Everyone's Son

"It took a lot of blood, sweat and tears to get to where we are today, but we have just begun. Today we begin in earnest the work of making sure that the world we leave our children is just a little bit better than the one we inhabit today." - Barack Obama

“Barack Obama?”

These words are just as often posed as a question as they are formed as a statement.

At home, in Dubai, people often ask me where I am from. Prior to the election, after I said the United States, I often received a perplexed look, mainly because I do not look like what they expect from someone who gives that answer to that question. Then if the person somewhat knew me, or we had an extended conversation, they would beat around the bush (no pun intended) to politics to figure out who I was voting for.

The parents of my students, for instance, would get around to the election, and hint at the possibility of change – almost as if it were a code word. A few of them would come right out and ask, in a sort of hopeful tone of voice “Barack Obama?” I would slowly nod, do a little head bob and say “we hope so” and usually the person’s face would break into a smile - or she would grasp my hand or he would join in the nodding as well. If the person was gregarious, we would continue our conversation on the elated emotions of hope.

During the political conventions, I encouraged my AP Language and Composition students to watch one of the speeches and complete an informal poster analyzing the speaker’s rhetorical devices. I hung up the better posters in my room, and ended up with at least one analysis of speeches by each Hilary Clinton, Sarah Palin, John McCain and Barack Obama. The McCain poster had a large title that clearly said “McCain’s Tools.” On parent-teacher conference day, one of my student’s parents, (from India) were in my room and her father glanced around, pointed at the McCain poster and asked what it was for. I told him, and he responded by telling me I should be unbiased and that students should have been allowed to cover both sides. I knew at that moment that he judged me, first, as a McCain supporter, and second as “bad.” I quickly pointed out the other speech analyses around the room and the elaborate one up front which illustrated how Obama used Aristotle’s model of classical argument. I hoped that by the time he left the room he was satisfied that I was a supporter of change as well.

Another parent and I had an extended conversation about our hopes, she is from Palestine Another mother, who happens to be European, overhead us. At the end of our conference, she mentioned that she shared our views, and asked if her son had told me they knew Barack Obama. I was shocked. The next day in class, her son handed me a pair of black and white Obama bracelets, and explained the family's connection. It was a good one, but not for these public pages. I did not take the bracelets off until well after the election.

Since the election, when people ask where I am from, I first state that I live in Dubai, but then add that I am from the U.S. I get the opposite reaction than I expected when I first left the States to live abroad. People are surprisingly happy. “Ah, Barack Obama?” they will ask, or “Ba-rack O-bama” they will say, enunciating the consonants in the first part of our president-elect’s name and quickly and confidently stating his last name.

I boarded my Air India flight last Tuesday evening, and the man in my row quickly struck up a conversation. After I told him of my native country, he quickly said “Barack Obama,” I said “yes. January 20.”

At that point the conversations begin to blur. Someone makes the statement about Mr. Obama, and then they say “he is good?” and I say “yes.” “Bush?” they will ask. “Bad.” I reply. Or they will make the judgment themselves. They may imply that Obama has already been installed in office, and we reply, not yet, but soon. Often they will ask about his religion and his middle name. Generally, people are overwhelmingly happy and hopeful.

On the plane, I got out the book I began reading prior to leaving for my trip. The first week of December, I received two packages – one, the ultimate gift package for every holiday from October to January from my friend Rachel, and the other, three books from Amazon.com I had ordered in November, all authored by the same man. I began with Dreams From My Father.

“Barack Obama!” my aisle-mate, Sameer, said excitedly since I was reading about the same man about whom we initiated our conversation.

He asked to see the book, and I passed it to him.

He read the quote on the bottom of the cover: “Perceptive and wise, this book will tell you something about yourself whether you are black or white.” – Marian Wright Edelman.

“I think that will be true,” said Sameer, who is from the beach-side city of Goa in South India, pointing to the quote.

He, of course, asked if I was “like” Barack Obama – one parent from Kenya and one from the U.S. - and I shook my head ‘no’. He was confused, as many people are when I tell them I am from the U.S., and that both my parents are “American.” But, I had heard the Obama comparison before, even from my acupuncturist, and I will no doubt hear it again. Someone, I forget who, explained to me at one point that people on this side of the world will find it hard to believe that I am American because I am not blond. I found that an odd characteristic to identify as “American,” but here we are agreeing on Mr. Obama and I am calling myself an American for the first time in my life, so let us not ruin this moment.

I saw an ad on the news when I was in my hotel in Madurai for a forum to be held in Mumbai on the night I arrived, regarding what the election of Barack Obama will mean for India, and I really, truly understood. On the morning of November 6, (it was still the 5th in the States) one of the local papers in Dubai illustrated that Mr. Obama must now live up to his promises. The articles that day implied that the leaders of our region were ready for Mr. Obama to start fixing the world now, and they were going to hold him to it. Unfortunately, because of my flight arrival time I would not make it to the forum, but I liked the idea of it.

Seeing that commercial took me back to election day and all the joy the people of the world, represented by the microcosm of folks at our school. It reminded me that the hopes of many people, clearly in India, and undoubtedly in other parts of the world, have the highest of hopes for our newly-elected president and for their own corners of the world after his inauguration.

In those two words they utter to me when they learn where I am from, are not a man’s name, but the hopes of a large portion of people around the globe for something bigger and for something greater than the man or our country itself. Barack Obama.

Flowers for Hours

"Flowers... are a proud assertion that a ray of beauty outvalues all the utilities of the world." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1844

On my second day in India, me and Matt’s first full day in Munnar, we went for a long walk through tea plantations. We traveled into the home of TATA tea and one of their estates. From up high, we could see two small villages below, probably the homes of the tea pickers. From one of them, we heard loud Indian music, a precursor to Bangra, perhaps. I did not know if that was normal or occasional, but I figured we would find out if we got there.

The tea plantation was empty but for a few motorcyclists or taxis that occasionally passed us. There was no one out picking tea on this Thursday, which seemed odd to Matt. I had never been to a coffee or tea plantation, so I did not know which elements were missing from the scene.

Eventually we realized the winding rows of tea would lead us through the small, poor villages. From up high, we wondered if there was a wedding.

As we got closer, we heard music and saw many people as well as brilliant colors. We heard what sounded like a procession of drummers. I imagined one of those movies in which the tourists or other outsiders of your choice were walking along some rural road in Mexico and got caught up in some wedding procession, funeral or other communal event. I said as much to Matt.

“This is the part where we unknowingly encounter some festival and the participants ask us to join them.”

As we got closer, we began taking photographs. The procession continued on the road we were to cross, so we stood on the side from which we approached and watched. I continued to take photos of a dance that was occurring on a makeshift stage. It was hard to capture as my camera is a digital SLR impostor, but I continued to try. I took the camera down during a pause in the dance.

“They asked us not to take pictures,” said Matt under his breath. I acquiesced, as the festival may very well have been spiritual.

Some boys approached us and then a few men with little children in their hips. We spoke with them, learned their names, and took their pictures as they asked, all the while attempting to find out what was happening. We discerned that it was a holiday, and the festival had something to do with the peacock, which happens to be India’s national bird. That explained why no one was out working in the tea.

After a few minutes, a man with whom we had spoken earlier came up and asked us to come with him. He motioned to us, and invited us to tea. We followed him through the little square of a village to a small hut. We asked if we should take our shoes off, and he said no.

We entered the abode, and we were welcomed heartily by the few men inside. The man served us each a glass of chai and we drank it slowly, discussing just how cool this part of our tea tour was.

When we finished our tea, we got up to leave. One of the men handed me a flower, and told me to put it in my hair. I stuck it in the band holding my ponytail up, and I smiled and thanked him. The men seemed pleased and honored. We paid a small amount for our tea and headed out. The man told us that there would be a performance at 7:00 and invited us to come back. We nodded and thanked him again, then headed on our way.

We continued our journey through the tea plantation, and later that day, we finally found the waterfalls. We stopped at a tea hut overlooking the fall, and drank our tea while watching the revelers climb around the falls. At one point, a man on the bridge began waving. It took me a while to realize he was waving at me. I waved back.
We finished our tea, and trekked down to the bridge. I wanted to climb down to the fall – it was an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Matt did not, but he did anyway. The man who had waved and his friends, all males, were down there. Matt and I climbed around the rocks and took photos. I took a photo of the guys there also. The young men, most of whom were engineering students, felt quite famous.

Matt and I continued to trek through the tea, and when we were almost finished, the crew from the fall drove up. My “fan club,” Matt called them. They asked the driver to stop their car, and he did. The young man who had waved the first time handed me a yellow flower. I thanked him. It was very sweet. Eventually, I figured out a way to get that flower in my hair as well.

After we got back to our homestay, and each of us went to our rooms to freshen up, Matt and I headed into town for lunch. Matt explained that the women were wearing jasmine in their hair to make it smell nice. He decided I needed to do so as well. So, we stopped at one of the men’s little stalls, and bought a string of jasmine. The seller had a woman stop and put it in my hair. It did smell good.

For the remainder of the day, I walked around Munnar with a head full of flowers and a heart full of light.

Postcards from India III - Banganga Tank

"Banganga Tank is a precinct of serene temples, bathing pilgrims, meandering, traffic-free streets and picturesque old dharamsalas (pilgrims rest houses). The wooden pole in the centre of the tank is the centre of the earth - according to legend Lord Ram created the tank by piercing the earth with his arrow." South India, lonely planet

This morning, I decided to head down Banganga Tank. I'd read about it in the book, and it was the one place I wanted to ensure I visited while I was alone in Mumbai. I got in a taxi and told the driver where I was going. About 10 or 15 minutes into the drive, he asked about the Hanging Gardens. They were close, in the same neighborhood but not where I wanted to go. He did not know where I wanted to go. I ended up at the Hanging Gardens. I had wanted to see them anyway, so I would just see them in reverse order.

Afterward, I figured out I could not get to Banganga Tank by walking from the Hanging Gardens, so I tried with another cab. After driving awhile and showing him a map, we finally got there. I decided that since no one seemed to know where I was going, perhaps it really was as serene as the book said.

Banganga Tank is in fact surprisingly serene. There were small temples and shrines at nearly every turn. There were schoolchildren, in their uniforms, running around, and people going about their daily lives. The only people who did not seem to belong there appeared to be pilgrims who were there specifically to bathe and worship. There was no vehicular traffic, and the only travelers I saw appeared to be photographers.

I felt as though I was intruding on the small space, encroaching on a scene that was too private for travelers or voyeurs. At first, I decided not to take photos. Then, I changed my mind, but the batteries in my camera chose that moment to die. I ended up buying some from a small stall and putting them in the camera. Because it was such a small enclave, I decided to avoid attracting attention to myself, and literally to shoot my pictures from the hip.

TaxiCab Bling

Since I arrived in India, I have been fascinated with taxicab bling. Each cab, from the auto rickshaws in Munnar to the black and yellow taxis in Mumbai, has a little decoration on the back window.

I have seen both Hindu and Christian window bling, and I hope to capture some on camera before leaving.

The TaxiCab Mafia

"Trust your own instinct. Your mistakes might as well be your own, instead of someone else's." ~Billy Wilder

I arrived in Mumbai and stopped at the two most important locations in the airport at that moment – the ladies room and the currency exchange. I changed my last US Dollars for rupees. I would need to use my entire remaining allowance for the trip, but that was OK with me because I would spend most of it on the hotel in Mumbai. If I got what I was paying for, I would have hot water and a comfortable bed in a clean room.

I picked up my luggage from the conveyor belt and headed toward the door to find a taxi. I asked the soldier at the exit where I would find a taxi, and he told me to head to the right. Mumbai has one of the largest populations in the world, so I assumed there would be some sort of organized taxi queue outside the airport. I kept walking and finally a man came up and asked if I needed a taxi. Of course I did. He took my bags and started walking. We walked right past the group of cars I thought we were headed toward so I began to look for the black taxis I had read about. I began to get a little concerned as there were no cars in sight, then a black taxi drove up.

A young man suddenly appeared and helped me put my bags in the car, and then a third man appeared. I asked about the cost, and the first man said it was prepaid. This didn’t sound exactly correct, but it was the black taxi and I knew that is what I was supposed to take.

I tipped the young man who helped to put my luggage in the car and tried to tip the first man. The young man explained they were the “same” and I said OK and got inside. After a minute, the first man got in the front seat and started speaking to the old man behind the wheel. The old man began driving, and the talking man got out a rate card. He showed me “Churchgate,” the neighborhood where my hotel was, and then showed me the rate in the far right column out of three, while he mentioned something about air conditioning and gas, pointing to the gas station we were passing. He sounded like he was trying to get me to pay more for “better” gas and air conditioning. 1,500 rupees. That price was crazy and there certainly was not any air conditioning in that car, not that I wanted it anyway. I had a very bad feeling I had just been scammed.

We followed the traffic away from the airport and all of a sudden the car turned right and the other cars kept going straight. I had never been to Mumbai before, but I knew we were going the wrong way. Why is he going this way? An alarm went off in my head. Snap. This is a some kind of mafia and they’re about to take me hostage or kill me in this alley. How am I going to get out of this?

All of a sudden, the car stopped and the man in passenger seat, the talker, told me to pay him.

“I need to go to Churchgate,” I said.

“Yes, yes – here is the car over here,” said the talker. There were no other black cabs around, just some random cars, villagers and dogs. “You pay me 1,500 rupees.”

Someone took my luggage out of the trunk of the black cab and put it into another car. The car I was supposed to get into. The old man in the front wasn’t saying anything.

“I want a black taxi!” I snapped.

“You already paid me,” said the talker.

“See, your bags are here, right here,” some other man behind the trunk of the other car, already with a driver in it, stated – as if I was worried at that moment about my luggage.

I knew they would not let me stay in the car, and there were far more of them than there were of me. I got in the little car with the air conditioning I was supposedly paying for. They already had my money, so maybe at least the car would take me to my hotel.

The car began driving, and the man pumped up the AC. I rolled my window down, for I wanted to hear the noises of this new city. I was pissed. After a few minutes, I realized we were going around the airport again. We passed a parking lot full of black taxis. I had a gnawing feeling in my stomach.

“Please let me out here,” I told the man. He kept driving. We arrived at the gas station I passed the first time and he pulled in.

“I want a black taxi, let me out here,” I said firmly.

The man at the service station walked up to the car and was about to start pumping. Alarm bells were going off in my head.

“You can keep your money,” I said, “but I want a black taxi.” I picked up my bags, and asked the man to open the trunk. I opened the door of the cab and put one foot on the ground. He kept the car moving slowly.

Clearly he did not want me making a scene at the gas station, so he let the car keep rolling. I had no choice but to remain in the car and close the door. The man at the gas station looked confused, and the driver waved him off. The driver said something about going back to his boss. He got back on the road.

I repeated my requests for him to stop and let me out. We passed the black taxi round up again. He said something about giving me 500 rupees back, holding the bill in his hand. I told him I didn’t care about the money, I just wanted to get out now and get a metered black taxi. I kept up my pleas assertively and firmly, without whining, and he finally stopped right before he turned down that alley again. The driver made mention of telling me to wait so he could call his boss. I opened the door to the car, and put one foot on the ground. I asked him to open the trunk so I could get my luggage out. Once I heard it pop, I grabbed my carry-on luggage and got of the car. I jerked my suitcase and duffel bag from the trunk, figured out how to carry everything myself, and began walking toward the airport with my neon green suitcase rolling behind me on the poorly-paved road.

I passed a police officer, but I was too angry to say anything, and I walked straight to the parking lot with the black taxis.

I got a taxi man, and before he put my bags in the trunk, I tried to get an estimate of the cost to get to Churchgate.

“Metered,” the driver said.

“Yes, but cost?” I asked. I wasn’t budging until I got an estimate.

The driver shrugged. “350?”

“OK,” I said as I handed over my luggage.

I got inside the car, and he began driving. We drove past the alley, and I saw the “boss” standing at the edge of it, scanning the scene and talking on his cell phone. I looked away from him, wondering if he saw me.

We were soon on the road. I felt safe and excited as we drove through the bumping, crowded city away from the airport.

We were driving along and I was taking in the sites of Mumbai. All of a sudden a thought occurred to me. I had given those men my name, my country of origin and the name of my hotel. They knew where I was staying – and I had pissed them off. Could I sign in under another name? Should I switch hotels? How am I going to decide on another hotel? I decided to worry about it once I’d seen the hotel I had reserved.

After asking for directions a couple of times, we arrived at the Astoria Hotel. I asked the cab driver to wait so I could go inside and check out a room before I took in my luggage. I wanted to make sure it was clean before I committed to staying there.

I went inside and I was quickly reassured by the look of the lobby. I gave the man behind the desk my name, and after a few minutes, he still seemed confused. He asked a woman across the lobby. She came rushing over.

She explained, rather briskly, that because the hotel was under renovations, they had switched me to a different hotel about 10 minutes away. She claimed it would be the same price and would also have the Internet. They had a driver for me, and she had spoke to my friends already, and they would be at the same hotel once they arrived. I was skeptical. Was this all part of the same convoluted plot? Who was this driver? Was it the same mafia that assailed me earlier?

“I have a taxi outside,” I said. She replied that they had one for me.

“A black taxi?” I asked. “My luggage is in the car outside.”

She spoke with the man who was going to take me to the car. I did not know what they were saying.

The man took my bags, and we walked outside to the taxi I had waiting. Since my luggage was already in the first taxi, it appeared the two men worked out the agreement between them and that my taxi driver would just take me to the next hotel, the Ascot. I got back into the car, and looked in my Lonely Planet book for this hotel. It was in the Colaba district, the one district neither Matt nor I wanted to stay in. Not because we were afraid, but because our loved ones would feel better if we were not staying in the same district where last month’s terror attacks occurred.

After asking for directions a couple of times, and about a ten to fifteen minute drive, we reached the Ascot. I went in, and I was satisfied with the lobby. I asked to see a room before I agreed to stay there. After I inspected the rooms, which did in fact have decadent bathrooms and looked quite refreshing, I asked about the Internet (yes) and hot water (yes) and finally agreed. The security guard got my luggage and brought it inside while I check in.

After giving the woman some basic information, she said I could go up to my room, and they would send my passport up in a few minutes. I looked to my right. The bell boys had already loaded my luggage into the elevator and they were waiting for me. I looked at her – you’re going to keep my passport? I thought…She repeated the sentence and after a brief pause and a moment of staring at her, I agreed.

I settled into my room. I had the bell boy come and show me how to work the television and figure out how the Internet worked – it wasn’t wireless, but that was fine. I found CNN International and the BBC World on the television and tried to relax.

Within a half hour, someone buzzed my door. At the same time, the phone in my room began ringing. I answered the telephone. It was the woman from reception. She said there was a man here from the airport who wanted me to come sign something for the vehicle. Someone continued to push the buzzer outside my door.

“I am not signing anything. What does he want me to sign?” I was irritated and a little concerned. They had found me pretty quickly. “Can someone escort me down there?” She said she would send someone up.

The buzzer continued to ring. I still had my dress on, but I had to put my tights back on and then my shoes (I could not walk around with bare legs). I opened the door. The young bell boy who helped me with the tele and the Internet was outside my door with a receipt. He said the man from the airport wanted me to sign it. I glanced at the slip of paper before walking with the young man downstairs.

“I am not signing that,” I said. I continued down the stairs and into the lobby. The “boss” was standing there.

“I am not signing anything,” I said looking at the woman behind the reception desk.

“He wants you to sign it saying you arrived here safely,” she replied earnestly.

“I did not ride with them,” I told her. The man looked at her and tried to explain something. She looked at me.

“He is going to give you your money,” he interrupted her, “some of your money back (500 rupees) if you sign saying you arrived here.”

I looked at the receipt. It had a name on it – something to the effect of Vishals AC car rentals something or other. He showed me the 500 rupee bill. I wanted him to go away.

“That’s all?” I said. They agreed.

I went ahead and signed as illegibly as I could, and the man handed me the 500 rupees. He took his receipt and walked away. I was out 1,000 rupees, but I knew I would rather be safe than sorry.

I looked at the woman and told her the story of what happened. She understood. She said he does run a travel company, but I was still skeptical. I asked her if she thought it was OK now, and she said she did. I went back upstairs to my room, so I could finally take that shower I’d been thinking all day about.

Postcards from India II - Madurai - Sri Meenakshi Temple

The Sri Meenakshi Temple, which pays homage to Lord Shiva and his wife Parvati or Meenakshi, depending on her incarnation, is in Madurai, in the state of Tamil Nadu. When we arrived, the towers of the temple were covered because they are being renovated. They have been undergoing renovation for the past year or so.

This holy tree is where Hindus may come and ask the Lord Shiva for a blessing, namely either a woman will come and request a good man and marriage to follow shortly thereafter, or a couple may come if they are seeking the blessing of children. For a husband, a woman will add an orange rope to the tree, and if I remember correctly the baskets come from the couples.

The Hall of a Thousand Pillars is open to tourists, however "foreigners" may not see the emerald and diamond Deity. Only Hindus may enter certain parts of the temple.

A shrine to Ganesha, Remover of Obstacles and Lord Shiva's child, is also located in the temple.

The Golden Lotus Tank is located in the center of the temple, and many pilgrims will bless themselves from the water in the pool.

Postcards from India I - Munnar

The tea trees in the plantations of Munnar, Kerala, mostly taken over by Tata Tea (which also makes Tetley), appear to be trimmed to perfect height for picking tea standing up - because they are. They are well-manicured because the women pick tea by hand.

Christianity spread throughout Kerala, and supposedly Thomas the Apostle traveled here. On this tea estate in Munnar, there is a Christian church in addition to Hindu temples.

Cows in tea. This is India.

There was some coffee growing at this entrance to one of the tea plantations owned by Tata Tea in Munnar.

A view of the hills of one of the tea plantations from the road in Munnar, in the state of Kerala.

Star Status

"ALWAYS give an autograph when somebody asks you." - Tommy Lasorda

I landed at the airport in Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu and for a large part of the day I felt famous. The majority of my companions on the plane had been males, which I was used to since the ratio of men to women in Dubai is approximately 75 percent. I was dressed in the customary all-black uniform, a classic for traveling as I did not draw too much attention to myself and I would not reveal where I was from – at least not simply by sight. I did have on a Pashmina in several neutral tones, but other than that my costume included only my big, curly mane and dark sunglasses. I’d been advised to wear them if I tired of being stared at.

After I used the restroom in the airport, which was clean and orderly other than a few pesky mosquitoes, I walked out and retrieved my luggage from the lone baggage carousel. I walked outside and there was a “Welcome” sign, with my name in large capitol letters. I felt like a star. I gave the driver eye contact and a head nod and he pointed the way for me to meet him on the opposite side of the rope. When I did, with pride and confidence, he took my bags. He was clearly determined to be a gracious host to this outsider and visitor to his small, southern Indian town. From there, we drove on the Matt’s school.

Matt and I taught in Durham together and he was wrapping up a four-month stay in Sulur, in the southern Indian stat of Tamil Nadu.

After I arrived at the Kendriya Vidyalaya Air Force Station Sulur (Kendriya is Hindi for government, Vidyalaya is Hindi for school), we located Matt and he and I went inside. I was impressed by the energy of the school, with its various creative posters and children’s works hanging, and the students were impressed by me.

I went to class with Matt and all the students stared at me excitedly. Matt introduced me and they all said “good morning” or “good afternoon” (it was fairly close to noon, so which one was correct was certainly debatable). The students’ energy was earnest and immutable. Matt gave them permission to ask me questions and they did so with gusto.

“What is your full name ma’am?”
“How do you spell it ma’am?”
“Where are you from ma’am?”
“Which state ma’am?”
“What is our favorite food ma’am?”
“Where are your clothes from ma’am?”
“What subject do you teach ma’am?”
“What are your years experience teaching ma’am?”

…and so on and so forth.

It was one of Matt’s last days as his Fulbright Teacher Exchange was coming to a close, and he would return to Hillside New Tech in Durham after our excursion. He decided to take photos with his students and told them they could ask me any question they like as he did so.

I sat down next to one of the students on one of the benches. One student came over to me with a notebook and asked for my signature. Before I knew it, I was surrounded by students and their notebooks and their pens, and I was signing away. At the same time, the students continued to ask me questions, particularly the girls.

“Do you have any siblings ma’am?”

“Are you married ma’am?”
“No.” I responded with a smile. There was a brief pause, but a pause. Although most of them kept smiling, I could tell they were not sure what to think of that.

I continued to sign and then one of the girls asked for me to fill in her event journal; it was a bit more extensive than the former autographs. I did so, which took a few minutes. The other kids just waited with their pens and notebooks and stared admiringly. Soon, students wanted my phone number, address or email. I did manage to convince a few that it was easier to email than to phone, but some kids still insisted on a phone number. I, of course, obliged. The girls were so beautiful and the boys were so eager to impress and to learn, even the smallest details, it was hard to say no to them.

After that class, which lasted only 30 minutes, Matt and I went to the school canteen and had some tea, and then went to what he referred to as his “criminals” in training, a group of sixth graders. Although they were undoubtedly rowdier (there is a reason why I do not teach middle school) they were still cute. This time Matt introduced me and allowed the students to ask me a few questions then he engaged the kids in an intense round of silent Simon Says. It was a pleasure to watch the students, as equally enthusiastic and eager to please as the other class, although they did have that classic early-adolescent inability to control all of the impulses.

The rest of the visit to the school was similar to my experience with the first class. Most of the children in the school stared at me and waved, and said “good afternoon, ma’am.” A great number of them wanted to shake my hand, so at the end of both classes and occasionally in the hallway, I felt like Sarah Palin working the crowd at a McCain rally, using both hands at the same time to satiate her well-wishers.

I had little sleep as my first flight left Dubai around midnight, I spent the early morning in the Mumbai airport, awake, and then slept briefly on the flight from Mumbai to Coimbatore. I was wearing the same clothes I had worn when I left Dubai the night before, and had not yet had a chance to refresh myself. But the children did not care. I was one their famous visitors from the United States, and they treated me so until the last group of them embarked on the auto rickshaw to go home, from their exciting days at school.

The Bucket Bath

"Childhood is that wonderful time of life when all you need to do to lose weight is take a bath." - Richard Zera

I am a germ-o-phobe. I do not know that I have met anyone who likes to wash her hands as often as I do. Before I left Dubai to come to India, I was told several things, mainly to bring toilet paper, to bring Pepto and to bring Imodium. Matt also told me to bring hand sanitizer since it is rare to find soap in South India. I got the hint - I would be facing some dirty experiences in India. I made note of all these things, and if I could, I would bring all that each person suggested and more.

One of my friends left for her trip to northern India a few days before I left for mine. She left me a wall post on my Facebook: “No tomes el agua!”

I had the picture.

I went on several trips for errands prior to embarking on my flight to India. I bought Chooz at the local pharmacy, a gum that would serve the equivalent purpose of Pepto Bismol. I also bought Imodium in caplets. A day later, the afternoon before my flight, I made the run to LuLu Hypermarket for toilet paper, hand sanitizer and anything else I may need.

At LuLu, I bought more than the eight items on my short list. Some of the items were for my flat, but they also had to do with cleanliness. I was all about cleanliness that night at Lulu. In addition to the two bottles of apple cider vinegar, two AirWick refills, an extra bottle of Pledge (orange scented) and multi-purpose Dettol I purchased for my flat, I got 18 rolls of toilet paper, several different brands of wet wipes, personal wipes and baby wipes, three bottles of hand sanitizer (made by three different reliable germ-abating companies), two bottles of lotion (to replenish any moisture lost from using so many alcohol-saturated hand-cleansing products), Listerine and a tube of ECOVER, which will supposedly remove all manners of dirt and is made for heavy duty germs. I felt ready for combat with any bacteria I may come into contact with in India.

After I returned to my flat, I went down to Erika’s to spend some time with her before I left. She told me another story of a co-worker who went to India, and -very cavalier -during his trip, while trying not to offend a host, drank two glasses of clearly dirty water. Erika told me that after an extended period of time between returning, ill, and acknowledging that he needed to go to the hospital, the man finally was sick for longer than one year. Again, I understood the need for hyper-vigilance on this journey. Being as germophobic as I am, I almost had second thoughts. Forget the recent crisis in Mumbai, there were cholera and dysentery to worry over.

I have been pleasantly surprised thus far on my journey. First of all, I am prepared with rolls of toilet paper, bottles of hand sanitizer and all number of brands and types of wet wipes, all strategically packed so that I am at no point without. I felt fully-prepared.

Eventually, the thought briefly occurred to me that I may have to engage in some alternate form of bathing, but since no one made concrete mention of to what extent or how, I had yet to visualize such a circumstance.
On the way to Munnar from Sulur, Matt showed me the description of our hotel, which included the words “clean” and “warm water”. I was good as long as those were some of the selected details for the two-to-three-sentences-long description.

The morning after I awoke in my penthouse hotel room of the JJ Cottage, I came to terms with the bucket bath. I had no choice. I had not bathed since I left my flat in Dubai, over 36 hours earlier. I got the scoop on how to use the bucket bath from Matt the previous night at dinner, so I just had to put the skills into practice.

I prepared myself, got all of the necessary items and went in the bathroom. I began filling up the bucket with the surprisingly hot geyser water. The night before, Matt reassured me that the bucket would be clean, and I decided to believe him, whether he said it for my psychological benefit or because it was really true. I knew this would tryst with the red bucket and its little red scoop would be quick.

To the sound of early morning construction outside my homestay window, I began my first bucket bath.

Before I knew it, I realized I was playing. The warm water felt so good and refreshing – new every time I poured it over myself, so much so that I was repeating all of the necessary showering steps, more than once. I was having too much fun with the warm water and the red scoop, and I knew I was taking too long. I had awakened later than I hoped, and I knew Matt was downstairs in his room, dressed and ready to hike, waiting for me to “get dressed real quick.”

I rinsed off one more time, and I felt confident that the bucket bath was not so bad, and was even enjoyable. At this point, I felt satisfied with my efforts to stave off germs and I decided that I could enjoy India from then on instead of worrying about germs. I was well-prepared for good times now and later.

Cause for Alarm

"Know safety, no injury. No safety, know injury." ~Author Unknown

After I first arrived in Dubai and had my stove installed, I was a little wary of cooking. I had bought a gas stove, and at the time, I was not aware that that required having a gas canister installed in my apartment - but it did, so that’s what I got. Although there is a safety on the stove, a button to turn on the stove and a button to turn on the gas, I still had a fear of lighting that stove.

As a child, I had a fear of fire, and the thought of an actual gas canister in my kitchen was a little unsettling. The first time I used my oven, one which must be lit each use, I invited Lee and Caira over to show me how they did it, and to watch and make sure I didn’t blow anything up. Eventually, I got used to using the stove and the oven. I always got a little nervous, but I had the knack of it and I was quite convinced that the whole procedure must be safe.

On the day of my flight, I awoke and turned on the space heaters. There was a bit of a chill that winter morning, and as I prepared to pack and eat breakfast, I put on some pants. Attempting to multi-task, while dressing, I began to look for my phone in order to call Erika to discuss a mundane errand I needed to complete before leaving.

As I began walking from the study to my bedroom, I heard what sounded like an explosion in the building. I decided to wait and see if I heard an alarm. I called Erika, and as I was speaking with Fely, a member of her household, I heard the alarm.

By the time I got off the phone, the alarm was no longer sounding.

I went ahead and put a shirt a what-not on, just in case the alarm came on again. There are two alarm systems in our building, and neither one has proven thus far to be reliable. The first is the general smoke or fire alarm that sounds throughout the hallways, and it took my co-workers and I a good two times to figure out what it was when we first heard it. The second is the individual gas alarm found in each kitchen, in each individual flat. Because of several false alarms on the main system, each of which was unfounded, most of us have gotten in the habit of “waiting” (inside our flats) to find out if anything was really happening or essentially ignoring them. But there was a single time in which all of the individual kitchen gas alarms went off at once, and that did send us from our weekend morning laziness downstairs to find out if we were safe and to find out how to disarm the darned things. We have discussed how scary that is, but it is unfathomable for us to go outside every time an alarm goes off, for they go off so often.

I stepped out into the hallway. There was an acrid smell.

There are several sets of empty, open air “caverns” behind glass doors in our buildings. After careful exploration, we had determined they were there for water pipes, air conditioning piping and other rudimentary framework. As I went into the hallway, I noticed all of these glass doors were open, and one of the little men in the yellow jackets who work in our building, performing maintenance and janitorial tasks, was climbing down a ladder from a ceiling panel. He did not say anything to me, so I assumed they had it all under control. I went back inside.

The alarm sounded again. I heard my neighbor open his door, so I did so as well. We stepped out into the hallway. He told me there had been a gas explosion on the first floor, and the fire department and ambulance were here. He said I could “catch” the action from my front windows. I nodded and said “OK” and went back inside.

I turned off my space heaters, and double-checked the kitchen. All of my cooker and gas buttons were in the “off” position. I sent a text to Erika, my lone neighbor and friend in the building since all others had previously left for holiday, and told her no need to worry, but there had been a small explosion. I heard a knock on my door. It was my neighbor.

“My brother just called me, and the police are asking everyone to evacuate the building,” he told me. I smiled politely.

“OK,” I said calmly. “Thank you for letting me know.”

I went back into the study and stared at my unpacked items. I grabbed my wallet, well, my whole purse, and then my computer, and I set off.

I had never seen as many of my neighbors at once, although I’d say it was a poor representation of all the inhabited flats in our building. It was a holiday, so I hoped that most of the residents were on one. Although the area outside was not packed, it was quite the scene. Indeed there were ambulances, a fire truck, various civil servants and other government folks, as well as families from the building.

After a number of texts and phone calls to Erika, I found Fely on the other side of the building. As she was giving me a brief summary of what happened – from what I gathered the explosion included a man and two children who were propelled by the explosion – Erika called. Everyone was safe. I decided to find out the story, so I kept walking around the building until I could find someone to give it to me. I walked around the building and through the parking garage several times.

Eventually, some people began going inside, and I noticed there were fewer emergency vehicles around the building. I found a woman who was getting the scoop from a security guard. The woman was Indian, probably northern, and so was the security guard, and I could only assume they were speaking Hindi. Either way it wasn’t English. A Middle Eastern woman and her daughter stopped and I decided to as well. She asked what happened, and the first woman began telling us in English.

We talked about the explosion and we talked about the building in general. We discussed how the day before, in our brand new building, some plaster fell from the roof of the parking garage, right through the windshield of a Range Rover, as well as the windshield of another SUV. The second woman said previously she had always lived in a villa, and that this her first time living in an apartment. She pays more to live here as opposed to other apartments because this is one of the government’s buildings – it is supposed to be sturdier, safer, nicer. I knew from experience it clearly was not. The first woman agreed. As we spoke, one of the pipes above us began to shake. The first woman’s son, pointed up and we moved over a little. Someone it said it was fine – an air-conditioning pipe. We just looked at one another.

Here’s what happened that morning:

The man who lived in the flat on the first floor is a doctor, specifically a pediatrician. He had been having some problems with his gas for a few days. He called the gas company. They sent out a "repairman" on Tuesday, Eid-al-Adha. The doctor explained the situation and told the repairman not to try to light the gas, for it was dangerous, and he emphasized this. Apparently, the resident’s mother called, long distance, to wish him Eid Mubarak and what-not, so he briefly stepped out. At that point, the “repairman” lit the gas – and it exploded. Two children were propelled from their location due to the blasts, although supposedly they were not injured - neither was the doctor. The gas repairman went to the hospital with second-degree burns.

The second woman began discussing the reality of Dubai. This is what happens, we all nodded, when “they” pay people to come to the UAE to complete these engineering and construction jobs, and the people are under-trained or unqualified. We were pretty lucky though. Our building was well designed. It was an open design that was centered around the swimming pool, and it had all of those open-airways – the ones behind the gas doors. No chemicals would get “caught” in the building, and there are plenty of places to allow gases to escape. That, was a good. But the swimming pool that leaks into the parking garage, the water heaters that explode, the light fixtures that fall into living rooms, the bathtubs that direct water onto the floor…and gas canisters that explode when the “repairman” comes…these are all the results of living in our brand-new government building in our 21st century desert oasis. What perks.

We were told we could go back inside, but that the gas had been turned off for the day – we would not be able to cook. I walked with the first woman and her son, and we briefly got off the elevator on our floor. She then decided to go down to the first floor and check out the scene. I decided to go with her.

We walked down the hallway and turned the corner. The glass doors had been blown off the wall there. They were lying on the floor to our left. We looked to the right, to the empty space that those glass doors previously hid, and there was the blackened kitchen, with its misshapen kitchen sink, the broken glass and the missing window. Across from that kitchen – an identical one, also missing a window and clearly affected. We were shocked. Thank goodness there was no fire to go with that explosion.

We walked back upstairs and chatted – small talk. We formally introduced ourselves, and discussed India, where I was headed that evening. The woman - Sabina(sp), was from Delhi, and did have plans to go over the holidays, but after the attacks in Mumbai, her husband had second thoughts about the safety of traveling to the subcontinent. We showed one another our addresses, only a few doors apart, and agreed that I would stop by after my return. Although it was under such dubious circumstances, it was surprisingly nice to get to meet one of my neighbors.

I turned and went inside, and triple-checked the space heaters, the stove and the gas, to make sure everything was off. I was hungry. I quickly thought and realized everything I planned to eat that day – real oatmeal with fresh apples and cinnamon, tomato soup – required me to cook using my gas stove. That was a no-go. I had a brief spell of a little disappointment that I would not get to use my gas stove that day. It was quickly replaced by a healthy dose of skepticism and reassurance, and the necessity to pack. That gas canister crisis – at least for now – was over.