Thursday, March 4, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Scenes from an Indian Train Ride
The scraggly rolling hills, tinged yellow from grasses. The roaming bulls with sagging necks and ironic rolls of fat in contrast to their visible ribs, with horns painted ruby and turquoise and marigold. Children wearing only short shirts running barefoot across a dirt road, relieving themselves atop a mound of assorted garbage, sitting in the shade. Mounds and mounds of burning, smoky, rancid garbage. Fields of cotton and corns vaguely evocative of the Carolinas, but followed by fields of mangoes and bananas. Men wrapped in white fabric tied around the waist and hanging to the knees and scarves tied around their heads for protection from the sun, and women wearing magenta saris carrying baskets of whatever grains are grown or fresh cotton or clothes to be washed. Colorful towns with full clotheslines hanging like colorful Christmas lights from atop the buildings, between the trees, in the yards while saris and t-shirts sway in the breeze. And men, walking through the train's corridors carrying rolls of plastic cups and a swinging cannister of freshly brewed and spiced chai while screaming, screeching in a high-pitched urgent tone "CHAI!" Followed by women carrying baskets of guava and potato chips and pretzles and boys with multilingual newspapers and samosas and bottled water. At each stop, a new batch of salesmen and women boards and the present departs. And passengers walking past the berths stare, unabashadly, at the bizarre white travelers, pausing for a good view. And the lull of the constant tic-tic of the train atop the tracks, bending with every curve and rolling over hills and through valleys and gently easing into each station.
Train rides are considered a quintessential element of Southern India, which now seems obvious to me. Due to the vast network that criss-crosses the country, like a spider web of tracks, I'm expecting several other equally memorable rides.
Train rides are considered a quintessential element of Southern India, which now seems obvious to me. Due to the vast network that criss-crosses the country, like a spider web of tracks, I'm expecting several other equally memorable rides.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
New Year's
Last night, I celebrated my first new year's abroad by eating cake on the roof of our dorm and watching a couple of Palestinian international students attempted traditional dancing. As we listened to famous Bollywood tunes and laughed at the pigs rummaging in the garbage behind the building, we kept an eye on our watches. 11:54, 11:55, 11:56...
At midnight, the whole campus began cheering to usher in a new decade - our dorm, the dorms around us, and the cleaning staff downstairs all joined in spontaneous, simultaneous celebration. From where I was standing, I could see fireworks erupt in six different locations throughout the city of Hyderabad, while hanging laundry dried in the night breeze.
I only hope 2010 can be as wonderful as '09!
At midnight, the whole campus began cheering to usher in a new decade - our dorm, the dorms around us, and the cleaning staff downstairs all joined in spontaneous, simultaneous celebration. From where I was standing, I could see fireworks erupt in six different locations throughout the city of Hyderabad, while hanging laundry dried in the night breeze.
I only hope 2010 can be as wonderful as '09!
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Au revoir, Senegal!
On one of my last few days in Dakar, I took a long walk home from a friend's house, spending about an hour shaking sand from my shoes and observing the street vendors. I realized it was moments like these, where I find myself at peace with my surroundings, that I am going to miss the most. To my right, a woman was almost done peeling a green orange, with one long chartreuse and white ribbon trailing from the end of her dull knife. Across the road, a man waved a long, red watering hose over a field of cinder blocks, as if by watering them a house would grow.
On this walk, the sights and smells of Dakar were their most vivid, the air teeming with the mixed aromas of baking croissants, bus fumes and body sweat. Meanwhile, a shop selling used windows stared at me, each and worn, as if sharing a tiny glimpse into the life of some old colonial house. Beside them, a series of broken refrigerators clustered into a small dirty corner, hopeless, brown, and empty.
On this walk, I saw dozens of women with infants strapped to their backs as they balanced enormous buckets of peanuts and sweatshirts and fresh fish on their heads, while men gathered around a three-legged foosball table to determine a new neighborhood champion. Taxis honked continuously and Wolof words were thrown haphazardly across the road in a desperate attempt to grab anyone's attention. Meanwhile, Akon competed against the Muslim call to prayer. I'm still not sure which is more influential.
I spent this time thinking about the beauty that manifests itself along these roads. It's an awkward beauty, a graceless happenstance of noise and stench that combined creates this personable country full of generous people. I thought going to Senegal would be hard, but it turns out leaving it was.
On this walk, the sights and smells of Dakar were their most vivid, the air teeming with the mixed aromas of baking croissants, bus fumes and body sweat. Meanwhile, a shop selling used windows stared at me, each and worn, as if sharing a tiny glimpse into the life of some old colonial house. Beside them, a series of broken refrigerators clustered into a small dirty corner, hopeless, brown, and empty.
On this walk, I saw dozens of women with infants strapped to their backs as they balanced enormous buckets of peanuts and sweatshirts and fresh fish on their heads, while men gathered around a three-legged foosball table to determine a new neighborhood champion. Taxis honked continuously and Wolof words were thrown haphazardly across the road in a desperate attempt to grab anyone's attention. Meanwhile, Akon competed against the Muslim call to prayer. I'm still not sure which is more influential.
I spent this time thinking about the beauty that manifests itself along these roads. It's an awkward beauty, a graceless happenstance of noise and stench that combined creates this personable country full of generous people. I thought going to Senegal would be hard, but it turns out leaving it was.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Sandaga
"Hello my sistah!" I hear a Senegalese man shout at me from across the street. "Howareyoufine?" This phrase comes across in one quick breath as the man attempts to gain my attention. From there, he hurries across, shakes my hand, and demands to know what I'm looking for. Friday I made my last trip to Market Sandaga (alxamdulilaay!). Numerous men like this approached me, offering a tour around the market, to help find whatever goods I was searching for or simply share ataaya. From past experiences I've learned never to take them up on the offer, because this will inevitably end in an extended tour of all their relatives' stores that consumes the entire afternoon and results in no successful purchases.
In the heart of downtown, Sandaga, a triangular, dirty market, is the epitome of disorganized, chaotic waxale (bargaining). The winding, dusty side streets are full of colorful stalls of scarves and socks and bath towels and bootleg mbalax CDs, and tables fill the broken sidewalks displaying tissues and toothpaste and roasted peanuts. Meanwhile women balance enormous buckets full of fish and bananas atop their heads while sidestepping bags of garbage and food waste left in the road, while men offer "special promotions" for phone credits and clog the small open spaces of sidewalk to discuter. The mixture of vehicle exhaust, sand and dust, and sweat leaves me with a grimy feeling in no time. However, anything can be found at Sandaga, provided one has the time and patience to give a good search.
The pre-purchase waxale is culturally appreciated; in fact, many vendors take offense if a buyer agrees to the first suggested price, instead insisting on some witty Wolof banter, several expressions of how kind the other participant is, and a gradual convergence of prices. Usually, I have to pretend to walk away before I can reach the ideal price, but again, this is expected and received lightheartedly. Although fun, each time this is an exhausting performance. Fortunately, I have finished buying all the necessary souvenirs...
In the heart of downtown, Sandaga, a triangular, dirty market, is the epitome of disorganized, chaotic waxale (bargaining). The winding, dusty side streets are full of colorful stalls of scarves and socks and bath towels and bootleg mbalax CDs, and tables fill the broken sidewalks displaying tissues and toothpaste and roasted peanuts. Meanwhile women balance enormous buckets full of fish and bananas atop their heads while sidestepping bags of garbage and food waste left in the road, while men offer "special promotions" for phone credits and clog the small open spaces of sidewalk to discuter. The mixture of vehicle exhaust, sand and dust, and sweat leaves me with a grimy feeling in no time. However, anything can be found at Sandaga, provided one has the time and patience to give a good search.
The pre-purchase waxale is culturally appreciated; in fact, many vendors take offense if a buyer agrees to the first suggested price, instead insisting on some witty Wolof banter, several expressions of how kind the other participant is, and a gradual convergence of prices. Usually, I have to pretend to walk away before I can reach the ideal price, but again, this is expected and received lightheartedly. Although fun, each time this is an exhausting performance. Fortunately, I have finished buying all the necessary souvenirs...
Sunday, December 13, 2009
With Waves Like the Ocean
Last weekend, I went to a small pocket of desert hidden in along the coast of Senegal just south of St. Louis. From the village of Lompoul, our group of seven - the magic travel number here - traversed the scraggly, rolling hills in bouncy four-wheel drive jeeps to reach our final, sandy destination. The enormous, barren, orange dunes greeted us with perfect weather and a series of pristine, white, Mauritanian-style tents that could only be entered at a crawl. After an exhausting day of camel riding, drumming and dancing, sunset watching, and frolicking - yes, frolicking - atop the dunes, we donned (light) jackets for the first time this semester to lie in the sand and stargaze.
I'm still amazed by how peaceful it was to search beyond the clouds while sprawled across the cool sand. Because of the rolling landscape of the dunes, gusts of wind tunneled at us with the rippling force of the ocean before a storm. It was like listening to a conch shell and hearing home, although we were at least twenty miles from the nearest beach. Atop this mountain, we talked for nearly three hours about life and love and purpose, because the stars always inspire such conversations. This conversation of good friends and relaxing scenery led me to a tranquil, satisfied state. It's moments like these when a fresh breeze wraps around me and a shooting star passes overhead that I am reminded of the expansiveness of the world in which we live.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Social Butterfly
Just a short note...
Lately, the open hallways and courtyards of campus have been filled with hundreds of fragile white butterflies. The area around the buvette, or the little sandwich cafe, has been inundated with these gentle fluttering beings. Sometimes, the area will be empty of all life and suddenly, as if to coincide with the lunchtime rush of students, they appear. There are so many that it seems to be snowing despite the 80 degree F weather, except this snow can defy gravity and appear despite perfectly clear blue skies. I suppose Senegal is also entitled to a white Christmas. Since I enjoy an omelette sandwich from the buvette frequently, I often watch these delicate butterflies coming in and out of the courtyard. Because Senegal is so warm, it is a final destination for many migratory creatures.
Lately, the open hallways and courtyards of campus have been filled with hundreds of fragile white butterflies. The area around the buvette, or the little sandwich cafe, has been inundated with these gentle fluttering beings. Sometimes, the area will be empty of all life and suddenly, as if to coincide with the lunchtime rush of students, they appear. There are so many that it seems to be snowing despite the 80 degree F weather, except this snow can defy gravity and appear despite perfectly clear blue skies. I suppose Senegal is also entitled to a white Christmas. Since I enjoy an omelette sandwich from the buvette frequently, I often watch these delicate butterflies coming in and out of the courtyard. Because Senegal is so warm, it is a final destination for many migratory creatures.
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