If we felt confused about the mehendi party on Monday, this day was no different. The invitation said “Sangeet” and the bride’s mother had explained that it was the engagement party. An engagement party the day before the wedding? Clearly more research was needed. A google search yielded heaps of conflicting information, so once again it was trial by fire. In retrospect, this wedding planner’s website offers a Sangeet description similar to the one we attended Wednesday for Sanaa and Madhavkrishna. Bottom line: the Sangeet is a big party.
Indians are not known for their punctuality. Apparently, members of the wedding party don’t know that. Tony and I didn’t want to be the only ones at the Sangeet, so we arrived at the Shangri-La Hotel ballroom about an hour late, unfortunately missing the ceremony. (Who knew there was going to be a ceremony?) We were told the bride, Sanaa, sang and danced, and other family members performed skits. Dang it! We got there in time to see Sreeram, winner of Indian Idol’s 5th season, though. He seemed disappointed at the empty dance floor. (I didn’t find out till later he was so famous, or I would have taken more photos.)
We greeted Sanaa and Madhu. I felt like a fluttery nervous schoolgirl in the presence of a princess.
I asked to see Sanaa’s mehendi, and she pointed out her fiance’s name painted on one hand and his initial “M” hidden in the henna swirls of the other hand. The groom-to-be is supposed to search for his hidden name in a romantic little game. This photo is blurry because the bossy handlers were rushing me.
After mingling a bit, we followed the crowd to a large veranda, where dinner was being served. I couldn’t take my eyes off everyone’s clothes long enough to eat anything.
With help from friends, I dressed more appropriately for the Sangeet, borrowing this gorgeous anarkali from Nancy, the gold shawl from Deepa, and the purse from Katrina.
As we wrap up a week of wedding festivities, I hardly know how to start writing about it. Like everything in India, the events were hard to process at the time.
Our landlord, Ashwani, and his wife, Alka, live downstairs with their daughter, Sanaa. Sanaa completed a master’s degree in England last year, returned to work in Delhi and recently announced her plans to marry childhood friend, Madhavkrishna. The proud parents invited us to three of the celebrations: Mehendi on Monday, Sangeet on Wednesday, and the wedding ceremony on Thursday. This was our first wedding in India, so we had absolutely no idea what to expect.
Workers draped the entire house in lights, and enclosed the courtyard with orange and gold fabric, woven to create a roof and walls. Garlands of marigolds and jasmine adorned the courtyard and stairwell.
Last week, I had a quick chat with Alka, mother of the bride. I was feeling anxious about what to wear to these events, and Alka calmly assured me that whatever I wore would be fine. (Note to all Indian women: You do foreigners a big disservice by acting so nonchalant about such things. Please, I beg you, give us explicit instructions about how to comply with your cultural norms.)
Alka told me a “suit” would be appropriate for Monday’s mehendi party. “Suit” does not imply an Ally McBeal mini-skirt and jacket, as it did in the States back in the days I actually wore business suits. In India, a suit is a long top with blousy pants. This outfit ranges from relatively casual embroidered cotton to flowy embellished chiffon. With that in mind, I planned to wear my gray silk kurta (long top) and mauve choridar (tight-legged pants that gather at the ankle). Fortunately, I sought advice one more time from a cousin visiting from the States for the wedding. “It’ll be pretty fancy,” she said.
Panic set in. Right after school, I dashed off to Sarojini Market and popped in to a tiny dress shop. The salesclerk plopped one kurta after another on the counter, but my brain froze. I didn’t even know what to ask for. Finally I blurted, “I’m going to a mehendi party TONIGHT!” He swept all the kurtas off the counter and said, “Come in.” At the back of the shop, he started pulling packages off the shelves, whipping the brightly-colored garments out of the plastic and piling them in front of me. “This is the latest fashion,” he said. I picked one, tried it on over my dress, and realized it needed a little altering.
“Ten minutes,” the shopkeeper said. He then walked me around the corner to a bangle shop, which was packed with ladies. The bangle man stood behind a glass display case, surrounded by thousands of bangles in every size, color and degree of bling. Each lady in turn placed an item of clothing on the counter, and he quickly darted around his tiny space, pulling bracelets off the shelves and yelling requests to a worker in a storage space upstairs, who lowered bags of bangles through a hole in the awning. The banglemeister shuffled the delicate bracelets like cards, masterfully color-coordinating and arranging them on a wooden dowel, which he then held up to the light to dazzle the customer. I waited about 30 minutes for my turn. In the meantime, Tony had brought my perfectly altered dress (called an “anarkali”), so taking my cue from the Indian ladies, I placed it on the counter. Bangle Man gently felt my hand to determine the size and then flitted about, collecting fuchsia, black, green and gold bangles of varying widths and flashiness. I bought 20 bangles for each arm, which turned out to be excessive, but I couldn’t resist!
Tony was an extremely reluctant chaperone on this night because his Indian colleagues at school had told him this was a ladies-only event. In fact, my online research supports their claims. Based on what I read, I was expecting an intimate but lively evening with ladies sprawled out on cushions, offering marriage advice to young Sanaa while classical musicians played in the background and mehendi artists painted henna designs on our hands. However, father-of-the-bride Ashwani explicitly invited Tony to the mehendi party. See why confusion is our constant companion in India?
The mehendi party took place at a hotel, and the minute we stepped into the foyer, I knew we were out of our league. Far from intimate, the hotel ballroom filled with more than a hundred guests. My new anarkali felt extremely casual among ladies draped in saris and dripping with jewels. Feeling self-conscious, I quickly left the crowd to get my hands painted. The one fabulous part of my outfit – the glittery bangles – only made a brief appearance, as I had to remove them for mehendi. For most of the night, I walked around with wet henna, unable to hold a glass or eat any of the appetizers. While Tony took advantage of the open bar and omnipresent strolling waiters, I let go of my wardrobe worries and chatted with other guests, trying not to smear the mehendi. Eventually, I brushed off some of the crusty dried henna to sample the snacks and wine, but I learned my lesson. The more experienced wedding-goers explained that I should only get one hand painted next time to free up the other hand for eating and drinking.
The bride’s brother, Karan, gave a sweet speech about his little sister, and the crowd began to dance.
Tony and I felt humbled by the family’s kindness and inclusive spirit. We never stood alone or felt left out, and we enjoyed interesting conversations with visitors from all over the world, including Denver, San Francisco, Singapore and other cities in India. Shortly before midnight, we said our good-byes.
“You’re not staying for the dinner?” people asked.
We didn’t even realize they were serving dinner! But, no thank you, we told them. It was already way past our bed time on a school night, and we knew it was going to be a long week.
I brushed off the dry mehendi a bit prematurely, and I didn’t coat my hands in oil before going to bed, so the henna design isn’t as vibrant as it otherwise would have been. Still fantastic, though!
This is a bad photo taken with Tony’s phone while I was trying not to mess up my hands, but I wanted to show Sanaa’s beautiful orange sari. She and her groom-to-be were watching the entertainment.
Before returning to New Delhi after our Michigan Christmas, Tony and I spent a week playing in Amsterdam. Our hotel room wasn’t ready at our pre-dawn arrival, so we took the first of many walks around the city’s gorgeous neighborhoods, groggily watching the sunrise reflected in canal house windows.
At Hotel Misc, our room overlooked the canal leading to Neiumarkt and Dam Square on the left and the Amstel River on the right.
View from our window.
After long meandering walks, this church steeple told us we were almost back to the hotel.
The Red Light District was right around the corner, but so were many other attractions. We covered a ridiculous amount of Amsterdam on foot, stopping at various cafes to warm up with mint tea, thick soup and crusty bread. According to amsterdam.info,
The old centre was formed by rings of canals with unique mostly 17th century residences of wealthy merchants, financiers, craftsmen, doctors, lawyers, politicians and artists. Because of lack of space, these houses were mostly narrow, not more than 30ft wide (9 meters). They are are characterized by big narrow windows, decorative gable tops, very narrow stairs inside and pulley outside to transport larger objects to upper floors. Very often the residences served also as businesses. Merchants’ houses had their storage in attics and cellars. Sometimes the lift was installed in the middle of the house plan, to transport the goods between floors. The office of the merchant was usually on the ground floor. Like in Venice the canals were the main way of transporting the goods.
Nighttime walks included a chilly stroll along the Amstel River, where we marveled at some installments for the Amsterdam Light Festival. My favorite looked like an illuminated fishnet dangling over the canal, but after visiting the festival’s website, I now know it is a reference to the 2010 earthquake in Chile.
Amsterdam On Foot (and Briefly By Boat)
We invested in the Museumkaart, a pass good for one year and entrance to 400 museums in the Netherlands, including more than 30 in Amsterdam. We definitely got our money’s worth – saving both money and time (you can skip to the head of the line at many locations).
I started to post photos of each place, but all museums have excellent websites with much better pictures than mine. Just click on the links! Here’s where we went:
The Rembrandt House Museum – This was one of my favorite attractions of the whole week. Rembrandt was living and working in this building when he went bankrupt in 1656. Creditors carefully inventoried and then auctioned off all his possessions. The meticulous inventory, along with the artist’s own notes, enabled the museum to recreate the interior as it likely looked during his time – right down to the angle of his easel near the window.
Anne Frank House – The museum does a beautiful job of preserving the young author’s legacy, as well as the story of the others who hid here during the Holocaust.
(If you’re planning to visit Amsterdam, book your Anne Frank House tickets before you go. We’re so glad we did; the lines were around the block!)
Rijksmuseum – A massive renovation project kept many masterpieces behind closed doors, but we greatly enjoyed our visit nonetheless. Like many Amsterdam attractions, they provided an excellent audio tour with fascinating stories behind the frames. Rembrandt’s enormous painting “The Night Watch” was certainly a highlight, especially because a finished puzzle of that artwork hangs in Tony’s sister’s living room. Tony and I both loved “The Milkmaid” by Vermeer. Could’ve stared at that all day.
Hermitage Amsterdam – Another renovation project has closed the Van Gogh Museum, but a collection of 75 major works was on display here. The exhibit reflected seven themes in Van Gogh’s life, which were yet again explained in a wonderful audio tour. There’s something magical about seeing iconic art in person. One display showed a box filled with skeins of yarn in various shades of yellow, brown and ocher. Van Gogh was known to combine complementary strands and roll them into a ball, experimenting with combinations before choosing paint colors. The box on display featured yarn in colors that perfectly matched the adjacent painting, “Quinces, Lemons, Pears and Grapes.” So many favorites at this museum … I can’t pick just one!
The Old Church – The oldest monument in Amsterdam dates back to 1250. It sits smack dab in the middle of the Red Light District with prostitutes posing in windows overlooking the church. In warmer weather, you can climb up the tower.
The New Church – We entered to see the church but instead found an exhibit on the American Indian had taken over every square inch, top to bottom and side to side. It was surreal standing under the 17th-century organ and watching the old black-and-white Popeye cartoon with the Indian chief singing, “Me, Big Chief Ugh-Amugh-Ugh, Gotta have a squaw!” playing in a loop as part of a display on stereotypes.
Museum Our Lord in the Attic – Protestant Amsterdam of the 17th century prohibited Catholics from openly practicing their religion, so Jan Hartman converted the attics of three skinny canal houses into a secret church. It served as the parish church for city centre Catholics for more than 200 years
Museum Willet-Holthuysen – Walking by the lovely but narrow facades of Amsterdam’s canal houses, we were filled with curiosity about what lay beyond the front door. This home of 19th-century socialites gave us a glimpse, including the basement kitchen, the front room (where Louisa Holthuysen received guests between 3:30 and 5 p.m. back in the 1800s), the airy conservatory overlooking a symmetrical garden, and the ostentatious stairwell with statues of Greek gods.
Royal Palace Amsterdam – Originally the town hall of Amsterdam, grandiose statuary provide clues to each room’s function. For example, Lady Justice guards the magistrate’s court flanked by a creepy skeletal Death and Punishment (carrying a knee crusher). We were entranced by the grandeur, including the earth’s two hemispheres inlaid into the floor and Atlas towering overhead with the heavens balanced on his shoulders.
Well, now that you know a bit about where we went, I suppose I’ll share some of my own photos.
We rang in the New Year twice: once on Dec. 31 (see my post called New Year’s Eve in Amsterdam) and once on Jan. 2, when a local Chinese Lion Dance troupe visited the hotel in honor of Chinese New Year, celebrated a bit early to take advantage of the city’s temporary lenience on fireworks. Flashback to our days in Shanghai for sure!
They visited the travel agency next door first, collecting the auspicious lettuce and financial donation.
At Hotel Misc, proprietor Rachel taunted the lion with lettuce dangling from the building’s hoist hook.
After the lion caught the lettuce, the troupe frightened away evil spirits with a deafening display of firecrackers … and left a big mess.
In the olden days, Santa left Nerf weapons under the tree or next to our stockings in plain sight. After opening our presents, playing with our new toys, loading our PEZ dispensers, and eating cinnamon rolls, we would break out the Nerf guns for a family battle in the wrapping paper wreckage of our living room. We never questioned the idea of a Christmas morning war.
Over the years, this tradition morphed a bit as adult children reunited for the holidays. Sometimes we delayed the war till later in the day or played a more mellow version, such as lining up cans for targets or aiming our sticky darts to fly through an upstairs window.
We often laugh about the year my parents hosted a Sri Lankan college student, Iranga, for the holiday. (When my parents lived in Saudi Arabia, where women aren’t allowed to drive, Iranga’s father was my mother’s driver.) Tony and I were living in Kansas at the time, but we traveled to Michigan for a Dickinson family gathering. On Christmas morning, my sisters and I were surprised to find no armaments under the tree. Did Santa think we had outgrown this annual event? Presents were distributed, and as per another family tradition, the youngest child opened all of hers first. Finally, it was my mother’s turn. As she unwrapped her last gift, we began to chatter about plans for the rest of the day. “Oh wait,” my father said. “There’s one more box hiding back here behind the tree.” He passed it to my mom, who gingerly peeled off the paper from a large cardboard box. She opened the flaps, peeked in and then quickly whipped out a huge Nerf blaster and passed a second one to my dad. They both pelted us with ping-pong balls as we dove behind furniture, crying with laughter and howling over the unfairness of being unarmed. Poor Iranga didn’t know what to think.
Although Tony and I moved abroad and skipped 11 years of family Christmases, we kept a photo on our fridge of my sisters in the heat of battle, Kate ducking behind an overstuffed chair and Meg peeking out from under a pile of wrapping paper. Returning to Michigan for Christmas 2012, we weren’t sure what to expect, but we invested in a couple Nerf guns, disguised them with tissue paper and stashed them in a gift bag, just in case.
My sister Kate and her family live a short distance away, but they spent the night Christmas Eve so we could all enjoy seeing Nico and Paul wake up to Christmas. Adults rose first and made coffee, warning the boys to stay in their room until we had set up with our cameras. As expected, the neighbor had left a Christmas cake on the front step. Our fridge and freezer were stuffed to capacity, so we had to leave it out there. Finally, we called the boys and got the morning under way. Everything was normal … for awhile.
I love this shot of their sweet faces!
William with his loot. The youngest kid gets to open his presents first.
“Look, Buddy, you got a new belt!” said Nico. Or, a new collar, maybe.
Nico loading his PEZ dispenser.
Megan and Britt had given each couple, including themselves, a “family present.” They opened theirs first: Dart Tag vests with orange safety glasses. They high-fived, and we knew the game was on.
Suspense built as each couple opened the gift and donned their gear.
John and Kate
Me and Tony – I was trying for gangsta, but my jammies killed the look.
My brother Mike was oddly oblivious. We kept telling him, “Open your gift from Meg and Britt!” but he sweetly and innocently insisted on waiting to open joint presents until Summer arrived on the 28th. We all knew that would be too late …
After everyone unwrapped their presents, my dad brought the Christmas cake inside and asked if anyone wanted any.
However, he still had a couple gifts to open, so I stood up and moved the cake box from his lap to an end table. It felt suspiciously light, and I had a feeling all hell was about to break loose. I quickly set my camera to video, placed it strategically on a bookshelf and stepped away. Sure enough, Dad called Nico over to help him uncover the “cake.” Inside the box, were two Nerf guns. And this is how it unfolded:
Favorite moments from the initial attack:
* Everyone trying to be covert, reaching for their stashed weapons as Nico lifts the “cake box” lid.
* My mom protecting her face with the gift I brought her from India, a papier-mâché mask I found at a handicrafts fair in Delhi.
* My clueless brother shouting, “Hey, where’d you get the guns?” while holding the baby.
* Sidney, the Jimenez family dog, laying still through all the chaos, looking annoyed and a bit worried.
* Britt taking cover behind the sofa with his arsenal of Dart Tag guns. (He and Meg bought five Dart Tag sets, gave the vests and glasses as gifts and then kept all the weapons!)
* My pregnant sister, Kate, shouting, “I think I peed my pants!” followed by, “Watch the ninnies!”
Yeah, we’re all class.
Eventually, the action moved beyond the living room with teams spread out upstairs and downstairs. I claimed to be an embedded journalist, but that didn’t stop them from blasting me with their velcro darts, which stuck to my vest like little badges of courage.
Nice cover, Kate.
Tony reloads while Paul has his back.
Mike, finally armed, and trusty guard dog, Buddy.
Thank goodness for safety glasses, eh Dad?
Eventually, someone called a truce and everyone regrouped in the kitchen to enjoy another Dickinson Christmas tradition: cinnamon rolls. And then there was peace.
I have to admit I was feeling a tinge of resentment about heading to the States for Christmas. (So many destinations on my bucket list and so little time.) However, as our departure date approached, I started to get excited. In Michigan, we could stay at our little lake house, go to the movies, visit the amazing Detroit Institute for the Arts, take the nephews to kid-friendly attractions, enjoy the wonderful nature trails, eat at fantastic restaurants, drink quality wine at reasonable prices, hang out in fun pubs/coffee shops/cafes/etc., hit the sales, and otherwise sample aspects of American life we miss in India.
In reality, I rarely left my parents’ house. The place was so Christmas-y inside and out with over-the-top decorations – miles of twinkly lights, THREE Christmas trees, garland, ribbons, glittery snowflakes, life-sized quilted snowmen and wooden nutcrackers, wreaths, personalized stockings and myriad displays. It was like Santa’s Workshop exploded. Add that to a jam-packed fridge, bottomless pots of coffee and a kitchen table ringed with the people I love most – what more could I want? Somehow the hours slipped away, and we’d realize we had done nothing but sit around and chat, transitioning from coffee to wine as the day wore on. My mom prepared a bunch of family favorites for our dinners, so we didn’t even eat out much. Here are a few shots to set the mood.
(I made this little movie in iPhoto; not sure if I like the format. Does it make you dizzy?)
Tony spent one night at our lakehouse, and I drove out with him to see the lake in its snowy glory, but I couldn’t bear to spend a whole night away from the rest of the gang.
Of course, I was all about the nephews and wanted to spend nearly every waking moment with them.
Christmas morning started off like any normal Christmas. But at the Dickinson Resort, nothing stays normal for long. Stay tuned…
Since returning to Delhi last weekend, I’ve been itching to sit down and write on my blog. Unfortunately, January is the chilliest time of year, and we don’t have indoor heat. We work all day at a toasty-warm school and then return home to frigid temperatures, where the concrete walls and floors trap the cold. Every evening after school, we bundled up in layers, ate dinner on our guest bed with a space heater positioned at our feet, and watched sitcoms on hulu till bedtime. I could barely hold a fork, much less type with my popsicle fingers. The sun finally peeked out yesterday, warming up the air. I looked forward to spending the weekend culling photos and documenting our Christmas. I got up early and was just ready to sit down at my computer when – pop! – the power went off. Good thing I had already made coffee! Back-up batteries protect our electronics, but we have to shut everything down when we lose power. The school sent an electrician, who “fixed” the problem, just in time for me to leave for a baby shower (without bathing – no working water heaters). As soon as I got home, I flipped on my computer, started to write a post, and – pop! – the power went off AGAIN. This time, I stomped around the house, whined a lot, ate half a bag of Chips Ahoy cookies, and barked sarcastic comments at Tony.
I went out to the stairwell to look at the breaker box. This is what I saw.
About 5 minutes later, beep! – the power was back on. No telling how long we’ll have this luxury, so I’d better hustle.
I never thought I’d have anything good to say about jetlag, but it sure helped us stay up late on New Year’s Eve! Midnight arrived in Amsterdam at 6 p.m. Michigan time, so we were wide awake and hungry. Our hotel hosts, Rachel and Pepijn, prepared traditional Dutch treats-mostly fried balls of assorted tasty concoctions-and treated us to a small bottle of champagne. Perfect! Situated a few steps from the festivities at Neuimarkt Square, our tiny lobby provided a safe and entertaining vantage point. Tony and I braved the rain for the countdown, shared a toast and a smooch, and then popped back inside. Locals said the fireworks were tame compared to past years, but they still worried about their tinder-box canal houses while impaired revelers launched heavy artillery “probably purchased in Belgium” (a country with loose laws regarding such things, we were told). We hung out with the hotel crowd until nearly 2 a.m. – surely a record for us! (The bad side of jetlag? I was still reading in bed when the church bells rang at 4 a.m.)
I just dug through 701 email messages and pages of old blog posts, as well as photo albums uploaded willy-nilly on shutterfly, picasa and flickr to reconstruct my memory of the last 12 Christmases. I knew for sure that we hadn’t spent a single Christmas in the States, but I couldn’t remember exactly where we HAD spent them. Now I know. And I’m documenting the details here so I’ll be able to find it easily next time. If you traveled with us and/or think I got some of this wrong, please let me know!
When we lived in Turkey, we didn’t actually get a break for Christmas, so we attended and hosted parties (and even flew to Germany for the weekend once) to rouse some holiday spirit. Here’s the run-down on our post-Christmas semester breaks:
2001-02 – Cappedocia and Ephesus, Turkey, with Koc School colleagues Marcos, Renee, Steph and Sarah.
2002-03 – Koh Samui, Bangkok, and Chiang Mai, Thailand, with Marcos and Amber.
2003-04 – Cairo and a Nile cruise in Egypt with Lisa.
2004-05 – Miami and Carnival Cruise with Lisa, followed by the job fair at the University of Northern Iowa.
After moving to China, our two-week semester breaks coincided with Christmas.
2005-06 – Phuket, Thailand.
2006-07 – Malaysian Borneo with Scott and Amy.
2007-08 – Dickinson family reunion in Ramstein, Germany.
2008-09 – Yangshuo, China, followed by the job fair in Bangkok.
During our two years in Laos, we got a whole month off for the semester break!
2009-10 – Krabi, Thailand, followed by a visit from my sister Megan, who traveled with me to Cambodia and Luang Prabang, Laos.
2010-11 – played host in Vientiane to house guests Scott, Amy and Blake, and then headed to the Bangkok job fair.
So far in India, our semester break has been 3 weeks.
2011-12 – Garmish, Germany, with my parents, brother and sis-in-law.
And that brings me to NOW. After all that, I can confidently say we spent Christmas 2012 in the United States for the first time since moving abroad. Why would we do that?
Here’s the short answer:
His name is William Augustus Warren, and he is the latest addition to my nephew collection. Will, aka Guster, aka Love Bucket, was born Sept. 29 to my sister Megan and her hubby, Britt. The devastating loss of their first son, Benjamin, made William’s arrival all the more poignant and powerful. I simply couldn’t wait till summer to meet this little guy. A bit shy at first, he quickly warmed up to all the Dickinson chaos. I cuddled the stuffing out of him, and my eyes more often than not teared up with love. Tony enjoyed bouncing him while singing inappropriate lullabies (such as “Two Beavers are Better Than One” from the TV show, “How I Met Your Mother”). By the end of our two-week visit, William had changed so much! He gained more control over his wobbly head, and he began to kick and wave with gusto. His wide blue eyes started tracking to whoever cooed the loudest … or to whichever ceiling fan caught his fancy. Best of all, he started smiling! Big, gummy, perfect smiles!
Here are a few more shots of that sweet doll baby.
Of course, I cherished every minute with my other two nephews, Nico and Paul, too. Hilarious, curious, talented and cute as can be, those two little guys rock my world. Stay tuned … I have heaps more Christmas coverage to come …
It’s the last day of the semester, and only a half day at that. You know what that means! Lots of squirrely, excited teachers students. Kids shared their travels plans – from Alaska to Australia and everywhere in between, said their good-byes to children moving on permanently, made play dates with friends who were spending the holiday in Delhi, watched movies and discussed their holiday traditions.
For many international students and teachers, winter break is especially anticipated. Some of us chose this lifestyle for the opportunity to see the world, and this is our longest vacation of the school year – three weeks of travel time. Some of us struggle with living so far away from our loved ones, and this holiday season is a time for reunions. Some of us just need a break from all things unfamiliar and frustrating.
That sappy stuff doesn’t stop kids from being kids, though.
First thing this morning, I went to my usual third-grade classroom where I chatted with the teacher while students arrived. A burst of giggling got our attention, so we both turned to see what was so funny. Two boys had curled into balls, stretched their hoodies over their entire bodies, pulled the drawstrings closed and were now rolling around the floor, bumping into desk legs and eliciting howls of laughter from onlookers. The teacher and I couldn’t help but crack up. Yep, it’s time for vacation!
Later I headed next door to see my other morning group of third graders. Remember those three little boys who had the deep discussion about U.S. presidents a few months ago? During “free choice” writing time this morning, they decided to write comic books. I sat down with them to admire the creative collaboration. Brilliant stuff.
Boy 1: Look! We’re starting every comic book like this, “I was walking down the street when suddenly…” And then something exciting is gonna happen! Boy 2: We’re all different superheroes, but we’re like a superhero team. Me: What are your super powers? Boy 1: I can shoot ice out of my hands. Boy 2: I can jump really far. Boy 3: I can teleport. Boy 1 to Boy 2: Oh! You can be rainbow colored, so when you jump really far, you make a big rainbow and the bad guys will be all “ooooh, look at the rainbow!” and then I’ll shoot ice at them and freeze them. Boy 2 to Boy 3: And then you can grab the bad guys and teleport them to another dimension. Like they could be trapped in Captain America’s shield! Boy 3: Yeah!
In 11 hours, Tony and I will be heading to the airport for our long journey back to the States. This is our first family Christmas in America since we moved overseas 12 years ago! Man, I sure wish I could teleport.
Last year around this time, one of my students was absent on Friday and Monday.
“Were you sick?” I asked.
“No…,” she answered. “My mom told me not to tell you that we went to the Pushkar Camel Fair! It was awesome!”
I soon realized many students (and teachers) were “sick” that weekend, so I did a little research on the fair. I discovered the five-day fair takes place every year during the month of Kartika on the lunar Hindu calendar, which falls in October or November. It transforms the sleepy town of Pushkar, in the Indian state of Rajasthan, into a bustling carnival of animal traders, performers, revelers and tourists. Depending on the source, camels at the fair reportedly number from 25,000 to 50,000. That’s a lot of camels. I had to see it. Good thing I didn’t call in “sick” too early – the 2012 Pushkar Camel Fair coincided with our Thanksgiving holiday! I booked the hotel and train tickets far in advance, so you can imagine how excited I was when last weekend finally rolled around.
I’ve done my share of lay-around-the-beach vacations that yield little in the way of blogworthy photos or stories. This was not one of those vacations. This was visual overstimulation like never before. In just 2 ½ days, I took almost 500 pictures. Looking at those snapshots on the computer, I recall the object of my attention at the time, but then I notice about 50,000 other interesting details I missed the first time – in the background, in the foreground, in the crowd, in the clothing, on the faces, on the buildings. It was hard to focus the camera on any one thing in Pushkar, and now it’s hard to focus mentally on any one thing as I recall the experiences from the weekend. The color, the dust, the juxtapositions, the flowers, the spiritual energy, the joy, the peace amidst the chaos. Everyone loves a good beach vacation, but I’m quite sure Pushkar will rank as one of my most treasured trips.
Prepare for an onslaught of photos. I’m struggling to cull.
Home away from home.
My little band of teacher-travelers included Becky, Isaac, Katrina, Nancy and Nancy’s two kids. While Becky and Isaac stayed at a nearby budget hotel, the rest of us booked rooms in two “haveli hotels” owned by a friendly man named Anoop. A “haveli” is a private mansion of historical significance. Anoop lives in the first floor of Dia, a small bed and breakfast, where I stayed in the breezy Anandi Room and enjoyed the company of several cats, two turtles and a happy yellow lab. Nancy’s gang and Katrina stayed at the larger Inn Seventh Heaven, where roots and vines crawl through the balustrades and dangle from the rooftop restaurant. We mostly ate at the Seventh Heaven restaurant, Sixth Sense, patiently waiting for our food to arrive by a rigged metal dumbwaiter, guarding our pancakes from Fat Dog and startling as pigeons took shortcuts through the open windows or landed on the ceiling fans.
Camel cart tour.
Despite waking at 4 a.m. Thanksgiving morning to catch our train and riding for more than six hours on the ironically named Shadtabdi Express, we were all eager to hit the ground running. We followed the crowds to the fairgrounds along a road lined with tempting shops and market stalls, repeating, “We’ll shop in the morning!” Upon arriving at the fairgrounds, we weren’t sure where to start. Fortunately, the camel handlers don’t give you time to think. We all piled into a camel-drawn cart for a ride without any idea where we were going or what to expect. The cart joined a caravan of like-minded tourists and hauled us the short distance to an expanse of desert where camel traders in colorful turbans crouched next to their animals, awaiting shoppers and tolerating the gawkers. The orange hazy sun setting in the dust-darkened sky provided an apt backdrop for this surreal scene.
For camels who like to accessorize.
Pushkar is the home of the world’s only temple to Brahma, the Hindu god of creation, and devout Hindus believe a dip in the holy lake will wash away sins of a lifetime. All roads in Pushkar seem to lead to one of the 52 “ghats,” the stairways leading down to the lake. Pilgrims purchase offerings, which they drop into the water with prayers for health, happiness and prosperity. They fill the streets, ladies clad in their most stunning saris with bags balanced on their heads and barefoot men dressed in plain white “lungis,” a long stretch of fabric wrapped and tucked to cover the nether regions, and additional yards of fabric, often neon-bright, twisted into turbans. There was a different vibe here. Everyone seemed to exude a sense that this place was special. Women made eye contact and returned my smile with gentle “namastes,” encouraging their babies to wave. Children laughed and tossed out all their English phrases. “Good morning. Good afternoon. Good evening. Good night,” one boy said proudly. Most men seemed preoccupied by their families or their spiritual journey. We didn’t encounter the swarms of Indians obsessed with taking phone “snaps” with us. We didn’t get the creepy once-over so typical of young men in Delhi. There were stares, as usual, but they were fleeting and moved on quickly to other happy pursuits. I simply couldn’t put down my camera.
Let’s play “spot the foreigner.”
Human touch.
How gorgeous is that little girl?
The colors almost hurt your eyes.
More street shots… Note the motorcycles trying to drive through the crowd, the painted people promoting a music festival, Isaac strangely appearing in several backgrounds, the group of youngsters who ALL asked to shake my hand, little white balls of sugar offered at a shrine, the streetside parking (motorcycle, cow, motorcycle)…
Walking around at night was equally interesting.
Sweet, spicy tea in a tiny clay cup.
More, more, more.
Temple hike
Anoop (the hotel owner) encouraged us to hike up a nearby hill to a small temple overlooking the valley. I do have a weird need to climb things when I’m on vacation, so I convinced Isaac, Becky and Katrina to join me. At the top, we took off our shoes to visit the little temple, where we heard a short Hind-glish version of the temple’s history and purpose from a quirky groundskeeper.
The camel fair features a full program of fascinating events and attractions, including camel dancing, Indian bride competition for foreigners, temple dance, mustache competition, Rajasthani folk music, turban tying competition, and laughter show. I have no idea what most of those were. We only braved the crowds to watch one event: camel dancing, which seemed akin to camel torture. I asked a restaurant owner about another one of the events: Kabaddi.
He explained, “It’s very much like American football. You have a line in the middle with seven players on either side. Then you say ‘kabaddi, kabaddi, kabaddi.'”
…awkward lull while I stare in confusion…
His friend tries to help, “You no say ‘kabaddi,’ man tell you ‘sit down!'”
The two guys looked at each other like it all makes sense and is indeed very much like American football.
I just nodded and said, “Ohhh…Okayyy.”
Here are some scenes from the stadium during the camel dancing. Some of my friends paid to watch from a camel perch, but I just poked around at ground level. I’m kicking myself for not going to that circus!
Looking over the schedule of events and mapping out a tentative plan for our visit, we noted the rent-a-camel option. I wracked my brain, rewinding through 12 years of living overseas and a lifetime of travel … had I ever ridden a camel before? It’s possible I’m wrong, but I do believe Pushkar provided my first-ever camel ride! How is that possible?
We all boarded camels at the fairground and rode out to the same area we visited on our cart ride. My camel handler was about 8 years old and tough as nails. He walked us through the horse market, where the swanky horse owners threw a hissy fit to see a grungy camel in their midst. While the boy was arguing with them, my camel slyly tried to nip a taste of fresh bundled greens clearly intended for the spoiled fancy horses, but he got yanked back before he could sneak a snack. Out in the camel field, the handlers made us dismount so we could shop at their makeshift souvenir tent. That was a bit annoying, but it gave us an opportunity to act like idiots for some silly pictures. I thought it would be funny to put my hat on the camel and strike a pose like, “Yo camel, why’d you take my hat?” However, the camel thought it would be funnier to snap his big yellow teeth at me and strike a pose like, “Yo dummy, I am way too cool for that stupid hat.” After the camel and I had come to an agreement, the handler said, “No touch camel. No hat to camel.” Yes, thank you, the camel already made that perfectly clear.
More camel ride photos.
Sacred lake.
Hoping to spend some quiet time lakeside, we walked down the steps at one of the “ghats” that lead to Pushkar Lake. Immediately we were accosted and handed a metal pan of religious paraphernalia. A man guided me to sit on the steps while he led me through a litany of prayers using a coconut, flower petals, red paste to mark the third-eye on my forehead, rice to symbolize prosperity, sugar, and a string, which he tied around my wrist with a blessing. He told me to repeat after him, so I uttered the names of many Hindu deities (Durga, Ganesha, Shiva, Parabrahma…) along with random phrases like “happy father, happy mother, happy husband, everybody happy, everybody healthy…” Then he told me to hold the coconut and say my own prayers silently before taking my pan down to the water’s edge to dump the contents as an offering. Done and done.
View from a rooftop restaurant.
While the rest of our crowd headed home Saturday afternoon, Katrina and I stayed an extra day. After a chat with Anoop, we decided to enjoy a leisurely walk in the countryside. My hotel, Dia, sat at the edge of town. We were all prepared to check out hillside temples and freshwater springs until Anoop warned us about the red monkey. “He’s pathologically psychotic,” he said, explaining that someone at one of the temples used to feed him opium or something. Since that guy skipped town, the red monkey is off his rocker, attacking people without provocation and even climbing through windows to bite people in their own homes. So… change of plans. We still went for a walk, but we mostly stayed in the dry irrigation canal and steered clear of the temples and the springs. We didn’t see the famed red monkey, but on the way back to the hotel, we saw a monkey aggressively jump on the back of a pig, riding it for a bit while the pig squealed and ran in terror. Awesome.
