Here is my Flickr site if you want to check out some of my favorite shots:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/glamaris/
Monday, May 21, 2007
Monday, May 14, 2007
i think i'm turning japanese...
Heels, hair and Harajuku fashion, the three are synonymous with Tokyo. While walking the streets of the largest city in the world, Tokyo proved to classify itself as the trendiest city as well. One after another, the teased manes of bleached hair crossed the busy intersections beneath the fluorescent lights and continually flashing advertisements. The men and women strut straight off the pages of Vogue and onto the sidewalks attempting to battle for the most creative ensemble. Influenced by J-Pop fashion icons and futuristic aspiration, the aesthetics of the Japanese are a shocking sight.
I am baffled by the way the women walk…clearly they have not watched enough “Sex and the City” to learn the famous Carrie Bradshaw run (looking elegant and classy while exhibiting the latest pair of Manolo Blanhiks). Only about 1 in every 20 women that I passed on the streets was not in stilettos. I myself love wearing heels and am all for dressing up day to day, but before I venture off with my 3 inch height boosts, I usually make sure that I can walk normally in them without stumbling or tripping myself. I could not quite figure out if clumsiness was due to incorrect sizing of shoes, flat-footedness or just plain lack of coordination. No matter the cause, the women were still able to keep it together and look fabulous all the same.
The hair is a whole other topic for discussion. No joke, I passed a woman whose hair was teased so high that the circumference of her crown was larger than her bottom. Many appeared to look like dolls, made up for show with heads slightly too large for their bodies. The men participated in this phenomenon as well as they spiked and parted their hair in ways that I never knew to be possible. I am not going to lie…they may not have looked proportioned, but they all looked fantastic.
Clothing was an assortment of styles fused into a brand new taste. Basically the recipe for a good outfit was to grab the most mix-matched things in the closet and throw them together for a creative display. There were layers upon layers, knee socks galore and more trench coats than I knew were manufactured. I really believe that the trends need to fly across the Pacific and make their way to the States…maybe that will be my mission when the voyage is complete- to educate on world fashion.
Order is very important in Japan. The streets are spotless, beggars are not to be found and everyone appears to have been freshly washed. It is such a difference than America. I cannot remember a time where I felt the pressure to be so neat. There is no jaywalking in Japan…it is not that you will get in trouble, it is simply just not done. The trains and subways are testaments to technology and precision as they can take you anywhere and you feel safe, clean and incredibly on schedule while traveling. There is even order to boarding the transportation as you line up in front of the doors prior to the arrival of the chosen mode of transport and as the doors open a parting occurs to let the travelers off before you replace their bodies on board.
There are so many things that are just culturally different in Japan that seemed so bizarre to me. For instance, when purchasing anything at a store or restaurant, the money or form of payment was not to be handed to the cashier, instead you placed it on a tray in front of them then they took it from there. I thought slot machines were only super-popular in Las Vegas, but in Japan they are around every corner along with the comic stores, karaoke rooms and sticker booths. And the vending machines…let me tell you, they were so pretty with the cans on display that they called from across the street begging to be admired.
There is so much in Japan that we can learn from and take home with us just as Japan could learn from the States. Maybe a few extra trash cans would be nice just so you didn’t have to walk 6 blocks to dispose of a can and ATMs that took VISA cards would be much appreciated and great time savers. The world is a learning cycle and everyone has something to offer.
I did many things with my time in Japan. I observed the beauty of the Himeji Castle. I traveled up Mt. Rokko and took the cable cars and ropeways to see the nature and sheep that inhabited the Cheese Castle. I walked the bustling streets of Tokyo. Everything I did was wonderful and interesting, but nothing compared to my time at the “Muscle Musical”.
Traveling with my pal Vince, we wandered the regions of Tokyo looking for evening entertainment. While on the subway making our way to the next stop on our list, we saw the signs for a new show called “Muscle Musical”. The posters boasted a large group of fit Japanese twenty-somethings doing handstands and acrobatics under colorful lights. After reading that the show opened only 4 days prior and that the theatre happened to be at the next subway stop, Vince and I decided to hunt down the show and make it our mission to be in the audience for that evening.
With only 2 hours before the show started we began wandering aimlessly asking anyone and everyone if they knew where the “Muscle Musical” was playing. It appeared as though we were the only ones who had ever heard of it. Somehow with a stroke of luck we spotted lamppost banners along a connecting street and we followed our signals to an officer who finally pointed us in the right direction. We made it to the theatre and bought the tickets for 75 bucks a pop hoping that it would be well worth it. In a matter of time we would find out…
I don’t think I have ever spent my money better! The show started out with cast members dressed as monkeys and other jungle animals enjoying their daily life of picking at fleas. All is happy until a giant space ship disturbs the nature and space people appear in tight metallic shredded costumes. Don’t worry though, as soon as the animals and the space cadets touch fingers, an electric energy shocks them all into friendship that consists of gymnastics and other flashy acrobatics into a demonstration of pure randomness and delight. I was hardly able to control my silent laughter and I am pretty sure that my body convulsions we shaking Vince’s seat next to me.
Scene after scene, routine after routine the show was a manifestation of high-energy fun. There were cycling tricks, synchronized swimming bouts and millions of costumes changes that established a crazy sense of Japanese entertainment culture. I am positive that in the States this obscene and bizarre show would not even make it to the stage, but in Tokyo the crowd was wowed and amazed by the failed gymnasts bopping to the techno beat. The hodge podge of acts were hilarious and full of dramatic emotion and as funny as the whole thing was, the routines were impressive showing of choreography and stamina. As I told Vince, somehow I never pictured Japanese men to be so fit but after seeing about 50 sets of perfect abs I will never doubt again.
Everything from the haphazard assortment of performances to the neon hair colors of the cast members was amusing. The sets were well done, there were points with audience participation and everyone seemed to have a great time. Vince and I left the show with the largest grins on our faces. Along with many others we chanted the slogan of “J-U-N-G-L-E Jungle!” and acted out the corresponding hand gestures to the rhythm as we exited the theatre. I still smile at the thought of the opening sequence of the animals and aliens and I am pretty sure that anytime I think of my time in Japan the “Muscle Musical” will always be present.
I am baffled by the way the women walk…clearly they have not watched enough “Sex and the City” to learn the famous Carrie Bradshaw run (looking elegant and classy while exhibiting the latest pair of Manolo Blanhiks). Only about 1 in every 20 women that I passed on the streets was not in stilettos. I myself love wearing heels and am all for dressing up day to day, but before I venture off with my 3 inch height boosts, I usually make sure that I can walk normally in them without stumbling or tripping myself. I could not quite figure out if clumsiness was due to incorrect sizing of shoes, flat-footedness or just plain lack of coordination. No matter the cause, the women were still able to keep it together and look fabulous all the same.
The hair is a whole other topic for discussion. No joke, I passed a woman whose hair was teased so high that the circumference of her crown was larger than her bottom. Many appeared to look like dolls, made up for show with heads slightly too large for their bodies. The men participated in this phenomenon as well as they spiked and parted their hair in ways that I never knew to be possible. I am not going to lie…they may not have looked proportioned, but they all looked fantastic.
Clothing was an assortment of styles fused into a brand new taste. Basically the recipe for a good outfit was to grab the most mix-matched things in the closet and throw them together for a creative display. There were layers upon layers, knee socks galore and more trench coats than I knew were manufactured. I really believe that the trends need to fly across the Pacific and make their way to the States…maybe that will be my mission when the voyage is complete- to educate on world fashion.
Order is very important in Japan. The streets are spotless, beggars are not to be found and everyone appears to have been freshly washed. It is such a difference than America. I cannot remember a time where I felt the pressure to be so neat. There is no jaywalking in Japan…it is not that you will get in trouble, it is simply just not done. The trains and subways are testaments to technology and precision as they can take you anywhere and you feel safe, clean and incredibly on schedule while traveling. There is even order to boarding the transportation as you line up in front of the doors prior to the arrival of the chosen mode of transport and as the doors open a parting occurs to let the travelers off before you replace their bodies on board.
There are so many things that are just culturally different in Japan that seemed so bizarre to me. For instance, when purchasing anything at a store or restaurant, the money or form of payment was not to be handed to the cashier, instead you placed it on a tray in front of them then they took it from there. I thought slot machines were only super-popular in Las Vegas, but in Japan they are around every corner along with the comic stores, karaoke rooms and sticker booths. And the vending machines…let me tell you, they were so pretty with the cans on display that they called from across the street begging to be admired.
There is so much in Japan that we can learn from and take home with us just as Japan could learn from the States. Maybe a few extra trash cans would be nice just so you didn’t have to walk 6 blocks to dispose of a can and ATMs that took VISA cards would be much appreciated and great time savers. The world is a learning cycle and everyone has something to offer.
I did many things with my time in Japan. I observed the beauty of the Himeji Castle. I traveled up Mt. Rokko and took the cable cars and ropeways to see the nature and sheep that inhabited the Cheese Castle. I walked the bustling streets of Tokyo. Everything I did was wonderful and interesting, but nothing compared to my time at the “Muscle Musical”.
Traveling with my pal Vince, we wandered the regions of Tokyo looking for evening entertainment. While on the subway making our way to the next stop on our list, we saw the signs for a new show called “Muscle Musical”. The posters boasted a large group of fit Japanese twenty-somethings doing handstands and acrobatics under colorful lights. After reading that the show opened only 4 days prior and that the theatre happened to be at the next subway stop, Vince and I decided to hunt down the show and make it our mission to be in the audience for that evening.
With only 2 hours before the show started we began wandering aimlessly asking anyone and everyone if they knew where the “Muscle Musical” was playing. It appeared as though we were the only ones who had ever heard of it. Somehow with a stroke of luck we spotted lamppost banners along a connecting street and we followed our signals to an officer who finally pointed us in the right direction. We made it to the theatre and bought the tickets for 75 bucks a pop hoping that it would be well worth it. In a matter of time we would find out…
I don’t think I have ever spent my money better! The show started out with cast members dressed as monkeys and other jungle animals enjoying their daily life of picking at fleas. All is happy until a giant space ship disturbs the nature and space people appear in tight metallic shredded costumes. Don’t worry though, as soon as the animals and the space cadets touch fingers, an electric energy shocks them all into friendship that consists of gymnastics and other flashy acrobatics into a demonstration of pure randomness and delight. I was hardly able to control my silent laughter and I am pretty sure that my body convulsions we shaking Vince’s seat next to me.
Scene after scene, routine after routine the show was a manifestation of high-energy fun. There were cycling tricks, synchronized swimming bouts and millions of costumes changes that established a crazy sense of Japanese entertainment culture. I am positive that in the States this obscene and bizarre show would not even make it to the stage, but in Tokyo the crowd was wowed and amazed by the failed gymnasts bopping to the techno beat. The hodge podge of acts were hilarious and full of dramatic emotion and as funny as the whole thing was, the routines were impressive showing of choreography and stamina. As I told Vince, somehow I never pictured Japanese men to be so fit but after seeing about 50 sets of perfect abs I will never doubt again.
Everything from the haphazard assortment of performances to the neon hair colors of the cast members was amusing. The sets were well done, there were points with audience participation and everyone seemed to have a great time. Vince and I left the show with the largest grins on our faces. Along with many others we chanted the slogan of “J-U-N-G-L-E Jungle!” and acted out the corresponding hand gestures to the rhythm as we exited the theatre. I still smile at the thought of the opening sequence of the animals and aliens and I am pretty sure that anytime I think of my time in Japan the “Muscle Musical” will always be present.
Monday, April 23, 2007
a tribute to antoinette and the fatherland
My father is still a mystery to me. It seems like every year I learn something new about him that he casually forgot to mention in my 20 years of upbringing. Growing up I always knew he was different…a little more reserved than some other dads. I remember realizing the difference in his ethnicity at a young age and deciding that that was why he didn’t cheer as loud at games or like to go and watch the comedies that were the hits of the Friday night big screens. Really race had nothing to do with that…
It wasn’t until I was in high school did I find out that he worked for the FBI. He was the youngest undercover drug officer hired at the time straight out of college. He had been held at gunpoint, he had a few big time drug busts under his belt, he had an Afro and it explained all his connections with government friends. I don’t remember why he told us but I remember the realization of why our phone number was never listed throughout my childhood.
I always knew that he came from very little. My grandparents in Hawaii have lived in the same low-income housing apartments ever since they emigrated from Hong Kong when he was 11. There are 7 children in his family and they all fit in a small 2-bedroom apartment. The siblings all attended the poor school in Honolulu known for fights and gangs. My uncle would tell us stories of them throwing stones at other boys on their way home from school.
It is funny the things that your memory decides to hold on to. I can vividly remember my dad coming home from work in his business suit when I was about 8 years old. He reached on top of the refrigerator and pulled down the movie “Return of Jafar”. My brother and I were so excited. I remember pretending that we were dancing Chinese dragons playing under our penguin-patterned blanket. I remember practicing breaking boards outside when I was training for my black belt. I remember him mowing our giant lawn and playing catch with my brother.
As I rifle through the pages of my memories I have many flashes of fun times. My nickname of “Toe” that he always called me, his yelling “ish” as he ran after us as children, his falling asleep on the couch with his mouth open wide. As I am growing up I am learning more and more about my father, slowly piecing together the puzzle that is his life. Just last week he told me that he lived in Saigon for 2 years when he was young…something that I never would have guessed if not for my visiting the port. It was something that even my mother did not know.
In Hong Kong I finally was able to learn of his beginnings. I always say that you can tell a lot from a person after seeing their home and after years of waiting I was finally able to do that. Still situated on 202 Nathan Road, my father’s old apartment was invisible to the naked eye. As the busy Chinese men in their flashy business suits walked to work weaving their way through the madness of shoppers, my father’s old home sat situated on top of what is now a cosmetics store. Without purpose, it would go unnoticed. Amidst the skyscrapers and grand architecture, the complex stood at 5 stories small. Like in the tales of Harry Potter, the door appeared hidden by magic, only waiting to be seen by those who took the time to look.
I ventured up the tight staircase wedge between two well-lit stores. The concrete was worn and begged for attention. I saw the mailboxes lining the entrance. I walked the 4 flights to peek inside the door. It is such a funny feeling to finally have placed an image of this foreign land I always pictured in my mind. Of course 40 years later time has passed and the city has changed, but still the scent is left behind.
It was such an amazing experience to walk the roads of Kowloon and to see the Peninsula Hotel where my grandpa used to play drums with his band. I feel like I have a new understanding of my past and a better grasp of where my father came from. Seeing his place just added to his success. I better understand his determination in life and his drive to provide everything possible for his family. I am so lucky to have had the opportunity to explore his home and I know that soon my brother will find the chance as well.
I am looking forward to the next bit of information that will I will randomly be dealt with- always shocking, forever interesting. One day in Hong Kong was not enough, but I am excited to know that next time I go I may be bringing someone home for visit that is long past due.
I can never live in China. It is quite the disappointing realization. My body does not agree with the haze that drapes over the colorless buildings and the Chinese snow that interlaces with the trees. This “snow”, more commonly referred to as cotton, was continually blowing with the wind and causing my nose to become very unhappy. I have never had to deal with allergies before, and I know that as long as I keep away from China I most likely won’t have to ever again. But the allergies weren’t the only depressing feature of the country. I have never been in a place that screamed COMMUNISM so blatantly. If I were to picture Russia I think I would think of China with white people. No color. Cold. Bland uniforms. Only in Russia the snow would be made from ice. Hmmm. It is interesting how my perception of the world can change so fast.
It wasn’t until I was in high school did I find out that he worked for the FBI. He was the youngest undercover drug officer hired at the time straight out of college. He had been held at gunpoint, he had a few big time drug busts under his belt, he had an Afro and it explained all his connections with government friends. I don’t remember why he told us but I remember the realization of why our phone number was never listed throughout my childhood.
I always knew that he came from very little. My grandparents in Hawaii have lived in the same low-income housing apartments ever since they emigrated from Hong Kong when he was 11. There are 7 children in his family and they all fit in a small 2-bedroom apartment. The siblings all attended the poor school in Honolulu known for fights and gangs. My uncle would tell us stories of them throwing stones at other boys on their way home from school.
It is funny the things that your memory decides to hold on to. I can vividly remember my dad coming home from work in his business suit when I was about 8 years old. He reached on top of the refrigerator and pulled down the movie “Return of Jafar”. My brother and I were so excited. I remember pretending that we were dancing Chinese dragons playing under our penguin-patterned blanket. I remember practicing breaking boards outside when I was training for my black belt. I remember him mowing our giant lawn and playing catch with my brother.
As I rifle through the pages of my memories I have many flashes of fun times. My nickname of “Toe” that he always called me, his yelling “ish” as he ran after us as children, his falling asleep on the couch with his mouth open wide. As I am growing up I am learning more and more about my father, slowly piecing together the puzzle that is his life. Just last week he told me that he lived in Saigon for 2 years when he was young…something that I never would have guessed if not for my visiting the port. It was something that even my mother did not know.
In Hong Kong I finally was able to learn of his beginnings. I always say that you can tell a lot from a person after seeing their home and after years of waiting I was finally able to do that. Still situated on 202 Nathan Road, my father’s old apartment was invisible to the naked eye. As the busy Chinese men in their flashy business suits walked to work weaving their way through the madness of shoppers, my father’s old home sat situated on top of what is now a cosmetics store. Without purpose, it would go unnoticed. Amidst the skyscrapers and grand architecture, the complex stood at 5 stories small. Like in the tales of Harry Potter, the door appeared hidden by magic, only waiting to be seen by those who took the time to look.
I ventured up the tight staircase wedge between two well-lit stores. The concrete was worn and begged for attention. I saw the mailboxes lining the entrance. I walked the 4 flights to peek inside the door. It is such a funny feeling to finally have placed an image of this foreign land I always pictured in my mind. Of course 40 years later time has passed and the city has changed, but still the scent is left behind.
It was such an amazing experience to walk the roads of Kowloon and to see the Peninsula Hotel where my grandpa used to play drums with his band. I feel like I have a new understanding of my past and a better grasp of where my father came from. Seeing his place just added to his success. I better understand his determination in life and his drive to provide everything possible for his family. I am so lucky to have had the opportunity to explore his home and I know that soon my brother will find the chance as well.
I am looking forward to the next bit of information that will I will randomly be dealt with- always shocking, forever interesting. One day in Hong Kong was not enough, but I am excited to know that next time I go I may be bringing someone home for visit that is long past due.
I can never live in China. It is quite the disappointing realization. My body does not agree with the haze that drapes over the colorless buildings and the Chinese snow that interlaces with the trees. This “snow”, more commonly referred to as cotton, was continually blowing with the wind and causing my nose to become very unhappy. I have never had to deal with allergies before, and I know that as long as I keep away from China I most likely won’t have to ever again. But the allergies weren’t the only depressing feature of the country. I have never been in a place that screamed COMMUNISM so blatantly. If I were to picture Russia I think I would think of China with white people. No color. Cold. Bland uniforms. Only in Russia the snow would be made from ice. Hmmm. It is interesting how my perception of the world can change so fast.
'old habits dye hard' and other tales from nam
I am a hair color addict. I aware of my problem and I love it. I mean there are no drugs or hazardous things involved with my habit so really it is harmless. By doing such a simple thing as changing hair a shade lighter or darker can have an immediate effect on the way you feel and it is always fun for a quick fix of spontaneity.
The stretch at sea had been getting to me…my roots had all grown out from my last dye job. Since I had finished with a long day of art shopping I made a snap decision to step into a Vietnamese salon and make a drastic change. There was no research involved so although I had passed many nicer looking salons around Saigon, I chose the most hole-in-the-wall place with a great view of the busy life outside. Upon entering the salon I noticed the lack of paint on the walls, the mirrors hung with no surrounding decoration and the chairs that were way passed their years. It was perfect. I asked the ladies to color my hair and within minutes I was seated waiting while my color was concocted.
Entering off the streets came my colorist. I would say he was about 24 with red-tinted hair and no English vocabulary. I forgot to mention the fact that there was no music in the salon and although there were about 4 girls working there (or at least sitting reading magazines) none of them were speaking to each other. I am pretty sure that I could hear a pin drop if I felt so inclined to try. So the transformation began. It was the most bizarre way of dying hair that I had ever experienced. He would put color in after color and when I though I was finally finished with it all I came to the surprise that that was just the base and the highlights still had to be done. Understand that I had been sitting in silence for about an hour and a half with 4 girls whispering about me and the sounds of the streets keeping a muted soundtrack of motorbikes zooming around.
Once the base color was done the experience became much more interesting. With the appearance of 5 new customers and the switch of stylists the salon suddenly became a bustle of noises. Through out the next hour and a half I had 6 different women working on my hair- coloring, shampooing and then drying and straightening. My original colorist stepped out of the salon to partake in a game of chess outside with a random shoe shiner. Outside there was a little girl attempting to jump rope but accidentally lifting her leg so high that she appeared as though she was training for hurdles and ended up stepping on the rope each try. With the new customers came new conversation. I was able to meet a girl from Oregon who teaches English in Thailand. This was a perfect encounter for me since I have been researching my endless possibilities for TEFL and ESL programs. Then I met some travelers from England. Although their accents were more fascinating then their personalities it was still a welcome entertainment.
By the time it was all finished I came out looking incredibly Asian…you know, when their light hair color is obviously not natural. But I love it- for now. At least until May when I reach home and get to change it again!
Shopping in the Vietnamese markets is full on sensory overload. In my multiple trips to these busy centers I barely bought a thing since I was so overwhelmed. The clothes, fabrics, sunglasses and shoes together closed in on me making me feel incredibly claustrophobic. Now I know that his is prime bargaining territory where many find their best deals on fake Gucci bags and Polo shirts, but that’s not my style so I didn’t bother. The thing that amused me most was the reaction of the women to my presence. I could not tell if it was because they could tell I was part Asian or if they just thought I was pretty, but I have never felt more flattered. These women would point at me as I approached their stalls, whispering to one another. Surprisingly, before they started to heckle me about cheap prices and good deals they would tell me that I was so beautiful and stroke my face. It was bizarre…they reached out for me from a distance waiting for me to get close…I swear it is the new hair color.
I have never been a babysitter. I don’t deal with whining kids well and I am a completely impatient person. With this being so, I am shocked at how I am feeling now, two days after parting Vietnam and the Tam Binh Orphanage that I visited.
With my class about HIV and AIDS, we visited the orphanage to take a group of kids out for a day of fun to an amusement park. Upon arrival we were greeted by 25 little children, running and screaming, so excited for us to be there. Immediately a small girl between the age of 3 and 4 came up to me, arms extended, ready to be held. I was unaware at the time, but soon enough I found that I would not be putting her down for the rest of the afternoon.
Her name was Nhe. She wore a pink and green Hello Kitty dress and her hair was in perfect pigtails. She had a sly grin on her face that turned into a toothy smile as soon as she got what she wanted. Before we departed for the park all of us students played with the kids, handing out stickers that soon covered any free space of skin on the children and playing catch with their new blow up toys. Nhe did not want to take part in the games; she preferred to stay in my arms and make me take her to wherever she pointed picking up stickers for her along the way. I must tell you that I am not very strong, so every 2 minutes I had to transfer her from one hip to the other as she would get very upset if I tried to put her down.
After viewing the facilities of the orphanage we all sat on the bus waiting for the kids to come and join us. Each child now donned a neon yellow hat to make them a uniform group and for us to keep track of them easily. Nhe ran over to my empty seat immediately with the biggest smile on her face. I had to lift her tiny frame on to the seat next to me and situate her body so that she would not fall off in the five-minute journey to the park.
Throughout our day at the park we went on rides with the kids, took them through the most disturbing haunted house, had lunch with them and then finished the adventure off with an even more disturbing showing from performing monkeys and the most bizarre and sad zoo that I have ever seen. Even though for our culture it was creepy to say the least and not my idea of fun, the kids along with the other Vietnamese people loved it all. But this story is not about the park, it is about the child.
I am only 20 years old and am in no way ready to have a child. Even though I joke about it often and my mother and I already have dresses saved for my future daughter I am still a reasonable and smart person who knows to wait until I am stable and responsible. Although my mom gives me tips on how to take care of kids every time she sees and inadequate mother (not keeping a hat on her child in the winter or obviously not supporting their heads correctly) I still have not had to put her advice to good use. During my visit I found that I had this unexplainable connection with Nhe that didn’t require any work rather I just knew how to take care of her.
I could not understand her verbal language but that did not mean that I couldn’t understand her. Even though she spoke Vietnamese and I spoke English I always knew what she wanted, when she needed water, when she had to be spoon fed when she would not eat. Fellow students commented on our strange connection and how it seemed as though we were mother and daughter. She did not want attention or help from anyone else except for me and I did not worry about anyone else but her. As soon as I left her with two other girls while I went to buy more water she immediately became upset and started to cry until she was released and allowed to accompany me.
I truly cannot express the way I feel about my time with her, as the relationship was so foreign to me. She cried as she was taken from my arms at the end of the day and I was deeply saddened not knowing what is to become of her. Although the orphanage was very clean and seemed to have a great staff it is just not enough knowing that these kids don’t have parents to love them and care for them constantly. In addition to growing up in an orphanage, Nhe and the other children were all growing up being HIV positive. Although times are changing they still live in a country where stigma about the disease frightens many. They don’t get to go to public school and are basically being raised separate from the community.
The kids don’t understand why they have to take pills daily or why they only get to leave the orphanage on special occasions. They are being raised with a false impression of the world not knowing how the average daily life functions and the interaction outside the gates of their little guarded community. I want to help. I just need to find a way and wait for stigma to dissipate.
The stretch at sea had been getting to me…my roots had all grown out from my last dye job. Since I had finished with a long day of art shopping I made a snap decision to step into a Vietnamese salon and make a drastic change. There was no research involved so although I had passed many nicer looking salons around Saigon, I chose the most hole-in-the-wall place with a great view of the busy life outside. Upon entering the salon I noticed the lack of paint on the walls, the mirrors hung with no surrounding decoration and the chairs that were way passed their years. It was perfect. I asked the ladies to color my hair and within minutes I was seated waiting while my color was concocted.
Entering off the streets came my colorist. I would say he was about 24 with red-tinted hair and no English vocabulary. I forgot to mention the fact that there was no music in the salon and although there were about 4 girls working there (or at least sitting reading magazines) none of them were speaking to each other. I am pretty sure that I could hear a pin drop if I felt so inclined to try. So the transformation began. It was the most bizarre way of dying hair that I had ever experienced. He would put color in after color and when I though I was finally finished with it all I came to the surprise that that was just the base and the highlights still had to be done. Understand that I had been sitting in silence for about an hour and a half with 4 girls whispering about me and the sounds of the streets keeping a muted soundtrack of motorbikes zooming around.
Once the base color was done the experience became much more interesting. With the appearance of 5 new customers and the switch of stylists the salon suddenly became a bustle of noises. Through out the next hour and a half I had 6 different women working on my hair- coloring, shampooing and then drying and straightening. My original colorist stepped out of the salon to partake in a game of chess outside with a random shoe shiner. Outside there was a little girl attempting to jump rope but accidentally lifting her leg so high that she appeared as though she was training for hurdles and ended up stepping on the rope each try. With the new customers came new conversation. I was able to meet a girl from Oregon who teaches English in Thailand. This was a perfect encounter for me since I have been researching my endless possibilities for TEFL and ESL programs. Then I met some travelers from England. Although their accents were more fascinating then their personalities it was still a welcome entertainment.
By the time it was all finished I came out looking incredibly Asian…you know, when their light hair color is obviously not natural. But I love it- for now. At least until May when I reach home and get to change it again!
Shopping in the Vietnamese markets is full on sensory overload. In my multiple trips to these busy centers I barely bought a thing since I was so overwhelmed. The clothes, fabrics, sunglasses and shoes together closed in on me making me feel incredibly claustrophobic. Now I know that his is prime bargaining territory where many find their best deals on fake Gucci bags and Polo shirts, but that’s not my style so I didn’t bother. The thing that amused me most was the reaction of the women to my presence. I could not tell if it was because they could tell I was part Asian or if they just thought I was pretty, but I have never felt more flattered. These women would point at me as I approached their stalls, whispering to one another. Surprisingly, before they started to heckle me about cheap prices and good deals they would tell me that I was so beautiful and stroke my face. It was bizarre…they reached out for me from a distance waiting for me to get close…I swear it is the new hair color.
I have never been a babysitter. I don’t deal with whining kids well and I am a completely impatient person. With this being so, I am shocked at how I am feeling now, two days after parting Vietnam and the Tam Binh Orphanage that I visited.
With my class about HIV and AIDS, we visited the orphanage to take a group of kids out for a day of fun to an amusement park. Upon arrival we were greeted by 25 little children, running and screaming, so excited for us to be there. Immediately a small girl between the age of 3 and 4 came up to me, arms extended, ready to be held. I was unaware at the time, but soon enough I found that I would not be putting her down for the rest of the afternoon.
Her name was Nhe. She wore a pink and green Hello Kitty dress and her hair was in perfect pigtails. She had a sly grin on her face that turned into a toothy smile as soon as she got what she wanted. Before we departed for the park all of us students played with the kids, handing out stickers that soon covered any free space of skin on the children and playing catch with their new blow up toys. Nhe did not want to take part in the games; she preferred to stay in my arms and make me take her to wherever she pointed picking up stickers for her along the way. I must tell you that I am not very strong, so every 2 minutes I had to transfer her from one hip to the other as she would get very upset if I tried to put her down.
After viewing the facilities of the orphanage we all sat on the bus waiting for the kids to come and join us. Each child now donned a neon yellow hat to make them a uniform group and for us to keep track of them easily. Nhe ran over to my empty seat immediately with the biggest smile on her face. I had to lift her tiny frame on to the seat next to me and situate her body so that she would not fall off in the five-minute journey to the park.
Throughout our day at the park we went on rides with the kids, took them through the most disturbing haunted house, had lunch with them and then finished the adventure off with an even more disturbing showing from performing monkeys and the most bizarre and sad zoo that I have ever seen. Even though for our culture it was creepy to say the least and not my idea of fun, the kids along with the other Vietnamese people loved it all. But this story is not about the park, it is about the child.
I am only 20 years old and am in no way ready to have a child. Even though I joke about it often and my mother and I already have dresses saved for my future daughter I am still a reasonable and smart person who knows to wait until I am stable and responsible. Although my mom gives me tips on how to take care of kids every time she sees and inadequate mother (not keeping a hat on her child in the winter or obviously not supporting their heads correctly) I still have not had to put her advice to good use. During my visit I found that I had this unexplainable connection with Nhe that didn’t require any work rather I just knew how to take care of her.
I could not understand her verbal language but that did not mean that I couldn’t understand her. Even though she spoke Vietnamese and I spoke English I always knew what she wanted, when she needed water, when she had to be spoon fed when she would not eat. Fellow students commented on our strange connection and how it seemed as though we were mother and daughter. She did not want attention or help from anyone else except for me and I did not worry about anyone else but her. As soon as I left her with two other girls while I went to buy more water she immediately became upset and started to cry until she was released and allowed to accompany me.
I truly cannot express the way I feel about my time with her, as the relationship was so foreign to me. She cried as she was taken from my arms at the end of the day and I was deeply saddened not knowing what is to become of her. Although the orphanage was very clean and seemed to have a great staff it is just not enough knowing that these kids don’t have parents to love them and care for them constantly. In addition to growing up in an orphanage, Nhe and the other children were all growing up being HIV positive. Although times are changing they still live in a country where stigma about the disease frightens many. They don’t get to go to public school and are basically being raised separate from the community.
The kids don’t understand why they have to take pills daily or why they only get to leave the orphanage on special occasions. They are being raised with a false impression of the world not knowing how the average daily life functions and the interaction outside the gates of their little guarded community. I want to help. I just need to find a way and wait for stigma to dissipate.
Friday, April 6, 2007
oooo hah for borneo
Bhong was in a coma for three months. After having his car shot by enemies while serving with the Malaysian Armed Forces, he miraculously survived while his driver and assistant died at the scene. Bhong lay in his hospital bed unaware of the world around him. As time passed his soul struggled with life and decided to let go. When he died he entered heaven. Bhong witnessed his friends and family weeping over his body, he met up with old friends who had passed on years before and he went to enter the gates of the heavenly kingdom. Upon reaching the gates, Bhong asked the attendant to let him in. Instead of a warm welcome to his new resting place, the attendant served him a glass of water and gave him directions for a path that Bhong should follow. After following the orders Bhong found himself alive and awake, returned from his coma and rejuvenated. “You cannot fear death” Bhong told me, “for God decides when it is time and no one should be afraid”.
Bhong was a 52-year-old Chinese Malaysian. He had a prominent scar on his right arm, which was a remnant from his 68 stitches. And along with that wound he had steel pins in his face and neck, although no one would be able to guess it from his youthful features. As my guide in Borneo, Bhong was a prime resource for colorful tales, useful survival information and opinions about life. “If you are stranded in the jungle do not look to the sun for direction, follow the water for you will surely find a village along a stream”… Bhong began his survival tips, “Only eat what the animals eat, or else it may be poisonous and deceiving” and “don’t drink the water from the stream as there may be poisonous roots, only drink water from the vines”.
As our guide for 2 days, Bhong acted as a father figure. Surprised to find himself in charge of 7 young American ladies, Bhong completed the job with determination and took it upon himself to guard and protect us from all evils (including curious Malaysian men). Bhong chauffeured us around the Sarawak region for hours on end acting as a soccer dad taking his whole troop on a trip. We visited some orangutan, ate some local food and then traveled to stay with an Iban tribe in a traditional longhouse. I have no idea where the village was. All I know is that we were close to the Indonesian border and it was 2 hours from modern day civilization.
The longhouse played home to 24 families that formed the tribe. The house was over 50 years old and was a long stretch of rooms built atop stilts. The Chief was a fascinating man whose name I can no longer remember because I could not pronounce it. He was 88 years old and although he appeared frail with age, he was a powerful Iban warrior in his past. His body was tattooed all over including the shields on both shoulder (the sign of a warrior) and a tattoo down his throat (the sign of a head hunter). The Chief had cut the heads off of Japanese enemies from years ago when they invaded Malaysia and it was a kill or be killed world. The heads of the casualties are still strung across his door, and the hairs of his victims are displayed on his sword sheath with a blood stained blade beneath.
My stay with the Iban was interesting to say the least. Deciding ahead of time that I was going to “rough it” like I did in India, I brought not showering toiletries and only on change of clothes for my 4 days of travel…bad idea. I have never smelled so foul in my life. I was not expecting to be caught in a jungle downpour, hiking through the mud and being shown the village down a river on a thin boat in a rainstorm. But hey, it would not have been an adventure without those details. The people of Malaysia are very kind. This was the first country where I was stared at everywhere I went for they found this tall white girl very interesting. It was funny because the people I met could tell that I was part Chinese (something that rarely occurs in the states) and they looked at me as though I was a completely foreign object. It did not bother me though as I found walking the streets familiar to walking within Chinatown when visiting my grandma or like shopping in the Asian food stores with my dad. It was just that it was not a store or a small area of a city rather these people composed their country.
I was pleased to find my favorite Asian candies, my favorite soybean drink and lychee fruit everywhere. I ate my food with chopsticks and drank my tea and although the country was completely foreign it felt a bit like home…funny how that happens.
I have had an epiphany. As the people in Malaysia were fascinated with me, this foreign white girl walking the streets of Kuching, I began to think about how it would be in the United States. It is all about the diversity that I grew up around whether it be completely significant or not, but because there are so many mixed races at home and so many various ethnicities sharing communities we no longer stare at the foreign or different from self. The Malaysians see the Chinese, Malay and Indian but the white European races are rare. So when a group of 7 young white women walk around it is a very odd spectacle that is not often seen. At home I do not think twice about seeing a Japanese family, Chinese, Indian, Muslim…the list goes on yet their appearance does not phase me as the Malaysian were phased by me. It was a very interesting aspect of a more secluded culture.
Bhong was a 52-year-old Chinese Malaysian. He had a prominent scar on his right arm, which was a remnant from his 68 stitches. And along with that wound he had steel pins in his face and neck, although no one would be able to guess it from his youthful features. As my guide in Borneo, Bhong was a prime resource for colorful tales, useful survival information and opinions about life. “If you are stranded in the jungle do not look to the sun for direction, follow the water for you will surely find a village along a stream”… Bhong began his survival tips, “Only eat what the animals eat, or else it may be poisonous and deceiving” and “don’t drink the water from the stream as there may be poisonous roots, only drink water from the vines”.
As our guide for 2 days, Bhong acted as a father figure. Surprised to find himself in charge of 7 young American ladies, Bhong completed the job with determination and took it upon himself to guard and protect us from all evils (including curious Malaysian men). Bhong chauffeured us around the Sarawak region for hours on end acting as a soccer dad taking his whole troop on a trip. We visited some orangutan, ate some local food and then traveled to stay with an Iban tribe in a traditional longhouse. I have no idea where the village was. All I know is that we were close to the Indonesian border and it was 2 hours from modern day civilization.
The longhouse played home to 24 families that formed the tribe. The house was over 50 years old and was a long stretch of rooms built atop stilts. The Chief was a fascinating man whose name I can no longer remember because I could not pronounce it. He was 88 years old and although he appeared frail with age, he was a powerful Iban warrior in his past. His body was tattooed all over including the shields on both shoulder (the sign of a warrior) and a tattoo down his throat (the sign of a head hunter). The Chief had cut the heads off of Japanese enemies from years ago when they invaded Malaysia and it was a kill or be killed world. The heads of the casualties are still strung across his door, and the hairs of his victims are displayed on his sword sheath with a blood stained blade beneath.
My stay with the Iban was interesting to say the least. Deciding ahead of time that I was going to “rough it” like I did in India, I brought not showering toiletries and only on change of clothes for my 4 days of travel…bad idea. I have never smelled so foul in my life. I was not expecting to be caught in a jungle downpour, hiking through the mud and being shown the village down a river on a thin boat in a rainstorm. But hey, it would not have been an adventure without those details. The people of Malaysia are very kind. This was the first country where I was stared at everywhere I went for they found this tall white girl very interesting. It was funny because the people I met could tell that I was part Chinese (something that rarely occurs in the states) and they looked at me as though I was a completely foreign object. It did not bother me though as I found walking the streets familiar to walking within Chinatown when visiting my grandma or like shopping in the Asian food stores with my dad. It was just that it was not a store or a small area of a city rather these people composed their country.
I was pleased to find my favorite Asian candies, my favorite soybean drink and lychee fruit everywhere. I ate my food with chopsticks and drank my tea and although the country was completely foreign it felt a bit like home…funny how that happens.
I have had an epiphany. As the people in Malaysia were fascinated with me, this foreign white girl walking the streets of Kuching, I began to think about how it would be in the United States. It is all about the diversity that I grew up around whether it be completely significant or not, but because there are so many mixed races at home and so many various ethnicities sharing communities we no longer stare at the foreign or different from self. The Malaysians see the Chinese, Malay and Indian but the white European races are rare. So when a group of 7 young white women walk around it is a very odd spectacle that is not often seen. At home I do not think twice about seeing a Japanese family, Chinese, Indian, Muslim…the list goes on yet their appearance does not phase me as the Malaysian were phased by me. It was a very interesting aspect of a more secluded culture.
tidbits from india
I still have not been able to process everything that I saw in India. It was such an amazing country with beautiful people and I cannot explain all the emotions that I felt throughout my stay. After the YMCA visit I had one day before I left for a three-night homestay in a rural village. On that free day I went with Semester at Sea to Kancheepuram, the city of temples, and to Mamallapuram, the main city for silk weaving. That day was nice just to get out and drive through India and being able to see the countryside and some cities besides Chennai. By the way, the streets of Chennai are like a circus gone wild. Traveling through the roads into town was like a video game come to life. There were no rules, and it was a race to the finish line. On the roads the dividing line played no part for it was expected that with a honk of the horn you could switch sides and pass the player in front of you. The streets bustled with green and red buses that were stuffed to the brim. They packaged the sweaty bodies in tight with women on one side and the men on the other. The buses shared the streets with the cars, the cars with the motorcycles, the motorcycles with the rickshaws, the rickshaws with the bicycles. Oh, and not to forget the pedestrians that weaved their way along with the flow. Everyone drove with a determined end in sight and they would run over you if you did not move. The horn on their wheel was their cure-all, for when they honked they gave their warning of their illegal move and proceeded on with business. Surprisingly I was not uncomfortable with the driving in any sense. I enjoyed the open air from the tiny rickshaws and I found pleasure in their weaving in and out on the roads. There was no hostility in the driving, as the race did not seem competitive, rather it was a fun way to proceed with getting from one place to the other.
Once we made it out of the Chennai area the landscape turned to fields of green with the occasional grazing ox on the side of the road eating the scraps of garbage that had been collected from over the years. It was such an interesting concept to me that the country is so beautiful yet there was so much trash. I know it may sound odd, but in a way it fit the scenery for when passing the shops and buildings on the streets the people that bustled throughout the city wore beautiful colors. The women all wore saris that somehow complemented every womanly curve, and with each color imaginable, they created a Crayola assortment of life that lit up the roads. The garbage played its role as well as it was just as colorful and added a punch to the ornaments that decorated the streets.
Kancheepuram was interesting. The temples reminded me of my own Roman and Greek history as the reliefs carved into the structures depicted scenes of processions of people. With my classical history I know that the temples that are now white washed stone and marble were once upon a time painted with bright colors, but I had never been able to fully imagine the way they would be…that is until now. The temples in India were so colorful with their reds, blues, greens, oranges and yellows, that they seemed almost cheesy or overdone. If not painted the stone carvings were phenomenal. One of the temples was so tall, like a layer cake with 40 tiers. The temple had monkeys playing on the outside carvings, which was very much like a vision from the jungle book.
In Mamallapuram I saw an ancient shore temple as well as this giant stone ball that is oddly placed due to gravity. It is way to difficult to try and explain the phenomenon, but it was like an 80 foot wide marble floating on a hill. This monument was within a park that had monkeys and vendors swarming. The vendors used their guilty stories to make you buy their goods and the monkeys just wreaked havoc running around scaring the tourists. One man was dressed in an outfit appearing like a gypsy and he had a monkey on a leash. This monkey was quite possibly the most frightening thing I have ever seen. It had on clothes, makeup and jewelry. Of course I felt sorry for it, performing all day to make a few rupees, but I mean it was creepy. As Vince put it perfectly, “That is no Abu!”
Speaking of Vince, he, Kara and I were together for the next 72 hours. The three of us knew each other through mutual friends on the ship, but it wasn’t until our homestay in Erode did we get to know each other and form what I like to refer to as the tripod. The night after the temple visits we all left for the overnight train, set for our journey to the rural south of India. The train station had people packed in like sardines, waiting for their destinations to appear on the overhead board. After a frantic following of our group leaders to our boarding platform we boarded the train to Erode and found ourselves in a private sleeper car that fit 15 or so people. The train was no luxury by any means, but it was suitable for our needs and fun to experience the local means of travel.
Because we were not yet tired and everyone in our car wanted to get to know one another, we played a name game (Lydia- Lysol, Marissa- Macaroni Salad, Kara- Kangaroo, Vince- Inappropriate…) and then we resorted to the ever-pleasing game of Go Fish. A train guard came to talk to us crazy kids who were awake as the other passengers slept away and we tried to explain to him where we came from and where we were going. With the language barrier and Vince’s lies the man walked away believing that we were 700 students living on a fishing boat that went around the world and we went fishing all day long. It was hilarious, but I am sure you had to be there to find it entertaining…
Once we finally settled into bed we parted to our respective compartments. I was in a section with four beds- two bunk beds, and across Vince and Taylor slept on bunks that ran across the hall (I know this makes no sense). There were no doors in the compartments, only curtains, so we pushed our luggage under the more spacious four bed curtained rooms and slept with our passports as theft is common. I was just waiting for someone to reach through the curtain that night and grab at my feet hoping that they could find some treasure but that didn’t happen and I slept just fine for the 4 hours that we had left.
When we arrived in Erode our group of 30 was split up 10 people going to one place and 20 to the other. I was in the group of 20 that went to Jayaramapuram, which was a farming village outside of Erode. Our cars held 10 people apiece but somehow mine only had like 6 of us as passengers that began the union of the tripod. We went to the farm and stayed in the home of Mr. Jayaraman, the man the village is named after. The house was open and spacious with rooms with floor mats lay out for beds and an indoor atrium to have tea and conversation.
We took tours of their farm, seeing the different fruits they grew then distributed throughout the community. They basically provided stablity for the town as the fruit they grew was sold to the village and the coconut hide was turned to rope and the sugarcane was exported. We visited their local factories as well as school and weaving facilities. After we returned I had an afternoon nap before heading out to their market.
The village market was filled with colors- the sarees, the fabric, the fruit and vegetables. We each made some purchases without the hassle of bargaining as the community was not used to tourists and the idea of bartering and cheating money out of the unsuspecting. It was a very different experience to walk around the village market rather than a city; it offered a completely different feeling.
That night we ate our dinners, which by the way were so great. I forgot to mention the point that we ate with our hands, sat on the floor and walked around barefoot. It was fabulous. I think I may take to it upon returning home. I really enjoyed the Indian food. The spices were great, we had a different variety of banana at each meal and we ate off of giant banana leaves that played the role of plates.
We stayed up late that night discussion politics and religion with our younger host Purni. Random conversations are as follow:
“The US should leave the conflict in the Middle East and let it continue,” said Purni, “for without the conflict in the middle east the US would be in trouble”. My host for 3 days was a mother of two and a modern woman. Still dressed in a saree but with a short, non-traditional haircut, she was a well-educated woman and a prime resource for discussion. When the topic of politics came up she passionately expressed a very international view about the world and looked at the interest of the other. She informed us that America must pull out of the war and quit wasting our money because if we were to succeed and peace came across the Middle East, the US would have bigger problems ahead. The conflict between the Sunnis and the Shiites has been around for centuries. Their conflict along with the numerous others have been power struggles that make up their history. If they were to all get along and unite, they would be a force that the world could not destroy. If all the conflict were resolved, the US, along with the rest of the world, would be under the control of the Middle East powers. It just makes you think…Also with religion Purni said of Hinduism that God is like electricity. He takes on different forms in different situations but you cannot see or explain where it comes from. This was Purni’s explanation of the Hindu God that they believed in. It was fascinating to learn that they believe in all gods including the modern day Christian god for historically speaking it makes sense that the one God took on each different form for each different set of people. This one transformative God takes the form of the war god, the good luck god, the god of aggression or love and many others. It is up to the person to form a more personal attachment with the God that they would like to identify with, but they believe that they are all one in the same.
We spoke about arranged marriage, Saddam Hussein, President Bush, US war funding and other controversial topics. It was very interesting and very hard to pull myself away from once it reached 1 am.
The second day we left the farm and went into Erode visiting a few schools including one for children with polio. It was definitely a memorable experience and it was amazing to see the children perform tae kwon do and dances for us. We received bindis and had jasmine flowers put in our hair so even though we were not Indians, we were decorated as though we were.
One of our guides took a liking to Vince. I should mention that Vince is in the process of growing out a very sparse mustache and our guide (who was referred to as Moosh, which means mustache) had a very large and filled out one. So once Vince asked about tips to grow out a great mustache like Moosh’s, the man was intrigued by him. Soon enough he was holding Vince’s hand or rested his around his shoulder, as male affection is very common and was a sign of friends. I understand it is a cultural thing, but even if Vince will never admit it his arm looked so limp and awkward every time Moosh took hold. Haha…it was so funny. Also, evidently Vince looks like Dhoni, a famous Indian cricket player, so for the rest of the stay he went around saying that he was Dhoni and with his fake Indian accent he even we so far as to tell some school children that is who he was and as soon as they heard the dispersed to grab their cricket equipment. When they returned Vince fessed up and offered jellybeans in return for his fib.
With the rest of the day we were shuttle around from place to place seeing a pit weaving center and a medicinal factory and then finally we returned to another sleeper train. This time we were not alone in or compartment and Kara and I had to take the wall bunks. Not ready for bed but forced to keep our chatter to a minimum Vince, Kara and I all scrunched onto one bed and closed the curtain so that we could gossip about our time.
On the last day in Chennai a group of us went shopping. We started out with 8, but because the rickshaws are crazy and the drivers are liars, we were split up. Molly, Vince and I began our shopping and miraculously we found Kara later on. We bought some music, found a cricket magazine with “Vince” in it (aka Dhoni) and bought the rest of our random items like hand beaded shoes and bags. We later found a great antique shop that Vince and I took a great liking to as the owner told us stories and loved the fact that we loved antiques.
While shopping most of the time I didn’t care enough to bargain because it was so cheap. Vince found it entertaining to fight with the people and even said to one carpet seller that if he wanted to spend 60 dollars on a carpet he would be better of laying down 60 one-dollar bills and making a carpet of money because he would never walk on it. Where he comes up with these comebacks I have no idea, but the were worth the laughs.
India was fabulous. My favorite stop by far. Ah I have so much more…hopefully I will write it down.
Once we made it out of the Chennai area the landscape turned to fields of green with the occasional grazing ox on the side of the road eating the scraps of garbage that had been collected from over the years. It was such an interesting concept to me that the country is so beautiful yet there was so much trash. I know it may sound odd, but in a way it fit the scenery for when passing the shops and buildings on the streets the people that bustled throughout the city wore beautiful colors. The women all wore saris that somehow complemented every womanly curve, and with each color imaginable, they created a Crayola assortment of life that lit up the roads. The garbage played its role as well as it was just as colorful and added a punch to the ornaments that decorated the streets.
Kancheepuram was interesting. The temples reminded me of my own Roman and Greek history as the reliefs carved into the structures depicted scenes of processions of people. With my classical history I know that the temples that are now white washed stone and marble were once upon a time painted with bright colors, but I had never been able to fully imagine the way they would be…that is until now. The temples in India were so colorful with their reds, blues, greens, oranges and yellows, that they seemed almost cheesy or overdone. If not painted the stone carvings were phenomenal. One of the temples was so tall, like a layer cake with 40 tiers. The temple had monkeys playing on the outside carvings, which was very much like a vision from the jungle book.
In Mamallapuram I saw an ancient shore temple as well as this giant stone ball that is oddly placed due to gravity. It is way to difficult to try and explain the phenomenon, but it was like an 80 foot wide marble floating on a hill. This monument was within a park that had monkeys and vendors swarming. The vendors used their guilty stories to make you buy their goods and the monkeys just wreaked havoc running around scaring the tourists. One man was dressed in an outfit appearing like a gypsy and he had a monkey on a leash. This monkey was quite possibly the most frightening thing I have ever seen. It had on clothes, makeup and jewelry. Of course I felt sorry for it, performing all day to make a few rupees, but I mean it was creepy. As Vince put it perfectly, “That is no Abu!”
Speaking of Vince, he, Kara and I were together for the next 72 hours. The three of us knew each other through mutual friends on the ship, but it wasn’t until our homestay in Erode did we get to know each other and form what I like to refer to as the tripod. The night after the temple visits we all left for the overnight train, set for our journey to the rural south of India. The train station had people packed in like sardines, waiting for their destinations to appear on the overhead board. After a frantic following of our group leaders to our boarding platform we boarded the train to Erode and found ourselves in a private sleeper car that fit 15 or so people. The train was no luxury by any means, but it was suitable for our needs and fun to experience the local means of travel.
Because we were not yet tired and everyone in our car wanted to get to know one another, we played a name game (Lydia- Lysol, Marissa- Macaroni Salad, Kara- Kangaroo, Vince- Inappropriate…) and then we resorted to the ever-pleasing game of Go Fish. A train guard came to talk to us crazy kids who were awake as the other passengers slept away and we tried to explain to him where we came from and where we were going. With the language barrier and Vince’s lies the man walked away believing that we were 700 students living on a fishing boat that went around the world and we went fishing all day long. It was hilarious, but I am sure you had to be there to find it entertaining…
Once we finally settled into bed we parted to our respective compartments. I was in a section with four beds- two bunk beds, and across Vince and Taylor slept on bunks that ran across the hall (I know this makes no sense). There were no doors in the compartments, only curtains, so we pushed our luggage under the more spacious four bed curtained rooms and slept with our passports as theft is common. I was just waiting for someone to reach through the curtain that night and grab at my feet hoping that they could find some treasure but that didn’t happen and I slept just fine for the 4 hours that we had left.
When we arrived in Erode our group of 30 was split up 10 people going to one place and 20 to the other. I was in the group of 20 that went to Jayaramapuram, which was a farming village outside of Erode. Our cars held 10 people apiece but somehow mine only had like 6 of us as passengers that began the union of the tripod. We went to the farm and stayed in the home of Mr. Jayaraman, the man the village is named after. The house was open and spacious with rooms with floor mats lay out for beds and an indoor atrium to have tea and conversation.
We took tours of their farm, seeing the different fruits they grew then distributed throughout the community. They basically provided stablity for the town as the fruit they grew was sold to the village and the coconut hide was turned to rope and the sugarcane was exported. We visited their local factories as well as school and weaving facilities. After we returned I had an afternoon nap before heading out to their market.
The village market was filled with colors- the sarees, the fabric, the fruit and vegetables. We each made some purchases without the hassle of bargaining as the community was not used to tourists and the idea of bartering and cheating money out of the unsuspecting. It was a very different experience to walk around the village market rather than a city; it offered a completely different feeling.
That night we ate our dinners, which by the way were so great. I forgot to mention the point that we ate with our hands, sat on the floor and walked around barefoot. It was fabulous. I think I may take to it upon returning home. I really enjoyed the Indian food. The spices were great, we had a different variety of banana at each meal and we ate off of giant banana leaves that played the role of plates.
We stayed up late that night discussion politics and religion with our younger host Purni. Random conversations are as follow:
“The US should leave the conflict in the Middle East and let it continue,” said Purni, “for without the conflict in the middle east the US would be in trouble”. My host for 3 days was a mother of two and a modern woman. Still dressed in a saree but with a short, non-traditional haircut, she was a well-educated woman and a prime resource for discussion. When the topic of politics came up she passionately expressed a very international view about the world and looked at the interest of the other. She informed us that America must pull out of the war and quit wasting our money because if we were to succeed and peace came across the Middle East, the US would have bigger problems ahead. The conflict between the Sunnis and the Shiites has been around for centuries. Their conflict along with the numerous others have been power struggles that make up their history. If they were to all get along and unite, they would be a force that the world could not destroy. If all the conflict were resolved, the US, along with the rest of the world, would be under the control of the Middle East powers. It just makes you think…Also with religion Purni said of Hinduism that God is like electricity. He takes on different forms in different situations but you cannot see or explain where it comes from. This was Purni’s explanation of the Hindu God that they believed in. It was fascinating to learn that they believe in all gods including the modern day Christian god for historically speaking it makes sense that the one God took on each different form for each different set of people. This one transformative God takes the form of the war god, the good luck god, the god of aggression or love and many others. It is up to the person to form a more personal attachment with the God that they would like to identify with, but they believe that they are all one in the same.
We spoke about arranged marriage, Saddam Hussein, President Bush, US war funding and other controversial topics. It was very interesting and very hard to pull myself away from once it reached 1 am.
The second day we left the farm and went into Erode visiting a few schools including one for children with polio. It was definitely a memorable experience and it was amazing to see the children perform tae kwon do and dances for us. We received bindis and had jasmine flowers put in our hair so even though we were not Indians, we were decorated as though we were.
One of our guides took a liking to Vince. I should mention that Vince is in the process of growing out a very sparse mustache and our guide (who was referred to as Moosh, which means mustache) had a very large and filled out one. So once Vince asked about tips to grow out a great mustache like Moosh’s, the man was intrigued by him. Soon enough he was holding Vince’s hand or rested his around his shoulder, as male affection is very common and was a sign of friends. I understand it is a cultural thing, but even if Vince will never admit it his arm looked so limp and awkward every time Moosh took hold. Haha…it was so funny. Also, evidently Vince looks like Dhoni, a famous Indian cricket player, so for the rest of the stay he went around saying that he was Dhoni and with his fake Indian accent he even we so far as to tell some school children that is who he was and as soon as they heard the dispersed to grab their cricket equipment. When they returned Vince fessed up and offered jellybeans in return for his fib.
With the rest of the day we were shuttle around from place to place seeing a pit weaving center and a medicinal factory and then finally we returned to another sleeper train. This time we were not alone in or compartment and Kara and I had to take the wall bunks. Not ready for bed but forced to keep our chatter to a minimum Vince, Kara and I all scrunched onto one bed and closed the curtain so that we could gossip about our time.
On the last day in Chennai a group of us went shopping. We started out with 8, but because the rickshaws are crazy and the drivers are liars, we were split up. Molly, Vince and I began our shopping and miraculously we found Kara later on. We bought some music, found a cricket magazine with “Vince” in it (aka Dhoni) and bought the rest of our random items like hand beaded shoes and bags. We later found a great antique shop that Vince and I took a great liking to as the owner told us stories and loved the fact that we loved antiques.
While shopping most of the time I didn’t care enough to bargain because it was so cheap. Vince found it entertaining to fight with the people and even said to one carpet seller that if he wanted to spend 60 dollars on a carpet he would be better of laying down 60 one-dollar bills and making a carpet of money because he would never walk on it. Where he comes up with these comebacks I have no idea, but the were worth the laughs.
India was fabulous. My favorite stop by far. Ah I have so much more…hopefully I will write it down.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
'it's fun to stay at the YMCA'
It is funny how something as small as a smile can connect two people in such a way that is ever changing. This seemingly insignificant gesture, when done honestly, can leave a lasting impression. Today I made many invisible bonds with the young children of the Madras YMCA Center for Destitute Boys. Throughout the course of the day, each timid glance turned toothy grin has been etched in my mind as memories that I shall forever cherish.
I set out on this morning’s service visit not knowing what to expect only hoping for an opportunity to interact with local people. Without holding my expectations too high, I was anxious to start the trip and excited for my small group number of only 8 students. Once we were all piled into the van that would be our magic carpet for the day, we learned of our itinerary and the pleasant anticipation inside my stomach grew. Our guide, Mr. Jeevakumar told us that we were to visit 4 different YMCA and YWCA centers throughout our 9 hour day. Without any further details, we set out on our adventure and into the realm of Chennai.
Passing through immigrations we entered the busy streets swarming with traffic composed of cars, rickshaws, bicycles, pedestrians and the occasional bull, goat or horse. We flew past the street-side vendors selling their fruits and treats, past the gigantic billboards that boasted advertisements for music, and past the long stretch of sand littered with bodies. After a dangerous yet effective U-turn, we entered the gated community of the YMCA Center for Destitute Boys, the act which began my series of smiles.
From a distance I could see the kids, in their uniformed red YMCA shirts, frantically running toward their main center in order to beat our car to the entrance. Before leaving our vehicle, Mr. Jeevakumar informed us that we would be spending the next 3 hours with these boys which thrilled my anticipation and transformed it into excitement. We made our way into the large open center of the YMCA and found 100 young boys seated around tables waiting for us 8 girls to take our seats in the front of the room. Feeling like a cross between a member of a panel of judges and a member of a royal family, I took my seat along with the other students and overlooked the shy that returned our observation.
Within minutes the ice was broken as songs were performed to us in small groups and applause and laughter broke the silence. While listening to these young boys sing I glanced around the room and made eye contact with a boy seated at a table near the front. I smiled at him hoping not to make him uncomfortable and in return I was granted the biggest grin. This happened many times throughout our afternoon performance swap where the boys would sing and then we would treat them to a off-key rendition of “If You’re Happy and You Know It…”, a song that I have not sung since the days when recess was considered a critical part of my education. These boys, who ranged from ages 5 to 16, were all from destitute homes. They were placed into the YMCA by the Indian government after their parents died or a single parent could not manage to support their child. These 100 boys lived were dispersed into four cottages that each housed 25 boys. With new guidance, the boys work on their education, are cared for by mother-figures, and are encouraged to succeed in careers by offering them vocational training in engineering, metalwork and weaving. The boys were clearly well behaved and through their support team of giving adults, they were offered new confidence in replace of a broken past.
Mr. Jeevakumar explained the many trials that these boys had suffered and presented the new assistance and life that they now were leading. Moving from songs to questions, Mr. Jeevakumar translated the boys’ inquiries about American fruit, our wildlife, politics and the crazy life aboard a ship. Their questions were mature for their childish figures and demonstrated the difference of their culture in comparison to ours which is obsessed with mass media and the Hollywood minute. They wanted to know what we studied and what we did for hobbies back in the United States. Answering that I enjoyed ballet as my pastime, I was later trapped in a corner with 30 excited boys screaming “dance!” at me until I appeased them with a few pirouettes and leg lifts.
After they were fully satisfied by our information about the states, the boys stood to retreat into their respective cottages. As they slowly exited the room the first young boy who returned my smile walked up to my table and whispered, “Please come and visit me”. With another quick smile and a frenzied escape the room fell silent as the boys positioned themselves in their rooms and awaited our arrival. Being only 8 students and having 3 hours to play, we were set free with no instructions but to enjoy ourselves. “Split up” said Mr. Jeevakumar, “Have some fun!” With no further comments I felt as though I was venturing into the jungle, an unknown atmosphere that I had no way to prepare for.
As soon as I entered the first cottage I was taken aback by how clean the place was. The two large rooms were composed of neat little beds each with a boy seated upon it. As soon as I waved and said hello, the hours of smiles, dance, and photos began. With no adult supervision and being alone in this adventure, the boys flocked over to me with excitement over this casual contact with a foreign female. With my camera they begged to take pictures and were gracious at the chance to pose for portraits and take turns playing photographer. I must say that without their help I would not have had documentation that I was there as they were as fascinated with my “super hairstyle” as I was with their flexible figures and toothy grins. The boys fought for my attention and began hanging from the ceiling rafters becoming monkeys in the jungle that I had first feared.
They were captivated by my English and imitated the phrases they found amusing such as “oh wow” and “careful”. I was forced into performing the Macarena, which in another world would have been a humiliating chance for future blackmail, but there it was just plain fun. I found the boy who had earlier beckoned me to visit and I learned his name was Moon…or at least that was his English name. They boys Tamil names were easy for me to reproduce after mimicking each syllabyl, but after letting a few minutes pass I would forget how to say them since their pronunciation and sounds were so foreign to me. Names such as Manikandan, Kasdura and Sivasundarun are not as simple to remember when there are 40 children crowded among 1 girl and I was feeling overwhelmed.
But I had an amazing time. Moon and Kasdura stayed at my side until it was time for me to leave. They held my hands with a sense of affection and need for female love. The smiles scattered throughout my photographs will forever be souveniers of my time with them. I cannot forget the feelings that accompanied these smiles and I will forever hope for the best in their futures.
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