach on lounge chairs with beach unbrellas drinking coconuts, having food served to us at our spots on the beach from the nearby restaurants, and enjoying the sound of the waves. I expected that a resort like that would have not very good yet expensive food, but no! The food was amazing - quality omlettes, cheese toast, great Italian pizza, pasta, greek salads, salads!, cheese platters - all the things we are deprived of in India, plus the most amazing fruit salads with fresh bananas, papaya, watermelon, pineapple, and chicko - and everything was cheap! A pizza that tasted right out of Italy was under three dollars, as was a Greek salad, and the fruit salad was $1.50... it was pretty heavenly. I was so relaxed on the beach that instead of reading my intended book Shantaram (which you should read because of its apt descriptions and analyses of India) or listening to my Ipod, I just lay on my beach chair and listened to the waves.

Each day women would walk by selling sarongs and crappy jewelry; both women and men walked by with large baskets on their head containing watermelons, mini bananas, pineapples and whole coconuts (when you buy a coconut, which costs around Rs20 after bargaining, they take down their basket, use their machete to open it just a little, stick a straw in it and hand it to you. When you finish, you can find them, or catch them the next time they walk by, and they will take down their machete again and cut the coconut in half, use it to loosen up the coconut meat, and hand it to you for your eating pleasure. We also get these in Hyderabad, for cheaper). We bought a couple sarongs and then on the last day a girl selling them came over and sat with us. She said she was 10 and had been selling for four years. She stayed on the one beach because they all knew her and didn't charge her commission, like some of the restaurateurs do on other beaches. She said she was in school and had exams the next day, which she intended to study for that night. She said she was originally from the state or Karnataka and went home once a year during monsoon season. We offered her some coconut and a banana, which she took. She ended the conversation after about 15 minutes by abruptly launching into her sales pitch, and then walking away with her bundle of sarongs.


Even though the weather was just perfect, we were told that the tourist season ended in late March. Still, the beach has mostly white people, and after talking to a woman with a British accent in a beach-side cafe, we learned why. "I've lived here for 8 years," she said and she fed chicken to her son, Eden. "I don't know why the tourist season ends so early - ask him, he's been here for 20 years," she said, pointing to a blond man in his fifties. This highlighted for me a phenomenon that I was not previously aware of - whit Westerners moving to developing countries, presumably so they can relax, explore their spirituality through gurus, meditation, yoga, and live a work-free life as a rich person due to the skewed economy. There's something tempting about the idea of picking up and moving to beautiful Goa, and yet also something quite unsettling about this concept...

My camera broke in Goa due to an excess of sand, so the photos in this post are taken from Lily.

Me, Lily and Shlayma

What has four legs, is holy, and is dodged by traffic at all costs?

My tea lady keeps asking me to tell her the composition of a cow. I was utterly confused until I finally asked her to tell me the composition of a cow and she said, “A cow is a domestic animal. It has four legs. It gives milk, curds, cheese.” I realized she must have been trying to do her daughter’s English homework. We then proceeded to have a fight over whether cows give ice cream.

Mumbai

In January the AJWS retreat started out with several days in Mumbai. After Thailand, I returned to Mumbai for a couple days before returning to Hyderabad.

I enjoyed Mumbai a lot. I thought it was beautiful and had a completely different feel than anywhere else I'd been in India. It has that grandiose big city feel like NYC. I am aware, however, that I was mostly in the nicest richest parts of Mumbai, and saw art museums, tourist sites, and continental restaurants, and did not see things like the biggest slum in Asia (which is in Mumbai).

The double decker buses and red phone booths are reminiscent of the time of British rule

A few of us visited one of the Jewish synagogues in Mumbai. The next week Lily, Shlayma and I went to the service here, which was run by a Chabad Rabbi. As per order of the Chabad Rabbi, women are relegated to the balcony during the services and don't count towards a minion.

Me and a few AJWS fellows with Ben Zion, an Indian Jew.

They say you can get anything you want in Mumbai - for a price.

A glimpse of the Mumbai airport, and all the many people you meet when you exit. If that's not overwhelming I don't know what is.

Me eating Kulfi ice cream out of a one time use clay pot

People nap everywhere. Look closely.