A sweating American in a skirt

As I pranced down the dirt road I was the center of attention. Lots of giggling and pointing but my legs were finally cooler AND socially acceptable. I focused to keep my steps off my hem as the consequence of a miss step here would be Whitney Houston wardrobe malfunction-esque. The Dhoti was a gift from one of the translators at the Ashram. He helped me put it on the first time. The bed sheet like Dhoti wrapped my waist tightly, lest it fall off, and stymied my stride but offered great air flow relief from the Keralan heat.

Indian men wear the dhoti as comfortably as shorts, but with as much diversity as the American t-shirt. The wrap can be worn elegantly long in the evening to keep warm or to keep the legs away from the voracious mosquitoes. At a moments notice
with a flick of the wrist and a precise wrap-tuck they turn the dhoti into the male mini-skirt that makes men look like they've just stepped out of the shower and onto the street. The fabric hangs a few inches above the kneecaps, giving the wearer a cooler, free-striding, flexible option. With a flip-pull-stuff it's turned into a diaper wrap that let's one ride a bike or moto without exposing anything essential. The dhoti magically wraps the waist of the slight or heavy man with only minor adjustment. Additionally it conveniently camouflages the occasional ball scratch within a stylish re-wrap accomplished while crossing the street or dismounting your moto.
The light weight cotton fabric is usually white with a colorful border. The style is determined more by how it is wrapped rather than the design of the garment itself. My personal dhoti wrapping style seems to be a mix between bath towel, macramé, and wadded newspaper. The result is wrinkled, tourniquet tight (yet miraculously able to fall off at a moments notice), and embarrassingly short-when-folded. Independent dhoti style consultants regularly come to my rescue on the street presenting many opportunities for close, nearly intimate, interactions with friendly local men.
After three days practice at the Ashram (days that included house painting, relay races, and Bollywood style swing dancing) I feel my crash course in dhoti style has prepared me for a much cooler final fortnight in India.

To check out more India pics click here.

India - why me?

I - Intense
N - Nerve wracking
D - Delicious
I - Intense
A - At times amazing

We're 20 days into our two month trip in India. I spent the first two weeks in a head cold stupor daydreaming of getting on the next plane outta here. I was pretty pitiful. Canuche was supportive and thankfully didn't ditch me at a chaotic bus station.

There are many reasons that India and I have struggled to get along. One of the primary is that my fondest travel endeavor is exploring new places on foot. India gives me the smack down every time I set foot outside. I can't get used to walking on the barely closed sewer cum sidewalk or squishing through the gutter edge of the road. I have practically jumped into Canuche's arms in fright as bus horns blare and in one poor moment burst into tears after a seemingly near death encounter. In another bad momnt I fell into an aggtressive outburst about pedestrian safety directed at a beligerent motorcycle driver. Futile I know, but this country makes me so frustrated. Canuche thinks my yelling rivaled the decibels of the bus horn. In my estimation, Indian towns are 100% walker unfriendly. Walking here is a life threatening, lung toxifying, and often nauseating experience that I manage to do only under duress.

My initially foul relationship with India started to brighten when we had a good QUIET visit with a Servas host in a rural town outside of Trichy on January 11 - 13. That respite helped me kick the head cold but not my dark loathing for India. We decided to try a new tactic and found the least Indian place in India, the hill stations. We refueled our travel batteries in the cool Tamil Nadu mountain town, Kodaikanal, and the exquisite Keralan tea town, Munnar. They we're both beautiful places that gave me the quiet I craved and an opportunity to get out and walk.

Never before has our style of travel; local buses, cheap hotels, walking wherever we go, and meals in local joints, put me so close to my edge. Until India, which easily bumped me over that edge. I think I've clawed my way back into mental balance thanks to the hill stations, the volunteer work that we are doing here in Thrissur, Kerala, and following people's advice to treat ourselves a little better here.

On Sunday January 20th we left Munnar and made our way out of the cool, kind, Western Ghats. The five hour bus trip numbed my mind and butt as we wound our way down into the stifling plains. The trip of 145 kilometers averaged 30 kilometers (18 miles) per hour. The bus was almost as comfortable as a King County Metro bus and stopped about as often (it was, however, significantly more crowded). There was salvation at the end of the journey. We checked into our first three star hotel of the trip, bring on a little luxury! We also met up with a great energetic group of folks from Helena, Montana with whom we'll spend the next week volunteering.

We're all here in Thrissur to volunteer at the Sacred Heart Ashram. The Ashram is amazing. It is a home for people with nowhere else to go. It houses 300 plus orphans, women and children escaping abuse, and people with mental or physical disabilities. The Ashram is run by two incredibly caring Fathers, three nuns and one novice priest-to-be. It is absolutely awe inspiring to see the dedication and compassion of these people. The cooperation of the residents each contributing where s/he can. Our time here is rejuvenating. The Ashram, the Montana volunteers, and interacting with the residents lifts my India pummeled enthusiasm to new heights. With this new energy I can almost envision staying in India for the full two months!

We're working out the rest of travel and future plans now. We hope to spend about 9 days trekking in the Western Ghats, hit one beach town in Kerala or maybe Agonda, Goa, spend a couple days in Mumbai and a couple days in Delhi and then head to London for a visit before popping into New York for a few days to gear up for South America.

You may have heard the rumor that we were plotting to extend our trip. The rumor was true, but after our time in Germany and here in India we've decided not to extend. We're looking forward to South America and we're excited to get back home to all of you and the good life we live there (where a gal can take a walk on a sidewalk with limited fear of death or dismemberment). We're heading to New York on February 29 and then Ecuador on March 4. We expect to come back to US soil around June 30.

The big question for us now is whether to visit Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia or Ecuador, Columbia and Venezuela. If you know those areas, we'd love to hear your thoughts on the subject. We miss you and send you tons of love.

Running Madness India

Day 1, Mammalapuram-Running on the beach in front of 19 lbs of explosive barking, snarling teeth, scabby skin and mange infested canine. The squatting man I pass yells and tosses sand towards the devil dog. Devil dog runs away yelping as if bashed by a glowing firebrand. OK, so I didn't need to scamper quite so far into the surf to escape that particular pooch...but with the sweat, the surf, sand, and shit to dodge down the beach I'm jumpy. The first run of India had me sweating and panting like I'd run a marathon in the Sahara, not 60 minutes at dawn on the beach in the "cool" morning. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger... right?

Day 2, Mammalapuram-Past the shore temple scrambling over rocks and beach between swells and I am free to run South from town on the "clean" beach. Lots of people walking and talking. Women in multi-colored saris. Men in white skirts (lungis) walk hand in hand and stare as I pass. One Indian man runs toward me, he warms up and completes beautiful round-about kicks and punches Karate Kid style on a dune above the beach. Next...a raven picks out the eyeball from a sea turtle washed up on thetide-line... a bit further another pair of Indian men come striding toward me shaking fingers at me and patting their heads. I stop and they pat their heads some more. The white skirts and coffee colored skin are striking. I try to figure out what they're saying to me.. the beach ahead is empty, a large dune a quarter mile away and nothing but scrub brush 50 yards from the beach. Though I can't tell why, they're sure I should go the other way. Maybe there are people praying at the beach ahead? Maybe... The run back to town is into the wind and cooler. The whole package an easier effort than day 1.

Day 3, Pondicherry-The first India town run starts late as M and I were up late swatting mosquitoes in the screen-less non-ac room. I'm on the road by 9:00 along with all the traffic Pondi has to offer. The streets are clogged with scooters, tuk-tuks, a few cars, and lots of pedestrians. Women in Saris, rail thin beggars, chai wallas, bicycle rickshaws going slow to find business, impatient honking cabs, honking bikes, cows, vegetable carts, kids, whew. Crossing the streets I repeat my mantra...look right then left then right. Usually there's also a lunge backward in there to save my life on a couple of close calls when I dodged right and the bike/scooter/rickshaw barreling down on me dodged left...yikes. After ten minutes the "French" flavor ofPondi gives way to smaller concrete houses with thatch roofing. No more motors on the street here, only an endless stream of pedestrians. More kids, more dogs, more cows. Vibrant colored mandalas made fresh each morning of colorful rice powder adorn the pavement in front of each house. The surf pounds the rocks behind the houses. Around another corner the road turns to red dirt wet from the surf. The houses are all thatch now. The only concrete is in half built (or half destroyed?) structures,pre-tsunami or post? Who knows, but no one's working on them for sure.

Around the next corner colorful open canoe style fishing boats block the route. Long tailed propellers stick back behind the stern attached to what look like aVW engine on board. I haven't seen a single one ply the water, they seem better at causing me detours. Heading away from the beach I pass acemetery ; identifiable by open land and a few concrete boxes and monuments without signs of life. Looks deserted, but there is an open grave....two boy standing in a one meter deep trench in the red dirt below the sand. Half a dozen men stare as I pass.

Day 12: Munaar, Kerala. Heading off to find M...we started a 12 K hike together, split up when I ran back to rent a Royal Enfield Motorcycle, and planned to meet up at the midway viewpoint . We haven't seen each other since. I've got the money and the room key, she's got the maps and my running clothes. That was about 6 hours ago. I shouldn't worry, we're in a mountain town with friendly locals, beautiful tea plantations, and perfect weather, but I still do. I leave the key and a note with the inn keeper, then head off jogging in my travel clothes. My plan is to run the opposite direction on the loop hike and run into M. The first 8k are along the busiest highway of the valley. Trucks,buses, tuk-tuks and motorcycles are constantly zooming by, honking of course. The road is dusty and I feel the 5000 ft elevation.

After clearing town the road wraps around the side of the valley...surreal green of the tea plants contrast beautifully with the gray black granite boulders scattered across the valley sides. I pick up the pace and stride out as the road enters a little decline.

BANG. something pops in my calf and I stumble. What? A smooth road, 40 minutes into the run, slightly down hill and the wheel falls off? It can't be. I'm not sure I'm excited about being over thirty!

I limp through the rest of the run, down, down down, to the waterfall, up, up, up through the tea plantation on the other side. As I crest the slope to the viewpoint I hunt for M. The Indian day trippers stare at me like I've got a carrot growing from my forehead. I am sweaty, dirty and foreign. "From where are you?" they wobbly ask. I'm not sure if they want a planet, country, or starting point from the run. No sign of M, so on down the hill I limp. At 90 minutes I make it back to the guesthouse where M greets me at the door. The reunion was sweet. Though we were both a bit worse for the wear it was nothing a bucket bath and somechana masala couldn't fix.

Day 14-20 The calf is healing slowly and keeping me off the streets. In Thrissur it almost a blessing. There is no jogger's scene. The crowds and traffic are inescapable. No country roads for miles. The park in the center of town is an expanse of sun-baked red dirt pocked with trash pits and no shade. Time to focus on volunteering and look forward to our return to the trails of the Western Ghats with refreshed legs.

India-- coming at you loud, dirty, and hot

The noise of the bus horn, Hu hu huhhhhhh, the tuk tuk horn beee bee beee, the bike bell ding dinga dinga, the taxi whooop whoop, the noise is non-stop. The clerk at the Lion City Hotel, Thanjavur, assured us "it will stop at ten o'clock, don't worry". We took the room 206 after 6 hours on a couple of buses that covered about 200 km.
The two lane roads of Tamil Nadu carry an impressive burden. The buses barrel through twists and turns scattering the "three and two wheelers" to the shoulders. The drivers have the mindset of Mario Andriette, if they're not leading the pack they're not doing their job. Constantly passing each other, two abreast with headlights bright in the windshield. One big blast on the horn, flash the lights, and pull back just as the orange and green truck carrying a sugar cane load twice as high as the cab plus three laborers on top "holding it down" slides by. The vehicles miss each other by inches at fourty miles an hour. The only thing that puts a hold on the drivers competition seems to be the big black cows. The healthy looking animals are immune to the the honks as they wander across the road to peruse the next garbage pile for another tasty morsel on a discarded newspaper.
Walking the streets competing with the vehicles is not enticing. Traveling by three wheeled tuk-tuks seems to be the safest option for getting around. The costs are small and negotiating the swarm of traffic is left to the professionals.
So far, the food of Southern India is the highlight for me. The "tali meals" are served on banana leaves with an endless pile of rice surrounded by small steel bowls with 5 or 6 different vegetables, yogurt, and a sweet desert. The waiter comes by frequently refilling whatever you finish from large vats with a shovel-spoon. Your right hand is the only accepted utensil. For me, the rice and curries end up covering from the mid line of the table across to my lap, to my elbow, and, occasionally, up to my eyebrow. For the beautiful woman in the sari who sat next to me the rice and stews stick lightly to the the second knuckle of her right hand and no higher.
Mercy is challenged to watch my attempts at eating like an Indian while she looks greenly at the bland "rice curd" on her plate. India is giving her the rough treatment these days. She arrived in Chennai with a head cold and some weird bumps on her back. Now the head cold is clearing up, the bumps have reached their crescendo and are receding, but now the Indian Sweets I brought her as a "surprise" last night had her puking at 4am. She's feeling a bit broken at the moment but is persevering.
We meet with a Servas host this evening in Trichy. Hopefully, M will be well enough to enjoy the visit to an Indian home and we can keep her heading back to healthy with the family visit there. Hope all are well, we'll post more with pictures soon!