NO SCHOOL

no school la la la sunshine la la la pretty flowers la la la

It's May Day, which, as it turns out, is internationally celebrated with no school (except for in the United States, where we decided during the red scare days that we would not partake in anything that the communists deemed worthy of celebration...according to Marielle). So we have a day off. We celebrated by packing a picnic and crossing as many mountains as we could before getting hungry, which we've found much more calm and cool than darting around thousands of suitors, cows and traffic just to get to a "McDonalds Family Restaurant" in downtown Dehra Dun.

Spring announced itself here with a series of sand and rain storms, and the mountains are in full bloom. We discovered a Tibetan town at the top of the first mountain to the north of our house, and there we found two Tibetan schools, a temple, a number of artisan and tapestry stores, and a tapestry/textiles/café co-op run by Indian and American entrepreneurs that employs thirty Tibetan women and trains many others in handicrafts. The café has a 270° view of the surrounding mountains and Rispana valley, and it has quickly become something of a safe haven for us. We come here often for the lemon cake and wifi, and we walk home surrounded by purple blossoms and Buddhist monks in saffron and crimson robes (with their iphones and crocs).

Now that we are actually settling into some semblance of a regular schedule (three classes in the morning plus recess, then various shenanigans in the afternoons), I have more time and energy for weirder/more entertaining things. We go to the Bollywood theatre once a week when we're not at the ashram, Marielle selects a fleet of books from the library for us to read and discuss on a weekly basis (last week was One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, The Color Purple by Alice Walker, To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee, 1984 by George Orwell, and Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller), and I'm working on turning the brigade of monkeys in our backyard into a Monkey Choir.

We only have two and a half weeks left of teaching before Marielle's mom joins us and we go frolicking round Northern India until June. This gives us enough time to learn some real rudimentary Hindi (it turns out that most of what our students taught us is rude, vulgar or both), master the art of Bollywood dances, and make our amaji love us forever and ever. Happy May Day!

Information on Himalayan Tapestry and Chhaya Café:

http://www.himalayantapestry.com/

Information on Joyn India (textiles):

http://joynindia.com

Anti-Bath Socks

Greetings from the wondrous mountain café!


We have magically timed our illnessness to avoid school the last week, which is rather sad as I miss picking up juvenile hindi. Monday (yesterday) we were confined to the house, as we had some wicked sore throats, and we are not to be spreading viruses and american accents amongst the children. Those issues got all sorted out however. Today we were all set to go off and were informed that May 1st is a holiday for the schools here. Primary school told me that just about every country save the U.S. celebrates May Day. We, the Amuricans, don't put up with that communist nonsense. No fun for us.


The main thing that seems to be occupying my abundant free time is searching for unmatchable and filthy socks. I keep having nightmares that the reason they are unmatchable is that their colors have all been altered to different degrees by utter filth. Laundry, my friends, is not the question but the answer. However, this is a vicious cycle as I cannot FIND any socks once I decide to do the laundry. They are like cats, with their anti-bath sense.


Other calamities in the world of Marielle and Jacqui involve insomnia, all the more frightening after reading One Hundred Years Of Solitude, and not having access to a complete collection of Fran Lebowitz's articles and essays. And we ran out of peanut butter this morning, leaving us to eat real indian food for breakfast. We went on a picnic by trekking up the mountain, and spent our time imagining the legs of steel and buns of gold we would possess if we lived there. I prefer living in our leopard infested neighborhood, but then again my sanity has been repeatedly called into question.


A photo of yours truly and the other yours truly looking our most indian.

Redemption

Pardon the absence, we've been battling all sorts of things. Hard to think of a concrete list, except that we've just gotten incredibly busy. And sick. And comfortable with tummies full of delicious food (the food went markedly up a couple days ago, after I gave the cook a piece of chocolate. Yep, we shall be doing that more often.) which we try our best to keep inside us. We've also been given concrete schedules for the school, which means that we can plan lessons (making animal sounds has been our biggest hit... learning english nouns and screaming!!) and aim to arrive at a specific time. Not just between 8am and 12 pm.

I'm now writing from a mountainside café, all alone because I let my bestie walk down the mountain without me, because she was feeling sick and (understandably) wouldn't wait for me to take my sweet time on skype, email and the blog. My redemption is therefore writing to all of y'all, and afterwards buying a coca cola for her to express my shame.

We now have approx. 2.5 weeks left of leaving our mark forever on Lakshmi Devi Academy before we embark on a tour of northern India. During this time we will get fancy trousers ideally suited for romping made, eat everything we can lay hands on (mild exaggeration) and walk up and down the mountain to experience the joys of wifi that quits only every other hour, and not every 20 minutes.

The power of perspective. In fact, I'm fairly certain the wifi here is better than what we get at home, but then again it has been nearly 10 months since I've been around more than four americans at once. Why americans have anything to do with internet servers is puzzling, but the service I get when there are loads of them around is dreadful. Here in this café I don't even need to go back home, as they have all sorts of "american specialties." Aka Chocolate chip cookies. Jacqui will go into greater detail about this wonderland, when she has finished walking down the mountain and feeling ill.

More updates: It has yet to get really hot here, thank goodness. The monkeys are still evil, and enjoy playing peekaboo-bare-my-teeth with us out of garbage cans. We have read collectively over 4,000 pages of various Pulitzer prize winners and classic novels from our home library, and play this odd game of sticking bars of chocolate where the other person is sure to find it and feel very very confused.

 I probably ought to go settle my café bill and find my friend passed out from the plague somewhere. I do everything with the best of intentions.

My Day: An Introduction To Indian Stomach Bugs

2am: Having spent yesterday hurling my innards out, I am awakened by a now familiar urge. I toddle to the bathroom. I throw up the electrolyte enriched water drink I was given yesterday. Even had I not been ill with a deadly jungle fever, the pineapple pre-teen girl perfume toxicant would have exited my system in some violent way or another. Hallucinations ensue.

7am: Wake up to the sound of my roommate’s nostrils whistling as she sleeps. Kick off my blankets and debate whether self-disembowelment is a step too far. Fantasize that there are lizards crawling on the walls. (Note: There are lizards crawling on the walls.)

9am: We go downstairs for breakfast. An attack of nausea and the call of my bed force me upstairs before I can enjoy my toast.

9:01am: Agony.

11:20: A philosophical moment. My roommate and I have a serious discussion about our personality traits. We decide she is a wicked prankster, and I am unconscionably arrogant, in particular with regards to fixing toasters. We reaffirm our desire to be friends forever.

I then go downstairs to return my hoarded teacups. Am stopped by our host grandmother, who remarks on the weight I have already lost. Fatal tropical conditions  can have this effect, I am told.

12: The feeling of untidiness overwhelms me. I search for my hairbrush, but am waved off by Jacqui to look in the other part of our suite. I search, and fail to dig up my hairbrush. I return. The hairbrush is balanced next to her side of the bed. I cannot summon the energy to react, and fall into a stupor. Occasionally emerging from this catatonia, I pass the time away looking for split ends.

1:30pm: Continue to read my humorous story collection. There are more misses than hits in this rather hastily dubbed book. My favorite story is by far the dry account of Fran Lebowski’s day. It is titled “My Day: An Introduction of Sorts.” I long to possess such brazen irreverence.

This makes me think of all the helpful feedback I received in high school about adapting my writing to a more bland, impersonal tone. We could all take this opportunity to make a list of the bland, impersonal writers we know, love and cherish. I’m sure your list, like mine, would be utterly scintillating.

2:30pm: A quiet moment is taken to appreciate the peaceful bird song and explosions coming from the Indian Army’s shooting grounds located to the north. 

3:35pm: I head outside to the balcony to admire the view of the Himalayas and do some serious reading. Several minutes into this activity I turn to find my roommate gazing intently at me out the window. Unlike most humans, I react in a calm manner (Note: I am accustomed to antics far more concerning) and invite her onto the balcony. She accepts this invitation.

3:45pm: A revealing moment. My roommate shares the reason for her furious typing. She has been taking a “future goals and career traits” test designed to clarify what attributes she wants to develop or let alone. Some examples from her list of “irrelevant traits” include “using foresight,” “developing hand dexterity,” and “operating machinery.” This explains why she failed to make the toaster work this morning.

3:55pm: Another skill clearly lacking is closing doors behind oneself.

4:18pm: My roommate leaves to go buy coca cola. This absence does not benefit me as a) There is nothing of hers I am capable of eating b) She left all the doors open. I take a nap. This proves boring. I cut my hair. This goes well. I wash my feet. I reread the humorous story collection. I find a dominoes pizza box stuffed inside one of the pillows.

4:47pm: Roommate returns bearing junk food. Her excuse for failing to bring me gifts: “You’re sick, and I didn’t want to make you throw up.” True, but I could always stash it for happier days. Sadness ensues. She proceeds to eat her bags of chips and drink the coca cola in a manner which recalls a garbage disposal truck. My sarcastic remarks only exacerbate the situation.

6:03pm: I go over all the funny pictures on my computer. By the fiftieth time they have ceased to be amusing, and the humorous story collection has proved itself tedious and frustrating. It is worth mentioned at this point that my clothing consists of a beguiling lacy nightgown (Note: Which wasn’t intended for newly-emaciated invalids), and has not be changed for a full day. I imagine this will not vary for the duration of my affliction.

7:13pm: I write a short piece on my precocious infancy, and the subtle (Note: or not so) decline since those golden years.

7:45 While waiting for dinner Jacqui and I cuddle on the couch. As she is missing her dog, she requests that I pant and make general canine-like sounds. I refuse. She insists. This indignity continues for another fifteen minutes. Then dinner! Dinner is strictly limited to yogurt, rice and lassi for me. Perhaps a third of what I am given ends up consumed, as my nausea, headache and disgust at being treated like a dog overwhelm me. But don’t worry, I am loved.

8:45pm: I begin Death Of A Salesman. Between Jacqui and I, we have, in the last two days, read Pygmalion, 100 Years of Solitude, Humorous Stories Collection, The Color Purple, and Death of A Salesman. With regards to the HSC, they claim to have “over 70 hilarious tales.” I counted seven. A woman is a tough judge in any comedic situation, and when you add indian stomach plagues to the picture, very little is droll, much less hilarious.

10:07pm: Death Of A Salesman proves too depressing and frustrating for my sensibilities.

10:30pm: I am left in the darkened room to sleep. Instead I rehearse various reprimands for those who have been disturbing Jacqui and I. They are ferociously castigated. Having won all the imaginary arguments in my head, I drift off to sleep. I proceed to entertain my roommate with my gargles and sleep talk, particularly my impression of a therapist.

Next Up...

After several blissful days in Rishikesh, attending yoga classes, meditating and going for long walks around the Ganges, we are heading back to Dehradun to do some more serious work. We have about 4-5 weeks left to impart all our dancing, martial art and english wisdom, and to finally master some naughty words in hindi.

I'm excited.

A goal I have in the last coming weeks of my gap year is to succinctly summarize my experiences in each phase and country. While I partially mean this in the cocktail party sense (answering impossible questions like "so, what did you learn on your gap year?"), there is a pressing need in my mind to preserve my memories and lessons. Being able to reconcile my identities as "the american Marielle" and my newly internationalized self, and not forget or lose my hard earned wisdom.

It's a bit of a tricky goal to maneuver around, as generalizations and sudden proclamations and proverbs don't cut it when it comes to crystalizing that which profoundly alters one's thought process, outlook and behavior. How does one accurately describe one's sentiments upon viewing a calf being transported with two men and a small child on a motorized scooter meant for one occupant? What is the concrete wisdom learned in learning how to take public transportation in the city with the highest rate of pickpocketing in europe? Is there a proverbial lesson in learning how to make friends with someone who speaks not a single word of the same language as you?

The norms I've adjusted to and people I have become are wildly different. The same person who was a social night owl and swore like a sailor in France became a bookish tea drinker in England, and then an artsy doodler who hung out and got up to mischief with the best Brazilians ever in Spain. I am now a vegetarian yoga-practicing tae kwon do teacher who can get any price halved.

While I hope and pray that my international friends come visit me in Minnesota, in the end it is just me who goes home to people who said goodbye to someone a bit different. I don't know which parts I'll drag back with me, but as a friend we've made here in India said... "I used to be someone very normal and I've just gotten steadily weirder."

Next Adventure Planned: Dominoes Pizza outing with my lovely bestie, who has informed me that the pizzas here are divided on the menu into non-veg, and vegetarian. I think I'll stick to my hindu morals for now...

The Barber's Demon Client

Ladies and gentleman, I am incensed.


Now, it is a truth universally acknowledged that there is common protocol in any hairdressing salon, irregardless of culture, country, or language. That is, despite all malevolent intentions of your tresses chopper, asking for "just a trim" and pointing out a reasonable inch of hair will get you with a workable haircut, plus or minus ineptitude.


Unfortunately, I am a very naive client. My haircut (150 rupees! 3 dollars!) was first handled by a gentleman who I now suspect is hired only to detain clients until the guy who actually knows how to cut hair comes back. He proceeded to amuse himself by ignoring my instructions, in hinglish no less, and chopping a gigantic chuck of my hair off.

He then confined himself to giving the wimpiest trim ever, and it was only until the real hairdresser came back that I got more than a quarter inch off my split ends. My bangs/fringe were/was cut crookedly, and so I yelled at the barbers and had my money waved off. A fellow client translated for me, saying "He says he's sorry."

So am I. So am I. 

On a higher note (PUNS) we have discovered giant marijuana plants growing wild in enormous quantities around the ashram we are staying in. Five foot tall, meh, more like seven foot tall... We picked a bit to investigate on the internet i.e. "is this cannabis ruralis or savalis?" Only field research, no lab work WE PROMISE. However transporting this legal-ish plant got us some funny looks from the ashram guards, who keep tabs on everything we get up to. I imagine we will receive a lecture tonight about this. Recent information however has led us to realize that our wayside botanical plant is a fairly useless specimen. Apparently the real stuff is guarded by a certain type of "sadhus," India's version of rastafarians.

I did my best to find a photo not showing genitalia, for the unmarried crowd who reads this blog. Photo credit: stolen from the internet.

Side note: We get chased by this crowd every Tuesday. Tuesdays are the day of the monkey god, which is good enough an excuse to run around giving everyone orange bindis and charging ten rupees for their blessing. It is bad luck to say no, which is probably why I am saddled with this haircut. *curses*

Now down to business. My mother requested that I be a little less "cutely amusing" and a little more informative on this blog. So I will tell you facts.

Fact 1: These are the only songs we hear on the radio. All day, all night. All day. All night. What the sadhu?

Fact 2: On the Indian version of "Biggest Loser," instead of doing fitness, the contestants do Bollywood choreography. BEST SHOW EVER (though I have yet to experience these particularly electromagnetic waves).

Fact 3: The mosquitos here, despite their malaria tendencies, are distant cousins from the bloodsucking beasts we are exsanguinated by in Minnesota. The rabid monkeys, cranky roadside cows, labrador eating leopards and stomping elephants are still pressing concerns.

These are all the facts I can think of at the moment. Until very soon!

Yours Truly,

Someone who used to have presentable hair.

Still Alive!

Marielle and I are trooping along into our second month despite the ever-increasing threat of getting mauled by wild animals (the mountain monkeys encroach more and more on Ritz and Smoky the highly effective guard puppies' space every day, a territory-deprived wild leopard has taken to eating unsuspecting pet labradors in the neighborhood, and gangs of wild elephants in the mountains just past our house have taken to a game called "stomp the humans") Something that struck me was that the families who have lost their pets to the leopard have not condemned him, but rather diverted the negative attention to humanity at large for taking so much from nature that an animal has no choice but to endanger his life and potentially trap himself forever in a human family's compound just to get his food.

If the leopard eats me, I would ask that we put our retaliatory efforts into finding a nice, safe place (preferably full of not-humans) for him to live.

I've also been struck with the effects of different teaching styles on children. Mama Oumou and Fatou, my host sisters in Saint-Louis, Senegal, learned through dictation and memorization. Virtually every male and most females in Saint-Louis were supposed to memorize the Coran before they finished their schooling, regardless of whether or not they actually knew Arabic and therefore understood the sounds and symbols they had committed to memory. One of my friends in Saint-Louis, a volunteer teacher, was surprised when, after having a coughing fit as she taught her students the alphabet, the students coughed every time they recited the alphabet for her. Similarly, when Marielle and I asked the third and fourth graders to draw their families and homes for a class this morning, we wound up with twenty perfect copies of the example we had drawn on the board.

Our students' creative energies tend to come out in different ways, like when the teachers release all the children into the courtyard for lunch and then go barricade themselves in the lounge. Marielle and I have found that this is a particularly good time to do tae kwon do, dance, or the newest game, "let's go skipping" (I skip around and students follow me. I don't know why this is so popular, but it is.) A new academic school year started last week, and we're still getting used to the new names and faces. I miss the former eighth graders, but it's fun to have a new playgroup class that's really, really tiny.

Marielle and I were invited to attend the wedding of one of the school's teachers on Saturday evening. It was a somewhat sad event for many of the people involved, as this meant that the bride would be leaving the school to move in with her husband in Delhi. Nevertheless, the DJ played party music until the outrageous hour of 10 p.m., unlimited ice cream was served to all, and a bunch of the men played a game where they covered their foreheads with one hand and slapped each other with the other. Like the aforementioned skipping, this was very popular. Our amaji/host grandmother defended us protectively against any potential suitors she deemed unworthy (aka all of them), we collectively signed about 30 autographs, people stared and stared at the two white, blonde, blue-eyed girls in formal Indian dress, and we were asked to leave before the bride came out so that she would get at least some attention.

On Sunday, we went to meet with some friends that Marielle had made at the ashram. A good part of our friendship is that we have different approaches to the same experience; when we were at the ashram, I took all the yoga and meditation classes I could while Marielle preferred to stay in the cafeteria and talk to international yoga enthusiasts and spiritual guides over buckets of chai. The friends in question live on a property called Vipasana House, which welcomes adolescents and young adults from all over the world who are seeking yogic healing for mental and spiritual illnesses. The complex itself is sprawling and half-wild in a once-tamed sort of way, and we spent a good part of the day hanging out, helping cook, and getting free massages. We left with a cartload of books and an invitation to come back any time we wanted, which we certainly shall (and not just because they have working wifi, wonder of wonders).

Tomorrow evening amaji is taking us back to the ashram for a couple days. We have decided that we are sort of like her personal pet monkeys, in that we do weird things (put peanut butter on everything before eating it), stupid things (accidentally barge into Swami Veda, Disciple of the Guru of the Himalayas' private quarters within the first half hour of our first trip to the ashram), annoying things ("Oh, you were sleeping? We hope you didn't mind our opera practice"), and yet she still adores us so much that she must bring us with her everywhere she goes. Or that is how I'm choosing to interpret the situation.

So yes, we are doing well in that we are well-fed and intact, beloved by many children and scorned suitors alike, and still allowed in amaji's house. For now.

Real Life For Us

For those of you wondering, this is real life for us.

Team Bonding, Indian Style

These past five days, we were privileged enough to travel with our fellow KHEL teachers to Jaipur for a bit of sight seeing, religious monument visiting and team bonding, Indian style.

Getting to Jaipur involved catching a three hour bus to Haridwar, place of the aarti (everyone lights flowers on fire and throws them in the Ganges at sunset). Because it was a holy day (Good Friday) there were buckets of people there, and so we walked/struggled through massive crowds instead of catching bike rickshaws.

One thing about walking with Indians is that they are mighty easy to lose. Normally one wears bright colors so those in your group can find you. However, EVERYONE wears bright colors here. They also either 1) stop and look at things every couple of feet, or 2) charge ahead, leaving us with no hope of ever catching up. Miracle of miracles, we caught every train and bus and had a lovely time. I am becoming a very calm, collected type “No Death, No Disaster, No Problem.”

Our train was a fairly straightforward affair, and we were comfortably installed in our sleeper car for the night. Other than being awoken around 1am by a thief who stole from the woman just across from us, and fasting from lunch until lunch the next day, it was a delicious adventure. I STILL love trains, and will take one with you anywhere you like.

JAIPUR NEWS WILL COME LATER. THIS IS ONLY TRAVEL INFO.

While waiting for our train home, we learned how to say, “Why are you bothering us, mind your own business” in Hindi. This is in response to the paparazzi cum stalker-esque behavior we are subjected to in any semi-crowded place. People throw their babies at us and attempt to take “just one snap, ma’am.” I have an urge to go Britney Spears on them, as it seriously brings out the anti-pacifist in me to have my photo taken by people who don’t respect me when I say “No, thank you”.

I ought to be more like Jacqui.

Marielle’s Typical Conversation With Indian Paparazzi:

IP: Ma’am, may I take one snap please?

M: No, no thank you.

IP: Ma’am please?

M: No, I’m sorry.

IP: Ma’am why not?

M: Because I don’t take photos with strangers. Please stop.

IP: Maybe with my baby?

M: No thank you!

IP: Please?

M: NO! (Explodes)

Jacqui’s Typical Conversation With Indian Paparazzi:

IP: Ma’am, may I take one snap please?

J: No. Go away.

And you know what? THEY LEAVE HER ALONE. India is making us into jerks.

We also played a hilarious game of drawing portraits of each other, balancing the notebook on our heads. I will leave you to judge our efforts, and would like to say that you can CLEARLY see the duck face Jacqui was making while I was drawing her. Me on the other hand... Unclear what was lost in translation.

I will treasure that portrait forever.

When we came back on the train, we arrived in Haridwar with an interesting conundrum. Some of the teachers wanted to catch the bus to go home to Dehradun immediately. After all, 12 hours in a train leaves everyone feeling wonderfully hostile towards humanity. The others wanted to jump in the Ganges, and take a bath.

Now for a bit of cultural comparison, this is like me taking a dirty, smelly, noisy train for TWELVE HOURS from say Detroit or Chicago, and arriving in St. Paul, Minnesota. I can then drive home, OR I could jump in the Mississippi. Logical decision?

Go home. Please.

Having now eaten food that was not deep fried in sketchy oil and handled by people whose fingers were in dubious places, I am much happier. I am clean, I am not surrounded by crying unphotogenic babies or thieves on a train. I can remember the great parts of my trip, and forget the rest.

Tonight I am going to sleep for AT LEAST ten hours. Anyone who wakes me up before 7am with their Rajastani folk music is going to get a rusty nail between the eyes.

Bored To Death And Blood Money

We’ve now returned safely from RIshkesh, where we felt happily Beatle-like and safe, despite the killer wild elephants stomping on cars, leopards haunting wherever we go, and mountain monkeys who size us up as potential targets for their gang related vioelnce. Dehradun is treating us to a baby monsoon, which we braved to visit our beloved cybercafé. Things have taken a turn for the better here, as we’ve stopped asking if they have wifi and just go for it.

Today we went to a mindbogglingly boring film called “Blood Money.” You’d think that it would be easy to make something vaguely interesting with a title like that, but the whole affair was weighed down by overlong conversations (again, half hindi, half english) and moody sequences between the TOOL of a main character and his spineless and useless wife. It was like “Blood Diamond” in the sense that there were diamonds, blood, and bad guys with all the power.

But this will win no Oscars, and I dunno if it even merits a rotten tomato. Better to just forget.

The next film we go to see will hopefully be the trashiest musical comedy we can find. We have a huge need to dance, even if it is in our seats. The girl sitting next to me answered her phone five times during the movie, and indulged in the kind of conversations that inspire murderous feelings in pacifists.

Otherwise, India is great. I’ve been daydreaming about an ideal world where I can bring all my favorite people from this year to Minneapolis, and keep practicing my spanish, french and basic portuguese (ai se eu te pego? e saudades...). A little less than two months to go, and then back to the states, for a dose of crazy crazies, dreadful accents and politicians whose plans for the future are likened to etch a sketches.

Love to you all!

Marielle and Jacqueline

Rishikesh

Darlings.

Pardon the absence, we've been staying in an Ashram on the foothills of the Himalayans, busy studying yoga, breaking various house rules, and scarfing up vegetarian food. And having deep, wise conversations with swami masters.

All around us is lush green vegetation, and the Ganges river which emits a hallucinogenic hazy blue color. There is thick jungle and hundreds of cows who amuse themselves by finding traffic to impede. Having been raised by a farm girl and nursed on horror stories of people being kicked, gored and trampled by these gentle creatures, I give them a wide berth. You might be a holy animal, but that probably makes you a cocky entitled jerk who will never get punished no matter how many americans you render... dead.

My macabre imagination is well supplied here, surrounded by a holy river full of laundry, trash and grandpa's half burned ashes, and gardens full of jumping snakes and pythons capable of sucking you from several feet away into their jaws. Or at least, this is what we were told by a very earnest student at lunch. Do you judge me if I believe him?

The Ashram itself is a very beautiful collection of cottages and well tended gardens and then a meditation hall, learning centers and a dining hall. There are also very attentive guards who rat on us when we sneak out to buy junk food after dark. Our first night here we took a self guided tour and ended up (by accident) in the guru's private quarters. He was very friendly, and kindly pointed us to less interesting parts of the complex.

Side Note: We are sort of like mischievous monkeys, so adorable that no matter how many filthy-yet-holy rivers we jump in, or how many times we forget to take our shoes off outside buildings, you must love us. We have yet to find a limit in this love.

Food here in ashram land is tasty indian veggie food, lots of dhal, curries, fried breads and pastries and sometimes lassis, sometimes salted warm milk.

Yes, salted warm milk. We decline such delicacies, like the terrible guests we are. My favorite food is the fried pastries we eat in the morning, to compliment our daybreak diet of toast and peanut butter. My mother told me as a wee anklebiter that I would have to go forth and diversify my diet. Apples, carrots, chicken fingers, peanut butter and pasta didn't cut it. I would "never find peanut butter in faraway places like Argentina, China or India."

I raise my Skippy peanut butter to you each morning! The wisdom of this message is not lost on me however. You can catch me eating everything on my plate (veggies, fruits, indian junk food!) except this garlic SUPER spicy sauce some sadistic person created as a torture tactic for persons of Norwegian origin.

One final note, with regards to our no longer secret language of french. It is a good thing we use Senegalese slang words, because there are lots of people who speak french here. It was a nasty shock when we realized our uncrackable and definitely private conversations were decoded by fellow francophones. Rage.

The internet is not good enough to upload photos, but they are pretty sweet and will be added when we are provided with quality wifi. Which will be a while.