Brainerd to Bombay

Om

2011-09-24T12:12:00.000-07:00

It's a beautiful fall afternoon in Brainerd, Minnesota. I'm wearing my rubber rain boots, jeans, and a fleece which has been stashed away for over two years while we lived in the tropics. Feeling good to be naturally chilly and warm at the same time, I breath deeply and let the Autumn air fill my lungs. We're down near Kiawanis Park, along Boom Lake and the Mississippi River, because Craig needs our help. We need to haul several five gallon buckets full of swamp water from Craig's lab back to their origin so the contents (crustaceans, frogs, water beetles, and various other pond life species and scum) can go back to their rightful riverbank. As we carry the buckets one in each hand, precariously balancing down the bank, my rambunctious second grader and flippant teenager argue over whether something squiggling and sending up oxygen bubbles in one of our buckets is an insect or an amphibian. Then they are off to explore higher ground, as Craig and I dump and swish and rinse and splash out the remains of a very successful experiential learning week in Mr. Rezac's Biology class.

After a few minutes Barrett shouts, "Look! Mom! I see Ganesha!!! Come quick!" Ganesha is the Hindu God much beloved to Mumbaikers. (http://brainerdtobombay.blogspot.com/2009/09/ganesh-chaturthi.htm) Om is often affiliated with Ganesha. My son runs over to me, makes me drop my bucket and come see. There, painted in the colors of India (saffron, white, and green) is Om. Barrett points across the water to the bridge's large concrete pillars rising up and there, again, in a impossible location under the bridge of the MIssissippi, I see a red Om. The symbol is as clear as the clean blue sky above us. The two of us hold hands, smile, and remember our beloved India. We adore Ganesha. All across India and Asia, Barrett and I always managed to find that sweet adorable elephant in the most unlikely places.

Wikipedia says that "Om is not just a sound or vibration. It is not just a symbol. It is the entire cosmos, whatever we can see, touch, hear and feel. It is all that is within our perception and all that is beyond our perception. It is the core of our very existence. Om is the mysterious cosmic energy that is the substratum of all the things and all the beings of the entire universe. It is an eternal song of the Divine. It is continuously resounding in silence on the background of everything that exists."

I am not a fisherman. Nor a graffitti artist. There was no telling the reasoning behind me being under that bridge on a Friday afternoon after another difficult week of learning and teaching in a new job. In my twenty years living in Brainerd, I have never been under that bridge. The sun hasn't shone all week until yesterday. And why would someone choose to swim across and reach or climb up that concrete wall to paint Om under a bridge in our lilly white conservation Christian community? When they could have painted "I love (insert common midwestern name here)" or (insert common midwestern name) was here"?

But to whoever you are, thanks. Thank you for the reminder that all words, all languages, and all mantras go back to creation of the universe. There are hundreds of words for God, but Om is the resonance of all those words. And no matter where I live, Ganesha is waiting around in caves, temples, on the dash of the rickshaw and even under a bridge, reminding me that we are all connected by Om.

Steep Learning Curves

2011-08-29T19:14:00.000-07:00

Tahir Shah, an Anglo-Afghan accomplished author, moved his family of four from a teeny apartment in London to a dilapidated mansion, haunted by spirits, in Casablanca. In his remarkable memoir The Caliph's House, which chronicles the year long rennovation project, Shah writes, "Live in a new country and you find yourself making compromises. Make them, and you are rewarded many times over." Then he adds, "The learning curve has been severe. I concluded that a life not filled with severe learning curves was no life at all."

I read this excerpt out loud to my spouse Craig. He laughed out loud and recalled that first night in Bombay. After having traveled 22 hours, (17 on one flight alone) we arrived in Mumbai at 12:30 a.m. dragging along our two famished and sleep deprived children. We were whisked into a van and driven twenty minutes to our new home. We saw a lifetime of images out the window in those twenty minutes. Arriving at the flat, we were given a fat envelope full of rupees, and a laminated business card with our names, address, and important phone numbers. Paul, our school head, shook our hands and said, "Get some sleep and we'll see you in the morning."

After settling the boys in we collapsed on our hard Indian mattress and stared at the ceiling. I was somber on the outside but absolutely giddy on the inside. I felt like I was just jumping off one roller coaster on to another. I LOVE roller coasters. Craig, conversely, felt nauseous and wanted to puke in the bushes. Craig hardly ever swears, so I clearly remember his last comment before he gave in to some much needed sleep. "What the (insert delete expletive here) have we DONE?"

Two years later as I reflect, I can only conclude that we've done well. We made compromises. Large house for small flat. Known for unknown. Cold climate for warm (okay, HOT!) climate. Consistent hot water for lukewarm water shortages. Parmesan for paneer.

And we made more compromises. Craig compromised teaching high school for teaching 6th graders. And he was rewarded everyday with sweet young international scientists who laughed at his dorky jokes and sent him cards and notes and invitations to their birthday parties. I compromised on hospitality and learned that having one or two friends over for take-out can be just as entertaining as a sit down dinner for twelve. Learning how to speak English Hindi style, learning how to cross the streets, learning how to teach reading to children who couldn't speak, let alone read, in English.

Our lifestyles changed drastically. Compromises turned into abandonment of our old ways. No more brushing our teeth with tap water. No privacy. I even eventually stopped being shocked and amazed when I opened my top dresser drawer and found my undies ironed, color coordinated, and folded in neat little rows. We worked Sundays and celebrated Christmas without an ornament laden pine tree and presents. One evening I was clearing the dinner table and noticed none of us had used our silverware to eat dinner. And we had eaten rice! We were eating with our hands, tilting our heads and trying out the head bobbing thing. Our oral language was changing. We were saying, "yeah yeah" when we meant "yeah, sure, you betcha!" And about halfway through our first year we finally could order a pizza over the phone without being hung up on. We learned to negotiate our way around and in between cultures, traditions, and the 52 countries represented in our workplace.

So now we're back in Minnesota. Indefinitely. We connected with Paul and his family over July 4th weekend. I had been back stateside for just over a week and was reeling from reverse culture shock. Looking out over the shoreline, dotted with million dollar cabins, Paul's wife Wendy says to me, "Love Brainerd and it will love you back." A jet ski zooms by. "Hate Brainerd and it and guess what ... it will hate you back." I take a gulp of my cold icy beer, appreciate the fresh clean air, and blink back tears. I did not want to get off the roller coaster.

Right now it's hard to love an area where teachers aren't valued and bumper stickers slapped on the back of gas guzzling trucks with one driver preach, "Hey Obama - I'll keep my guns and my weapons and you can keep your 'change'."

I'm struggling. I'm stuck on a piece of land filled with uncertainty and biting and sucking insects. Everything seems like work. Screens and doors don't keep the sand and dirt and rain from coming in no matter how often I slap and spray and sweep and mop. We have loads of company which equal loads of laundry. I miss our house help. I miss opening the windows to a clear vision of outside, where life and death and rich and poor are in your face whether you want to see it or not. I would give my last glass of Italian red right now to hear the hum of the rickshaw and the sad song of the flute player outside of my bedroom window.

A typical Duck Lake morning. I drink coffee in bed, staring out over the empty black blue lake separated from the sky blue sky by only an evergreen tree line. Wrens sing, and crows still caw at my windowsill like in India. There are some similarities. The leaves still rustle and my children still argue. But here at the lake my youngest son finally learned how to ride a bike because there's a lot of room to negotiate the steering and tipping over and getting up speed to find his balance. My oldest steers his six horse Johnson motor behind the twelve foot aluminum fishing boat out to his favorite crappie hole at 6:00 a.m.. As he casts into a lake of silent reflection I wonder if he thinks about Turner Road traffic. Which in two years I still struggle to describe in writing. You have to EXPERIENCE it to know it. Craig runs around the lake and through a corn field. Alone. And in the middle of that loneliness we now know that life for most in this world is far different than ours.

Reverse culture shock. It is shocking how one's two year trial living abroad makes returning to something once familiar and secure so difficult.

"Isn't it GREAT to be back HOME!" my well meaning friends comment. And the learning curve banks to the West. I must compromise my response just short of a polite and guarded "Yeah. Sure. You betcha."

A Few Choice Words

2011-05-16T06:25:00.000-07:00

According to Wikipedia, in 1961 the Indian census recognized 1,652 mother tongues. Most people I met on the streets of Bombay spoke no less than five languages (like our Monica). Hindi is the official language of India, Marathi the language of the state Maharashtra, and there are dozens and dozens of tribal languages. The literacy rate in Mumbai is only about 69%, just below India's average of 71%. The slums of India have a much higher literacy rate than many other areas. I suspect that very few of the ex-pats (not counting the non-resident Indians, or NRI's, that have been pouring back into India) speak any Hindi or other languages found in India.

I regret not learning more Hindi or Marathi while living in Bombay. I wished I would have taken the security guards up on their offer of 'free lessons' when passing through the gates of school every day. But almost everyone speaks English, and one doesn't really need to know Hindi in order to function linguistically in Bombay, or any big Indian city. Most people speak enough English to help you manage. I mastered the important phrases. Like "ek cappuccino", and "bus, ji'. Just like a lot of good intentions, I was too busy to put any extra effort into it.

But there are some words, just a few, that I've learned in Hindi that I want to remember. I like the way they sound and I love the way these words make me feel from the inside out.

Shaminyana (shah-me-ah-na). It's a covered tarp or tent. ASB has one over the playground area for soccer in the shade. For me it means protection, and either a party or recess.

Krupiya (crew-pee-yah) means please. Only no one really says this word. When I add it to my tiny Hindi requests I always receive a big smile in return with the response, "Krupiya! Ha ha!" The 'please' is always implied in the request. So this word, although it exists, is never used.

Teekay is 'okay'. And you can say it like this ... teeeeeeeee - kay. That means really okay!

Craig's favorite word is Shukriyaa (shook-re-ah), which means 'thank you'. He likes it because it reminds him of sugar and sweet.

Masala Bhindi is a very delicious and savory vegetable, sauteed up with onions, tomatoes, and a mixture of spices. Yum!

Pitchkari is the name of the device used to spray water on Holi. It's a long, colorful plastic tube with a handheld pump. It sprays water in one thin jet stream, and is used after you have thrown colored powder on someone in order to run the colors together. It sounds so much more beautiful than 'squirt gun', don't you think? I bought a few Pitchkaris and powder to bring home and play Holi with my nieces and nephews next summer. I cannot wait to teach them this word and show them how to celebrate color Hindu style! There's a photo of them at the top of this post.

And the names ... a small sampling of the beautiful names of my Indian friends. Say these out loud. Omprakash, Freny, Ganesha, Prasad, Prakash, Pallavi, Anisha, Aditya (a-dit-tea-ya), Dax, Preeti. These people are as incredible and gorgeous as their names sound.

So my few choice words seem to revolve around the festivals, food, manners, and people of a country that has so much to offer. It is my wish that those of you who have read and enjoyed my blog will someday venture to India and discover a few choice words, cultures, foods, and mostly friendships that will remind you of the incredible India that we called home.

Itemizing Our Belongings and Longings

2011-04-25T06:15:00.000-07:00

The paperwork for our shipment back to Brainerd is sitting, untouched, on Craig's desk. It was supposed to be completed today, and Purnima, our shipping agent, has called numerous times to gently push us towards doing something that she cannot do on her own. We have to itemize, line by line, what we are taking home with us and how much it is worth. It's a lengthy and complicated process that I don't remember being so stressed out about when shipping things to India. We didn't pack much that summer of 2009 - just 35 boxes and a bed. Now, we are definitely taking away more than we came with. Besides the Parsi bed, numerous statues and a few carpets, I find myself emotionally tallying up the things that we're leaving behind vs. what we are taking home. What value can I place on the memories, the sights, the sounds & smells of Bombay? How much can a heart hold before it forgets the joys to replace with longing? And what's the insurance value of my dreams realized by teaching and learning in India?

I'm trying so hard to hold it together, but every time I think "so here's the last time I will ..." my eyes start to sting and I get that weird pinched look that lies between ache, anger, and awkward sadness. A wise friend says to me, in the middle of one of those ugly faces and wet eyes, "Do not cry for what you have lost. Rather, smile for the opportunity that you found." So through the tears I smile, and as I say goodbye over the next three short weeks I mentally tally up the people and experiences that are in any other way impossible to replace or replicate. In no particular order.

Slicing, smelling, and eating Alfonso mangos by the dozen. Orange, soft, sweet, anxiously awaited on the teasing breath of the monsoon winds.
Monica. She washes my dirty laundry, feeds our bellies, and loves our children every day.
The Sodexo staff who serve me coffee and grilled sandwiches and teach me to speak in short phrases. Aap kaisey hain? Shukriya. Dandivaad. Eck cappucinco. Krupiya. Bahut dhanvavaada.
Cold beer delivered by Babu's boys from Good Luck Wine. In five minutes.
Afternoons in Matheran with friends, sipping coffee and watching our boys chase the monkeys.
Lines of credit without question at the grocery store and school.
Sunday morning's mysterious flutist that whispers a sweet sad melody through my bedroom window.
Festivals! Ganpati, Diwali, Christmas, Ramadan, Eid, Mary's Birthday, Mary's Mother's Birthday, Krishna's Birthday, Holi, etc. etc.
Bhang on Holi morning. Look it up.
Angelia and her magic hands every Wednesday evening.
Fresh chipatis, dosas, naan, masala bhindi, mo-mo's, dim sum, Kashmiri rice and tandoori.
The man with no fingers who smiles at me even when I don't give him rupees.
Flying over Mt. Everest only four nautical miles up.
Seeing the sunrise over Mt. Everest wrapped up in a heavy blanket with India's Minister of Foreign Affairs.
Spinning prayer wheels with Barrett as we tour gompas in Thailand and Nepal. Om mani padme hum.
Tea on the carpets sitting cross-legged with Manzoor.
Tea on the plantations of Darjeeling and Munnar.
Swimming year round OUTSIDE.
A salary that all competent teachers should be paid, EVERYWHERE in the world.
Parent coffees in a room of people representing up to 52 countries and twice as many world languages.
Collegial collaboration.
Taxis and rickshaws that take you anywhere you need to go for CHEAP.
Outdoor grocery shopping.
24 hour outdoor pharmacies within walking distance from our flat.
Renting vs. owning.
Walking vs. driving.
21 day holiday breaks.
Parents who tell you thank you for educating their kids every time they see you.
The gentle and sometimes jolting reminders that we do not deserve what we have because we have worked hard. Lots of people work hard and starve on the street.
Craig buying food for the beggar children, including dessert and bottled water.
Gardenview Bandra Police Housing and the children who live there and shout my name out every time I stroll by.
Being greeted with a namaste and a smile at least four or five times by your organization on your way through the front door.
Outdoor recess ... year round!
Opportunities to travel.
Opportunities to see that others live differently.
Opportunities to try to live differently.
Opportunities for professional development that go beyond the walls of the school.
Kurtas, sarees, chiduzar, kameez, bindis, bangles, and color color color.
Looking out the window and seeing a vastly different world each day.
Driving over the sea link in a black and yellow taxi, head tilted back, yelling 'wheeeeeee!!!!" with my first grader as we experience an optical illusion that skyrockets us to the moon.

Thank you India. Namaste.

Smile and Say Thank You

2011-02-20T03:53:00.000-08:00

"Did you see that man undressing you two with his eyes?" asks my clearly exasperated male friend.

We are walking through a neighborhood near our lane. The narrow side streets are packed with ornately carved teak furniture at various stages of production, goats the sizes of mopeds, and the busy comings and goings of burka clad women and their jubba wearing fathers, husbands, and brothers. Calls to prayer, chai breaks, and shuffling children back and forth to the Urdu School for Boys and Girls all keep this busy Bandra West Muslim quarter alive at all times of day and night.

My friend is not certainly not the first person to complain about men staring at female expatriats in India. Several American women have also bemoaned the whole Indian staring and undressing with the eyes thing in our conversations. They are outraged, incensed, and offended. As tall, buxom, and often 'inadequately' dressed causasian women living in a land predominantly filled with short, really skinny, dark men (who are not allowed to date or touch a woman until their honeymoon), we do tend to stick out a little bit. Just like a burka clad woman or a man wearing a white lace cap atop his orange-haired head to the white skirt down to his ankles would cause some commotion on west Washington Street in downtown Brainerd, Minnesota.

My girlfriend retorts, "I get stared at EVERY DAY. I hate it! I just glare back at them ... trying to give them to meanest look I can."

I think about this. I think about being a guest in their country. I think about the unwanted propositions I've gotten from Paris to London and Mexico to Minneapolis, and even downtown Brainerd. I think about how strange I must look - and how foreign I often feel, in Mumbai. Especially if I'm wearing shorts or exposing my arms. I don't think she was anticipating my next comment.

"When someone stares at me I just smile back and keep walking."

I've said this before to other women either living here or traveling around India who complain about the staring. Their response is usually that I'm asking for trouble. That I'm encouraging the staring. I've even been told that I'm insane and they will be reading about me in the obituaries. So I thought I would do an informal study on what typically happens when I smile back in response to a man staring at me.

Usually one of the following happens.

They smile back and keep on walking. (most often)

They shout, "Hello! How are you? What country are you from?" and then shake my hand and keep on walking. (Probably one in five.)

They say, "Do you like our country???" Then I say "I love India!" Then they smile back, and they keep on walking. (Definitely at least one in ten times.)

They ask, "What is your good name?" I say "TyAnne Rezac" and they tell me their good name, smile back and keep on walking. (Too often to keep track of.)

In the train station, the young women wearing a beautiful orange saree stares at me from about three inches from my face. We are crushed at the yellow line, waiting for the next local train, so we can push our way into the compartment. She is clearly invading my personal space. But I smile and she says, "What do you think of this shoving and fighting to get on the train? Isn't it SOMETHING!?!?! Everyday I take this train and everyday pushing and shoving! Is it like this in your country?" (Staring at me three inches from my face isn't rude, but the pushing and shoving IS, according to her.) We continued to chat, and I learned that if you are trying to get on a train that is not on the line that you work and live near, you are an 'outsider'. Pushing and shoving you off isn't rude, but rather is the duty of the others who need that train seat and geographically belong there. I learned some valuable safety information from this smile!

And okay, I will be honest. ONCE, while in a rickshaw a few months back, some young twenty-something hot guys were staring at me AND smiling from their rickshaw. I smiled back. The next thing I knew they were all three in my rickshaw ready to follow me to the ends of the earth. I'm chalking that one up to the staring/smiling combination. Avoid that. It was easy getting them out of the rick. I simply told them I was a married 41 year old woman with two small babas at home. They jumped out, laughing and waving. In the end, that experience actually made my day. Like getting carded at a bar!

There is certainly a pattern here. No one, ONCE, has tried to molest me. No one has pinched my ass. No one has given me their phone number or asked for mine. No one has followed me home ... not even at three o'clock in the morning. Once or twice I get a request for a Facebook Friend. But that's after we've become more aquainted - because responding to stares with a smile could actually win you a new friend that knows where to go for that perfect cheese masala dosa!

Not only that - if someone is staring at you when you happen to be lost, it's a great opportunity to test out your Hindi and ask for directions!

Indian babies will stare at you UNTIL you smile back. And when you do you will get the cutest little nod that will convince you that whole Indian head bobbing thing is inherently genetic.

Probably the best thing that every happened to me was just last week, the day after my friend noticed the staring while walking with us in the Muslim quarter. A man was walking along the street parallel to me, staring me down even though I was with my spouse. I looked up and stared into his dark, mysterious beautiful brown eyes. And then I smiled.

He reciprocated and quietly said, "Thank you." And kept on walking. My smile to him lasted the whole way back to our flat and up six floors of stairs. For lack of better words, I felt all 'warm and fuzzy' inside. All from that 'thank you'.

Yesterday I went to hear and see His Holiness the Dalai Lama give a talk, "Introduction to Buddhism". He not only smiled at the thousands of strangers in the audience. He also laughed, a lot. A beautiful belly laugh that made everyone smile back at him.

We went down to South Mumbai today. In Chor Bazaar, I started to notice all the Buddha heads for sale. There are carved out of granite, limestone, sandstone, brass, and wood. Every one of them, aging back from the 1700's to current, had a peaceful smile on his face. No wonder!

After lunch, somewhere between the Gateway to India and the Museum of Modern Art, Craig and I ran smack into half a dozen Indian college students. We were hopelessly lost and not looking where we were going. Craig smiled at the boys and apologized. They smiled back and wanted to know our good name, where we are from, what we do, and why we were in India. They told us they were Kashmiri, on holiday. They invited us to Kashmir and said we were most welcome to stay with their families and they would show us all around their beautiful state. (And from what I've heard, Kashmir is supposed to be GORGEOUS!) It's so unfortunate to won't make that trip while we're living in India. If we did, we'd have a free place to stay and tour guides so that we wouldn't get lost! All because we weren't looking where we were going and took the time to smile and say 'sorry'.

So I'm going to keep answering those stares with a warm smile. Even if I'm in a sour mood. I'm going to continue to expect the very best in human nature. I might even start staring at people just so they can stare back just so I can smile and see what continues to happen! Maybe you could smile if someone stares at you. Give it a try - and let me know what happens.

I Am Taxi Driver

2010-12-10T16:06:00.000-08:00

It's one of those rare clear, cool nights in Bombay. The view of South Mumbai via the Worli Sea Link bridge is breathtaking.

Every time I cross the Sea Link bridge, I crane my neck and tilt my head back in the rear seat, so my face is smashed up into the back window looking straight up. My eyes are fixed on the center of sky between the steel cables. The optical illusion of shooting upwards into space as we cross the tallest section provides a magical catapult ride that makes me giddy, every time. "Beautiful Mumbai!" I exclaim to the taxi driver, pointing to the sky line. He smiles and gives me that nod that says maybe yes, maybe no. Or just maybe he thinks I'm crazy and has no freaking idea what I'm talking about.

It's a long drive in Friday night traffic from Bandra to Marine Drive. I start up a conversation in my broken Hinglish with the taxi driver, asking him about his family (married with a three year old daughter) and his place of origin (Uttar Pradesh). His wife stays home with their baba, and he, seven days a week, drives a cab. There is no sadness in his voice. He is proud to tell me his daughter, at 3 1/2, is already learning to read. We are able to deduce, in spite of a serious language barrier, that we both studied Political Science in university. I tell him I'm a reading teacher, and he says, "I no read English! My English BAD!" I laugh and say "My Hindi VERY BAD!" He goes on to tell me he also studied Ancient History. And Business Management. He tells me, "Six years University. And I am Taxi Driver. Nehe money."

I'm thinking about how smart he is, how educated he is, and how his life could have been different had he lived in a country with a few hundred million less people. We come to a red light and I ask, "What did you WANT to do for a job?" He doesn't understand and says, "I am taxi driver!" So I say, "You studied Ancient History - did you want to be a teacher?" He doesn't understand and says again, "I am taxi driver." I persist, "You are taxi driver. I am teacher. But you studied six years in University. When you finish university, what did you DREAM of doing for job?" He looks at me, eyes blank. I know he doesn't understand and I cannot think how to phrase this question. I call Monica, our house help, and ask her to ask the taxi driver in Hindi, "What did you DREAM of doing for work when you were young?" Passing the phone to him, there are many words exchanged and I can only make out a few. Money. University. Taxi. Nehe.

I get the phone back and Monica says, "Madame. Once he had a dream but that dream is gone. He said he can do anything. He can work in business, accounting, whatever someone wants him to do he can do. But dream is gone." We hang up, and I smile at him. We've reached my destination and I press Rps. 500 into his hands, tell him Namaste, and walk away.

Mumbai - the city of lost dreams.

Chasing Chickens: Down Time on the Way Up

2010-11-12T15:54:00.000-08:00

DAY ONE: Tumling to Garibas

"Mom! I don't like to eat chickens, but I LOVE to chase them!" Barrett, age six, runs up and down a small lane in a small Indian/Nepali border town, chasing the poor feathery beasts back into their coops and far out of reach. It is Diwali holiday, and we have just begun our four day trekking adventure through the upper tip of West Bengal to Sandakphu. After our gentle four hour climb from Tumling to Garibas, there's not much else to do but sip Darjeeling tea, play a little pre-nap Monopoly, and chase chickens.

The people here look and act much different than the Indian folks we've encountered on our other trips. Sangey (san-jay) is our guide, and his childhood friend, Buddha, is our porter. They are noticeably shy but adore my 1st grader. They speak quietly to each other. They seem very wise. I immediately trust them as we embark on our trek and remove ourselves from electricity, conventional plumbing, and the bustle of Bombay.

There's a Buddhist presence here. We pass multi-colored prayer flags strewn across a small lake (water is one of the five holy elements), and we stop at a couple of sleepy Gompas and learn how to turn a prayer wheel. There's a mellow gentleness of spirit in the families we meet, who have opened up their kitchens and bedrooms to trekkers, in order to make a few extra rupees to send their children off to boarding school. We see evidence of a quiet and tolerant society, in the Ganesha and Krishna statues that join Buddha on the fireplace mantles. And we observe an impressive partnership between the Indian police border camps and Nepali shopkeepers, where Hindu soldiers cross into Buddhist Nepal to buy cigarettes, biscuits, and when they can afford it, the occasional chicken.

DAY TWO: Garibas to Kalipokari

There's a ruckus in the barnyard. I peer out the window, ducking out of layers of worn but warm quilts, to see several soldiers, just like Barrett, chasing chickens. One big white fluffy bird is finally caught by three large men and is lifted, feet last, into a recycled burlap bag. The soldiers, laughing, tromp into the kitchen and our hostess places the bag on a rickety rusty scale that looks a century old. Using weights to counter balance the bird in a bag, we hear a camouflaged soldier shout, "Five and a half kilos!" He smiles at me, throws the bag over his shoulders, and returns to his camp to prepare his Diwali dinner. My family is huddled over the kitchen stove, trying to stay warm. Our Minnesota blood has considerably thinned, and we are freezing.

We take take it easy today, leaving after a hearty breakfast of porridge, tea, and corn flakes with hot milk. Every two hours or so we stop at a little village and have a 'tea break' with pre-packed baggies of almonds, candy, and raisins. Sangey knows all the locals. A graduate of the Himalayan Mountain Institute, he's been guiding travelers through the region for over a decade. It's cold and windy today, so we welcome the warmth of another kitchen with the clay stoves and wood fired oven. I notice a waxy package of something stuffed into the rafters. "Yak cheese", Sangey tells me. "This is what sustains the people when winter comes and no fruits or vegetables will grow." I love cheese, so naturally when offered a small cube I try it out. Tasteless and chewy.

Eight hours later, in a hut two stories above a primitive squatting toilet with no running water, I am violently vomiting, racked with lower abdominal pain, and wondering how to reach the john in time to use it. I can see my stomach muscles protruding through my skin, and I am in total misery. I turn to my spouse, breathing and dreaming peacefully. The kids are in their beds, sound asleep. No one else appears to be ill. No one else tried the yak cheese. I'm stumbling down the narrow stairway, using a tiny mag-light to guide my way. Over the course of the night I make my way up and down from toilet to bed too many times to keep track of.

DAY THREE: Kalipokari to Sandakphu

I greet Sangay the next morning. He looks exhausted, too, and says, "I am having loose motions. We will need to go slow today as I am not well." I share with him that I, too, am suffering from the dreaded "loose motions". That day we both avoid company and take turns shitting and puking in the bushes. I give up my pack to Buddha, and Sangay assures me, "In Tumling, Neela will give us medicine and we will get better." Until then, I refuse to eat and only sip weak tea without milk. But the air is fresh, the views are amazing, and Everest and Mt. Kanchenzonga are only a few hours away.
Barrett is tired and cranky so we hire a tiny man and his pony to lead him up the 6 kilometers of zig-zagged 45 degree inclines. It's pure hell for me, but I trail behind, putting my deep breathing exercises to the test. We finally arrive in the late afternoon, and although the weather is a bit cloudy Sangey assures us we are in for a breathtaking sunrise over one of the few places in the world that non-mountain climbers can view Everest and Kenchenzonga in one panoramic sweep. I'm most excited to find in our room a Western toilet that flushes. After our bucket baths we go to bed early, in order to be up for sunrise. The morning sun doesn't disappoint, and we are treated with a rare crystal clear view of the world's first and third highest peaks. I'm still ill, Craig has a headache, and we're frozen from sleeping too many hours on a hard wooden frame with two blankets short and a drafty window. But we wrap around our blankets and head out the door to greet the best sunrise of our lives. For the rest of the morning we find ourselves peering out the windows and commenting how the sun plays with the peaks, changing the view every few moments. Carey burns through a camera battery taking photos of the mountains, and a crew of happy travelers from Gujarat join us for tea and Uno.

DAY FOUR: Sandakphu back down to Tumling

"Neela's Place" has an official name, but I don't know it. Neela is the sister of our travel agent, and her lodge is famous, hosting up to 100 climbers a night. It's written up in the all trekking guides of India. We reach her place in mid-afternoon and Buddha rolls up his sleeves and washes up to help prepare dinner. He works alongside Neela, her sister, and a niece on holiday from St. Pauls Boarding School.

Neela is a healer. Still suffering from the yak cheese, I ask Neela about her magic drink that cures "loose motions". Neela smiles and retrieves a worn tattered packet of powder out from under her mattress in the kitchen. She mixes the mysterious substance with boiling water, black salt, and fresh mint from the garden. "Drink it all, quickly." she says. It's terrible but four hours later my bowels and belly are calm. The nearest hospital is hours away, and Neela tells me they rarely need to visit the doctors because they can grow and make all the medicines they need.

Neela is a school teacher, and after feeding us porridge and cornflakes with warm milk, she will travel down the hill, 5 kilometers away, to a primary school. All the children are locals but walk up to two hours one way to be educated in a multi-age classroom. I say to her, "Miss Neela, you must work all day and all night!" She smiles and says, "No. I stop working at 9:30 to have my supper and then sleep." The small Nepali child sitting on a stool in the corner lives with Neela so that she can attend school. I ask about the girl's parents and Neela says, "I don't think they care about her anymore - they haven't been down to see her in months. But she's a good girl." Neela is a foster mother.

Sangey loves to cook, and he and Buddha help Neela in the kitchen whenever they are guiding trekkers. They explain to me that all the shop keepers, hut owners, and guides and their porters are like a big family. Everyone knows everybody else, and the guides have accomodations just as nice as ours. This is not the case in other areas of India where we've traveled. Drivers are expected to sleep in their cars, and they pack their own food. As Buddha rolls up his sleeves to chop onions Sangey proclaims, "Tonight is our first ever mo-mo making contest! TyAnne and Craig will compete against the rest of us to see who makes the most beautiful mo-mo's!" The other trekkers are amused, and eventually there are a dozen or so of us sitting around two large tables, learning how to carefully execute a mo-mo.

After our delicious meal of mo-mo's, noodle soup, and custard, we're off to bed. It's 9:30 but But Neela is still cooking. There is team of Gujarati trekkers in matching red and black polyester warm-up suits demanding chipatis, rice, and dahl. They don't do mo-mo's. (But in case you want to try them, see recipe below.)

DAY FIVE: Jeeping it back to Darjeeling

The rest of our week in the Himalayas is cake compared to the beginning of our adventure. Craig and Carey start walking ahead of us, while Barrett and myself with our team ride a 1947 Land Rover three and a half hours down a bumpy boulder ridden path. Craig, whom we caught up with an hour later, is a jeep enthusiast and is in heaven as we bounce down the trail. My sons are exhausted and ready for the long weekend in Darjeeling. There we'll be sleeping on a real mattresses, eating out in heated restaurants with electricity and a menu, and we'll be back in cell phone range.

Our goodbyes to Sangey and Buddha are difficult. We've spent several days together, not just trekking but also telling stories, teaching each other games and phrases, and sharing the local Honey Bee whiskey in the evenings huddled around the kitchen fire. Buddha hugs me and says, "I hope I did okay for you. If I did anything wrong, please know I am sorry. I was so happy to meet you and your family." He then runs into the nearest shop to buy Barrett some chocolate bars with money he can't afford to part with. Sangey walks me to the nearest market and helps me purchase a mo-mo steamer, so that I can have my own mo-mo making contest back home. I tear up saying good bye and quickly walk away. I know these men say hello and goodbye to their clients on a weekly basis. I'm sure it's easier for them than for me.

So much of our journeys, our adventures, in life revolve around what we plan to see. The Taj Mahal, Mt. Everest, The White House, Niagra Falls ... whatever. What we fail to anticipate are the relationships we experience along the way. I planned this trip completely driven to climb the mountain and have an incredible Kodak moment. Done. What I hadn't planned on, and what was far more meaningful, was the time spent chasing chickens, and learning from the friends we made on the way up.

Neela's Mo-Mo's for a Crowd
(best when prepared and shared with friends!)

filling
1/3 kilo finely chopped cabbage
1/2 kilo finely chopped onion
1/3 kilo nutrella (dried soybean balls) finely chopped (substitute chicken)
250 grams finely chopped ginger OR 250 grams finely chopped coriander
4-5 t. salt

Mix all of the above in a large bowl and add 2 t. Ajinomoto Spice (if you can find it).

Heat 1/4 cup dalda or refined vegetable oil and mix in with all of the above.

dough
3 cups flour
1 T. oil
1 C water
pinch of salt

mix and keep covered in plastic for 1/2 hour

cut in small pieces and roll into balls

The rest is too complicated to explain ... here is the directions that I found off a website that best describe the way Neela and Buddha assembled the mo-mo's.

Serve with mint and/or tomato chutney and a hot brothy vegetable soup.

Give the dough a final knead. Prepare 1-in. dough balls. Take a ball, roll between your palms to spherical shape. Dust working board with dry flour. On the board gently flatten the ball with your palm to about 2-in circle. Make a few semi-flattened circles, cover with a bowl. Use a rolling pin to roll out each flattened circle into a wrapper.

For well excecuted MOMOs, it is essential that the middle portion of the wrapper be slightly thicker than the edges to ensure the structural integrity of dumplings during packing and steaming. Hold the edges of the semi-flattened dough with one hand and with the other hand begin rolling the edges of the dough out, swirling a bit at a time. Continue until the wrapper attains 3-in diameter circular shape. Repeat with the remaining few semi-flattened dough. Cover with bowl to prevent from drying.

For packing hold wrapper on one palm, put one tablespoon of the filling mixture and with the other hand bring all edges together to the center, making the pleats. Pinch and twist the pleats to ensure the absolute closure of the stuffed dumpling. This holds the key to good tasting, juicy dumplings.

Heat up a steamer, oil the steamer rack well. This is critical because it will prevent dumplings from sticking. Arrange uncooked MOMOs in the steamer. Close the lid, and allow steaming until the dumplings are cooked through, about 8-10 min. Take the dumplings off the steamer, and immediately serve.

http://www.nepalhomepage.com/society/recipes/v-momo.html

Acts of Service

2010-09-19T06:19:00.000-07:00

When we arrive at work and it's pouring rain, there's about five or six security guards standing in a line going from the parking lot, through the security gates, and up to the steps of the school. They are holding green and white umbrellas over not their heads, but ours. They walk us into school, making sure we aren't getting wet. They hold the umbrellas over our heads, smiling.

I cannot walk to my office in the morning, from that same parking lot, without at least ten support staff wishing me good morning and making eye contact with a smile.

When we go out to eat there's someone to open the door for us, someone to show us a seat, and at least three waiters to watch us and be there in a moments notice to take our order, bring our drinks, clear our plates, brush away the crumbs, and box up the leftovers. It's even just like this at Kentucky Fried Kitchen.

The Mexican place down the road will fold your burrito for you before you dig in. The menu will tell you "DO NOT ROLL THE BURRITO ... just ask for help."

The rickshaw driver will stop and ask directions to ensure he's taking you to the correct destination. No problem.

Everything is "no problem". Even when it is. They work it out so it isn't.

Our house help, when we've asked her not to cook because we are going out, will color code our sock and underwear in our drawers. She also recycles our cans, plastic, and cardboard for us and donates the rupees to her church. She does not sit down or relax during her eight hours of cleaning, cooking, playing with Barrett, and shopping.

The grocery store will deliver your order about ten minutes after calling. They remember your favorite cereal, chips, and other purchases and remind you that you might need some more of the same.

If you come home from a hard day's work and there's no beer in the fridge, you can call Babu at Good Luck Wines. He will make sure at least a few bottles that you order will arrive COLD. In about five minutes.

If you ask for something, the reply will probably be, "I will do the needful." That means, since you need it of course we will oblige.

When we are short on rupees our workplace will advance our salaries, run to the bank to retrieve cash, and ask us if it's enough because if it's not they can give us more.

When we call our doctor, he answers the phone. Even after 5:00. Even after 8:00. Even at 8:00 on a Sunday morning.

When we go to the pharmacy and they are out of ibuprofen, they will run from pharmacy to pharmacy down the road until they can locate it. Then they bring it back and sell it to us for the same price.

I tried on a shirt but wasn't happy with the fit. The store owner asked me to take it off and hand it to him. I did, and three minutes later that same shirt fit perfectly. The Ajid (tailor) altered it while I waited. No extra charge.

No problem.

Leading a Writerly Life

2010-08-29T04:48:00.001-07:00

I love to read. I have no memory of learning to read. When the lightbulb to literacy came on I cannot say. But I have very clear memories of my adventures with The Bobsey Twins, Laura Ingalls, and the Hardy Boys. I remember as a young teen shuddering at the atrocities in the stories by V.C. Andrews, sweating with fear in the middle of winter while reading The Poisonwood Bible, and recently wishing the stories of India as described by Rohinton Mistry weren't true. Reading calms me at night, teaches me how to be a better educator, and helps me understand the world we live in.

But writing? Writing is not something I've loved. I clearly remember my 1st grade teacher scolding me in front of the class for writing a sentence on the chalkboard incorrectly. I had put periods at the end of every WORD - not sentence. I was told not to start sentences with "and". And composing 25 "true or false" statements, and 50 "multiple choice" questions for every chapter in my high school Biology textbook certainly didn't do it for me, either.

Then came relationships. My boyfriend lived hours away and there were no "friends and family" cell phone plans or e-mail in the 80's. I needed to write him letters. Weekly letters started going back and forth - and I still have them all. I wrote about weekend plans, college, friends, new songs on the radio. Nothing moving and certainly not anything anyone - probably not even my boyfriend - would want to read.

Then came graduate school and the papers required. Writing was a chore left for late nights. The pen and paper was traded out for a green and black monitor. I saved my work to a floppy disk. Four years of college, two years of graduate school, more college, and another degree later I'm certain I have massive amounts of writing in my files in the basement at home which I have very little, if any, recollection of.

Then came Lester Laminack - a teacher of teachers who led a writing conference in Brainerd. He said our pen was our "secret weapon" that we could take with us anywhere. He said, "write your ideas down as they come to you. He said, "if you get a great idea for a story, jot in down on a napkin. Or better yet, bring a moleskin notebook with you everywhere you go!" He showed us his notebooks. He told us we should lead a "writerly life", writing in front of our students so that they, too, would see value in the stories they could put on pencil and paper. He read what seemed like hundreds of picture books aloud to us, in order to teach us that we can stand on the shoulders of authors and use their writing techniques to tell our own stories, true or fictional.

Still, I really didn't write. Yet I expected my eight year old students to write every day for 45 minutes. I celebrated their accomplishments and I watched in wonder as their reading abilities were improved based on their time spent writing. They read aloud to their peers what they wrote, and they wrote back and forth to me in a Reader's Notebook. They wrote about what they were reading. It was magic. Still, I really didn't write. The hypocrisy of this!

Then, the move to India. And a Facebook account. And free blogging online with an unknown audience. I've realized I cannot help but live a "writerly life" here. I see stories everywhere I look. My notebook is in my bag and my secret weapon is always handy. I no longer see things as a tourist - but as a writer. When something shocks or amazes or touches me in some way I think, "how can I write about that?" I think this is what Lester means. I think I get it.

Thank you for being an audience - for reading my writing. This ability to share my experiences with you through the blog has made my time here in India so much more meaningful. We are starting our 2nd year here, and I look forward to the stories yet to be written!

TyAnne

Monsoon Marigolds

2010-08-07T05:09:00.000-07:00

The monsoons that evaded Mumbai in 2009 have more than made up for their absence. It's pouring outside. In the past week that we've been back in Bombay, it has rained every early morning. I know because I've been up at 4:00 a.m. for the past eight mornings with jet lag. Just like this morning, where I sit here listening to the call to prayer just above the rain on the balconies.

Mumbai is still hot, but things are green. And cleaner. Filtered by the rain, the dirt, grime and garbage is markedly less. Indians are happy because hopefully now there won't be a water shortage in a few months when the rains stop. Monsoon is a time for celebration, and the festivals that kept us awake at night last summer will soon commence.

Last Saturday, walking alongside Waterfield Road, on our first trip to the market since summer holiday, we slip and slide through the rain, mud puddles, and people. We once again have to readjust our point of reference, looking down instead of ahead. The rocky terrain of broken street drains, uprooted cobblestone paths, and various obstacles that block our way add to the complications of the rain, making our progress slow and deliberate.

Then we hear some chanting and commotion down the road. Looking up we see about a dozen men carrying a large piece of plywood down the middle of the street. On the plywood is a man. A dead man, covered in a mountain of jasmine and marigold blossoms. His crisp, white, cotton cap is laying just above his head. He is lifted above the traffic and noise and he floats on the efforts of the men beneath him. They are flanked by trucks, rickshaws, cars, and bicycles. They are in the middle of the street, keeping up with the traffic, as they carry the dead man off to be cremated, chanting. Behind them, about 100 meters, is the widow. She, in her grief, is lying in the middle of the street, as a dozen or so women surround her, lift her up, and pour water on her. The rain is drenching their sarees and their cries are heard above the traffic. She finally stands on her own, and they continue their march. She and her circle of mourners follow the trail of flowers, in the middle of the street, that the trucks, rickshaws, cars, and bicycles skirt around.

Beginnings and ends run together in Hinduism. Disclaimer: I do not understand a fraction of this beautiful religion. But there's a distinct core belief that permeates society here that I have picked up on. In death, one has opportunity for a better life, based on the deeds and actions of the previous life. Death is a welcoming to the next life. The flowers gracing the dead man are the exact same flowers that we place over the necks, in a garland, to welcome someone into the community. Just yesterday I watched these same flowers grace the shoulders of thirty new teachers at our school. I'm thinking about the new teachers, the widow, and man on his journey down the street carried by mourners who are skirting traffic and the air is thick with the sweet scent of jasmine, fresh rain, and the street life that moves so quickly down Waterfield Road .

My spouse grabs my hand and comments, "this is touching". I'm already crying, thinking about the wife and overwhelmed with the presence of such life, death, and beauty. And the rain mixes with my tears, blurring my vision. But with complete clarity, I squeeze Craig's hand and trudge on.

Coming Home and Going Home

2010-07-05T13:24:00.000-07:00

We are home on vacation. It's been 30 days now since we boarded our 24 hour flight from Mumbai to Minneapolis. The final weeks of our school year were a blur of going away parties, report cards, and packing up. There simply wasn't any time to process our first year in India. Now we're 1/2 way through our summer break and we really don't want to talk about it. Which is probably okay - because most everyone isn't asking about it anyway.

We've found that our culture shock goes both ways. Last July we landed in India wondering how so many people could exist in such a small space. Last month we landed in Hubbard County and we wonder where the hell everyone is. In Mumbai we tried to cross a street, scared to death of getting hit by a bus, rickshaw, bike, truck, car or ox. Now on Park Avenue we laugh at people who stop a full 1/2 block away to wave us across. Here people complain about the neighbors who don't keep up their lawns while there we don't even have lawns. And in the midst of all the normalcy ... the driving and fishing and swimming and relatives and friends and family and cooking and cleaning and shopping I still wake up each morning and think about how lucky I am to have two homes. Two ways of lives. Two ways of thinking and doing.

The hum of the rickshaws and the crows at my window are my alarm clock in Mumbai. The call of the loon and the motor of a fishing boat wake me up at our cabin. Palik Paneer has been replaced by Harvati. Chipatis for "take and bake" baguettes. Rickshaws for our own Honda and the stationary bike for my RockHopper A1. Gin for wine.

I'm canoeing and I dip my paddle in the clear water a little deeper. I'm breathing and I breath a little (OK - a LOT!) deeper. I take an extra longer look at the stars in the clear sky. I hug more. Kiss more. I Tell everyone visiting us how much I love them. I just say it, "I love you." More. I feel this need to catch up on hugs and love and sour cream and clean water and even hard work. More. I listen to my teenager - who for the past ten months has been complaining about Mumbai - tell everyone how much he likes living in India. I watch my first grader interact with his cousins as if he's never left them. I find myself shopping at Target, thinking "I could buy any damn thing I want right now" and then I leave, satisfied that I have everything I need.

Actually, way more than I need.

The Golden Triangles

2010-04-09T09:05:00.000-07:00

Few travelers that venture to India neglect to experience the "Golden Triangle". This term refers to the cities Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur. Strategically positioned along the northern and western region of India, these three royal strongholds form an isosceles triangle on the map. They are a "must do" for tourists as you can, in a week or so, experience the Red Fort, the Taj Mahal, Agra Fort, and massive Amber Fort. These destinations are steeped in ancient history. And we would have LOVED to explore every nook and cranny of the palaces, bazaars, and temples had we not had three kids under age 6 and temperatures exceeding 100F. Yet what we experienced, as two families traveling together with one very special man and his wife, was far more valuable than the 22K gold leaf that covered the interior walls of the ancient palaces within the forts.

Monica Graham and I have our own "golden triangle" of countries traveled together in Ireland, Italy, and India. We've been dear friends since the 7th grade, and every ten years or so we've managed to take a major trip together. This was the first time we took our families with us. In Ireland (1988) we were on the ferry literally scraping the bottom of the peanut butter jar to stave off hunger - our college sophomore budget would only go so far. We spent more on museum tickets and beer than we did on our accommodations. Gainfully employed in 2000, on our Italian adventure we upgraded from buses and ferries to planes and cars. We drove from Rome to Naples, eating our way there and back. We've come a long way in our thirty year friendship! And the Grahams came a long way (12,779 km) to spend their Spring Break with us.

India 2010 found us affording a/c rooms with swimming pools, restaurants written up in "The Lonely Planet", and even a private tour guide. Meet Asutosh Sharma. "Asu" was referred to us through an incredible connection. Twenty seven years ago, Asu guided Monica's friends through Delhi for a day or two. These friends went on to explore other areas of India, and after experiencing some traveling issues getting home, they called the only person in India they really knew ... Asu. He took them into his home and helped sort out their visas and tickets to get them safely back to America. They've been sending Asu Christmas cards ever since.

We were excited that Asu was going to meet us at the Delhi airport and spend a day showing us around his "beloved city". (Humayun's Tomb, the Red Fort, Jama Masjid, India Gate, Raj Ghat, Gandhi's House/Museum) A few hours into the Delhi tour we decided to ask Asu spend the rest of the week with us. We appreciated his PhD in ancient Indian history, but primarily wanted him to stay with us based on his interactions and patience with our small children. Not to mention his ability to stave off well meaning folks who could not keep there hands and cameras off our three little towheads. Asu called his wife, booked some train tickets, and ended up spending the next few days with us as the adventure continued through Agra and Jaipur. Now we were three families together.

I could blog on and on about the adventures we then ensued upon. Crazy almost missed train connections, cops with automatic rifles gambling in the next train compartment as we're illegally drinking wine, being sprayed with elephant snot on the way up to the Amber Fort, lost cell phone and hacking and coughing our way through pungent spice markets. It was all "too good" as my Indian friends would say. In the midst of the UNESCO World Heritage Sites, and the regular assault on the senses in the foods, smells, and colors, "Golden Triangles" kept popping up in my thoughts.

Glenn Derby, an Episcopalian Priest, once during a sermon called Christianity a "three legged stool". The legs were the bible, the doctrine (Catholic/Lutheran/etc.), and your own conscience. He stressed the importance of each leg being equally valued, in order to keep a balance. He said if we rely on one thing too much the stool will topple over.

As I looked down a busy street in Delhi from the top of The Red Fort, I saw a Jain Temple, a Sikh Temple, a Hindu Temple, and a Mosque. All on the same stretch of road. My three legged stool of faith is strengthened with understanding that there are many paths that lead to God. Learning about Gandhi's life and literally walking the same path he walked on his last afternoon of morning prayers (Hindu prayers), I'm convinced he was walking a Christ-like life as a devout Hindu. Touring his home and museum in Delhi, I learned that Gandhi had just a few possessions. Most of them were tools (spinning wheel, fork, knife, spoon). In his bedroom a monkey statue sits, with a triangle of advice for those of us from all faith backgrounds:
See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil.
Christians have a father, son, and holy spirit. Hindus have three main deities that many others branch from: the Creator, the Originator, and the Destroyer. Parsi's (Iranian Zoroastrians) believe in "good thoughts, good deeds, good actions".

Societies have also formed many triangles. Formal education's stool started as the "3 R's" - reading, writing, 'rithmitic. The Irish proudly wear the ancient marriage symbol of the Claddaugh, which represents friendship, love, and loyalty. Americans dream of health, wealth, and happiness. And, according to dear Asu, if you are a Maharaja living in Amber Fort you pray to Allah for wine, wealth, and women!

Traveling around India our golden triangle continues to be toilet paper, sanitizer, and filtered water. I also rely on old and new friends to share our experiences with us - be it through personal visits (THANK YOU Monica for coming to see us!), blog posts, or emails. Lastly, and the most precious, are my three true gems. They are more valuable to me than all the jewels in the marble inlay of the Taj Mahal: Craig, Carey, and Barrett.

Does That Make Sense: Part Two

2010-03-21T09:27:00.000-07:00

The evening after my post on health care in India I got a phone call from Craig. He said, "I'm leaving basketball early. I think I'll just come home ... I don't need to go to the hospital. I can catch a ride with Julie (our friend) since she's just leaving now." My Emergency Responder training kicked in and I demanded to speak with Julie. She said, "We are going straight to the hospital."

A little history here: I have been suspect of Craig playing on this Tuesday night basketball league. He always comes home with a bruised ego, bummed over the fact that a handful of under 30 somethings can jump, shoot, and rebound better than him. Never mind that Craig is 43 and has never played basketball until we moved to India!

To make a long story short, Craig DID need to go to the hospital. He required an hour in the "Casualty Center", getting four stitches just above his eye near the brow line. He also required pain meds, an antibiotic, and another medication to prevent him from getting sick from the antibiotic. The ordeal took just under an hour and a half. When the doctor finished he shook Craig's hand and stated, "It was such a pleasure to meet you!"

So how much do you think that cost? An ER visit, stitches, and meds? Total?

We've only been to the ER in the U.S. once. It was a couple of years ago. My then three year old son woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't breathe. By the time we pulled up to the ER (four blocks away) he was much better, but we were too freaked out to return home in case it happened again. And the nurse encouraged us to stay. We waited THREE hours for a doctor to see him. He visited with us for five minutes and had the nurse give him a steroid injection for croup.

So how much do you think that cost? An ER visit and a shot delivered by a nurse? Total?

Craig's total bill came to Rps. 2,500. Converted: $45.00.

Barrett's total bill came to $800.00.

And Julie's friendship, support, and help with the whole ordeal? Priceless.

Does that make sense? Part One

2010-03-12T20:45:00.000-08:00

As a reading teacher, I listen to children read aloud every day. The students vary in culture, languages, and interests. We read little fiction and non-fiction texts at their instructional level. My students are emergent readers and writers who need intense, accelerated, instruction. I have students whose mother tongue is Africaner, Flemish, French, Hindu, Hebrew, and Korean. English is their second language and much of what we say and do builds their understanding of the English language and how to use it in speaking, reading, and writing.

There's a handful of powerful prompts that you can use when listening to child read. The prompts are used according to the strategies that child are implementing, using, or neglecting during their interaction with the texts. Some are, "Does that look right?" "Can you say it that way?" "Check the picture", etc. etc. etc. My personal favorite is, "Does that make sense?" Just because it's my favorite doesn't mean I should use it more often.

My goal is to ALWAYS follow the child, scaffolding their learning with the most powerful, clear, and concise instruction. Marie Clay, founder of Reading Recovery, writes about "economy of language". For those of you that know me, economy of language is definitely an area of concern. I talk, a LOT! But when I'm teaching I try to keep it short, powerful, and then watch for a shift.

Does that make sense?

Then back to living in India. So many things make PERFECT sense. And others make none. My spouse and I continue to be amazed, alarmed, and affirmed in our decision to live here. So you can imagine the emotional roller coaster we're riding. Here's a true life example. More will follow.

I have a wart on my hand that will not go away and it's bugging me. A visit to the pediatrician at our school results in a name and phone number on a little piece of paper. I call it. I ask for Dr. Geraldine. The voice says, "Speaking. Tell me." Dr. Geraldine actually answered the phone AND cut right to the chase. I explain my issue and she say, "Come to my office at 6:30 p.m." I say, "Tonight?" She replies, "Yes! I will see you then." Click.

I enter the clinic, a small room with several tiny Indian men who have courier bags on their laps. There's a wall with four or five doors, closed, which I think lead to small rooms. There's a man at an ancient desk with a red rotary dial phone. He tells me to sit down. It's the waiting room for the clinic. Door #1 is about six feet from the desk.

An attractive woman enters, speaks briefly with the man at the desk, and enters one of the rooms. She shuts the door, and turns on the light in her office. Then the red phone rings. The man answers, says, "Ha. Teekay." ("Yes. Okay.") and motions for me to go in. Dr. Geraldine spends five minutes examining my wart, writes a prescription, and hands me a bill for Rps. 700 (about $12.00). She tells me to pay at the desk.

So I pay at the desk but I only have Rps. 1,000. He doesn't have change. (NO ONE has change in India, which DOESN'T makes sense ... but that's another post.) The man picks up the phone and I can hear it ring in Dr. Geraldine's office. I can hear her speak to him through the door. They hang up and he says to go in again. I enter and Dr. Geraldine makes change for me out of her Gucci purse. I then go back outside and pay. Dr. Geraldine leaves her office in the meanwhile.

Does all this make sense? YES! No complicated insurance forms. No appointment desk. No referral (beyond a phone number of a piece of paper). No paperwork (beyond a receipt for ME to submit to my insurance company). No fancy reception area, magazines, music, or artwork.

The rest of the story here goes like this:
Later, Craig and I walk the five minutes to the chemist (pharmacy). There's a chemist every two blocks or so. And they are always open, even though they look NOTHING like Wal-Mart. Picture in your mind an open store front with a checkout area about five feet from the street. There are no windows it's all open air. I give the man my prescription. They are out of that medicine. "Madam, five minutes!" he says. I watch a young wiry man run down the street with my piece of paper. THREE minutes later he's back with my medicine. And it only cost $4.00 and I do not need to show him my insurance card to get that price.

I have one other health care example that makes really good sense. Barrett was sick and we were worried it might be malaria. We visited the pediatrician at school, who again, wrote a name on a little piece of paper and drew me a map of where to go on the back of that same paper. I took a taxi to the address and walked in. Another tiny room without any comforts of home, but clean nonetheless. I gave them the paper and they asked me to sit down. Five minutes later four lovely beautiful girls came out and collected Barrett for blood work. They drew his blood and we were done. The receptionist asked me to come back in three days and collect the reports, which I would then hand deliver to my physician. Again, no insurance. No hassle. And it's up to ME to follow through with my child's reports. Cost? $12.00 for the blood draw and results. The pediatrician called me the day the reports were done and asked me for the results. I read them over the phone and he determined Barrett had a virus, not malaria, and should begin to feel better soon. He did.

The L.A. Times online headline reads today (3/12/10), "Obama delays Asia trip to push healthcare overhaul". Maybe Mr. President could reconsider and think about coming over here and experiencing another system that in many ways seems to be working. Wouldn't that make sense?

Rickshaw Rants and Raves

2010-02-01T04:40:00.000-08:00

We have a love/hate relationships with rickshaws and their drivers. For lots of reasons. Here's our Top Ten.

1. Rickshaws are CHEAP. We can get to school for about 37 rupees (under a buck) one way. A trip to Cafe Coffee Day is only 17 rupees!

2. Rickshaws are CHEAP. They are very poorly made. They rust out quickly due to monsoon climates, and the fact that they are always outside exposed to the elements. Nine out of ten ricks have cracked windows and/or missing rearview mirrors. We think this may cause vision impairment.

3. Rickshaws are SAFE. If you are afraid to walk across the street, for a mere 1 rupee you can hail a rick. The driver will whip a "U Turn" and carry you safely to the other side. (I actually know someone who did this.) Also, rickshaw drivers, for some unknown reason, do not succumb to road rage.

4. Rickshaws are SAFE. They are a wonderful alternative to walking. By riding a rick you avoid rabid dog attacks, beggars, government buses, motorcycles, people trying to sell you little Indian flags or coloring books or strawberries or plush bouncy balls or dishtowels or illegally reproduced best sellers, oxen pulling wooden carts, bicyclists carrying a ton of bricks on the back, scooters, elephants, men dressed is saris putting curses on you if you don't give them rupees, and the occasional camel on a leash. Of course, if your rick happens to actually stop at the red light, forget about avoiding all of the above.

5. Rickshaws are QUICK. They can dodge in and out of traffic, getting around the big jams. They are much "skinnier" than a taxi and therefore can skirt around buses, SUV's, cars, vegetable carts, parades, and monthly political protests.

6. Rickshaws are QUICK. They can get up to around 35 MPH on the 'open road'. This seems likse a screaming speed in Bombay traffic, unless of course you are a mere six centimeters width from the government bus doing 55 MPH.

7. Rickshaws are ECO-FRIENDLY. In a city choking with smog, rickshaws run fairly clean with liquid propane gas (LPG) and batteries.

8. Rickshaws are ECO-FRIENDLY. Drivers turn off the lights at night and drive around in the dark in order to save on battery power. Riding a rick after dark may be hazardous to your health.

9. Rickshaws are MULTI-PURPOSE. Whether we need a lift to the school, the airport, the parties over at Kiara Building, Pali-Market, or even as far as Powai, we can always count on taking a rick. They run 24 hours. We also benefit linguistically using the rickshaw. Our Hindi vocabulary is expanding.
Seda! (straight)
Bus! (stop)
Seda Laka Jo (stop here in front)
Shukriyah, Ji! (thank you, sir)
Dhanyavad! (thanks)
and ... "What the hell do you mean you don't have change for a 500 note! I see that bulging wad of cash in your shirt pocket! Hand it over!!!" (We're still working on the translation for that one.)

10. Rickshaws are MULTI-PURPOSE. Drivers can eat, sleep, and drink in his rickshaw, drastically reducing living expenses. NOTE: Avoid rickshaws with empty glass bottles in the back or on the street next to the rickshaw, especially early in the a.m. the day after a big festival.

So that's ten. I'm reading this aloud to Craig and he wanted to add a few more qualities and characteristics he felt are worth noting. Here's Craig's comments:
Drivers can accessorize and trick out their ricks. We've ridden in ricks with zebra print velvet upholstery, rockin' sound systems, burning incense, various Hindu gods and goddesses attached to the dash, and little bundles of lemons and chilies tied to the front to "protect" from evil. Ganesha at the dash will remove obstacles in front of you. Lakshmi will bring wealth (a.k.a. big tipper or someone who only has Rps. 500 note and you don't have change), Mother Mary will protect you, Christ will grant you forgiveness for cutting off that scooter in the left lane, and Buddha will keep you calm at 6:00 p.m. when you are frozen in traffic a mere 2 blocks from your destination.

Rickshaw drivers' appearance also tell a story or two. Drivers in khaki work for the owner of the rickshaw. Drivers in all white actually OWN their rickshaw. Drivers with blaze orange hair should be avoided when riding with young children who don't get bright orange hair dye on an old man.

We need to stop at hair color. The personalities of rickshaw drivers is another whole blog entry in the adventures of "Brainerd to Bombay". But suffice to say, we LOVE the rickshaws of India. And if you ever come for a visit, we will insist that you try one out! Even if it's just to cross the street.

How to Draw God

2010-01-10T05:10:00.000-08:00

It is Christmas break, and we are in Udaipur. Udaipur is a magical city in southern Rajasthan. It's vibrant with handicraft shops, narrow streets, cows, motorcycles, and beautiful women dressed in colorful silks and golden nose rings. Known as the "Venice of the East", Udaipur is an international destination. In the middle of the city is Lake Pichola. In the middle of Lake Pichola sits the Lake Palace. Around Lake Pichola and inside the interior walls of the old city one discovers palaces, havelis, and temples at every turn. There are scores of roof-top cafes, and our first meal is in one. Over our pakodas, chipatis, fresh lime sodas and delicious curries, we look down at the nearby Jain Temple and hear the beautiful songs that vibrate up from the center of the temple to our table. The sun is setting and Udaipur is romantic, spiritual, alive. Our visiting American friend states over dinner, "Someday I will live here for six months and write poetry." It's that kind of city. Enchanting.

There are masses of little shops selling various handicrafts. You can buy a sterling silver bikini, hand-bound camel leather books, textiles, puppets, and cloth lanterns, and scores of other Rajasthani trinkets. But the town is particularly known for its miniature paintings in the Raijput-Maghal style.

We marvel at the intricate paintings, done by artists who have trained for decades. By the time they are masters, their eyes give out and they no longer paint but become teachers in the skillful trade. It takes a trained eye to spot the best paintings. We think they are all beautiful. We visit a government-sponsored art school, observing the process of painting the miniatures. Barrett, age 5, quietly sits beside a man painting a tiny image of a camel in the desert. The paintings are intricately done on small (about 2"x3") rectangles of camel bone, wood, or paper. They usually convey simple themes and life around them. Natural minerals are used to make the paint, and the artist brush is a single hair of squirrel. It's a fascinating process to watch.

Barrett says to the man, "You draw good."

The artist looks up, astonished. He then begins a long winded litany over the impossibility of drawing GOD. He says in broken English with a thick Hindi accent, "God is not meant to be an image. God is all knowing, all seeing, everywhere. God can not be drawn on a piece of camel bone, paper, or wood. God is within." His brush is still, his eyes sparkle with life, as he orates this sermon to our sweet little man-boy.

Barrett listens intently for about three minutes and then responds, "O.K. - can you just paint me a palace?"

We stifle our giggles and have a good laugh in the taxi on the way back to the hotel. Upon further reflection I realized the artist is exactly right. God is impossible to define via an image or likeness.

Hinduism has a deserved reputation of being highly tolerant of other religions. Hindus have a saying: "Ekam Sataha Vipraha Bahudha Vadanti," which may be translated: "The truth is One, but different Sages call it by Different Names". There's no way to draw God, because Hinduism is polytheistic - they worship multiple deities (gods and goddesses). Yet this contradicts the Hindu truth that there is one supreme God (Brahmann) who is monotheistic, and that all reality is a unity. Some say that Hinduism is trinitarian and Brahman is one god with three persons: Brahma the Creator, Vishnu the Preserver, and Shiva the Destroyer. Most modern forms of Hinduism are henothistic, and recognize a single deity, with other gods and goddesses as facets, forms, manifestations, or aspects of that supreme God. (Ganesha would be an example of that.) How can you just draw one God? And this is just in the Hindu realm.

One thing for sure is that we see God everywhere. Especially in India, where so many world religious originated. On this Christmas holiday, we did not go to church and celebrate the son of God's birth (Jesus) as we would have in the United States. Rather, we experienced the many forms of God in the beautiful state of Rajasthan. Here are just a few examples:

God was in the little Hanuman temple along the road to Mt. Abu. (Hanuman is the monkey deity renowned for his courage, power and faithful, selfless service. President Obama carries a Hanuman statue in his pocket.)

God was in the talent of the young miniature painter named Love, who told us he was the only boy and last of five children born into a family of male artists going back four generations. His parents, overcome with love at the birth of their blessed son, named him the feeling they shared.

God was in the eyes of the Rajasthani dancer in the tent resort we stayed in on Christmas Eve. The dancer, a member of the untouchable caste, traveled five hours one way to dance for us. Dancing, spinning, and smiling, he scooped Barrett into his arms and joyfully spun him around and around.

God was in the grace and ease of the camel named Buddha who carried Craig and I across the fields into the stronghold of the Kumbalarh Fort still standing after six centuries.

Drawing God isn't possible. But perhaps our interactions, our observations, and our ability to stretch beyond our religious backgrounds in order to understand others can result in getting drawn closer to God.

Ordinary People

2009-10-25T06:12:00.000-07:00

There is a middle aged Catholic man named Isaac Sebastian. He is our driver for the next six days. Isaac lives in Cochin, Kerala. He has a nice house by Indian standards. His home is sandwiched between his two brothers'. One brother is Solomon. The other is Ben Hur. Ben Hur Sebastian.

Ben Hur collects and refurbishes Royal Enfield motorcycles, made in India. He puts Harley Davidson stickers on them. He runs an exotic pigeon breeding business, and pigeons roam freely with his chickens. In his living room, in a place of honor, is a painting of Hitler and Mussoline. Ben Hur asks my husband, "Do you like this man?" He's pointing at Hitler. Craig responds quietly, "No, but what can you tell me about him?" Ben Hur replies, "Nothing. I just like this painting because he looks strong." Craig simply smiles and changes the subject back to those cool motorcycles.

Along the way to Munnar you come to a bend in the road. At the bend you will see a small red house with a sign that says "Pristine Chocolates". Knock and a beautiful women will answer the door and offer you samples of 70% cocoa bean (plucked from the trees nearby) chocolates. She will offer you a taste of cashew chocolates and almond chocolates and milk chocolates. Four boxes of chocolates will cost you 400 rupees. Someday, if their dreams come true, these chocolates will be available in stores in Mumbai. For now, you can only get them if you happen to be traveling along a tiny beat up bumpy road to Munnar. And they are worth the trip!

Captain Shine drives a one bedroom houseboat (A/C) seven days a week. He ferries total strangers up and down the backwaters of Kovalam. He and his crew of three, none of them over the age of 25, will cook, clean, and wait on you while you simply hang out for 24 hours or more. He will politely ask you to go for a walk down a path when you dock at night so that he and his crew can bathe. "No suits," he says to me, smiling. The Captain has the tune "Swanee River" set as his ringtone on his cell phone. I asked him if he had ever heard the song before or listened to the lyrics. "No, madame. I just like the way it sounds."

We are on the beach this afternoon. It's REALLY hot. The fisherman are wrapping up their nets for the day. Tourists from the U.K. are under umbrellas sleeping. Our children can't get enough of the crashing waves. They run in and out and back again, laughing as the salty water licks their tongues. We finally pack up and walk home. We walk past a native Keralan, sitting in a chair. His beard is as white as the frothy waves. Turns out that's not a beard at all! He's having a shave.

It's 6:30 a.m. and the sun is already up and blazing. We walk the beach again, one last time before we head back to Bombay. A man is standing on a big rock facing Jesus. He prays fervently. We can hear him from the path. His Jesus lives in a glass box along with Mother Mary. In front of these icons burns a Diwali Diya.

On the way home from work we pass a man sitting on a dirty rag, a basket beside him. Every day we pass him. He is old. Or maybe he just looks really old. He has no fingers. Just little stumps. He holds up the stumps and says something in Hindi that I don't understand. He wants rupees. And I walk away, shaking my head "no". He has a beggarman who takes the money he catches in the basket ... thus perpetuating the problems of begging in Bombay. My two sons walk away, nonplussed.

Slumdog Millionaire Part Two

2009-09-20T09:44:00.001-07:00

Dharavi Slum

Population: estimated at 1 million but no one knows for sure

Income Generated:U.S. profit from Dharavi income is $650 million dollars per year

Toilets: one per 1,400 bladders and bowels

Water Supply: inadequate, polluted, and rationed

Electricity: sporadic and limited to a light bulb or two hanging from the ceiling

Economy: Recycling. MANY U.S. companies ship their garbage to be recycled at Dharavi. Cardboard boxes are collected from the U.S., shipped to India, damaged sections or sections with labels are cut off (by hand), the boxes are re-constructed, and shipped back to the same companies that used them in the first place. Used water bottles and other plastic containers are shipped here from the U.S., melted down into pellets, and then shipped back to the U.S. to be formed into bottles again. Many of those will be filled up again with fresh, filtered water that is denied to slum dwellers in Dharavi.

OSHA Standards: There are no unions, nor are there rules and regulations regarding labor laws. The average worker earns between $40 and $60 dollars per month in the "factories" of Dharavi. There are an estimated 15,000 of these single room factories in Dharavi that are no bigger than my master bedroom back home. We toured several of them, and we only saw one piece of equipment that actually plugged in. In India, people are cheaper than machines. These recycling operations would shock you. A man walks barefoot on a hot tin roof, in a bed of plastic pellets and shavings in order to "sift" them to dry out. If it rains, he gets a dock in pay for letting the pellets get wet. If it's 115F he's still expected to work. He will work six days a week, nine hours a day, on that hot tin roof. I see him working on Sunday.

The U.S. companies that drive this operation violate U.S. strict government standards so this man and everyone around him breathes in toxic fumes. I climb the roof next to him, stare down on thousands of hit tin roofs, and breathe in the toxic fumes. "How can this be okay?" I ask Salim, our guide. He looks down from the rooftop, pointing, "See those police officers? Down there? They are here not to protect you and keep peace like in the states. They are here to accept the bribes from the factory managers. They keep a portion of the bribe and the rest goes to the state inspectors. Because we do actually have some laws against polluting the air here in Mumbai."

Geography/History: The islands of Dharavi go back to the 18th century. It was a mangrove swamp, primarily inhabited by fisherman from Koli. The swamp areas eventually filled out, and the islands became one very muddy and low lying land mass. Soon the island city meshed into its neighbor Bombay. Then the fishing dried up with the swamp, and migrants started pouring in and establishing their trade. There were and still are potters from Gujarat, tanners from the Arab world, tailors from Uttar Pardesh, and many others transplants looking for a big city to sell their wares in. Dharavi is culturally rich and colorful. It's dubbed, "The Heart of the City", because it is heart shaped, lying between two main train lines. The property now is worth a TON of money, because it is located near the Bandra Kurla Coplex (Mumbai's new financial district). Hindis, Muslims, Buddhists, and Christians live together here peacefully. The newest wave of migrants are flood victims from Bihar.

The Tour: My friend Beth Swenson and I arranged a tour of Dharavi through Reality Tours (http://www.realitytoursandtravel.com/). It costs about 8 dollars for a three hour tour. We were hesitant about meeting our guide in a crowded railway station a bridge away from the slum. But Salim, our guide, found us easily. Beth is blond and I have freckles. We kinda stood out amongst the others. Okay, kinda sorta stuck out. Big time.

Salim, a handsome young man in his late 20's, was wearing tight jeans and a black cotton shirt. His smile melted into my heart immediately. He was passionate about sharing the story of Dharavi as we walked and he talked. Every few minutes his cell phone would ring or he'd get a text message. His girlfriend, he explained. She can only call on Sundays so he excused himself many times to chat with her. He shared with us that she is Muslim, from a caste well above his. He is Hindu, living in a neigboring slum. She wears the burka and they see each other ten minutes per week while waiting in a line somewhere.

They are hopelessly in love. Truly hopelessly because soon her marriage will be arranged to someone else and Salim will not be able to prevent it. His only hope is to somehow find a job soon, so that he can save enough rupees to buy a house that COULD convince her parents that he can support her. That is his plan. He said that his girlfriend will need to give up nice clothes and going out with her friends once they marry because they won't have the money. She says none of that matters if they are together. He says to us, "I never say anything out loud that I don't truly believe will happen. And I say today to you that I will find a way to marry her." I want to believe him just like I want to believe that there's a viable and timely solution to all this poverty and suffering in Dharavi.

Salim dreams of children, of becoming a teacher, and of living in a "love marriage" with this girl who has never shown her face to him in public. He can speak six languages and taught himself to speak English by watching American movies with the volume turned up and by reading Sidney Sheldon novels. "TyAnne, how do you mean 'what the hell???' and what word means 'heck'!?!?" I laugh and explain. Beth finds our conversation especially fascinating as we've been talking about literacy all week at school. She's in India as our consultant.

We walk and talk shop. Once he finds out we are teachers he has lots of questions. Salim is worried his accent is too thick and that we can't understand everything he says. We understand. His accent is practically non-existent. Beth asks, "How did you learn to speak so clearly?" He replies, "I practiced speaking English aloud in a big mirror. I listened to myself talk over and over, trying to sound like the movie stars in America." Salim is a teacher and a learner. In the states he would have no doubt been able to attend college and get his girl.

These are employees at Reality Tours (Beth and I are on the far right.)

We continue to walk through the slum, seeing things that shock you to the core. But everyone is happy to see us, waving, shaking our hands. Offering us food. Beth declines while I try it all ... tamarind candy, freshly baked pastries, and Indian sweets. The children shout out, "What is your name! My name is _______! Happy to meet you!!!" They are precious.

My mirrored sunglasses go up and down from my eyes to my above my forehead. I love these sunglasses. Not because they are prescription so I can see clearer. I love them because the coward that I am lets me wear them when I start to tear up. I don't want these precious lovely children to see my pity, my sadness, my pain. I cry because in Dharavi, in the midst of all this poverty, people are working hard, laughing, smiling, and making the best of a situation that I would find unfathomable. I cry because I got to stay in school and study, pursue a good paying job, and marry my boyfriend. I cry because tonight I will sleep, freshly showered, in a three bedroom three bathroom flat that has five air conditioners up and running 24/7 while a family of six will share one bed in Dharavi. If they are lucky.

The experience is exhausting. We are hot, tired, and sore from all the precarious walking over steps, climbing up and down rusty ladders, stepping over bricks, and dodging debris in the narrow alleyways that they call streets. We need water. (I gave mine away to some thirsty children prior to our tour - there is no begging in Dharavi). Beth has to get back to plan for tomorrow's training. So we shake hands, gingerly hug Salim, and head back to Bandra.

There isn't a "happily ever after" Bollywood ending for Salim, or for the million slum dwellers.

THE END

Look Closer

2009-09-12T23:34:00.000-07:00

A flash of brilliant fuschia catches my eye this morning on my way to school. I'm on the school van heading to work. We are turning right onto SV Road, a bitch of a four way intersection. Cars, buses, rickshaws, motorbikes, and pedestrians are all making their way across this craziness. I can't believe I've been here almost two months and haven't witnessed a fatality, even an accident, on SV. When I attempted to cross, I made our maid come with and show me how. She crosses it twice a day. But there's no stoplights, traffic cops, or even lanes. It's the "Times Square" of Bandra West neighborhood.

Then that brilliant fuschia catches my eye. It's the exact color of my mother's hibiscus blossoms back home. Her hibiscus tree migrates to the living room in winter. She somehow manages to keep it blooming year round. If you are invited to my parents' house for dinner, and you are a female, and there's a fresh bloom, there's a good chance my dad will pinch off the prettiest electric magenta blossom and tuck it behind your ear. Her dress was that same color and I began to miss my dad.

The kurta is silk, and I can tell from the shimmer and movement of the fabric as she walks that it's fine. Gold thread shimmers at the neck, sleeve, and hem. Her hair is pulled up, with a gold clip holding it in place. She's on the corner, about ready to cross SV. You can't miss that fuschia.

Look closer. The hair is a matted tangled mess. The silk is stained on the backside. And I realize with horror that I was paying so much attention to the color and style of the kurta that I didn't notice she was naked from the waist down. Her legs, emaciated thin brown sticks, could barely support her bare feet as she stepped out into the traffic. Crossing that crazy intersection. Alone. Half naked.

Step by step, she walks. She crosses as though she can't even see the cars. She just walks right on through it all. Staring straight ahead she crosses. It's a BIG intersection. There are no crosswalks or pictures or signs saying "walk" and "don't walk". She just walks. Only she's in a beautiful silk kurta and isn't wearing a salwar (pants). Or even underwear. The traffic doesn't stop for her. And neither does our van. I turn and try to see if she made it. But the fuschia is gone. The traffic is so dense I can't see any sign of her.

I don't know how to finish this post. I only know that when something, or someone, catches your eye, you should look closer.

Ganesh Chaturthi

2009-09-02T20:59:00.000-07:00

Today marks the end of the Ganpati Festival. I now have a love/hate relationship with Ganesh. Ganesh, also known as Ganesa, Ganesha, Vinayaka, and Pillaiyar, is probably the best-known and most often worshiped Hindu God. Children especially love him because he's an elephant. Barrett loves him because several Hindi friends have been gifting him Ganesh coloring books and special Ganesh sweets over the last few weeks. I love him because I'm supposed to "Embrace India". I hate him because even as I type this, on the last day of Ganpati, fireworks shoot off in my back yard. Music blasts under my window on speakers at 2:00 a.m.. I curse the slow pace of traffic as I'm trying to get home and we're all held up because a parade of barefoot drumming Hindis are taking their dear Ganesh to the ocean for immersion. We actually know people who move out of their flat and stay with friends for the whole duration of the festivities so that their 18 month old baby can sleep through the night.

And tonight, participating in the farewell event, I ended up with a sprinkling of "holy water", applied with a marigold blossom. Afterwards I started sniffing around to see where the cow was. (There are a lot of wild cows meandering around Mumbai.) I asked the girls, "are cows coming with you to immersion? I smell them closeby." They laughed and said, "it's the sacred cow blessing you smell", pointing to my forehead. I replied, "I have COW URINE on my head?!?!?" I got the "nod".

When I first encountered Ganesh I couldn't believe so many people thought he was cute, loving, and their favorite Hindu God. We see him everywhere. On little cards gracing the rickshaw driver's dashboard, on posters throughout Mumbai, little framed icons of him are on several staff members' desks at school. Neither Craig or I thought Ganesh was cute or loving. He was just weird.

How quickly a little bit of research and learning can change a person's opinions!

Ganesh has touched us. We've been listening to the drums, the music, and the festivities for ten days now. Our neighbors combined monies and purchased a large Ganesh. (They come in stark white.) Ganesh was painted and a placed in a temporary shrine. Ganesh must wear different clothes every day. He must be worshipped and brought gifts of food every day. He is adorned with fresh flowers and gold jewelry, every day. If you have Ganesh in your house, your home is open to all visitors at any time, and you need to feed them. Taking care of Ganesh is a big deal. I spoke with more than one Hidu friend who doesn't have Ganesh in their home because "he is too much work!"

Ganesh is the "remover of obstacles", the Lord of Beginnings, and the patron saint of arts and sciences. He's the "patron of letters" during writing sessions. Images of him go back to the 2nd Century. He's usually shown with four arms and two legs. I asked a Hindu once why Ganesh has four arms. The reply went something like, "Ganesh has four arms because an elephant walks on four legs!" OK. "But then why does he still have two feet?" No answer. Just a slight "nod" and subtle tilt of the head. That's India ... nothing makes sense and yet everything makes sense. And it's up to you to determine whether that nod means yes or no.

Ganesh as Remover of Obstacles. We've been trying to interact with our Hindi Indian community next door for over a month now. We walk to the "store" nightly and try to buy candy. (Again, pay attention to the nod or you won't get change when you buy a 50 rupee candy bar with a 500 rupee note!) When Ganesh came, we paid a visit to his shrine. The children ran up to us, gave us candy, asked us our names. We took of our shoes to enter the holy shrine and then men came over and taught us how to throw the spices into Ganesh's throne. They asked us to come back and bring our children. Thank you, Ganesh, for removing the invisible boundaries between us and our new neighbors.

Just last week we were the honored guests (and the only ones given chairs) at the Bollywood Dance Contest held during Ganpati. Craig and I went home with trophies for the Grand Prize. We were coaxed and begged to go out and dance. Indian music quickly changed to "I'm a Barbie Girl" when we got out there. Everyone clapped and cheered and we formed a human train. No obstacles. For those of you that know Craig, you can imagine the personal obstacles he overcame to jump out into a crowd of a hundred people and attempt a dance routine! He smiled the whole way home and told me, "That was AWESOME!!!!"

Often next to Ganesh there's a mouse or a rat. He's on the floor looking up. The mouse symbolizes the wish to overcome desires and be less selfish. The rat is a destructive pest and needs to be overcome. Ganesh, as master of the rat, demonstrates that he is indeed Lord of Obstacles. Are we rat or mouse when we stand at Ganesh's feet? Do we wish to overcome our desires or are we self-destructive, trying to attain everything we think we need?

Ganesh as Lord of Beginnings. Our new beginning in India. India's new beginning as an economic force worthy of attention. The people's new beginning as they enter into a rapid time of growth and change resulting from international attention. The new beginning of the school year back home, where the anticipation and excitement refreshes us and remind us that "do overs" are possible.

If you buy a car, visit Ganesh first. He will protect you in that car. If you start a new business, worship Ganesh beforehand. He will grant you success and prosperity. Hindus of all denominations invoke the powers of Ganesh. But for the last ten days, during Ganpati, Ganesh takes on form and people are brought together in his honor.

Tonight the remaining plaster images of Ganesha are immersed in the most convenient body of water. (In Mumbai it's the Arabian Sea.) This can be a private family celebration or a big public event, depending on how much time, money, and energy you have for Ganpati. Some families have already immersed their Ganesh and he's been washed out with the tide. The large Ganesh images of this festival are going to the waters tonight. Hence the fireworks, traffic jams, and early out day today from school.
If it weren't for having a sick child here at home, our family would be on Marine Drive witnessing a three story tall Ganesh go into the sea, along with thousands of Hindus. But we can hear it all from our house. And we see the spectacular fireworks coming from three different directions.

Ganesh was created from clay and water to give form to worship at the beginning of the festival. Tonight, the end of the festival, Ganesh returns to formlessness. And next year he will come again, to teach us that forms may change, but Truth remains the same. And I can't believe I'm saying this, but I really look forward to getting to go NEXT year!

The Naughty B-Day Boy and a Pot of Yogurt

2009-08-15T04:05:00.003-07:00

Last night was one of the biggest street celebrations across Mumbai. Thousands, maybe millions, of Hindus competed for prize money in amounts ranging from RS. 25,000-100,000 (about $500-$2,000). How do you win? Simply by forming massive human pyramids in a group effort to reach and break an earthen pot of butter, water & honey. The pots were suspended earlier this week. Giant open air trucks, covered by a tarp and packed with competitors, drove through the busy city streets. Its occupants were looking for opportunities to climb. And fall. And climb again.

This crazy spectacle is known as Janmashtami, or "Gokul Ashtami". It celebrates the birth of Krishna, one of Hinduism's most famous Gods. Hindu's believe, as the story goes, that Krishna was a naughty little boy who LOVED butter (yogurt) so much that he would sneak into people's houses and steal it. (see inserted image) On his birthday, Hindus honor him and celebrate in the streets with Janmashtami.

There are no times, schedules, or sequence to these events. A friend called us when he heard the drumming and saw one of the groups practicing in the streets. We ran down just a few blocks from our flat and watched four attempts. The last group, dressed in festive, sweaty yellow shirts, toppled over on their initial attempt. Our hearts stopped and we gasped as the three small children, at the top, plummeted into the cobblestone street. We waited for the smack. But instead, the small children (who couldn't have been more than five years old) were cheering and laughing as the circle base boosted them right back up from the arms that caught them.

The next attempt. Barrett watched from his dad's shoulders. Carey and I barely could breath as the child, up 50 feet in the air, reached for the pot and smashed it. Milky white yogurt poured on the group as they carefully fell in on themselves with grace, joy, and anticipation of their prize. They had practiced for months. They had already won 15 climbs. They were experts! It was a collective mosh pit. An outdoor circus. A blast. Their celebrations lasted well into the night, past Krishna's birthday time of 12:00 a.m.

And tomorrow, these circus stars will be back driving rickshaws, selling cashews, and hawking plastic Indian flags on the street corners. They will continue to struggle for survival in a city that has no safety net to catch you when you fall.

Do the Math

2009-08-12T05:24:00.000-07:00

96,752,247 people live in Maharashtra, our state in India. Of that number, about 1,000 confirmed cases of H1N1 caused the Mumbai city government to close all the schools in Mumbai for the next seven days. (Snow day???)

Number of deaths so far in Maharashtra, India from complications with H1N1: 9

8,000,000 people take the train to and from Mumbai everyday. These trains are easily the most crowded in the world: 500 people squeeze into a 200 person car. The trains stop for just a few seconds at each station and they don’t even have doors. Trying to push your way through the crowd to jump onto a train results in countless injuries that result in disfigurement. Sometimes even death.

Number of deaths in Mumbai, India trying to catch the train: 16

Per day.

Happy Rakhi!

2009-08-08T22:34:00.000-07:00

Our American friend and colleague, Kavita, is a Hindu. Her time here at ASB is special because she and her husband and two boys are here for one year only, and her immediate family lives here in Mumbai. This is opposite the rest of us ex-pats (who will live far from our families for the next nine months). For this year only Kavita has unlimited access to her relatives' homes, birthday parties, anniversaries, family dinners, and babysitting. She and her husband are thrilled to be celebrating the many, many festivals of Hinduism here with their Indian relatives. And they have a LOT of relatives!

According to CultureShock!:India, "Raksha Bandhan" is celebrated all over North India. Sisters tie the rakhi (a red, silk "protective" thread) around the wrists of their brothers. So that no one is excluded, uncles and/or close male friends that don't have sisters receive the rakhi from other women in the family or families of close friends. "Brothers" offer their "sisters" a gift in return. (In Kavita's case, it was money.) An Indian feast follows the ceremony, and the children delight in the special Indian "sweets" that come after the meal.

Kavita and Raj invited me to witness Rahki at their apartment downstairs. It was lovely. I found myself wishing we Christians had such a holiday ... specifically designed to celebrate the males in our family and the strong bonds of sibling hood. I have three brothers, all wonderful, that I would have loved to tie the blood red thread of protectiveness ... especially when two of them were at war in countries not so far from where I now live.

Kavita, dressed in special clothing given to her by her mom specifically for such festivals, placed the red dot, or "tilak" of welcome on each man and boy. She then tied the golden thread to their wrists, and fed them sweets. (That part reminded me of a bride and groom eating wedding cake together.) Each male got a coconut and box of sweets. In return, Kavita received hugs and a gift of money. The room was alive with laughter, love, savory aromas, and one white girl taking pictures.

Enjoy the photos, and be sure to celebrate your own brothers, uncles, and good male friends some time this month!

Next up: the festival where dozens of men make human pyramids in the middle of these crazy streets, several stories tall. The top guy (usually some boy around age 8 or so) is responsible for grabbing a bowl of plain white yogurt strung from a wire. I'm not making this up! And this is a festival I am happy to opt out of!

Monica

2009-08-07T05:32:00.000-07:00

Meet Monica.

She's Catholic, not Hindu. She stands on a hot, stinky train for one and a half hours to get to our flat. Three hours a day she travels. Standing up. No a/c.

She'll work for nine hours cleaning, ironing, letting repairmen in and out of the flat (things are always needing fixing in India), and she will cook dinner. She will make chipatas, rice, beans, curry. It will be way better than what we could get in an Indian restaurant. She will get our boys safely off the bus in the afternoons, and when we arrive home from work hot, steaming masala tea will be waiting for us. "Sit down, sit down, ma'am and sir, you must be SOOOO tired!" she says. "Sit down and rest from your work."

We know who has worked the hardest.

Monica dropped into our laps. ASB arranged for her to babysit the boys every day during new teacher orientation week. She arrived earlier than expected, with her resume and two letters of recommendations in a little worn out plastic baggie. She came highly recommended by staff. She suggested we "try it out" for a week to see if we liked her. We like her.

She's paid well by Indian standards ... rupees 10,500 per month (about $210) to clean, wash laundry, iron, shop for and prepare food for consumption. This involves scrubbing, washing, soaking in a special solution, peeling, chopping each and every little lettuce leaf or pear or tomato. She does all the shopping for other things as well in Pali Market. Monica gets better prices at the fruit stands than we can.

My children adore her. Especially Barrett. Barrett and Monica are already speaking Hindi to communicate. And even though Moncia has a 10th grade education, she is an amazing teacher. And learner. I found a receipt and a used book in a kitchen drawer. The book has her name on it ... she put a smiley face in the "o" of her name. The title? "The Usborne Book of the First 1,000 Words". It's an illustrated dictionary for young children. It's worn and tattered from use. Monica wants to learn how to spell the words of the groceries she buys. She told me she can speak English well, and she can read it. But it bothers her that her spelling is not always right. I try to explain about spelling. I tell her it's really tricky and even some of the smartest adults I know can't spell properly. She tells me, "I was so sad when my mommy tell me I have to go to work and quit school! I LOVED school!" I tell her that I'm so impressed that she is fluent in SIX languages! Still, she wants her spelling to be perfect. Just like the ironed and folded t-shirts in Craig's wardrobe.

She will only call us sir or ma'am. She will not sit down and drink her tea with us. She drinks it standing up ... and then she will ride the train home, standing up, to start all over again with her own cooking, shopping, laundry, and work. This time in her two room flat without running water, a/c, electricity and the luxury of a large kitchen.

She makes our lives so easy.

Hers is so hard.

What we see on the way to work ...

2009-08-04T01:06:00.000-07:00

I used to walk to work. Walk on a sidewalk. It was 1/4 a block from my front door to my school. I would see the park, children getting dropped off by parents, my neighbors front doors, and once in a while a child would bike by or maybe a dog would be walking on a leash. It took minutes.
Now I walk down six flights of stairs (by choice ... I need the exercise vs. the elevator) and get driven to school with other teachers from our apartment. "Keep your eye on the road" isn't in my best interest anymore. Rickshaws go by just inches from our van, cutting in and out of traffic. Men on old rusty bicycles pedal past, some with large loads of bamboo scaffolding or a ton of potatoes in a sack, or even a wife and two kids hanging from the bike. Women knock on the windows with empty baby bottles, baby sleeping (drugged) in their mother's arms. Men urinating on the fences, cows lumbering by in the middle of the roads. Yesterday we saw an elephant. But after a week I find myself reading a book, or talking with a teacher, or looking out at the buildings. How quickly I've accepted the poverty, the raw shock of the traffic, and what I see on the way to work.

Welcome to India!

2009-08-04T00:52:00.000-07:00

We've arrived. In Mumbai. And today we've been here a week. Our warm welcome by the ASB (American School of Bombay) staff occurred late in the evening at the airport last Tuesday. A faculty member whisked us away to our apartment, where cold beer, clean sheets, and a clean shower awaited. We were too exhausted for the beer and shower. Jet lag has been uneventful for the boys, but Craig and I find ourselves ordering lattes after lunch here at the cafeteria at school and we still struggle to stay alert after about 4 p.m.
The school and staff are amazing. Every need is being met, every resource provided, and we love it here. The children have been partcipating in activities daily that include amusement parks, trips to the mall, movies, swimming, etc. etc. The curriculum, facilities, etc. etc. are top notch. We are noticing that the community here is just as concerned about our life outside of these campus walls as it is here in school. It's wonderful. I probably won't write much about ASB in this blog, but just know that we are very very happy and honored to be part of this International School.

Living at the Lake and Random Current Events

2009-07-10T15:04:00.001-07:00

We leave in just three short weeks. The past few weeks have been a blur of preparing, packing, shipping, packing up the house, saying goodbye, and trying to enjoy a Minnesota summer at the cabin. The last is the least, as there's just not enough time left.
The shippers came and we put 39 boxes and a few random items in a truck and watched them drive away. $7,500.00 worth of shoes, books, some toys, tampons, shampoo, our mattress and boxspring, and other random items that were recommended that we bring. It was a very scary endeavor as all I could think about was what I was neglecting to ship and what I was shipping that I probably wouldn't need. So we're living at the lake, out of plastic bins, and hoping that the wooden crate full or our stuff makes it to Old Bombay Port as close to July 29th as possible.
The day after the shippers came our "renter" arrived and moved her things in. That went very smoothly and we are thankful someone will enjoy our home as much as we do.
Carey made a big leap in his acceptance of our move on July 4th. We spent the evening at our future Supt's cabin on Horseshoe Lake (SMALL WORLD!). Meeting Paul and his family was an important connection for Carey, who is very nervous and still a little ticked that we're moving. He was a sponge, quietly listening to our conversations about living in India, the school, our apartment, etc. Who knows what happens in the mind of a 13 year old boy (I've never been one.) But after our visit Carey mentioned things like, "Did you see his clothes? He dresses just like us!" "Did you hear him say that there's a good Chinese restaraunt by our apartment - why do they have Chinese food in India? And mom, you know how much I LOVE Chinese food!!!" So our eldest boy is taking some baby steps to Mumbai. Barrett, on the other hand, would have left yesterday. He can't wait. Craig is happy, too.
We will be periodically checking our email: craigty@charter.net. And you can reach us via Facebook (TyAnne Guida Rezac). We fly to Memphis for a long weekend for the "Laptop Institute" next week. July 28th we leave for Newark, where our flight out of the country departs. Then the blog will get a lot more interesting. As will the food. And the unpacking.

You and I Same God

2009-04-25T07:03:00.000-07:00

Last night we went to the Patel's for dinner. They own and operate a couple of motels in the area. Their home is in one of the motels, and we've visited them once before just casually to learn about life changes we would be encountering.
This month they have family visiting from India and wanted us to come for dinner. The food was completely vegetarian and delicious and easily some of the best cuisine I've ever had in Brainerd. Craig concurs. The older gentlemen sat out in the lobby with Craig. Only one of the three spoke English. They sat, smiling at Craig as Jimmy, our host, talked about his recent visit to Mumbai.
In the kitchen area the women were preparing food and visiting. The kitchen/living/dining is all in one room. In the corner of the room was a large metal shrine with many statues, paintings, and figures of Hindi Gods. Candles, ghee, burned money (10's and 1's), and sweets were at the alter of the shrine. The older women saw me looking at this and began telling me about all the different gods. The elephant god, the god of the mountains, the many armed god, the god who played a flute and had a beautiful goddess girlfriend, the god of the seas who floats on a lotus blossom, and many others. I learned as some gods aged they changed identities and became a different god. The two large paintings above the shrine represented the two Gods each family held in highest esteem. Different families have different "main" Gods, under the same religion. At least this is what I THINK I understood from the conversation.
The older women brought out prayer books, with color photos of the gods. Each god seemed to have a different prayer book, or Bible. It was fascinating. One of the books was about astrology and horoscopes. Sue, our hostess, explained that this book really helps her relate and understand family members at different months of the year.
I told the women that I was a protestant and Craig was Catholic. "No matter," they said, "you must see the temples." I told them that I loved learning about the different gods and wished I could pronounce their names. "Don't worry," they said, "you will learn." The oldest one, with the beautiful golden brown feet that defied her age, feet adorned with collars of silver and gemstones, and a smearing of red paint on her forehead, she smiled. She patted my hand, firmly. "You have ONE GOD!" she explained. "We have MANY gods!" But you and I, we worship SAME GOD!"
"You and I, (pointing upwards) same God!"

Roberts, in Shantaram, writes, "The truth is that there are no good men, or bad men. It is the deeds that have done goodness or badness in them. There are good deeds, and bad deeds. Men are just men-it is what they do, or refuse to do, that links them to good or evil. The truth is that an instant of real love, in the heart of anyone-the noblest man alive or the most wicked-has the whole purpose and process and meaning of life with this lotus-folds of its passion. The truth is that we are all, every one of us, moving toward God."

As our journey moves us towards India, I can't help feel pulled towards a new understanding of God ... and we haven't even left town. All this in Baxter, MN. In a small motel room filled with curry and spice, a shrine to the Gods, and new old friends.

Shots, the To-Do list, and Facebook Quiz

2009-03-27T17:37:00.001-07:00

28 shots in seven days! Our family is getting really good at navigating the Travel Clinic at Brainerd Medical Center. Craig & Carey: tough as nails and don't even flinch. Ty & Barrett: not as compliant. Poor Barrett had to have FIVE shots yesterday. He wailed, "Just stick the needle in the bottom of my shoe!!!!!" Band aids are lifesavers.

Items OFF the to do list:
Our house is rented.
Birdy has a new, wonderful, kid friendly home.
The renters want to keep our cat.

Added to the list:
Research items: do they have espresso coffee beans and popcorn readily available in Mumbai. Anyone? Anyone?

And this Friday I turn 40 years young. I'm going to celebrate surrounded by family and friends in a quaint little cafe. Anna is helping me prepare delicious appetizers and Bryan Barber will perform. I took a my first Facebook quiz today ... "Your REAL Age": it said I was 18 not 40. I would have preferred 29.

Carey has stopped questioning why we have to go to India and now is asking about the type and quality of cell phones and just how spicy the food is. He doubled up on the red pepper flakcs w/ his pizza tonight, saying he's trying to get used to spicy foods. I think that's all a good thing. He turns 13 next week. How can an 18 year old have a teenager?

Slumdog Millionaire

2009-03-02T19:54:00.000-08:00

OK we saw the movie, filmed in the city we are moving to. I was excited to see it, but nervous about my date (Craig) and how his reaction to the film would be. Things were going okay until the part where the restaurant fills up the "bottled" water w/ tap water and super glues the seals back, so they appear unopened. Sure enough, walking out of the theatre he officially freaked out over that part.

Every thing we have read talks about the water. And how crucial it is, especially during the monsoons, not to drink it or even wash your vegetables in it. Every piece of food gets washed, by hand, carefully, in a bleach/water solution.

But I pointed out that just last Friday night, I myself became a victim of food poisoning at a local restaurant. I vomited for four hours straight and w/in just a few hours after that I was just fine.

I'm sure they sell saltines and 7-up in Mumbai, right?

details, details, details

2009-02-13T19:57:00.000-08:00

our school:

www.asbindia.org

our positions:

Ty: reading specialist

Craig: middle school science teacher

the boys:

Carey-8th grade

Barrett-Kindergarten

housing:

three bedroom and 2 or 3 bathroom apartment a 15 minute van ride from school (transportation provided)

expenses:

bottled water and groceries

"help"= cook, housekeeper, driver, nanny

professional development:

a grand per year for each of us

technology:

laptops for each of us, including carey

temperature:

hot and humid EVERY DAY

monsoons when we arrive

a/c abundant

fishing and hunting opportunities:

non-existent

fresh air:

debatable

population of city:

21 million

Are we list makers?

2009-02-11T19:24:00.000-08:00

Well, the contract is signed and the request for leave has been approved. That's two things off the list. The list we haven't created yet.

We have some friends who are list makers. They pointed out that we have a long list. So I started thinking about some of the major things we need to do before we leave in late July.

Here's a few biggies:

Find renters for the house who will love and care for it as we do.

Get Birdy settled in her new home away from home.

Clean the basement.

Purge the garage.

Get shots.

Pack up our classrooms.

Get mail/bills/etc. organized.

Taxes!

Find homes for all those sweaters, coats, and boots. (Sandy has dibs on the Under Armor!)

Figure out what we can't live without and pack it up. Not to exceed a $3500 shipping allowance!

There's about a hundred more tasks ... I guess it is a long list. Yet in spite of the work ahead I've never been happier or more excited about our profession as teachers. Accepting teaching positions and moving to India is going to be a life changing experience. As one friend said, "You will be providing an experience for your children that would be impossible to replicate in any other way."

Sure we've traveled. But we've never actually lived in another country. Unless you count Hubbard County (sometimes I wonder). Our kids are going to be in the minority in their new schools, who have 48% of their population represented by 46 different countries. They are going to see, as one friend said, "broken people" on the streets. I think there are broken people in our town, but they are masked by our homogeny and appear invisible. If only one good thing comes out of this adventure (and I know LOTS of good will come out of this adventure), I hope it's that my kids realize, in a very concrete manner, compassion and understanding.