Dear Family and Friends,

It has been nearly a year since I last posted to this blog. Not because I died in Saudi Arabia but because writing here on this blog, for me, takes a certain mastery of will, the ability to both be in the moment and distant from the moment; writing here requires interest in life beyond the slog – vanquished luxuries, for me, by last December.

Existing, as we foreigners of spirit do in Al Jouf, is difficult. Metaphorically, it seems that our feelings run the same gamut as a jungle war movie: good soldiers begin their march through the jungle, full of vigor and purpose, they endure a difficulty here or there with fair to middling equanimity until they end up trying to march through knee-deep mud for uncountable, unending miles. The will to live, the will to win endures but spirit is tainted, if not drained away. Soldiers end away from their battles altered in mind but of stronger will. As did I.


I arrived in Al-Jouf in October of 2009. I slogged through the remainder of the school year until June 2010, broken only by glorious breaks in Jordan and Istanbul. July and August were comprised of summer school teaching and a few weeks of September permitted me a flying visit back to the States. I have returned to Jouf for one more teaching year – and then I will finish with Saudi Arabia.

You might wonder how I could – let alone would – return. Of my options and with our economy still in the doldrums, returning made the most sense. I have already forged a path. I believe that I can walk it again. And if I cannot walk it, I can and will leave. Full-stop.

And, happily, although I must remain hyper-vigilant, the will to write has returned. Insh’Allah – God willing – you will have lots (but not too much!) to read about in the coming months.

Love,

Laura

A few pictures from my last year in Saudi Arabia...

A wise friend once told me that, "Asian cities are beautiful at night, not during the day." Proving his words: Riyadh at night.

Our dusty, semi-picturesque, mostly garbage inhabited commute.

A date tree with nearly ripe dates.

Once the ever-popular Saudi Arabia dates are picked, this is how the dates are usually served.

On one of our daily walks, we discovered a camel farm. It is very hard to be cynical amongst camels!

The morning sky and road near our compound.

Kabsah: THE Saudi Arabian traditional dish. And what seems like the only food that our students ever eat!

One of the oldest mosques in the world... in a city not far from where we live.

Inside the Mosque of Omar (one of the oldest mosques in the world).

Our New Year's bonfire.

ATVing: a great way to re-taste freedom and to explore the desert.

A lovely aspect of living in Jouf has been to practice a few of my passions such as cooking and baking.

A lovely aspect of living in Jouf has been developing new passions: coaxing plants from seed into fruit and spending time lounging or playing pool volleyball.

A much needed moment of beauty at a public art sculpture of a traditional Arab coffee pot, not too far from our compound.

An Easter prankster peep - dressed in an abaya and ready for work!

Dear Family and Friends,

Saudi Arabia being an “exotic” or different place and, of course, having very different standards for the behavior or women, it takes little prescience to suspect that you all are brimming with questions. Let’s see if I can answer a few:

Question: What am I wearing?

Legally, in public a woman must wear a black outer garment known as an abaya. Personally, I equate my abaya to a graduation robe: it is polyester, black and shapeless, it covers my shoulders and falls to my ankles. In a bid for self-respect, my abaya is a bit blingy… the sleeves and hem are embroidered and lightly silver-spangled. By some definitions an abaya should also cover one’s head. My abaya does not and nor am I required, legally, to cover my head. However, in deference to my new home’s sensibilities as well as to decrease unwanted attention, I keep my head covered with a black scarf known as a shayla.

When I stepped on to the Saudi Airlines plane in New York, I was (in my estimation) conservatively dressed in a white-striped long sleeved shirt, black slacks, and black flats. However, as other passengers took their seats and I realized that only two female passengers had both their faces and their hair uncovered, increasingly I began to feel uncomfortable. The other non-veiled woman, a serene South African woman who has lived in Saudi for over 5 years (!), sensed my nervousness and kindly dispensed advice such as “no need to put the abaya on until you arrive in Riyadh” and “if you can survive the first three months, you’ll grow to love it.” She deplaned at our first stop in Jeddah. And then I sat fastened into my seat stewing about when I should done my abaya.

Finally, I grabbed my wadded abaya, locked myself into the plane’s bathroom, and watched in the mirror as I disappeared behind flowing black robe. I couldn’t – I just couldn’t - make myself cover my head. When I self-consciously emerged from the bathroom, the lovely Saudi family sitting in front of me beamed and smiled and told me how pretty I looked in the abaya. I couldn’t help but smile. Flattery finds its way into every culture, does it not? I deplaned, went through immigration and customs without covering my head. However, that first night, when I left my hotel in Riyadh, I covered my head at the urging of the man assigned to by the Company to escort me for a dinner out. My shayla slips and slides and simultaneously frizzes and flattens my hair but I’ve kept my head covered in public ever since – with one exception. When I go running around our compound, I scandalize guards by tossing my shayla aside in favor of a black baseball cap. While I run, my abaya flaps about my ankles and causes more sweat than the actual exertion.

Understandably, I find wearing an abaya an enormous pain. I mean, it is black, it doesn’t breathe overly well, I’m constantly trying to brush away dust, and I must throw it on in almost all circumstances – even taking out the trash requires an abaya. But here’s the thing: I want – arguably, I need – another abaya that covers me from forehead to the tips of my toes. And when I acquire this abaya, I shall also buy a wahabi veil in order to cover my face. I am convinced that keeping myself fully covered will actually afford me more freedom. And I am willing to submit to further veiling for more freedom. Counter-intuitive, huh?

Question: What is daily life like?

So far, nothing here has been easy. I was told, when I first arrived, that my villa “had just been completed” – but within minutes of setting down my bags, I pulled out paper to start making a list of repairs. I couldn’t secure my front gate, there was no hot water in villa, the second bathroom stuffed up and overflowed, Internet access was intermittent (at best), and there was no gas to cook with. And soon, things got worse. Fixing the stuffed up bathroom necessitated shutting water off throughout the villa. And when water was restored, there was very little pressure, which in the end, necessitated my – finally – throwing a fit and inspiring three guys to make a special run in order to seek out and purchase a water pump. For weeks the entire villa sported a thick lair of dust but couldn’t be wiped down. There was no coffee and little food (I could eat fruit and yogurt and there were generous guys who would, upon request, pick up yummy take-out but…), and of course, no shower. It was a week before I could buy bath towels and just over three weeks before I acquired bed sheets.

Often, it has been easy to regard these issues as challenges to my ingenuity and instinct for survival. But, of course, sometimes these issues feel like intolerable problems. I teeter back and forth between these two feelings.

We teach Saturday through Wednesday. Just after the sun rises over the horizon, men and women together board a bus that (is supposed) to depart at 7 am. It never leaves on time; there are always stragglers. We women are driven to our campus first. We don’t really get a lunch break and we work from our time of arrival until 2:30 pm. Sometimes we go food shopping or run to the bank after work, but we are happiest when we get picked up on time and simply driven back to our compound. Work is exhausting.

I was the 7^th female teacher to arrive… and my welcome was nearly overwhelming. Not because my new colleagues were particularly happy to meet me per se but because they had been working double the time stipulated in the contract in circumstances far from ideal. More than once, I got the feeling that I had walked into the newest set of Survivor (the Saudi version). Having another body to share the workload with was very welcome and I began substitute teaching on my second day. Not long after I arrived, 3 more female Americans touched down. We now have 10 female teachers but there continue to be class assignment and resources challenges. Normal teaching is exhausting; our situation requires double the patience.

Question: What am I eating?

According to my students, Saudi Arabia is famous for a dish called kapsa. As I have yet to actually order or eat in a Saudi restaurant, I can only report that this is apparently a barbequed piece of meat with lots of spices. Accounts vary about whether or not I’ve actually eaten the dish. During my first week and then some without gas, a kind neighbor could be prevailed upon to bring us well-spiced bbq chicken or bbq fish served with enormous quantities of too-oily rice, mouth-watering flat bread (often accompanied by hummus), tabbouleh, and my favorite part (truly!) whole bags of peppery watercress (to be eaten like a salad). Apparently watercress is a… male stimulant here… but I can neither confirm nor deny this rumor.

When we finally got gas, we did not have water. When we finally got gas plus water, I began to stock the kitchen. I had brought some basics from the States: a small Belgique pot that goes on the stove or in an oven, my Global Cooking knife, a used rolling pin, a can opener, a coffee grinder + French press, and my copy of The Joy of Cooking. Our kitchen came only with a few plastic plates, a few pieces of silverware, a few glasses, a carafe, and a metal tea kettle. Slowly, I’ve added a few non-stick pans, a plastic mixing bowl, a pie pan, and just the other day, I purchased a heavy-bottomed pot for cooking pasta.

As far as food goes, I find it easier to shop in Saudi Arabia (versus Korea). I suppose this to be because Saudi Arabia doesn’t seem to have a strong food sensibility and it imports everything. Fresh vegetables such as carrots and onions (white or red only) and potatoes tomatoes and zucchini are easy to locate – but there is no celery. I have been aching for celery so bad I dreamed of finding celery in a secret room in our nicest grocery store! *sigh* I am still working on a substitute for celery. Anyway, I can purchase dark Turkish coffee, dairy products, some spices, lots of nuts, a decent number of baking supplies, super-sugary cereals, and millions of olives. My first and second attempts at cooking were bland, bland. However, as I accumulate more ingredients, my cooking is improving.

Question: How are things, really?

For now, things are ok. Truly…

Oh, goodness! Literally, just as I type this, there is an unnaturally loud sound of rushing water coming from our second bathroom. Oh, this is not good… But have I answered some of your questions? Do you have other questions? Please do send them via comments or e-mail… although the remainder of today will be frittered away upon fixing this latest water problem.

So, yes, truly, things are ok but nothing in my world is easy. And things’ll be better tomorrow… “In šāʾ Allāh.”

Fondly yours,

Laura

Pretty spices...

A view of Sakakah (my new hometown).

Dear Family and Friends,

In my world, calendars hold less sway and it feels as if time itself has changed. Promises in Saudi Arabia are never without an “In šāʾ Allāh” (pronounced /in sha lah/), meaning “If it is God's will.” And I must say, very often it feels that God withholds his will or is, at the very least, very slow on dispensing it, blackening a beautiful phrase.

And no longer are the days of the week days of the week… well, in the sense that our work week is Saturday through Wednesday. We Westerners do not find the shift itself confusing – after all, time has changed – but we do find this problematic in our every day language. We often refer to Wednesday as Friday or must clarify whether we are talking about giving a quiz on Friday or, actually, Wednesday. Confusing.

As my sense of time has altered, it is little wonder that I was shocked on Wednesday morning to realize that that our Thanksgiving holiday was on the morrow. I mean, for weeks you all could hardly miss that it the month of November with its kitschy paper turkeys and wetted fall leaves. But for us here in the Northern Saudi desert, dates – and indeed the entire autumn season - elude us. And the realization that a holiday was nearly upon us jolted me into action.

After both listing food and people, I walked from villa to villa, soliciting interest in a celebratory potluck. Interest was nearly universal. And so just before sunset on Thanksgiving, we placed two dining room tables and 14 chairs diagonal through my living room. We used my desk as a buffet table, aligning roast chickens stuffed with homemade stuffing, pressed smoked turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, chop-chop salad, green beans, corn sliced from the cob, butternut squash dumplings, fruit salad, mashed and curried butternut squash + sweet potato, a Southern pea salad, and an amazing dried apricot chutney. Soon fourteen strangers living in a strange situation took up their forks and feasted.

For dessert, the men hand-whipped cream (!!!!!!) which was then coupled with sweetened sliced strawberries while I pulled out coffee, softened vanilla ice cream, and two butter-crust apple pies.

Our Thanksgiving was just what a thanksgiving ought to be: a celebration of life. I wish the same to - for - all of you.

With love, always,

Laura

A glimpse of our feast after fourteen hungry people had had a pass at the buffet table. The white bowl contained sliced watermelon, the foil-covered plate butternut dumplings, the blue bowl sliced corn, and the pan green beans...

There are neither pumpkin nor pecans to be had here
and there were no complaints about apple pie!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!

Dear Friends and Family,

The mere process of obtaining a Visa in order to enter Saudi Arabia was difficult.

Actually, that is a vast understatement. And this from a lady who has, at various times and with various amounts of drama, has been through the process of acquiring a sum total of seven Visas. For example, I lingered for nearly a week in Kathmandu, waiting in pre-sun rise queues for my Visa to enter India. While on the other hand, my South Korean Visa was a bigger headache for my Father than it was for me. He had to search through fifteen boxes of my stateside personal effects in order to dig out my original university diploma as well as twice visit the actual university in order to acquire a sealed transcript, before FedExing the lot to Seoul. And it used to seem that no Visa process could be more onerous than my latter Chinese Visa, which took one outright rejection, numerous phone calls, two weeks of generosity from Daegu friends, my passport returning to the States without me, my sister endangering her then-new job to personally visit the San Francisco consulate, and a painful sprawl for me while trying to catch the Korean delivery man.

The Saudi Arabian Visa process cast all other Visa acquisition cast all other processes to shame. Paperwork up the ying-yang was necessary along with calling a contact in Saudi multiple times for under-defined reasons. A battery of pricey medical tests was required (paid out of pocket as I do not have health insurance in the States) along with verifying my UW diploma, writing letters, acquiring letters and multiple passport pictures. One day, I ended up rushing to the State capitol in order to obtain a properly sealed police report.

And the paperwork turned out to be the easy part! Inexplicably, the Company delayed sending its original sealed contract to me. When the contract arrived over two weeks after it was promised, I overnighted the Visa application paperwork to Washington DC. Only to discover that both the Cultural Mission as well as the Embassy had closed one week early for the following week’s holiday marking the end of Ramadan. After a three weeks and two day wait, part of my paperwork was duly processed and shipped from the embassy in Washington DC to the consulate in LA, who should’ve pasted a Visa into my passport. Instead, the LA consulate shipped my paperwork back to me – minus a Visa. I then had to re-ship my passport back to WDC and wait another week. Eleven weeks into a process reputed to take a few weeks, I received my Visa. Already beyond frustrated, I couldn’t even summon a, “hooray!”

So, imagine my reaction, two days later, while standing at the airline counter in Seattle Tacoma International airport, when the American airline told me that my Saudi Arabian Visa was no good.

Let’s just say that I was nearly able to fly myself to Saudi Arabia.

In the end, I was able to board a flight from SeaTac to JFK. With hours to wait before my next flight, I caught a train to the City and walked through heavenly autumnal rain to Central Park. The weather was gray and I got all wet – but I didn’t care a jot. I anticipated – correctly - imminent rain starvation.

Checking into my flight to Riyadh, was much easier than pie. Saudi Arabian Airlines didn’t so much blink at my Visa. After 14 hours in the air and a stop in the coastal city of Jeddah, our plane touched down in Riyadh. Feeling more nervous than I can ever recall, I shuffled through immigration, where an officer confiscated my passport and handed it to a properly dressed Saudi man who introduced himself as Siad and led me, and another American woman who had also just arrived (we hadn’t spotted each other on the plane), easily led us through Customs and then to a car. And from the car, we were handed back our passports, taken to a hotel, where I spent two shut-in nights before boarding yet another plane to my new home, the province of Al-Jouf.

Al-Jouf’s airport is teeny tiny… and it was easy to spot the male colleague who drew the unlucky job of picking me from the airport at 7:00 am. We drove for a few minutes, made a few turns and soon I found myself and my suitcases inside an obviously new and super-dusty, “villa” behind a single, seven foot concrete wall.

Welcome to my world.

Love,

Laura

Autumn in New York... and there is no need to wonder,
why it seems so inviting.

In Saudi Arabia, while not all roads lead to Makkah (aka Mecca),
all signs do point to the Kabbalah.

Villa #19 - aka my home sweet home in Saudi Arabia.

Dear Family and Friends,

And so it begins. Again. I’ve again begun adventuring. But this time I am in the Middle East. More particularly, in Saudi Arabia.

Before I departed the States, upon my breaking the news that I was going to teach English at a university in Al-Jouf, Saudi Arabia, inevitably I would elicit a swift intake of breath and a “Really?”. This shock, repeated over and over, must I suppose, stem from the question of truly what do we know, what do we really know about Saudi Arabia?

Oil. Obviously. We imagine obscene oil wealth coupled with sand dunes and tents and camels and Bedouins. We know that Islam and its holy cities of Mecca and Medina are thriving in Saudi Arabia. Women, muffled head to toe in black and segregated in every aspect of life, are, we believe, a human rights issue here. We’ve seen pictures of the Saudi royal family and heard rumors of exploits… And of course, Saudi Arabia terrifies us because we know Islam parlayed into terrorism. Fifteen of the nineteen September 11^th hijackers were Saudi.

I’ve been here for just over three weeks and I have yet to collect more than fractured impressions. Like kaleidoscope pieces, understanding, mores, and landscapes shift and twist. So far, a complete picture eludes me.

A few weeks ago, a male colleague and I were waiting for our ride home from a grocery store. We were standing next to each other, he in perfectly acceptable Western dress while I was properly attired in the strictly required women’s long, black robe-like garment known as the abaya with my hair, now often mussed and unruly due to the constraints of keeping my head covered, was tucked under a black scarf. A youngish Saudi man stalked by us, disdainfully calling over his shoulder, “NOT AMERICA!” before disappearing into the night.

My colleague and I blinked. And laughed, exchanging, “Uh, duh!!” remarks. At every moment of every day, we are in no doubt that we are in Saudi Arabia.

For the record, that has been the only overt disapproval that I’ve encountered regarding my – our - presence here. And of course, that Saudi was right. I am not in America. I have indeed temporarily traded our hard-fought equality in the eyes of the law along with my freedom of dress, my freedom of movement, and my freedom of speech in exchange for in-depth knowledge of an Islamic country and a financial foundation for graduate school.

I mention this at the outset because now that I’m in Saudi Arabia, there are issues with my blogging. You see, in the past on this blog, I have preferred to share the different, the interesting. I have preferred to write as a conduit for all of you – rather than report on me, myself, and I. I prefer to assess well and write fairly, avoiding stereotypes and exposing not-quite-usual perspectives.

However, here, the web is monitored. As I prefer not to actively excite the notice of sensors, out of necessity, this blog is going to be self-censored. It is going to reflect my experiences but it will not stray from neutral or positive. Therefore, it will not, of course, tell the entire story.

As before, this blog is posted at http://dawnrevisited.blogspot.com and I will e-mail it from Gmail. Also, as I am now experiencing an area that we so little understand, please, please help me, help my perspective and my writing by posting comments or e-mailing me with questions.

And so it begins. Again.

More from me soon.

Love,

Laura

Dear Friends and Family,

Perhaps it is the less than congenial computers or perhaps it is just that I’m too often on the rails or road, but I have yet to put together words that might best describe my latest adventures for you all. Since departing Rishikesh at the end of November, I've been to Amritsar, Agra, Jaipur, Udaipur and minutes from now, I'm getting on a bus for Ajmer to Pushkar. So today, in lieu of lots words, lots of pictures.

India is wondrous.

With love,

Laura

Kali, Hindu Goddess of Scariness - at Amritsar's Mata Temple.

I've been vegetarian for 45 days - plus!
- with this single, delicious exception.

Amritsar's golden, Golden Temple.

Agra's Itimad-Ud-Daulaugh - tomb of
Empress Nur Jahan's beloved parents Mizra Ghias Beg and Asmat Begum.

Inside Itimad-Ud-Daulaugh.
Many believe that elements of Itimad-Ud-Daulaugh inspired
Emporer Shah Jahan 10 years later when he commissioned his Taj Mahal.

Sunrise at the Taj Mahal.

Heart-stoppingly beautiful inlay at the Taj Mahal.

The Taj Mahal in early morning sunlight.

Jehangir's Palace at the Agra fort.

Sorry - tip your head right - Jaipur's Palace of Winds.

Detail from the Diwan-i-Am (Hall of Public Audience) in
Jaipur's Amber Fort-Palace.

Garden in the Amber Fort-Palace.

Rumored to be the largest silver objects in the world,
built to hold holy water from the Ganges for one Jaipurian Maharaja's journey to England.

Houston, we have another palace: this time Udaipur's Palace.

Udaipur's Jagmandir Island - some also say a stay on this island
inspired Emporer Shah Jahan when he later built the Taj.
Although I personally could't see a single daytime resemblance,
the island was very pretty from a distance, after sunset.

Dear Family and Friends,

No doubt you've heard this story before but...

Once upon a time, in a far away land there lived a legendary hero by the name of Odysseus. Odysseus had it all: blessings from the Gods, the kingship of a boutiful kingdom, a lovely wife, a healthy son, and considerable cleverness... until one day he was called to fight in far away Troy. When the war was won and done, Odysseus and his men boarded their ship for their journey home. That journey turned into a 10-year adventure and that adventure turned into a legend thousands of years old: Odysseus journeyed to the underworld, defeated a cyclops, ate great quantities of lotus and spent 7 years weeping for his family by day and fully enjoying the bed of the nymph Calypso at night...

Actually, I've never understood the Calypso portion of The Odyssey. The story goes that she had beauty coupled with great magic and Odysseus had quite a lovely life with her. That said, 7 years seems an awfully long time to linger despite wanting, with all your heart, to go home. Yet within hours of arriving in Rishikesh, I suddenly understood that during his time with Calypso, time lost meaning for Odysseus and 7 years simply drifted by.

Now, do not get me wrong! A comparison between myself and Odysseus is hardly apt: I am neither a muscle-bound hero nor legendary, I was not stranded on an island amidst the wine-dark sea and sadly, there was no male equivalent - nymph or otherwise - to warm my bed. But somehow, within hours of setting off on a train from Delhi and mere minutes after alighting at the gates of my temporary home of Shiva Resorts in order to study yoga with Rishikesh Yog Peeth, the world retreated, I lost my bearings, and time changed.

Although I cannot say if I was most interested Indian culture (which I feel is increasingly spreading to the States), in Indian food (yum!), or in India's beautiful buildings; it has nonetheless been my dearest Asian travel wish to visit India. Once I had afixed India as my last Asian destination (for the meantime) and once initial research indicated that overland travel to India was cheap and easy (yeah right!), I spent approximately 10 seconds deciding that since I had more time than money on my hands, I should capatilize on a passing interest and study yoga while in India. It then took me hours of research to decide where better to study yoga than the than the city that modestly styles itself the "yoga capital of the universe" - Rishikesh, India?

Rishikesh and the smaller town that I found myself actually sleeping in (Ramjula) are backed upon far Himalayan foothills while that holiest of rivers, the Ganges, flows through their centers. City is too strong of a word for Rishikesh: narrow streets plagued with cow manure and motorcycle beeping border the Ganges along with many-leveled Hindu temples and low-roofed ashrams. I, we, studied a combination of "Hatha Yoga" and "Raja Yoga" at an intimate school called Rishikesh Yog Peeth, which is the teenist bit of an uphill climb out of the village. Days were almost invariably sunny; nights were beautifully bright with stars.

I lived rather quiet. My bedroom was clean, comfortable, safe, and soley mine. Every morning, I stepped out of bed onto cooled marble floors, which (if the floors weren't painfully cold) radiated through my soles. My door opened onto a walkway that had the air of a balcony and overlooked nicely clipped greenery. With irregular success, I began my day still under the covers, moving a pen across a journal in my lap. Afterwards, we students began our day with yogic cleansing, which sometimes involved a neti pot of saline solution running through our nostrils while other days we cleared our minds with a simple mantra of "Aum" 108 times in succession, fingering the beds of a mala. After cleansing, we hurried to beg for glasses of tea (I loved and always ordered crushed fresh ginger + fresh lemon juice + honey tea). Our first yoga asanas (postures) began before the sun had yet to rise and finished an hour and half later, after the sun had brightened the windows. Our next committment, yoga theory class, was at 3:30 in the afternoon, which gave us time for a shower, 2 meals, plus some time to walk into the village or e-mail or study or read or nap or... well... enjoy the moment. We attended lecture, took a short break and then re-gathered for our evening asana class, followed by a breathing and meditation class. Finally came dinner and I rarely waited long after dinner to return to bed.

Well into my course, a friend wrote to inquire, "Aren't you bored studying yoga?" And I surprised myself with a vehement, "NO!" This could have been because the actual practice of yoga is multi-faceted and rather challenging. But I suspect that my reply had more to do with the fact that I live my "real life" wound tighter than a clock. I fuel up on caffiene, I function at high energy, and I am forever tending a list of things to do that is longer than I can truly accomplish. I rarely ever savor life because I'm forever concerned about when and how I'm going to get through the next task. The actual clock ticks time by and this incites panic in me, which results in my own interal works becoming tighter and tighter. Relaxation in my "real life" is fleeting, instead I'm always pushing myself to be more, do more, be more. No wonder I experience burn out with such regularity.

Living in India should have been frustrating for someone such as myself, who prefers to do more, faster. The elecrity cut with frustratingly regular irregularity and the computers available to me were cranky. A friend sent me a parcel from Korea - it took days to arrive in India and an entire month to travel by air (?!) from Calcutta to Rishikesh. Food, clean and of high quality, took time to prepare from scratch. I was no longer living in a world where time and difficult-to-achieve expectations ruled and while I resisted at first, eventually I learned to adjust my expectations, shrink my list of things to do, and relax. And I was all the better for it.

Happily, the company at Rishikesh Yog Peeth was grrrreat. Our class was composed of mostly kindred women, aged 23 - 36, from Canada, Seychelles (look it up), Hungary and the States. We had 3 official teachers: the intent master of our program who doubled as our theory lecturer, a meditative yogi whoes eyes twinkle and wisdom belies his actual youth, and a serious-faced, beautifully kind asanas teacher. All 3 of our teachers were young, Indian, and devoted to yoga; yet each teacher's practice of yoga differed. Besides our teachers, there was an amiable cast of characters to keep us in comfort - which, I must say, they excelled at while somehow managing to be the best of company beyond their obligations. By the end of the course, I had gained friends that bordered on (unrealistically diligent) brothers... pretty much the only time that I recalled that they were obligated to keep me comfortable was when the hot water in my shower ran cold. And so, in what could've been 7 days, 7 months, or even 7 years of happily studying yoga, November drifted by....

In order to draw the beginning of today's tale to a close, after 7 years of fruitlessly pining for home, Zeus, king of the legendary Greek Gods, finally prevailed upon Calypso to release Odysseus and he immediately set sail for home. When he arrived, he had a bit of problem settling in (i.e. there were 100 potentially murderous suitors courting his wife and abusing his son) but he managed to dispatch the enemy, restore harmony, and presumably lived happily ever after (well, until he was killed by the spine of a stingray).

During my time in Rishikesh, a pining for home and unpleasant memories of weeping for one's loved ones began to grow within me. I found myself re-examining my original plan for adventure (which next prescribed a flight to the juncture between Asia and Europe - Istanbul) and decided to change my plan. So, after a few more weeks on the rails in India (after all, I could really eat more naan and I have beautiful buildings to see with my own eyes), I'm suspending my adventures (such as they are) in order to return home to spend Christmas with my loved ones. T.S. Eliot once wrote that, "[h]ome is where one starts from" - but home is also where one prefers to end as well, no? I concede that while Odysseus and I have little in common (although after a month of daily asana practice, my muscles are nicely on their way to heroinic), I find that I agree with him that living amongst loved ones is to be treasured, home (in whatever shape it takes) is to treasured. Although I've come too far, I've seen too much, learned too much to ever end up exactly where I began, I am also very much ready for a not-yet-defined duration... at home.

With much love,
Laura

PS: For the record, when the crazies began raining bullets on Mumbai, I was beyond their reach - physically and mentally - to the point that I didn't hear about the attack until a good 12 hours after the seige began. Upon learning of the attacks, I reluctantly re-joined the world, at least to the extent avidly examining the news on a daily basis. I do not (currently) have any original insight into the situation but share India's grief and fear for the future.

Our village and the river Ganga...

A delicious and fun lunch out.

Where we saluted the sunrise and sunset.

Sunset while on the return to Delhi....

Dear Friends and Family,

My next stop was the Nepal/India border.

Before our mini-bus came to a complete stop 4 kilometers short of the border, rickshaw drivers gathered around the bus shouting, “Lady? Rickshaw lady?” A few other Westerners had boarded the bus after I had and so, hoping for safety in numbers, I stood up and queried, “is anyone else going to the border?”

A French lady spoke up and in seconds, she and I teamed up and gamely climbed out of the bus into bombardment. I turned to the closest rickshaw haggler and inquired into his price (my guesthouse had suggested that 30 Nepali Rupees was reasonable). The driver quoted 60 Rupees.

“60 Rupees? I think not.” I turned to another. “How much?”

“Madam, 50 Rupees.”

“How about 40?”

“How about 50?”

“How about 40?”

“Ok, madam. 40 Rupees.” We placed my backpack on to his one-person rickshaw. I gracelessly climbed into the seat while the driver gamely climbed aboard his pedals. We set off down a line of freight trucks, each truck belching noxious black smoke and, I’m certain, a fair amount of carbon dioxide. Arrogant SUV drivers driving the other direction honked until we moved aside and spit dust on us when they passed. My driver, apparently a man who doesn’t hold a grudge, pointed to the line of trucks in the manner of an accomplished tour guide (while never breaking the rhythm of his pedaling) and told me that the border was closed. I didn’t believe him – and I wouldn’t let him stop at his favorite currency exchange shop (drivers in tourist traps are often paid commissions by less than savory monetary operations; I will have none of that particular scam). My driver remained cheerful in the face of my stony denials – chattering and pedaling. I watched as his back became dotted then solid with sweat and I began to wonder what this man’s life was like. His skin was deep brown and he was agedly bent, his plastic flip-flops were cracked and his rickshaw was unshiny and dented. I was doing my best not to breathe while he was forced to breathe and pedal through foul exhaust into dust. I replayed my earlier conversation with him, mentally substituting dollar values.

“How much?” I had asked.

“Madam, 97 cents.”

“How about 70 cents?”

“How about 97 cents?”

“How about 70 cents?”

“Ok, madam. [You pay me] 70 cents.” Although I had agreed to pay more than Nepalis pay for a ride, nonetheless, I had just argued this man out of 17 cents. 17 cents is of little consequence to me – but for a man with rotting teeth and thin clothing, 17 cents may buy him an entire meal. I began to think of all the material comforts that I had and was assailed by guilt. That ride felt much longer than 4 kilometers – and in the end, I paid him beyond double our agreement.

Borders are rarely congenial places; this border was no exception. The border itself was a tall and broad gate, barely supervised. While the Nepali authorities examined my passport, 2 Japanese girls initiated a conversation with us and recommended their guide + driver (if we were looking for a ride). I had planned on taking the bus but quickly caved in the face of my French companion’s interest and the temptation of a faster, less motion-sickness inducing ride to my next destination. Later, I learned that for that drive, I paid 500 Indian Rupee (about $18) when 200 would’ve been more than plenty. That happens when one is forced to negotiate one’s own prices, but I do hate to be suckered that badly.

That car ride from the border to the closest Indian train station gave me a… preview of what was to come. [Author’s note: Dad, you may want to skip this next part.] After we had dropped my French companion at the train station and were on our way to the hotel that I planned to spend the night in, I found myself carefully fielding questions about my current lack of boyfriend. The guide, a short, wiry man who had established himself as a speedy, tactless speaker, informed me that he thought “women with big boobs were best”… and shortly followed that comment a statistic regarding the length of his manhood… and a more startling conversation about his manhood in comparison to other manhoods. The conversation was subtle enough that I was morbidly fascinated instead of afraid. I didn’t doubt that I was being propositioned but I’d never been propositioned so… statistically. The guide insisted on further proving his manhood by carrying my now-returned-to-heavy backpack into my hotel. But luckily for me, he took my firm refusal with a smile, even apologizing in case he had embarrassed me. When he had disappeared down the hall, I fell against the door of my new room and wondered how my friendly but truly circumspect behavior had lead him to think that he and I would have a quickie before he and the driver returned to their city (which, thankfully, was an additional 4 hour drive).

I was disinclined to explore the city that I slept in and enjoyed a quiet day of reading and watching the city’s unpenned monkeys climb walls until a mouse wandered into my hotel room. The mouse looked at me, I looked at it. We both wanted to scream. The mouse screamed first and presumably returned to its hiding place and so I returned to my book (although I did alert the hotel of its presence when I checked out).

My train to Delhi was scheduled to depart late into the evening. On the way to the station, I found the city streets and houses draped with Christmas lights because, come to find out, I had inadvertently selected the night of a major Hindu holiday called Diwali, the Festival of Lights, to travel. The holiday rendered the train more empty than full, and it came as a relief to have a quiet train ride with the probability of luggage thieves comparatively low. A train attendant handed me 2 scrupulously clean sheets and a blanket to sleep with and after locking my backpack to my seat, I duly attempted sleep. The train rattled and shook throughout the night. I tossed and turned and pulled at the sheets and blankets until I had twisted myself into a full-body version of a Chinese finger trap toy.

It was just past 6 when I gave up all attempts at sleep and instead curled myself into the corner of my seat and absorbed myself with the window. Morning fog shrouded farmers in fields and long-legged storks picking their way between oxen. Palm trees were plentiful and still. Residences were irregular in size, space and color. Motion sick yet again, the train rocked and rolled while I refused chai and breakfast and lunch and snacks. The train was hours late. I fielded the city subway and settled into a non-descript hotel.


Delhi was yet another transitional destination for me and my “list of things to do” was heavy on errands and light on tourist destinations, which was good because it took me 3 hours to shrink my backpack with a visit to the post office. My attempt to mail packages was unexpectedly adventurous: involving native assistance and a coffee date with a handsome windbag of a man, a tuk-tuk between post office branches, a tailor to stitch my treasures into canvas, another man to seal the package with wax (my mother later inquired if I had mailed them a cloth-wrapped ham) and finally the expected post office workers to banter and negotiate with. One thing I’ll say about traveling: nothing is routine, including a visit to the post office.

Errands aside, I acted upon quality advice from a companion on my train journey and took myself to a Seikh temple with marble floors, arched colonnades and corners crowned with onion domes. To enter the temple, I received a numbered tag for my checked in shoes and prepared myself to enter in the same manner as the other supplicants: first I washed my hands under a cold faucet, then dipped my feet into a rectangular shallow pool filled with a substance closer to mud than cleansing water, and lastly knotted a borrowed scarf across my hair and over the nape of my neck. My breath caught as I raised my head from the warmed marble mosaic floor, the afore-mentioned colonnades surrounded an enormous silver square pool. Pigeons fluttered above the water, never touching, while men in full turbans and beards stepped ankle-deep in the shallow water to pose for pictures by their wives with fluttering scarves. The temple was lively but not too full of people and I found a secluded spot against the wall to simply watch. I pulled my journal out and incited the interest of a little girl, who ran from her parents to squat next to me. She was mute but looked me straight in the eye while nervously pulling at her braids. After a minute, she ran back to join her parents and infant brother. I respectfully nodded and her parents smiled and nodded back at me. A few minute later, the little girl returned to ask me in clearly rehearsed English where I was from. I smiled and replied but she was too shy for actual conversation and soon she again ran away, her feet lightly slapping against marble. I wanted to be unobtrusive - but failed. I as watched two elementary-aged boys in bathing trunks splashed each other while their smiling father stood nearby, close but not too close. Eventually I arose and paced the pool before walking through the temple. Musicians pounded deep drums with the flats of their hands. I understood nothing that I saw and did not feel (as I often do in holy places) that I was intruding.

But my time in Delhi left me in no doubt, no doubt, that I was foreigner in a foreign land. During an exploratory walk the previous night, I was approached many times. Most memorable was a young (not unattractive) man who gave me the feeling that he wanted a date but actually wanted to interest me in a visit to a splendid houseboat in Kashmir. (Admittedly, this appealed – minus the approach… and the on-going political fracas in Kashmir.) And the next day, central to my post office adventure was a pleasantly tall man in a blue business shirt, purportedly on holiday. My first instinct was to refuse his company and assistance but he too wasn’t unattractive and he didn’t make my instincts scream. He walked me to the post office and when we discovered the workers uninterested in actually opening the office, he was kind enough to treat me to coffee while we waited. Later he greatly amused me, popping over while I was watching the tailor sew my packages to inquire my opinion of the sunglasses that he planned to purchase. Blue Business Shirt man and I exchanged e-mail addresses but as he had proven himself more of a talker than a listener, I was grateful for his assistance and quite happy to bid him farewell.

Later that evening, I returned to shop in the area near the post office and was disconcerted to be recognized by a man that I had never seen.

“Hey,” he called “You bought ------- sunglasses!” I was confused until I recalled that I had provided an opinion about the purchase of sunglasses. I smiled and continued walking. Minutes later, another man approached to talk and sell me something. A minute after I had dissuaded him, a group of guys in their 20s halted me. One called,

“I know you.”

I politely paused; I didn’t know him.

“You had coffee with -------.”

And I had. But 7 hours had passed since that coffee and the shop had had enough people that I shouldn’t have been necessarily noticeable. The level of recognition and attention that I was garnering was beginning to scare me. This feeling wasn’t helped by the fact that the men followed me for a bit, calling to that it was “their turn” while the most insistent one told me, “you are a rose and you should share your scent.”

I was unprepared for this level of attention. Look, I am no Helen of Troy and frankly, after 2 years of not blending into Korea, I’m accustomed to attention, accustomed to being a foreigner. But what was new to me was that I seemed only to be interacting with men. And what was rather scary was the sexual edge to the attention that I was receiving. I felt as if I were an absolutely free, 4-course meal (complete with all-you-can-drink beer!) walking down the street, an open invitation. I decided that if I were indeed a meal, it wouldn’t matter the food or the quality of the meal, it just mattered that I was available and free. I didn’t like this feeling one bit. I finished my errands and positively fled to the safety of my hotel. And early the next morning, I took a seat on another train on the final leg of my current journey. I was tired of "the road" and ready to spend a month in Rishikesh learning yoga, learning about India.

Laura

Inside the temple...

Sunset in Delhi... over the reflective pool.