Field Notes: Araku Valley

The hills in Araku are a million shades of green. There are shelves of rice paddy ponds and groves of straight, tall trees shading lush coffee plantations. Bulbous jackfruit, each the size of two basketballs, hang off branches and rot on the side of the road when they fall. Fields of methi and spinach and millet thrive, even though the monsoon rains have only sprinkled the valley. Out here streams rush down the slopes and across the roads and through the tiny villages of mud houses and red tiled roofs.

It's too beautiful to close my eyes, too alive to daydream. I forget about the ribs of the jeep seat jamming into my hip, or the numbing vibration of long motorcycle rides. I forget about the work I came to do.

But V. Rao, a community leader and researcher who has opened his home to us for the week, says he no longer sees this Araku, a tribal area in Andhra Pradesh that was once a hotbed for the Maoist movement. "I just see the poverty. I see how bad things are," he says without emotion, steering his bike expertly through the eroded roads.

I don't know much about Rao. I don't speak Telugu, and he doesn't know Hindi or English. Vivek, my reporting partner, translates for us, and there isn't much time. But I see that he dresses with care, speaks with authority, and in the evening, dances tipsily to dimsa music while he brainstorms ideas to move his community forward. His home -- three bedrooms in Araku town -- doubles as an orphanage for the twenty abandoned girls that he has taken in as his own along with his own children and their families.

That day, we're returning from a daylong meeting with about fifty village leaders and youth -- a meeting where Rao has spent hours making sure attendees know their rights at a time when their land is threatened by the mining industry, illegal timber markets, climate change.

Those struggles, while very real, are not the most immediate in these striking communities. In villages like Chintalveedi, the families tell us they're just trying not to get sick by drinking the well water that is covered by a sheet of algae. They wonder why their babies keep getting viral fevers, or why their feet swell with disease while the doctors remain far away. And they wait for the government to turn the skeletal bamboo huts where their children study every day into actual buildings that resemble a school.

But there are also signs of incredible health and harmony -- a vestige of age-old wisdom that dissolves as you get closer to industrialization. Here the farmers have sinewy arms and strong, white teeth. They eat local grain and rice with lentils and green vegetables straight from the earth. Men and women share tasks like cooking and taking care of children, and the threatening leer of creepy men is nonexistent. And while the next generation seek an education to grapple with the economy they can no longer avoid, many said they would prefer to stay close to this lush, green haven.

I think back to the cities, bursting at the seams with new villagers choosing the urban life, just like my great grandparents did years ago. I think of scarcity -- power cuts and dry taps and fights over space and walls and borders. And how far removed the rice on our plates are from these paddy fields. Amid the traffic and concrete jungles that I have deemed my comfort zones, there are diseases of a different nature in every home.

In Araku I don't know what's right or wrong and I'm too tired and uninformed to figure it out. When a weathered grandfather in one village asks if I've come to find out what medicines to send to them, I feel helpless and misdirected. So I wake up every day for the journey instead -- the hours in the backseat, staring at the valleys and hills with renewed awe. And I think of this line from the Bollywood movie Highway when the heroine says: "Where I came from, I don't want to go back. But wherever we're going, I don't want to reach."

The road has yet to let me down.

Princesses In A Princely State

The Hyderabad of my childhood was full of palaces.

The first, an old bungalow where my mother grew up with her seven siblings.  I spent hot summer days there in frilly frocks, playing with small wooden toys and hiding from the dog, Cindy. My cousins and I would swing on a huge metal jula in a courtyard teeming with leafy plants and accessed through a beautiful wrought-iron gate.

I remember the stone grey floors that stayed cool in the summer, the stories that my mother told about her late father. Learning to drink milky sweet chai out of saucers so I wouldn't burn my tongue, and the sway of my grandmother's soft cotton saris when she did pooja in the morning.  I remember that next door there was a small buffalo farm with sounds and scents so strong that I knew exactly where I was when I woke up.

The second palace was my cousin's home, a sprawling estate perched on the top of a hill. There were white arches, black-and-white marble floors and a terrace where I spent hours asking Chitti, a beloved maid, thousands of questions and chasing lizards on the banisters.

This was a house meant for dreaming -- I could imagine the portraits of my cousin's ancestors coming to life, their swords and turbans and jewels in tow.  I convinced myself I was part of that royalty -- though my heart was fullest playing barefoot in the yard and following my cousin into the nearby construction sites for daily "adventures".

The palaces of my childhood are gone now. By the time I graduated from high school both had been demolished for personal and financial reasons -- land sold and replaced by apartments and modern houses where the marble and stone give way to glass and steel.

It's a lot like what has happened to the city, Shah Alam tells me when I visit his Golconda Cigarette Factory with the Chaiwallas. At 88, he is the patriarch of one of the city's oldest families, the ones who claim Hyderabadi as their identity before any state or faith. In Alam's Hyderabad, dinner tables are stocked with biryani and mirchi ka salaan and meant for at least thirty people.

Back in the day, he said, the princely states kept social order as it should be -- families were close and trustworthy, servants were loyal, and money was secondary to respect. Abolishing these states, and the power of the Nizam, monarch of Hyderabad, was the worst thing that could have happened.

His nostalgia is a little bit like the city my mom describes, one of shaded streets and rickshawvallas and more bungalows with open doors. Now, new money directs urban sprawl, and political tension has divided many people earning and living in the city. Huge malls line the streets and the cost of everything -- from a cup of Irani chai to a haircut -- has grown exponentially. My mom says she doesn't always recognize her hometown, or its people, and I've spent the last several visits vicariously bemoaning the change.

But in the past few weeks I have discovered beauty in this new Hyderabad, too. I follow my friend into the depths of Old City one day as he visits schools in mostly poor Muslim neighborhoods. I sit in a circle with thirty eighth-grade girls -- the first girls to be educated in their families -- and we learn about each other. One of them, clad in her uniform and black hijab speaks of the changes happening in her volatile neighborhood with such hope and clarity that I have to believe she and her sisters will take over -- the new princesses.

I spend hours with my cousins who have perfected the art of working to live instead of living to work -- enjoying each meal together, taking drives with their friends just to talk. I eat the best shawarma ever with Vivek, party at the most beautiful house I've ever seen, and enjoy two wonderful dinners at the National Police Academy with one of my mom's best friends, the first woman director in the institution's history.

When I think of those crumbled palaces my heart still hurts for what this city's people, and my family, have lost. But when I look into the face of that school girl in Charminar, I can think only of it's strength -- something like the stone statue of Buddha in the middle of the Tank Bund, so peaceful and timeless that it's core can't be shaken.

Lost and Found in Addis

I walk through the cool, dusty morning toward the blue domes of a nearby church, blurry from a night of insomnia. My camera is heavy in my bag, my skin prickles under my jacket from the chill.

The gate to the Bole Medhane Alem, an Ethiopian Orthodox church, is flanked by women selling incense, their heads covered in thin, white cloth. One speaks to me in Amharic until she realizes I can't understand. A man is kneeling beside me, head touched to the cement.

As I enter the gates, the stained glass windows and pillars come into full view. The church is fairly new, with smooth walls and marble floors. I step slowly, first to snap photos, and then because I realize I know nothing about this tradition or its rituals or how to respect the faithful.

Watching the women around me -- most dressed in long skirts and yards of white cotton wrapped around their shoulders and heads -- I pull out the silk scarf I use to protect my camera lens and cover my hair. I step up to the door of the church where people have discarded their shoes and several are kneeling at the entrance.

I've observed many houses of religion in different coutries, but never seen this kind of prayer. Women cross themselves, and then pray with their hands outstretched to the ceiling, almost as if wailing, but with little sound. They move their palms close and then apart, and bow repeatedly. The bare feet, the incense -- these remind me of temples in India. But the light filtering through blue glass, the gilded altar -- this reminds me of Rome.

I make my way around the biggest church in Addis and enter through the main door.

Sitting in a pew in the church, someone's walking cane at my feet, I am suddenly overwhelmed. There are sonorous chants and whispers and men and women bowing their heads to the ground in every corner, murmering toward the altar. But I also feel a deep sorrow, an ache like hunger in my stomach, a shortness of breath in my lungs. Tears crawling slowly from my eyes.

I sit for minutes that feel like hours, words forming in my mind and then quickly dissipating, meditating on the women before me whose faces seem to be etched with unanswered prayers. I wonder if this is the culmination of the last few non-stop days -- of asking so many questions, of soaking in so many familiar, yet completely foreign, sites. The unrestrained reflection of the hungry children that have always, and will always, circle in my mind in every country.

Eventually, a woman walks over to me and grabs my hand with a smile. "Sit here," she says, leading me to her pew and I realize I've been unraveling on the men's side. We meet eyes and laugh and I sit with her for a minute before turning around to leave.

Chalo Dilli

Last weekend felt like a cumulative test -- a tough exam that could make or break me. I was taking seventeen kids to Delhi. Not kids, but teenagers. Teenagers with hormones, with money to lose, with a strong independent streak.

The mission was to take our budding dance troupe with their flashy clothes and skinny jeans to Tiny Drops, an organization that believes in a hip-hop/Bboying as a transformational art, a way of life and expression.

Our music group, with their Sufi-driven vocals and classic style would be teamed with the Manzil Mystics, a completely youth created band that I have had some kind of cosmic attraction to since I sat on that terrace with them 2 years ago during Inspire.

The plan was simple enough. It had been drafted, erased, redrafted for three months, but involved some touring and visiting and workshopping. Under the guidance of my NGO I had arranged for rooms at a gurudwara and had in my file a back up plan, and a backup-back up plan. I had just enough funding, but little wiggle room for mistakes.

But from the second I woke up on the morning of our departure, it was clear that Delhi, like my year, had jumped out of my hands and promised to wring me from inside out. Let me make this quick and painless:

At five a.m. my cell phone -- my lifeline to the workshops, hotel managers, and our staff, decided to call it quits.

The train ride went smoothly although we had one seat less than normal. "I can handle this," I thought calmly, eating some biscuits and running off of two hours of sleep.

Our accomodation was overbooked and overpriced. It was 100 degrees outside and the kids refused to drink the salty Delhi water or leave their shoes to eat free lunch in the langar hall. The music kids were already two hours late so I paid the extra cash and took them to the taxi, leaving 11 kids in the unsuspecting hands of the wonderous Kaval.

It took 45 minutes and a double-expensive auto ride to drop off the first batch of kids in the music workshop and come back only to find out that our second accomodation idea gave us one walk-in-closet sized room with a rug. The neighbor was a stoned sardarji. There was no way we were staying there.

Almost to tears I left to take the dance kids to their workshop, an hours metro ride away. Kaval teamed up with two teenage kids to find us a room in Pahad Ganj, reluctantly giving all extra money away. We showed up one hour late to the dance workshop, this time with my extra cell phone stolen from my bag. Luckily our hosts at Tiny Drops were gracious and enthusiastic and a couple of BBoying battles improved everyone's mood.

I spent the two hour workshop with one ear on my student's phone with Kaval, wondering where 19 people would sleep in this dangerous city if we found no place to go. Luckily, every good deed we had every done manifested through the one and only Buddha -- Kaval scored us a splendidly calm set of rooms and a Buddhist Temple where we practically passed out upon arrival.

Before sleeping we had a reflection circle where every child proved inspired and without complaints. I slept relieved and grateful for Kaval and Archana, two friends who had given up a leisurely outing in Delhi to make my plan work.

The next day, I thought, would go smoothly. I woke up at 4 a.m., only one hour before my kids who stirred on their own at 5. They spent the morning, with absolutely no coaxing or hints, cleaning up the temple grounds -- weeding and picking up trash.

But the beating sun was not about to let us relax. Even the Delhi metro, my favorite sign of "development", proved to be a nauseating carnival for sensitive stomachs, and the Bank of Ankita had to shell out some extra cash for our misadventures.

Practically wilting in the sun, we made our way to India Gate, the National Museum, and to Saket for our next dance workshop. Meanwhile the music group was composing their own songs, learning guitar chords and rapping in Sarojini Nagar with Manzil thanks to Archana's guidance.

For an added bonus, my American stomach decided to remind me of its lack of immunity in the worst possible time and I lived on water and Maaza for hours and hours of trying to remain upbeat and yank the kids safely through the city as we scoured for dhaba food and water.

By the time we found our BBoys in Saket, the kids were hardly ready to do headstands and break dance. But their stubborn passion found its way to their veins and they continued to defy gravity with new rhythms and teachers.

At end of the day we stumbled, exhaustedly, into the Habitat Centre to meet the music group and watch Manzil perform. The kids' eyes were shining, their faces bright -- it was the look of inspiration. Every next conversation was about possibilities, about what could happen at our center, about guitar and keyboards and performances.

On Sunday we finally had the chance, as a group, to visit India Gate. The relentless sun seemed friendly this morning. We sat in the gardens and ate ice cream, happy to be together, inspired to sing and dance.

We followed up the trip with a music session with Manzil, the most gracious of hosts who just continued to give and share. Only one mishap was counted that day -- a stolen wallet, but even that seemed to just blend in with the theme.

That evening we went back on the train as a family. We lay on each others shoulders and the kids shared their dreams and their love stories and their exhaustion. I recognized that there was no other group of kids I knew that could have endured the craziness, the uncertainty, the heat without complaints and with a passion for the arts that kept them going.

As for me, I don't know if I failed or passed that test. But I know that I have never felt more supported by the universe, by the surprising strength of love and friends and family, than I ever have before. And I feel at once powerful and powerless in the wake of one of life's many unexpected exams.

Do Raaste

Bus 1: I catch the local, sarkari (government) bus from Chandigarh to Delhi. It's 160 rupees and relatively empty. I brush some peanut shells off my part of the four-foot seat and sit alone, strategically, in the middle. It's 30 degrees outside so I force the rusted window shut and start eating a pack of Hide-and-Seek biscuits. My backpack is stuffed under my legs. A thin, dark man in the adjacent seat is wrapped in a tan colored woolen shawl. He adjusts a bundle of boxes, bigger than him, and turns just to stare.

Bus 2: I wait in a line for a 350 Rs. ticket onto the semi-deluxe Volvo bus from Chandigarh to Delhi. The girl next to me tucks and re-tucks her blow-dried, highlighted hair behind her ear and asks me if there is a women's line. There isn't, but we make one anyway.In the queue there are college students, businessmen and a handful of skinny-jean clad 20-something women. We get a ticket with a number -- there are two cushioned seats on each side. A man stands behind the bus, loading the luggage into a trunk.

Bus 1: The window is not staying shut. A biting wind makes me tremble so hard that my muscles get sore. We stop every half an hour. Stop is misleading -- the bus coasts as men jump on and off with heavy bags. The previously empty seats fill up with five in each bench, and a column of passengers stand in the aisle, eating roasted peanuts. The bus is loud, from the cursing driver to the whistling ticket conductor to the men who are comparing notes about their shops, their goods, their next stop. My leg is pressed against my neighbor's, but I'm too cold to move.

Bus 2: The bus is like an airplane with the sealed off windows and the personal AC vents. When the college kids start to laugh, they get an angry stare from the businessman in front.. Laptops are out, iPod earphones are in, and various McDonald bags have started to appear. The girl next to me reads Cosmo (India) and snacks on french fries. I eat more Hide-and-Seek biscuits (yes, an addiction) and drift off to sleep.

Bus 1: The fog and pollution is thick, and a ten foot visibility is reason for screeching, constant honking. The journey is stretching past the promised 5-hour mark and I'm starting to get nervous about being in Delhi alone later than I thought. When my friend calls to find out where I am I can hardly hear her voice amid the chaos. As I ask her what stop to get off at, the man next to me listens in. "No, beta, get off at Kashmiri Gate," he tells me, saying it's a shorter route. A few surrounding passengers chime in with their opinions, promising to show me the quickest way home.

Bus 2: It's getting late, but we're making good time. The bus pulls into a Haveli, a faux-Punjabi-village scene that serves as a ritzy rest stop. There is a long line of food stalls, from hot jalebis to veggie burgers to a chocolate shop. I get a sandwich and hot almond milk in a clay cup. Tourists shop for graphis t-shirts with pictures of the Indian lorries (trucks) and dholkis. My neighbor and I walk together, and she asks me what part of Delhi I'm from. Proud to be mistaken for a local, I grin and say Florida.

Bus 1: We stop at a roadside Dhaba. There is a tea stall where hundreds of cups of garam chai in steel cups. A man with a cart sells chole bature, steaming with butter and fragrant from 20 feet away. I buy some chai and a packet of puffed moong daal and climb back on the bus to stay away from the cold, and the men.

Bus 2: We pull into Chandigarh right on time, and climb of the bus in a sleepy, quiet row. There are drivers waiting at the door to take passengers' bags and lead them to a row of Hyundari Santros and Honda Citys. I cross the road to hail an auto and am lucky to get one within minutes. I climb up the stairs to the apartment, where everyone around me is asleep. I put my bags down, change my clothes, and rest.

Bus 1: There are six people now concerned with my travel plans. They know I'm not a local and they know I'm scared, but assured me it will be fine. They give me bus routes, auto rickshaw rates and even their own mobile numbers to make sure I make it home. The metro is closed by now, but my friend is come to pick me up. When my stop comes, the conductor whistles and the bus makes a complete, actual stop for me. It's warmer on the ground without the wind, and I sprint across the road to go home.

Tyag

At the risk of sounding unappreciative and self-righteous, I feel downright uncomfortable when family and friends (and sometimes strangers) praise me for the sacrifices I'm making this year.

I'm not sure where this idea came from. How does moving across the world to explore something you love count as a sacrifice? Honestly, I'm lucky, and not just in a grateful-because-I-work-with-the-poor kind of way.

I realize that the path I chose isn't easy. It's sometimes physically uncomfortable (example: 30 hour train rides with unconfirmed seats).And it's almost always a mental roller coaster. But what did I give up?

Throughout the day I get to learn. I learn how to form relationships with people from all stratas of society. I learn how to cook foods that remind my of my mom. I learn the boundaries of my patience, and the depth of my love. I learn what to do when 100 kids are all crowding around you with their hands stretched out for want of something to do, or have.

Then, as I learn, I am constantly receiving love. I get loving messages from friends who I haven't spoken to in years. My students (teachers?) can tell when I'm sad or frustrated, and somehow know how to make me smile. I constantly get invitations to dinners and weddings. And my family calls me just when I am starting to miss them so much it hurts.

If it's about the material sacrifice, I can't digest that either. In the past few years I've struggled to have less of an impact on the environment. I've tried to become a producer rather than a consumer.I almost cried over plastic bags once, and I tried to convince myself I was strong enough to bike everywhere in my town.

Then suddenly, I don't even have to think about sustainability. I take a bath with one bucket (2 if I wash my hair). I get my fruits and vegetables from the farmer's market, which is cheaper than the store. I try to use the local bus, and if it doesn't come, I share an auto with three or four strangers.

I have less clothes than I ever have had -- I started with four pairs, but was given three more during Diwali. If anything, this has proved a blessing. I spend about 2 minutes getting dressed, and twenty four hours being comfortable. And somehow, despite the fact that my kurtas are loose and faded and my hair is wild, I've never had more attention or compliments on my appearance.

So I live in a slum part-time. Still, not a sacrifice. In fact, it might be a journalist's dream situation to be part of a community where you are both an insider and outsider. I have friends that I honestly connect with. I have host parents who care more about my comfort than I do. And after a few days of adjustment, I have a new place to call home.

I'm not here to experiment with poverty, or see how far I can go until I get sick. I'm here with a mission of inspiring some amazing children, and the rest of the lifestyle just seems to make my mission more clear and strong.

Everyday, it seems, someone is either overestimating me or underestimating me. Some people tell me that what I'm doing is amazing, when I know how much more I can do.

Then, others tell me that my efforts are misguided, ridiculous and extreme. They say I can do service without living simply, or challenging my needs. I can handle that criticism, too.

The truth is, in my everyday life here, I don't feel like I've lost anything. When I really want something, I have it and enjoy. But the wanting is much less, and the enjoying is much more. If this is sacrifice, I'll take it.

I wonder as I wander

With six days left in DC I have to ask myself: did I make the most of it?

What does it mean to soak up a city, or place, to its maximum? Is it the number of nights you don't sleep? The weekends with so much packed in that you lie awake Sunday night, thinking of the memories you made? Is it the work you leave behind, the progress you've made? The people you've met?

Or maybe its the days you get lost, alone, discovering row houses you want to own someday, or brick alleys to stain glassed churches. Maybe it's knowing where to get the best organic cookie, or the strongest cocktail.

My months in DC were all of these things. I learned that a long commute can make your bright eyes dull. I learned that if you don't ask, you don't usually receive. And if you do ask -- persistently, patiently, politely -- you might have a chance to get your idea published in a city paper, or famous website. Or you might get turned down so many times you just shrug and go on.

I made friends on the elevator, enemies on a Metro ride, reunited with people who connect with me on levels that I didn't know possible. I felt awkward, I felt confident. I relied on my feet more than I ever have -- replacing buses, cars, trains with my own power.

Our country's capital is truly a place where passions collide. I've never heard so many arguments that evolved into dialogue and understanding. The lobbyists can be vultures, but they breathe their cause to the bone. Whether it is education, immigration, religion -- someone is DC has decided that their perspective should have a voice, an organization, and an audience.

But of course, as the inefficiency of politics pervades, so does the frustration of an economic chasm. From the homeless man in a red sports jersey who paces across Chinatown, to the pervert who followed me for three blocks talking about my assets, there is a poverty in DC that seems especially stark with the White House as a backdrop. It doesn't help that the public schools are the worst in the country, with stories of murdered teachers and teenagers too often in the headlines.

In the end, DC will always be a place of transition for me. I came here weeks after my graduation and learned to live out of one suitcase, on a shoestring budget, with a regular job.

I froze in the worst winter of 100 years, soaked up the spring that I never got in Florida, and melted through a summer so hot that I was stuck in a 110 degree train car for an hour and a half.

Next time, I'm staying for autumn.

Amici

Now for a post about how my friends are awesome. Keep in mind that I'm only highlighting those that are Web-friendly in their adventures and honors. Believe me, there are many more.

On Foot
If you think I have wanderlust, check out Ankur Shah. He traveled through India on foot with one bag and little money (actually, I don't think he believes in money), to discover the Gandhian path. Lucky for those with desk jobs, he wrote a book of his journey called Sometimes We Walk Alone. He also opened up a restaurant in Brazil with some friends, the fruits of which are in his cook book: Cooking Com Bigode. He heads out to Liberia this week.

Snazzier Snapshots
My buddy Abhi, who we dubbed Abu a decade ago in 7th grade, is powering a startup called Fracture with a business partner. After figuring out how to print pictures directly on glass, Abu and crew are planning to change the bulky, expensive framing industry with these sleek new pieces. I got a couple for my mom, and they look pretty fantastic.

Desktop Dance Party
Sammy Tarantino, a high school friend and musician, is the CEO of Grooveshark. Ask any government employee how they listen to music at work, and they'll usually cite this sly guy. It's like Pandora, but actually gives you what you want. With folks like Vishal Agarwala, it's a recipe for smash-hit success.

Free Food
If I haven't plugged Karma Kitchen enough, I'm doing it again. Aparna Kothary -- who pretty much everyone in DC knows and loves -- was a co-founder of this little gem in DC. But the idea stems back to Karma Kitchen in Berkeley and Seva Cafe in Ahmedabad, India. Food tastes better without a bill.

District of Funk

So the title of this post has little to do with the following content, but sounds like a sweet band name, right? At least for DC street music.

I've been living in Washington, D.C. for three months now, but it took a few touristy friend visits for me to fully appreciate the city's offerings. The last few weekends have been a test of my Metro and hostess skills, and wonderful, sunny (except for last Friday -- ugh) expeditions. So I thought I would do a little pseudo-travelogue to point out some highlights:

SULU DC
Abstract poetry verses frustrate me, and if I don't get the gist of a poem on third try, I'm going to pick up some chick lit. I told my friend this as we settled into SULU DC, a showcase of underground Asian-American performance art held at the Ethiopian restaurant Almaz.
But then Michelle Myers from Yellow Rage came to stage and taught me how to get angry -- fists-clenched-teeth-gritted pissed off by listening to poem about a wronged immigrant or stereotyped women.
And after that, it was Sahra Nguyen, a woman whose heartfull, touching poetry delightfully pervades an cute, funny image. Example: describing her tiny, fierce Chinese mother in a poem "My Momma's So Gangsta".
Conclusion: My friend leaned over to me and said, "Now do you get poetry?"
I did.

Good Stuff Eatery
A crowded fast-food restaurant of Top Chef fame -- Imagine my surprise when one of my favorite vegetarian meals in DC took place at a burger joint. But when your "Vegetarians Are People Too" burger is actually a stuffed portabello mushroom with fresh cheese, flash-fried in Panko bread crumbs, well yeah, it's pretty freaking delicious.
Top that off with my first milkshake in about five years and an end to the grumbling tummy after a Capitol Hill tour, and we've got a winner.

A Loop Around the Mall
Even if you hate running, walking down the straight line from the Capitol, amid the Smithsonians, around the Washington Monument (WashMon, if you will -- I won't), through the World War II memorial and right up to Lincoln's lap will make you wish you were a DC jogger.
Springtime in DC is savory, and the Kite Flying Festival dotted our horizon like mass confetti. The famed Cherry Blossoms bow gracefully into the Potomac, and everyone's cutests dogs and children stroll around the mall. Tourist or not, it's a worthwhile walk.

Capitol Hill Books
Unlike what the name suggests, this rowhouse-turned-bookstore is an allergy-inducing mish-mash of stacked books, organized vaguely with post-it notes and rooms, and narrow enough for one person at a time on the stairwell (which is lined with World War II books).
So basically, it's perfect.
I read a couple of chapters of a novel, and looked up to find two of my UF creative writing teachers' names (Padgett Powell, David Leavitt) on the bindings in front of me.
If that doesn't call you name, browsing the surrounding Eastern Market's local crafts, hippie imports and fish counters, will.

Slooowww Fooood

My roommates and I were living steps from Santa Croce in Florence, Italy, when we saw a circle of red and white tents pop up in the piazza. Our excitement peaked when we realized the tents housed samples of the freshest mozzarella, warm bread and pastries.

The big sign advertising Slow Food was quickly passed by -- I didn't know at the time that this was a movement greater than a few free bites. I figured it referred to the Italian way of waiting hours for meals to arrive at your table, and even more hours spent enjoying each sip of Chianti and bit of tagliatelli. Even my cooking teacher in Italy said the reason the population was so healthy was because they ate good food, real food.

Nowadays, it scares the heck out of me when people haven't heard about Slow Food -- a non-profit concept that counters fast, tasteless, traditionless morsels that we've gotten so used to. Instead, over 100,000 people and 130 countries are advocating the return of the responsible and delicious palate.

And while the Slow Food movement speaks to all of my ideals and values and economic views, it speaks even more to my stomach. That mozzarella was the best I've ever had, and the thought of eating the shredded kind in a Sargento ziploc bag is not even an option. What I like about Slow Food is that instead of hitting people over the head with guilt, it plays up to our simplest fantasy.

So eat and cook on, friends. But do it slowly.

This American Life

I know I've moved to D.C. because I had my first dream about Obama -- in this scene, going to a Roman Catholic church (?) with my family.

I know I'm a writer, because I woke up at 4:30 a.m. from said dream and knew I was going to blog that sentence.

My first working day in the city and I'm feeling equal parts recharged, excited and daunted. As a naive Floridian, the metro is still exciting, the diversity surprising, and the hills and snow welcome.

Vienna, Virginia, where I'm staying, is possibly the perfect American town. This might be an overstatement -- especially to anyone stuck in Tysons Corner traffic. But the libraries overflow and the rec center and bike trails are full, and after 18 years of flat, suburbs-of-suburbs Florida, I relish the dynamics of the community.

Also there is a vegan restaurant, Trader Joes and Whole Foods within a couple of miles.

Among my news years resolutions are to sustain my blog weekly,write more for SAJAForum, and read more while IPod-ing less. And with a new city at my fingertips, I know I'll have plenty to share.

Cachaca, Canoa and C.O.O.L - Brasil

Me and translator/friend Diego

I'm sitting in my sandy hotel that is not actually on the beach, drinking my last cup of Guanabana juice. My bags are packed, and I have that sinking high school graduation feeling.

"I think maybe you are part Brasilian," my new friend Priscilla told me yesterday, and I couldn't have asked for a better compliment.

From this trip I've learned that the Brasilian wax is a misnomer, not to ride a mototaxi in a miniskirt, how to understand (but not speak) Portuguese, and that being vegetarian in the countryside is not the best of ideas.

Our last days in Icapui were spent swinging in hammocks in homes in the hilltops and restaurants on the beach. I hugged my new little sisters and gave them small gifts and knew it was not enough. A pink notebook or candy is no match for eating tapioca, bayon and coconut biscuits at Niete's home, and nothing I can stammer in Portuguese is like the stories, tears and laughs these women have shared.

My Mac is on the last sliver of battery and I prefer to spend my last hours with my Fortalezan friends. Ciao.

Ultima Pregunta - Brasil Day 3 & 4

photo courtesy of Diego Moreno
Fifty years ago the neighborhood of Ibicuitaba was flooded by sand, and the roofs peeked out. The wind eventually blew feet of red sand away, and only the church and one other building survived. Freitas, a local historian, looks like a surfer but speaks of Icapui's history as if he were another grandfather in his porch hammock. He takes us from the oldest -- the grave of a communist rebel, to the youngest, a secondary school.

Watching children climb trees and jump elastics (extreme double dutch) I can't tell who is descended from negra, branco or indio. And when we talk, I don't think they know either.Their hair is blonde, brown and black-- tightly curled or silky straight. Their features tell of their Portuguese great grandfathers, but sometimes of natives and sometimes of Angolan slaves.

Lynsey and I came to Brasil armed with textbook definitions of racism, but they dissolve in the playground noise within hours. When a young theater group pulls on fake afros, sequins skirts and performs a play on slavery and African ancestry, their painted faces, their voices transform from mischevious and shy to confident leaders of an ancient rebellion.

I interview some of the teenagers and soon our chatting turns to dancing, and I am learning the Forro, awkwardly watching my feet and trying not to step on the feet of my 15-year-old partner, Rodrigo. When we are done he ties a braided bracelet on my wrist.

I thought that I would run out of questions after back to back days of 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. conversations, but my curiosity runs strong and I continue to discover the heart of the beach and hills.

Bom Dia - Brasil Day 1 & 2

photo courtesy of Diego Moreno

Icapui, Ceara, Brasil.

It's the end of the day and my cheeks are well kissed, my arms tanned and my hair tale-telling of a day in the wind. Our story has gone from a couple Word documents and library research to real faces, and dancing and homes. The theatre groups that comprise our sources have handed us a story, their chubby babies and a deeper look into this spirited town.

Our Brasilian translators are fast friends, and we've spent the day sharing meals and stories. Since Diego and Natalia are from Fortaleza, a major city, the dusty, fisherman's Icapui is new for them too, and we discover together with our notebooks and cameras and wide eyes.

I try to blend in and sometimes it's not hard because my hair and my skin could be native. But then I open my mouth and try to answer rapid Portuguese and I am suddenly, obviously American.

I wake with music playing in our hotel -- an open and sandy row of simple rooms. The Brasilians in Icapui dance like me, anytime and anywhere. They smile and hug and tell us stories because they think we should know. We should know why their fishing industry is in trouble, and what stories their mother told them in the womb, and why chicken hearts on a stick are a delicacy.

But the end of the day feels like the end of four. Boa Noite.

ETA

I was sitting in my Florida FlyIns class (group that I'm going to Brazil with) and listening to Professor Machado tell us about the Brazilian concept of time, and how one hour can mean three.

Well, I'm used to that, I thought. Indians have their own IST (Indian Standard Time) -- some kind of inherited trait that requires that we arrive at 9 p.m. to a 6:30 p.m. dinner party. For some of my friends, it's more than the usual hour -- they ring my doorbell at midnight and then leave for another party after hanging out for a while. And I remember a Jewish friend saying that his family has some form of this too.

When I was staying in Florence, Italian stores would pull down their aluminum shutters for lunch and return sometimes three or four hours later without notice. "American's work too much," a vendor told me one time when I asked about their inconsistent store hours. "They work all year, all day for just one expensive week in some exotic place. We Italians take these little vacations all the time, every day."

So if Brazilians, Italians, Latin Americans, Jewish families and Indians all see the clock like the ones in surreal Dali paintings, and time as relative, who exactly is getting places on time? An Irish friend I met in Barcelona told me that he loved German trains because they were on time, all the time. One of my high school friends spotted me rushing into the movie theater late and said, "Oh don't give me that culture crap, the movie started already." The 9-to-5 job schedule seems to have been written in the American Constitution.

I'm thinking about this today because my application for a Brazilian tourist visa was supposed to come to me two weeks ago and after many palpitations, e-mails and post office visits, should be in the mail tomorrow. But I have to admit that if my friends and family were running a consulate, it might have taken another year.

My Summer with Inspire

I feel like my summer with Inspire is only valid with a soundtrack.

A nice cold Bir

Our last hours in the mountain village of Bir and I'm surrounded by monks at the internet cafe. I'm trying not to think about all of these "lasts" -- the last time I get to hug this family at Inspire that we've created, the last time I eat a Momo (Tibetan dumpling), the last time I crouch for hours on a bus that swerves treacherously between cliffs and falling rocks. But that time has come, the Walrus said.

I've been so spoiled the last ten days staying at a former Buddhist monastery and eating amazing food and Cadburys. It's hard to remember that for a few weeks I was sweating so much that I never had to pee, and that the ground had become as good as a mattress. Yesterday evening I sat at 9000 feet, clouds moving through me, thinking of every home we had been welcomed into and every meal we had cooked or served. Maybe it was the altitude, but there was a lightness on that grassy patch that I could only call divine.

There are so many things about India that I will never understand -- disparity, hunger, politics, and the way women survive through alcoholic husbands and intense labor. But so many more things that I love enough to stay and return -- the raw reality, the fields of crops, the little girls who follow you and scream "Didi" and hold your hands.

So here it is, the last day. At times it felt so far away, mostly when I sick or covered by welts from mosquitos. But mostly it was a day that I tried to avoid and push away until it came time to buy my ticket to Hyderabad. I'm so grateful that I get to go from this family to more family and a wedding and love. But until then, I am Inspired.

How Bazaar

On the terrace of the building 13 in Khan Market, the smog lifted and I was happy.

Our last night in Delhi was a jam session. Students from Manzil, an education based NGO, played Hindi songs with acoustic guitars, tambourines and a rhythmic dhol drum. My entire body responded to the frequency of the beautiful music and I sang and tapped my feet and danced with a presence that had left me since our night walk with Jamghat (what I described in my last post).

Over the past few weeks our own group of 21 (we picked up some people) had become a traveling orchestra in its own right. We visited a flute maker and now about 10 people practice the raspy bamboo flutes on our train rides and during meetings. There are also guitars, ukeleles and goosebump-worthy singing voices within the circle.

Last night wasn't about the Indians or Americans or the technique or our education -- it was about the absolute joy that came from a bunch of young people wanting to get lifted. And I got there fast.

Now I embark on the last leg of this journey. I have learned more in the past four weeks than I have in years of college and I'm hoping this week in the mountains will help me start to absorb and digest everything I've seen and done.

I know now that so much of what I thought was backwards and regressive about India is actually its saving grace. I feel like the girl who got off of the airplane on June 22 was some breed of hippie-colonist who thought if only those tribal kids would learn English and the government would transform slums into proper living areas, everything would be just fine.

But now I know that a farmer's adamant refusal to leave his land helps India's soil and fabric more than teaching calculus will. I know that those squatting toilets in the ground are the reason that people still have enough water to drink.

Last week I was wrist deep in cow dung and I have never felt more American. But it's just grass, and we are all just people.

Warning

If there is a hell worse than the drugged, midnight streets of New Delhi I don't want to know about it.

The past few weeks in the tribal villages and organic farm have been creating fire within me, but not sorrow. I played with smiling children whose parents were miles away rallying for the right to the land that they've lived on for years. I cooked a meal for twenty people with ingredients grown on the few acres we were living on.

But right now, as I stand in this hostel, I feel far away from the encouraging notion that there is good energy and work. Instead I feel a weight and a pain from seeing so many faces, ravaged by cocaine and marijuana and sniffing white out and falling asleep in the medians of busy streets while namaz plays over loudspeakers from Jamma Masjid. And I am physically and mentally sickened and trying to remember my power rather than the open palms I have held out in hopelessness.

But the line for the internet is long and I don't have the energy or clarity to explain more. Know that I am healthy and hoping to share more with you soon.

Shanti Shanti Shanti

Athithi Devo Bhava

At night the heat is a little less and you don't feel the mosquitos because you are so tired. I sleep on a cot in the small garden of a village family. I hear them breathe deeply around me, I hear the dogs that don't stop barking and the buffalos next door. I wonder how they sleep through the noise, but after a day of planting trees in the beating 110 degrees, I don't have the energy to wonder.

In the past ten days I've bathed outdoors with buckets, slept on the floor in the center of a slum, and been welcomed into families that sacrifice their daily water so that I can bathe. The guest is god, the Hindu scriptures say, and I am treated as such until I plead to do some work and to use my hands. I scrubbed the floors of a grocer who makes just enough to give his daughter a toy on her birthday. I bathed children who have no running water and can only shiver from the lukewarm bath because they are not accustomed.

I'm pushed every day, from 5 a.m. until midnight. I feel dirty, sweaty all the time. I handwash my clothes and they never feel or stay clean. I haven't felt AC or toilet paper since I was at home. The food disagrees with me and fights and usually I sleep with hunger and cramping. I eat food that is chopped on the floor and cooked in pots that are washed with mud and sand from the ground.

But then I wake and do some yoga on any patch of grass I can find. I spend the day with people whose entire lives are dedicated to walking through these slums, teaching children to face the world with knowledge. These men and women are fearless -- they visit houses infested with tuberculosis and check on everyones medications and hug the old grandmothers and play with the children. I can only wonder of their strength.

I feel conscious in a way that I am still figuring out. I laugh all day and cry once in a while and feel kindred with the seventeen other sisters and brothers that I sleep, travel and eat with. And it has only been ten days.