Karimgunj & SVoice Conclusion

Karimgunj formed around us after a solid six hours of bumpy roads and ruckus honking (after all the months I’ve spent in India, I have yet to condition myself to the strident noise of the streets and highways; Indian horns, unlike their American counterparts, are turn signals, passing alerts, warnings of nearness, and location markers and, as such, are a constant backdrop to driving). Our traveling seminar was coming to a close, and this was to be our last stop on our tour of northern India: Karimgunj, an authentic village in Uttar Pradesh, one the poorest states in all of India.

We had been slowly acculturated to the lifestyle we would be met with while in Karimgunj. Our seminar leader has an impressive forty years experience of living in and researching the village, and her advice was supported with reading material and shorter visits to a village in Rajasthan and a relocated village family in New Delhi. Even still, as our car jolted down streets laid by the villagers in an uneven network of bricks, transitioned onto narrow dirt alleys almost completely blocked by water buffalo with fodder dripping out of their lazily chewing maws, and tilted precariously beside a pond covered with a thick green sludge, I couldn’t help but feel as though we’d made a wrong turn somewhere and accidentally driven into the centerfold of a National Geographic magazine. I’m sure the language barrier didn’t help; these people with their babbling speech, strange customs, destitute condition, and overwhelming hardships just couldn’t be real.

The Brahmin family whose veranda (read: home for the water buffalo) we parked our car in contained three of the five English-speakers that I met in the village, two of which were fluent and one of which had a vocabulary only slightly more workable than the French I retained from high school. We were shown to our string cot beds, introduced to the family, and shown all around while the father proudly pointed out how well their electricity was working (it worked all day, then gave up for the rest of our stay). Let me just say: you know that something serious has happened to you when you take stock of your bathroom facilities (a squat latrine flushed by pouring water down the bowel), note the dead mouse in the corner being slowly ripped apart by a horde of ants, and exalt that this set-up is really very pleasant.

I came to India to experience something new and different, something radical and jarring; as my days here move towards their conclusion, I realize that I have certainly gotten that and a lot more. Not to be Aladdin about things, but it’s pretty much a whole new world over here. I’ve had a lot of time to sit around and collect mosquito bites. I’ve accustomed myself to the dismal quality of Indian bathrooms (now even squat toilets basking in a swamp of unknown fluid have become useable), and I’ve accepted that I’ll always have to strategize if I want to ply a few minutes worth of hot water from my shower. I can walk down the street and dodge cows, wild dogs, and their excrements without batting an eye. “Backwoods farm” and “thriving metropolis” have become interchangeable in my visual vocabulary. In short: India has defied all of my expectations, and it hasn’t always been easy. In fact, all the stories people have told me about how they went to India in their youth, absolutely hated it, and were inevitably drawn back to fall in love have sent shivers down my spine. Don’t get me wrong: despite all of its unexpectedness, difficulty, and foreignness, India’s been a good and worthwhile experience. Four months is a long time, though, and I couldn’t understand the desire to come back.

Until, that is, the village happened. When we first toured the village, a huge throng of schoolchildren trailed us as we walked and engulfed us whenever we stopped to watch something or meet someone. Later, these same children surrounded me to teach me Hindi from what I’m sure was the equivalent of a kindergarten reader. The family’s eldest daughter spent hours applying henna to my hands and feet, we spent nights playing marathon games of Safari Rummy by the light of a gas lantern, and the little girl next door—my favorite girl in the village—found me whenever I left the house, grabbed my hand, and stared up at me with the biggest and happiest smile that I have ever seen. A world like this would never exist in America (talk about your fabulous part-time jobs: in villages someone actually makes cow patties with their bare hands); it’s shocking and brutal and basic, but inexpressibly amazing. In three short days I understood how four months of desperately yearning for the comforts of home can become irrelevant. That’s the power of India: a day, an hour, a minute can change everything.

Things the World Has to See

My two favorite pictures of the Indian five-striped squirrel, taken at the Arya Niwas hotel in Jaipur.



What could be more adorable than a squirrel tea party? I only wish they had invited me!

Visualizing India: Karimgunj and Villages

From November 8 to November 11, I stayed in Karimgunj, an Indian village in the Mainpuri district of Uttar Pradesh. Although the experience was probably as close to "roughing it" as I've ever gotten, it was also one of the most enjoyable, educational, and inspiring of my entire India experience thus far. Uttar Pradesh is one of the poorest Indian states, but I found Karimgunj to be a pretty accurate replica of other villages we've visited. Hopefully these pictures will give you an impression of what average living conditions are like for most Indians.

This is a typical street in Karimgunj, and pretty typical of a lot of other villiages we've visited. Note the free-roaming animals, the ramshackle houses, and the copious dung piles; all are 100% authentic. Quite a bit different from small-town America.

Piles of cow dung patties. These are actually a staple of Indian life, as they make good fuel for cooking. Mm-hm. Dinner cooked via cow dung patty—it's enough to kick those saliva glands into overtime, huh?

Hey, someone's gotta make 'em. I don't know about you, but it makes me feel a lot better about all the bad job experiences I've had in my history.

A woman making bidis. She does this in her spare time, and gets a measly 20 rupees for every thousand she makes. Because of all of her household obligations, she can't even make a thousand bidis in a day. Indians need at least 40 rupees per day to make poverty line, so you can imagine how finances tend to go in villages.

Richa, my shadow and my favorite little girl in the village. She tried to teach me Hindi, but I'm afraid I forgot most of it. This is pretty much what she'd do to me all day: just stare up at me with that big smile on her face. So adorable.

Safari Rummy, which was played in marathon amounts. From left: Roslyn, Chaundeny, Shonu, Ashley, Unket, and I forget the other little boy's name. This is in the main room of where we stayed with the Brahmin family.

One great thing about villages: they have baby goats!

Oh, how I wanted to run away with it. The only thing that stopped me was that there was photographic evidence that I was the last to be seen with it.

One of Dean Wadley research assistants made us come back to his home to meet and take pictures of his family. Indians don't generally smile for photographs, so that's why they all look so depressed. What they're sitting on (and what's in the background) is a string cot, which is what the villagers sleep on.

A pig sleeping in what I'm pretty sure is an oven/stove. Not exactly smart.

Karimgunj, Hindi-Kindergarten, Etc.

Enrollment takes on a whole new panache when you set up next semester’s schedule in an Internet café in Agra, India, and then scamper a few kilometers down the road to view the Taj Mahal.

I am fabulously happy to be back at AIIS in New Delhi because it is familiar and has free Internet. I was able to sit down and send off some worthwhile emails, instead of my usual rushed “I am here! I am alive! I miss you lots! Ladedadeda!” sort of blather (I never actually write ‘ladedadeda,’ of course).

Unfortunately, I fear I’ve angered the AIIS showers somehow; they are luxuriously warm until I step in, wherein they instantly become frigid. I am letting them ruminate over how much this cruel teasing has hurt me (especially considering that I will be wandering in the desert of cheap hotels and questionable bathroom situations over the next week) in hopes that the Mary/hot water ban will be lifted.

I spent the past few days in a Brahmin home in an Indian village, and the experience was surprisingly enjoyable. I pumped water from a hand pump for the first time in my life, although I was pathetic and quickly demoted.

It’s very bizarre when you’re in a poorly lit latrine, squatting over a porcelain-surrounded hole in the ground (one that is “flushed” by tossing a bucket of water down it, no less), and the thought strikes that this is really a very acceptable bathroom. You’re impressed! All the while, there’s a dead mouse in the corner that’s spent the entire day being slowly torn apart by a troop of ants. And, no, the mouse does not make you less impressed. That’s what India does to a person.

Okay, well, it does a lot of other things. Take the village, for instance. It made me temporarily love India (although that was a very off and on thing for certain circumstances that I won’t get into now). I really adored the family we stayed with. Richa, Alika, Chaundeny, Shonu, and all the other little village children tried to teach me Hindi one night; we spent a lot of time on numbers, but with my terrible retention for languages I fear I’ve forgotten just about all of them besides a select few that sound like American words. The kids would say the numbers in Hindi, and then I’d repeat them. I think we moved to the alphabet at some point, then I don’t even know what they were having me say. The kids would say something, I’d repeat it, and they’d all instantly burst into laughter. I know one of the things they’d laugh at was a word that meant “you say,” which they were trying to use to get me to count off in Hindi. I just repeated the word instead of counting, until Shonu came and was able to translate it. The other things, though, I have no idea. Later, one of the kids got their kindergarten-equivalent Hindi reader, and I must have spent hours sitting on the string cot surrounded by a flock of Indians while Richa (who was 11) and Chaundeny (14) pointed at two-letter words for me to pronounce. They were very excited that I could read Hindi, but really I was employing my limited Sanskrit knowledge since the alphabet/script is pretty much the same. I didn’t know what any of the words meant, so after I’d read a word they’d try and translate a meaning to me without us having a common language. Shonu (the Brahmin family’s oldest son who is probably around 20 or so) and his friend knew a little English, so that helped. It actually worked pretty well. I don’t remember any of the words, but I did entertain the masses.

The night before we played a marathon of Safari Rummy, and Alika (23-ish, and a BA in English and English literature, so she was able to talk with us and translate a little between her family) did a bunch of mendhi (henna) on Ros, Dean Wadley, and me. Very pretty. Also the first time that I was henna-ed by a genuine Indian.

Generally, there was lots of bonding. Richa took to me. Whenever I left the house she’d be there to come along, and she’d just stand there looking at me with this huge grin on her face. She was really adorable; I think I could stand those kind of children in small doses. You don’t really have to do anything to make them happy besides exist, and they adore you for no logical reason. It’s very cute. It is also good for the ego.

Being in the village made me wish that I actually did know Hindi, and that I could help everyone there in some way. They were all so welcoming and happy to have us around. I admit, it kind of made me want to teach English to little kinds like Richa and Chaundeny, but we’ll see how long that lasts. I’m sure some other situation like Fun & Fitness hospital volunteering will come around that will remind me how deplorable I am when dealing with those persons under 15 years of age.

Okay, well, a lot has happened, and I’m sure a lot will continue to happen. Next week Ashley, Roslyn, and I will be venturing on our own to Hardiwar (the origin of the Ganges), Bombay, Aurangabad (passage to some temple caves), and Goa (a former Portuguese settlement famous for its beaches). We’re returning to Mysore next Sunday, so I’ll be a regular presence (or as regular as I have ever been while in India) after the 19th.

Pushkar Camel Fair

I’ve had some crazy car incidents in my day. In the snow-bound states especially, I’m sure it’s hard not to have some war stories to keep your driver’s license warm at night. Vehicular transport has always been on the interesting side of thigns in India, be it plane (Kingfisher, beer company and self-proclaimed distributor of “Good Times,” does it better than everyone, leading me to conclude that control of the skies should henceforth be forfeited exclusively to alcohol), train (sleeper cars are divine, excrement-soaked tracks not so much), or automobile (the driving rules here, in comparison to those of the States, are virtually nonexistent, yet surprisingly effective). I do believe, however, that I have recently experienced the crazy car incident to beat all crazy car incidents: a sideswipe by a camel, brought to me courtesy the Pushkar Camel Fair. “Hit and Run by Camel”—check one life goal off my list!

The Pushkar Came Fair is a celebration of all animals rideable, but especially those that double as a living canteen. Indians come to the annual week-long festival to buy and sell horses and camels, and tourists come to… well, buy. The markets and streets are spilling over with Westerners and their cushy exchange rates: an opportunity to push touristy souvenirs onto people with luxury money that few Indian merchants can resist. Compared to the price tags and passive employees of spic-n-span American malls, India is considerably more spontaneous and in your face. Walking through Pushkar, like many other markets in Indian cities, you are guaranteed to have venders at your side or waving at you from their booths, calling, “Hey-lo! Please come take a look! Very cheap!” as they barter off their clothes, bags, puppets, musical instruments, whatever. White skin is an automatic stigma symbolizing money, and it often earns tourists a bump in prices.

Still, camels are the main event and, as such, they are everywhere (dangerously so, it would seem) in full, flashy camel attire, piercings, and make-up. I’m not sure why Pushkar became camel-central, but I suppose the city’s placement in the Rajastani desert makes it seem a likely haunt for the two-toed farmhands. This Pennsylvania-raised girl has never experienced desert before; I can only liken Pushkar’s take on it to a dust-beach that’s lacking its ocean. I romanticized desert sands to be more of the seashore variety. Unexpectedly, Pushkar sand looks and feels more like it was stockpiled from the tops of all the world’s picture frames. Still, walking around Pushkar in flip-flops has that same futile quality to it that sandy beaches have, with the added benefit of desert brush (read: hidden thorn bushes) and frequent animal droppings. Let me just say that my feet will need some serious buffing before they’ll ever get back to their pre-India state of cleanliness.

According to the leader of our traveling seminar, Pushkar is a “hippy-dippy town” whose economy relies almost completely on tourism. I admit I felt a little Indian while there; it’s been months since I’ve seen so many white people in one place, and I definitely partook in some impolite staring. The Pushkar Camel Fair brings throngs of foreigners, and Rajastan spares no expense. The state’s name means “land of the kings,” and it has long been a popular destination for short-term excursions into the subcontinent. It’s a place built for novel views of India; the colorful clothing styles, scenery, animals, and cities all pantomime the “traditional” India of turbaned maharajas, daring snake-charmers, and ornamented dancers. I suppose I can’t say much about superficial tourism—in Pushkar, our foursome “camped” in elaborate tents with a completely functional Western-style bathroom. They even provided toilet paper, which is more than I can say for several hotels I’ve stayed at.

So what did I gain from Pushkar? Unfortunately, not a decorated Indian camel of my own (I think getting it onto the plane home would be a tad complicated). The most important life lesson, I think, was a bit of myth-busting. After spending two days completely surrounded by camels, the only things I saw spitting were Indian men.