home, in a sense

Forgive me for multitasking. While I write this, there's a can of soda in my hand and The Office is blaring on the television overhead. It's a little past midnight on Friday, July 30, 2010: exactly two weeks after I returned home from my time in India. Two weeks of readjustment to Eastern Standard Time, to red meat, to meals without rice, to the luxuries of Western society that seem gradually less opulent with every day home and every movie watched.

Truth is, I'm homesick.

It's been exactly forty days since I left Wilmington for the other side of the world. Ignore the Biblical connotations of that and instead take a glance at my first post in this blog, written the night before I flew east. I wouldn't have admitted it then (or, generally, ever), but I was scared. I failed to mention it then, but I had absolutely no idea what to expect or anticipate. To be totally honest, I think I was just hoping that the experience would be adequately "eye-opening, life-changing, [insert similar cliche here]" to give me enough to write about for a college essay.

Funny how things changed almost as soon as I landed, when I was more scared than I ever was when I first started this blog.

The last forty days of my life might not have been biblical in the temptation-of-Christ, forty-days-in-the-desert sense... but they were so, so incredible in a way impossible to quantify or even sufficiently describe. They were eye-opening and they were life-changing, but not in a form expressible via an essay or report.

But if I had to quantify it, here are some numbers:

16 (number of weeks my mom and I spent planning the trip)

3 (number of weeks my mom and I spent on the trip)

57 (the number of hours I spent on an airplane, getting there and back)

36 (the number of malaria pills I took on the trip)

37 (the number of malaria pill-induced dreams I had on the trip)

63 (the number of servings of curry and rice I ate)

74 (the number of students I taught each day)

1.139 billion (the population of India)

52,850,562 (the Kannada-speaking Indian population)

3 (the number of words in my Kannada vocabulary)

427 (the course number of Intermediate Kannada at the University of Pennsylvania)

14 (days since I've been home)

10 (months until, ideally, I go back)

So, I guess the point I'm trying to make is that it would be completely and utterly impossible for me to properly describe to you my experiences and the incredibly profound effect they've had on me. They say home is impossible to describe, and I guess they're right. So let me finish my soda and get back to The Office, and just know that I'll be back. It might be next summer, it might be next year, and it might be when I'm fifty, but I'll be back.

After all, in the words of the Talking Heads, home is where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there.

Namaste,

Nash

balancing extremes, winding down

I take back all of my complaints about my experience as an American tourist over the last few days. Sure, I'm still guilty about the hot showers, but thanks to today, I've come to see the merits of simple sightseeing. We got back to the hotel a few hours ago after spending a full day exploring the streets, alleyways, and ghats of Varanasi, a city whose festive disorder can penetrate the walls of even the most Western air-conditioned tour bus.

But allow me to start from the beginning.

My mom and I share similar thoughts on the homogeneity of the standard tourist experience, so last night, we vowed to do things differently today. For one, we agreed to break free from our tour guide. While I realized this meant I'd miss out on the facts, figures, and history of my surroundings, I know that there are other ways to learn about a place. So, when we met up with our driver this morning, we politely requested that we have the majority of the day to explore Varanasi alone. Surprisingly, they complied, and at around noon, my mom and I were dropped off in the heart of Varanasi's oldest, brightest, and most chaotic quarter. This is the area known as the Old City, and the name is literal. Varanasi is one of the oldest living towns in the world, and has served as a spiritual mecca for Hindus for more than a thousand years. It sits on the banks of the Ganges, with nine miles of ghats (steps) leading down to the murky water. The ghats are a community in and of themselves, with daily prayer, bathing, and cremations.

Yeah. Cremations. The sanctity of Varanasi appeals it to Hindus hoping to attain moksha, or escape from the cycle of reincarnation. They say if you die in Varanasi and are cremated on its steps, you reach moksha. Boom. Seems simple, right? Judging by the thousands of Indians that flock to Varanasi every day, it is.

So, we spent the afternoon walking through the narrow alleyways and along the ghats, taking in the scene before us. As night fell, we hired a boatsman and made our way onto the Ganges, from which the city of Varanasi was spread before us like a glowing, colorful birthday cake that happens to be nine miles long. From the water, we saw the burning ghats, where bodies swaddled in bright cloths were being kindled in wood and set ablaze. It was a heavy experience - the plaintive chanting of those praying on the steps echoed throughout the still night, and the smoke of the cremations seemed to glow in the lights of the city.

I guess my point is, I was wrong to bash the whole tourist experience. There is middle ground in this experience, which I learned today. There are countless options that lie on the gamut between the comforts of home, well, asceticism. My transition between these two extremes in the last week has left me a bit shell-shocked, but thanks to today, I think I'm getting better about it.

And just in time, really. Today was our last full day in India; tomorrow, we'll fly to Delhi, where we'll have a chance to spend a few hours in the city before flying to Paris. I'll post for the last time then, but I reckon this was my last chance to document the day-to-day experiences. Hope I didn't disappoint...

tales from the railroad

(originally written tuesday 7.13)

For the last four hours, I've been sitting on a train speeding through the Indian countryside. The sun's starting to set, I'm finally getting used to the cramping in my legs, and the chai-wallah keeps passing our compartment expectantly - I'm entertaining the idea of buying some hot tea in lieu of the dinner I won't be having 'til we get to Varanasi.

Four hours down, seven to go.

We're traversing the north of the country in the quintessentially Indian way: by rail. 1.7 million people travel on Indian Railways each day; today, I'm one of them. I rather like it, to be honest. No near-death collisions, no potholes, no transvestite beggars tapping on your window. And believe it or not, the length of this trip (11 hours - jealous?) has a redeeming quality: my inevitable boredom. In the first two hours of the journey, I'd finished Fight Club and the rest of my summer reading books and extinguished my collection of episodes of The Office on my iPod. In other words, restlessness ensued.

So, I went exploring. I left the air-conditioned comfort of our compartment and made my way into the second class compartment, where men, women, and children sit four to a seat. Where mothers hold their babies to the barred windows to keep them from getting too hot. Where boys half my age sell balloons and cold drinks to the passengers with a few spare rupees, Slumdog Millionaire style. Where I'm almost positive I saw a goat.

Again, cue American consumerist capitalist guilt. I probably deserved the looks I got from those crammed into the coach. After all, it's not every day that a white boy with Ray-Ban aviators and a Nikon D60 stumbles into the steerage compartment of an Indian passenger train. But I ignored the looks, focused on the people, and made my way down the aisle, my boredom now replaced with the sense of curiosity of a seventeen-year-old boy on an adventure. Truth is, I loved it. I've sort of resented the "Westernness" of my last few days - the hotels, the satellite television, the french fries, and all the other homogenized trinkets of tourism. Actually, maybe not the french fries, but my point is pretty clear, I think. All I'm saying is it was nice to be back in a state of simplicity, if even for a few minutes.

I'm back in our compartment now, and night has fallen on the Indian countryside. Every ten minutes or so, we whizz by a blur of dim lights that indicates a village, but we still have hours to go before we arrive in Varanasi, the next big city on this train line (which, by the way, is called Kalka Mail - as the name suggests, it's a mail train that runs from the city of Kalka to West Bengal). Once in Varanasi, we'll probably grab some dinner before settling in for the night. I think we're renting a boat and taking it down the Ganges at sunrise tomorrow. Should be interesting - Varanasi, Hinduism's most sacred city, is famous for the hundreds of cremations on the shores of the river.

Oh, side note. Saw the Taj Mahal yesterday. Felt obliged to mention that. It was beautiful and it lived up to the hype, but monuments, tombs, and forts grow redundant after awhile. Imagine that.

agra

After two and a half days in the capital city, we drove this morning to Agra - notably the home of the Taj Mahal. I managed to sleep on the five-hour drive this morning: the roads in the north of the country are far less chaotic than those in the south. Or maybe I'm just used to the streams of near-death experiences. There's always something to see, though... elephants, homeless children selling balloons, transvestite beggars, the works.

It's interesting to note the contrast between the two regions. Even between the two adjacent states of Delhi and Uttar Pradesh (where we are now), discrepancy exists. In my eyes, life in India is much like life in, say, the European Union: a collection of highly diverse states unified by currency, a label of national identity, and other political formalities. Each state (or in some cases, region) has its own language; comprehension of the two "national" languages (Hindi and English) is limited, especially among the lower classes. However, despite how fractured and fragmented India may seem, there's a definite undertone of national pride throughout the country, especially since Independence Day (Aug. 15) approaches. Back at the school in Josephnagar, the students devoted a good portion of their afternoon rehearsing for the celebrations next month.

Speaking of, I miss it. Like I said in my previous post, the change in scenery of the last few days has left me a bit culture-shocked, and while I relish the clean sheets, hotel micro-shampoos, and Hindi-language television, I miss the routine simplicity of life in Josephnagar. I've traded Catholic nuns for tour guides and the girls in the home for the beggar children that knock on car windows. Instead of dwelling on it, though, I'm simply going to enjoy my last few days in the country, because who knows how long it'll be before I get back here? We leave on Thursday night - can't believe it's been nearly three weeks already.

delhi

We flew from Bangalore to Delhi yesterday afternoon, and as we left the airport, I couldn't help but notice some striking differences between the two cities.

Firstly, Delhi's green. Despite its scorching temperatures (it's a good thirty degrees warmer here than in Bangalore), Delhi's streets are lined with trees and topiaries redolent of, say, Washington, D.C. I pick that example because the two cities are similar in more ways than faunal. They're both national capitals, and they're both constructed as such - wide, easily navigable (yet bustling) streets, roundabouts around monuments, etc.

The contrast between Bangalore and Delhi is sort of surprising, especially since my Lonely Planet guidebook, which I perused on the flight north, describes Delhi as this overpopulated quagmire of shtick - think Times Square with rickshaws and minarets. On the contrary, Delhi seems a bit more controlled, a bit more mechanized than Bangalore. Of course, there is the inevitable chaos - it's a city of 12 million, after all - but it's a structured sort of chaos, and it has yet to overwhelm.

As it is India's capital and second-largest city, it's a cultural mecca of sorts, and we spent our day embracing it in the traditional tourist fashion. Our stops were the standard travel agency staples - the Red Fort, Jama Masjid (the largest mosque in India), and the National Gallery of Modern Art.

It's still sort of unreal how drastically my experiences have changed in a matter of forty-eight hours. I've gone from the tranquil simplicity of helping a girl with her English homework to the artificiality and opulence of visiting gift shops and running into the Lieutenant Governor of Delhi at dinner. When I think about the girls at the home back in Josephnagar, I can't help but feel guilty, as if my next few days as a tourist will somehow repudiate the work I did back south. I think my mom feels the same way, so we're trying to keep our decadence in check for the rest of the trip. I doubt we'll stray too far from our experiences in the home; the ubiquitous presence of beggars (many of which are children - think Slumdog) keeps dragging me back to the poverty that plagues this country, and the juxtaposition between my experience in it and theirs.

From here, we spend another day in Delhi, then we'll drive (or rather, be driven) to Agra to see the Taj Mahal (cue tourist guilt again) on Monday. We'll take a train to the sacred Hindu city of Varanasi on Wednesday, spend a day and a half there, then fly back stateside late Thursday night. Though these past few weeks have been incredible, it'll be nice to be home.

On a side note, I took my first hot shower in two weeks last night, and interestingly enough, I found I hadn't missed it all that much. Still, it's nice to have constant electricity.

last day here

(delayed, originally written wednesday 7.9)

I'm writing this on a bittersweet note: today was our last day at the home. Tomorrow, we head to Bangalore for a night before flying north to Delhi on Friday. Though I would have liked to spend one more day teaching, today the nuns took us volunteers on a two hour drive to the village of Maradiyur to visit the site of an orphanage under construction. I use the phrase "under construction" leniently. Currently, there isn't much more to see than three nuns living in a small home on five acres of land, but their optimism is incredibly encouraging. Mike, Home of Hope's volunteer coordinator, mused to us on the jeep ride about devoting substantial time next year to the completion of the construction of the Maradiyur home and school. I'm keeping my fingers crossed. It's even more remote than Josephnagar, the nearest city being Hassan, two hours away. Somehow, though, I doubt being off the beaten path will hinder these nuns from accomplishing their goals.

We had a chance to do some local sightseeing as well, which was refreshing. Our first stop of the day was Bylakuppe, a Tibetan Buddhist settlement between Hassan and Maradiyur. Bylakuppe, too, is isolated, but in a much different, much less physical sense than Maradiyur and Josephnagar. Bylakuppe is isolated in a cultural sense; its people and societal norms are incongruous to that of the rest of Karnataka. No real question as to why, though. For one, almost everyone there is a Tibetan émigré, and most of them have clung to the customs of their homes to the north. Buddhists are a slim minority in southern India, and it hardly surprises me that they've clung together, especially considering many of them were exiled from Tibet.

Aesthetically, Bylakuppe was spectacular. The Golden Temple - the monastery's most sacred, most ornate chamber - featured golden incarnations of three Buddhas, towering sixty feet tall above the marble floors. (see: http://travel.paintedstork.com/blog/image/golden_temple.jpg , though that photo hardly does it justice).

But enough about the tourism.

Saying goodbye is never fun, and as I bid my farewells to the seventy smiling girls tonight, I realized how incredible my time at the home has been. I arrived in the south of India thirteen days ago with little idea of what to anticipate; I leave it with a great appreciation for many things: the work of the Salesian Sisters in India, the efforts of my elementary school teachers (it's not as easy as one might expect), and, most importantly, how fortunate I really am. I realize that sounds trite, hackneyed, clichéd, whatever, but it's true.

So, tomorrow morning, I'll leave here for a six-hour drive on India's fantastically dystopian highway system, a drive that will bring me from strange, unadulterated simplicity to what many define as "reality." For the next week and a half, I'll be nothing more than an American tourist in India, my camera swinging around my neck as I buy t-shirts at the Taj Mahal. In a way, I'll feel guilty - because frankly, the transition from life in an orphanage to the opulence of tourist hotels in New Delhi is extreme.

But no worries - I'll be back.

the bandh that brings us together

(delayed post, originally written tuesday 7.6)

After only twenty-four hours, the bus drivers' bandh has resolved itself; however, in spite of its brevity, the strike had a remarkable impact on the social infrastructure of the state of Karnataka, even in towns as remote as Josephnagar. In this regard, the bandh, organized in response to the hike in fuel prices by the leftist regional government, was successful - according to an article in the Deccan Herald (an Indian English newspaper), many major roads in Karnataka and bordering states were virtually deserted yesterday. Whether or not the National Democratic Alliance (the local ruling party) will abandon its efforts to increase fuel prices remains unseen.

My point is, it's impressive how the unification of a group of people can have such a dynamic effect on, well, everything. I point to the closing of the small school (with a primarily boarding student body) in a semi-isolated village for evidence. But again, I'm not complaining. It was nice to be able to play with the kids outside of the classroom, and even better to be able to rest.

Since we leave Josephnagar on Thursday and have plans to visit a nearby orphanage under construction tomorrow, today will be my last day teaching. I'm manning the troops alone (the other volunteers are back at the doctor's office), which is a bit daunting. By now, though, I've come to realize my strengths and weaknesses in the classroom. I'm considerably better with the older students, as I mentioned earlier, simply because the language barrier is far less concrete. This isn't to say I've neglected the younger students entirely - they're the ones I usually play with in the schoolyard.

It'll be hard to leave, no doubt. But I also don't doubt that I'll return at some point, ideally for a longer stint. My mom wasn't enthralled with my proposition of spending a gap year here, but it was worth a shot.

day off, round two

In a country of 1.1 billion, everything is interconnected in some way or another.

Take, for example, the bus drivers' strike (or "bandh," as it's called in India) that's emerged in the last day here (http://www.hindustantimes.com/Bharat-bandh-What-s-the-situation-in-your-state/Article1-567680.aspx see: Karnataka). Though the village of Josephnagar is reasonably remote, the strike has impacted the town - enough to cancel classes for the day.

So, we had our second day off from teaching, something I relished: because really, I'm much better at playing with the girls than I am at teaching them English. We spent the morning doing some impromptu tutoring in the home. I'm better with the older students, so I spent time with them, teaching them how to structure sentences; meanwhile, my perpetually-patient mother took the smaller ones.

Having explored the surrounding area a bit, I had the idea to take the girls on a walk before the inevitable daily late-afternoon thunderstorm. The nuns eagerly agreed, so after lunch, we five volunteers and Sister Mary - the Superior here - took sixty-odd girls on a walk through the surrounding countryside to the nearby river. Swimming is a rare treat for them, and they made the most of it. I had initially planned to avoid getting wet (the phrase "fecal coliform" echoed in my ears from science class), but I was bored within five minutes, so I figured what the heck.

The girls were happier than I've seen them in my week in Hassan, and it was comforting to know that I had done something right. Geetika, one of the third standard girls, thought it would be funny to steal my sandals: I walked the half-mile back to the home in bare feet, but I'm not complaining.

Once we were back, Mike showed us the home's biodiesel generator, fueled by the waste of the home's cows. India is surprisingly very green, and the home and school are no exceptions. I also had the opportunity to check out the solar panels on the roof, from which I could see wind turbines capping a mountaintop in the distance. If I ever come back, I'd love to implement my knowledge of environmental science and work to perfect the home's renewable energy sources (particularly the solar water heater).

We're finishing up our time here; tomorrow, sadly, is our last day of teaching. On Wednesday, we're heading two and a half hours to the east to visit an orphanage under construction, and on Thursday, we leave for Bangalore at around six in the morning. Of course, our return is dependent on the status of the bus drivers' strike: no bus drivers, no buses. This would mean delaying our sightseeing trip in the north of the country, but frankly, I'm not adverse to spending a couple more days with these kids.

sunday

It's Sunday, and my first free day since I've arrived. Incidentally, it's also Independence Day back stateside.

I'm presently the only volunteer at the home - one of the Notre Dame girls is sick, so her friend, my mom, Mike Joseph (Home of Hope's volunteer coordinator, who arrived last night), and one of the nuns took her to the hospital. Feeling I'd be superfluous there, I decided to stay back, spend some time with the girls, and of course, rest.

My mom and I went to Mass this morning before she left. Again, it was conducted entirely in Kannada, but I could definitely identify the fundamental similarities (Communion, for example) between it and the Episcopal services back home, despite the many ostensible differences. I couldn't help but notice the Hindu influence, seen in the lights and heard in the music of the church. I'm curious about the source of this influence, as the village of Josephnagar is predominately Catholic (virtually the entire town comes to Mass every Sunday).

I've spent the morning catching up on summer reading and playing with the girls. I showed them my iPod for the first time, giving them a further glimpse of American culture. Like in Bangalore, America sits on a pedestal among these girls; they've spent the last few days asking my mom and me to show them any relics of life back home - pictures, our cell phones, my deodorant, you name it.

The others should be back from the hospital soon; in the meantime, I'm going to rest up for our last few days here. Our flight to Delhi is Friday morning, and we're either leaving Wednesday or Thursday for Bangalore... hopefully Thursday.

Happy 4th of July to everyone back home. Haven't done anything here to celebrate, though the girls greeted me with "Happy Independence Day" this morning. They won't celebrate until August 15, which marks the day in 1947 India gained independence from Britain (fact courtesy of 9th grade Honors Humanities).

week one down

It's been exactly a week since we landed in Bangalore - I'm not sure if it feels like a day or a month. In any case, the last seven days have been an adventure.
Teaching yesterday had its ups and downs, and I'm beginning to learn my strengths and weaknesses in the classroom. I've realized that I'm much better with the older students (sixth and seventh standards) than I am with the younger, due probably to a combination of the maturity of their students and my own patience and limitations. When it comes to patience, I've really had to learn to accommodate. Despite what I previously though, the language barrier is extraordinarily difficult to overcome. The smaller kids know only the simplest terms, and inasmuch as the older students have their rudimentary English skills down pat, it's still tough to maintain a conversation. However, I've learned to assuage my frustrations through means that don't require language skills... i.e. playing games, mainly. To be honest, I'd rather be a good friend than a good teacher to these girls. The majority of them come from situations unimaginably traumatic - domestic violence and homelessness, namely. There's a handful of students who come in from the village, but the vast majority are boarders at the home, having been rescued by Home of Hope. When I talk to them, I try to get an idea of their histories through the simplest of questions. For example, "where are you from?" tells me a lot. If the student says "Josephnagar" (the local village), they most likely live at home with their family: specifically, a family that cares enough to send them to school. If I get "Bangalore," "Hassan," or elsewhere, they're boarders at the home, which suggests something in and of itself.
But I digress.

After classes yesterday, my mom and I took the time to explore the village of Josephnagar a bit. We managed to get some great pictures; however, the highlight of the afternoon was being invited into a local woman's house. It was much like what one would expect of a home in a rural Indian village - quaint to an extreme (e.g. chickens in the living room) but overall pleasant. I'm actually a bit envious of the simplicity of life here; meanwhile, my BlackBerry sits menacingly in my backpack.
For me, today was a better day for teaching, most likely because I was given the older students for the majority of the day. I spent a lot of time teaching them "basic questions" in English: identifying their name, their age, where they're from, etc. It was a success, I think... I returned home after school to overhear a girl ask her friend, "where are you coming from?"
Because it's Friday, and this is a Catholic home, my mom and I went to mass tonight. Having grown up in a different sect of Christianity, I was pressed to find any possible parallels between an Episcopalian service in the southern United States and a Catholic service in the hills of southern India. The service itself was conducted entirely in Kannada, with the priest occasionally interjecting scolding commands directed at the children into his own sermon. I was clueless throughout, but it provided my first real opportunity to reflect on both the trip so far and my impending senior year of high school.
Besides, as my mom put it, there was nothing good on t.v. tonight.

sick

According to my travel guidebook, one will most likely get sick on their trip to India, especially if travelling in a rural or isolated location.
It speaks the truth.
I woke up yesterday morning after a night of intermittent sleep with pretty bad abdominal pain. I promised myself I'd rest, sleep it off, and rejoin the troops after lunch, but come noon, I still felt lousy. I'm doing much better today, but I'm monitoring my diet to avoid eating anything that could further disagree with me (my breakfast this morning consisted of a fairly benign peanut butter and banana sandwich, made using the Jif we brought from the states). My day will start in the next half-hour or so, when we'll walk down the dirt road to school. I've worked to construct some sort of makeshift lesson plan that will keep the kids occupied, if nothing else.
Medically, I'm not the only one with problems; I'm actually quite fortunate, relatively speaking. Yesterday, one of the girls was complaining of chest pain and numbness in her leg. This was clearly no trivial issue, and the nuns knew she needed to see a doctor. Had I not been ill, I would have accompanied them; instead, my mom (who I learned yesterday is CPR certified) drove with them into Hassan to visit the charity hospital. The girl ended up being fine, but it was definitely a wake-up call for my mom and me.
Otherwise, things are good. We'll teach all day today with Allison and Christy (the two Notre Dame grads), and then rest a bit more in the afternoon before tutoring tonight. I continue to acclimate to the time change - I woke up at three this morning, inexplicably feeling fully rested.
We leave the home next Wednesday to return to the convent in Bangalore, where we'll rest up a bit before leaving for Delhi, Agra, and Varanasi. As much as I'm looking forward to air conditioning, hot showers, and constant electricity, I wish I could have more time here. I've developed an attachment to the home and the kids already, and I have no doubt that I'll return at some point.

first day

It's ten minutes 'til six in the evening here now, and I'm about to head off to tutor some girls before dinner, so I'll make this quick.

Our first day of teaching went remarkably well, considering A.) the novelty of the tasks at hand, B.) the language barrier, and C.) our still-lingering exhaustion. The school is a brief walk down the dirt road from the home; we left with the girls at around 8:45 to get there on time. The school itself is ostensibly nothing remarkable (four rooms, no electricity), but pretty incredible considering what these nuns have to work with. My mom, the two girls from Notre Dame and I were assigned classes to teach for the morning. I taught first and seventh standard ("standard" is the Indian term for "grade," a remnant of the days of British colonization) until lunch... pretty humbling, to say the least. I soon realized that the language barrier would be a tough one to climb over, so I did my best to establish some sort of common ground: i.e. learn the English words they knew, and for those that they didn't, improvise using gestures, etc. The English vocabulary of the students, especially the younger ones in the first and second standards, is essentially limited to basic terms: mother, father, teacher, student, uncle (what they call me), auntie (what they call Mom), book, and, not surprisingly, Jesus. I peppered the stories I read to them - mainly picture books left over from my preschool days - with these terms; it was the easiest way to hold their attention.

After lunch, Mom and I taught the third and fourth standards until the end of the day at 3:30. I've realized that to fill the time, I have to allow them to teach me. They performed for me various songs and games in Kannada, expecting me to do the same for them. I attempted to teach them "I've Just Seen a Face" by the Beatles, which was fun if nothing else.

Tomorrow will be more of the same. I'll devote the rest of the evening to tutoring, eating, and playing with the girls before hopefully crashing early (time is very relative here, and I'm still acclimating to the ten-and-a-half hour leap ahead).

Hopefully, I'll have pictures up soon, but considering the connection here, I might have to wait until I can get wireless on my laptop in Delhi next Thursday.

We're finally in Hassan - or rather, a remote (and perhaps unnamed?) village about an hour north in the hills above the city. I'm typing this on the home's one computer, which still runs on dial-up.

We left the convent in Bangalore yesterday morning at around nine, but waited at the bus station until around noon (transit in India, I've realized, is wholly unpredictable). The bus ride itself was, well, an experience. Fortunately, we had made a reservation, so our seats were guaranteed; others were forced to stand, holding onto the luggage racks overhead for support. We were on the bus for about five and a half hours, arriving in Hassan a bit before six in the evening. Like in Bangalore, a nun from the home picked us up and drove us out of the city.
The home itself seems larger than the one in Bangalore, but perhaps it's just fuller. Unlike the Bangalore convent, this one houses more than seventy girls, ranging in ages from four to sixteen. A good twenty of them were waiting for us in the driveway as we arrived, singing a welcome song in Kannada (the language of the state of Karnataka). After we settled in, we had a chance to meet some of the girls before dinner. There are two American girls volunteering here - they graduated from Notre Dame last month - so we spent the meal talking to them about their time here. They'll definitely be a good frame of reference for the next week and a half.
The home and school are adjacent to one another, both operated by four nuns. It's much cooler here than it was in Bangalore; I used a blanket for the first time last night. We just ate breakfast, and I'm about to go teach my first English class. I'm a bit nervous as to how it'll go... we'll see.

sunday 6.27

(delayed a bit)
Yesterday, we drove an hour into downtown Bangalore to visit three of Home of Hope's inner-city homes and schools. When not distracted by the beautifully entropic mess that is the Indian road network, I couldn't help but notice how Americanized the city is. Amidst markets and bazaars stand Pizza Huts and Sony stores; the city's skyline is dominated by skyscrapers that house calling centers for some of America's leading corporations. Our driver told us that American outsourcing has contributed to the exponential growth of the city in the last few decades, manifested by the ubiquitous presence of brands and labels I've grown up with.
We spent the afternoon driving through the streets of Bangalore from home to home. It was my first chance to interact with the girls, preparing me for the next week and a half. The majority of them speak, at minimum, broken English, translated by the nuns who operate the schools, most of whom are semi-fluent. However, the games we played with them transcended whatever hindrance the language barrier posed.
Around 3, though, my jetlag returned, and I was exhausted. I managed to pull through (thanks to the glasses of lime juice provided by the nuns), but when we left the city at around 8, I crashed. Somehow, I managed to sleep through the symphony of car horns to which the chaos of the streets is orchestrated. Last night was my first night of legitimate, eight-hour, uninterrupted, unfacilitated-by-Tylenol PM sleep thus far. Needless to say, it was great; I'm only hoping I have the same success tonight - we're almost out of Tylenol.

After twenty-four hours in three different airplanes, we've finally arrived.
Our flight from Paris landed in Bangalore a little before midnight last night (so, around 2 in the afternoon back home). Two nuns from the Home of Hope headquarters were waiting to pick us up. The forty-five minute drive from Bangalore International to the headquarters was, as exhausted as I was, exhilarating. From what I could tell, road laws are essentially nonexistent here. Wanna switch between the left and right lanes as you choose? Sure, why not. Cutting off an eighteen wheeler - an act that would most likely warrant the finger back home - is justified by a brief honk on the horn.
When we weren't on the edge of careening off the road, I made a point to pay attention to my surroundings. After all, this area will be my home for the next two weeks until we head north to Delhi. Granted, it was the middle of the night, so I was a bit limited as far as people-watching was concerned. However, from the dilapidated homes that seemed to sag to the point of near-collapse along the dirt road, I think I got a solid idea of the poverty that plagues the region, the poverty I'll be experiencing firsthand when I work with the girls in the school for the next thirteen days. Seeing this made me all the more excited to get to Hassan and begin my work.
I'm currently still at the Home of Hope headquarters in Bangalore. Sleeping will be something to get used to... after all, I'm ten hours ahead of the schedule I'm accustomed to. I'm still pretty exhausted, but my mom and I a point this morning to wake up at a reasonable time, explore the headquarters and meet the nuns. Breakfast consisted of curry, spiced chicken, and milk tea. Since we woke up and ate late, I passed on lunch, but did grab a mango, grown on the grounds of the headquarters. It was delicious, but I'm concerned about what to eat and what not to eat. The mantra "don't drink the water" is resonant (we're brushing our teeth with Dasani for now).
We're still unsure as to when we're heading up to Hassan - hopefully tomorrow or Monday. The drive is about four hours, and I anticipate further near-death experiences. As for now, we're just relaxing and recovering from the unavoidable jetlag. I'm still getting my bearings on things - it's all still very, very foreign.

a few first thoughts

Tomorrow, I leave for India, where I will spend three weeks teaching English and exploring the culture of the nation described by Mark Twain as "the cradle of the human race, the birthplace of human speech, the mother of history, the grandmother of legend, and the great-grandmother of tradition." For the next three weeks, I'll be keeping this blog to document my experiences, a stipulation of the grant proposal I submitted to enable me to go on this trip.

But I suppose I should start from the beginning. It began in December, when Lawrenceville released information regarding the William Welles Award. The award, given by the family of a late alumnus, is a grant for summer travel, particularly "a project or research or writing, which meets a high standard of excellence and promise." (at least, according to the school website). Long story short, I figured I'd go for it.

One small dilemma though: as much as I liked to convince myself that most things I did met a "high standard of excellence or promise," I had absolutely no tangible options on which I could write my grant proposal. So, I toyed with a few ideas, and even wrote the award's prerequisite proposal for some, but none of them hit home. Gradually, I came to realize that at that point, I was applying for the grant not to enrich myself or others, but to bask in the glory of yet another accolade.

And then I met Paul Wilkes. Mr. Wilkes is a family friend and fellow Wilmingtonian, but more importantly, he is the coordinator of Home of Hope India, an organization that operates schools and orphanages for girls in India. My father had told me about the organization in passing, and it piqued my interest. So, on a cloudy evening in the week before Christmas, I arrived at his home to listen to him tell of his orphanages, of the extreme poverty that plagues India, of the countless girls who, through the Home of Hope, have been saved. I was hooked. That night, I wrote my grant proposal; upon returning to school after the holidays, I delivered it to the office of the Dean of Academics with my fingers crossed.And then, nothing, for three months. Come spring break, I started to assume that I hadn't won the award and, disappointed, I began to make alternate plans for my summer. But one night in early April, I returned to Cleve House to find a letter addressed to me. "Dear Nash," it read, "I am delighted to be able to tell you that as one of the winners of the Welles Award for this coming summer, you have been awarded a grant of..."

And now, two and a half months later, I find myself on the brink of traveling halfway around the world to spend three weeks in India. Tomorrow afternoon, my mom and I will fly from Wilmington to Atlanta, then Atlanta to Paris, and then Paris to Bangalore. From there, I will go on to the town of Hassan, in the Indian state of Karnataka. I'll be in Hassan for two weeks, working and teaching in a Home of Hope-operated school for girls. After I leave the orphanage, my mom and I will move onto Delhi, which will be our home base for a week as we explore the sights of northern India.

I plan to post regularly, and will be available via Skype (username: nashjenkins).

My thanks to: my mom for sacrificing the time to accompany me on this adventure. Paul Wilkes for both working with us to plan the trip and committing himself to the cause. Lawrenceville for making this possible. Mrs. James B. Welles, Jr. for funding the award. Everyone else for taking the time to read this.

Namaste,

Nash