No Title, Just Mess

              

               There is a pond in the deep corners of the forest in my hometown.  It's crystal clear water has beckoned many a traveler to this edge of the world, yet none of my family will go near it.  This pond is very old you see and it's made up of all the earth's secrets.

               Everything that once was and is can be found in this pond.  Ebola learned to kill as it rested on these rocks, waiting for its next prey to come along.  Trees drank from this water until they were no longer trees but a mix of flesh, blood, and terrible knowledge.  Every disease that ever scourged the earth was born here, including the deadliest one of them all - man. 

               But everything has its beauty and this pond knows that better than anyone else.  Magnificent flowers, with colors so rich they blind kings, blossom in rings around here.   But touch them and all the years of your life will fly off your skin onto its eager petals, for beauty has its price.

               My people dare not come here.  We have learned first what this pond is and what it can do.  This pond is life in all its many treacherous forms and yet there are those who believe they can challenge it. 

               They come in droves with their swords and their vain thoughts hoping to be the first to bend nature to their will.  Their corpses now rot with magnificent purpose; birds and maggots alike feast on this buffet of egos.  Mother Nature leads her children one by one past these decaying carcasses of men; She slips whispers of their weaknesses into waiting ears.  For this pond is also death.

               Now I wait.  I sit by the cool waters, dipping my toes in with carefree abandon as though we are old friends.  I hear the mysteries of the world as they are sung by the leaves.  I feel the raindrops wash away years off my skin and I welcome it with open arms. 

               For even life and death needs their keeper.  I will sit here and learn all I can about this pond, as old as the earth, and it will drink from my youth so as to never forget the cruel jokes it plays on us.  In exchange for this my people are allowed to live freely without worry or regret that their mother will turn on them. 

               The only way we know death is how we know life - as a dear friend who takes us to the next journey.


p.s. Another ghost encounter, I woke up this morning and my kitchen door was closed and locked.  I never lock it, not to mention it's one of those flimsy locks you find on bathroom stalls, sort of a fake deadbolt.  The point is they are hard to move (also because no one uses them they tend to rust) and I've never even thought about locking my kitchen.  But as I went to go get breakfast started there my door was, locked.  Go figure. 

Supernatural South India

            This next blog post includes a little bit of the supernatural as my title suggests; or at the very least some unexplained mysteries.  At first I was hesitant to include this simply because I'm not entirely sure what's been going on in my apartment on campus as of late but since this is a blog about my adventures in India I figured to exclude it would be a shame.  Also since I can't seem to form a solid opinion on what's going on perhaps an outside perspective might solve some of these "mysteries".

 

              You might be wondering what in the world I'm going on about right now and I don't blame you.  My own unwillingness in assigning a word to what has been going on is merely due to the fact that it's hard to judge what you're experiencing when you live alone and have no one else to bounce ideas off of.  The issue I'm skirting around is the ghost that I may or may not be sharing my room with. 

               Now before I go into the 4 episodes that have currently happened (all from around July of this year onwards) I feel I should explain my position on ghosts and the supernatural.  Those of you that know most likely know of my penchant for watching shows about haunted houses or might even remember the time I tried to round up willing volunteers to go down with me to Kentucky to explore the supposedly haunted rundown Waverly Sanatorium.  Although my curiosity in these matters all stems from the fact that I have never experienced any ghostly activity myself and have always been curios as to how I would react in the face of an unseen guest.  But more to the point, I don't find it hard to believe that ghosts exist.  Considering the many traumatic deaths that have happened all over the world throughout history to me it seems naive to think that there wouldn't be some dissatisfied souls wandering about. 

               However, I'm not sure if that's what I've got on my hands or not.  Like I said, living alone has made it hard for me to make a final verdict either way; but I am fairly certain after the 4th encounter that this isn't something I'm making up in my head. 

               Without further adieu, I present to you the four odd cases that have occurred in my room for which I cannot find any rational explanation.

              

Case #1:

               I think this was sometime mid-July, it was night-time and I was sitting on my bed facing the open doors to the living room and past that the kitchen.  The only light on was in my bedroom but I had a clear look into the other rooms.  As I was on my computer I looked up to notice that there was some kind of white object hanging in the kitchen, but the moment I saw it I realized it was moving straight for me.  Now in the short amount of time it took for this white "ball" to come at me I remember thinking I wonder if it's a moth or something.  Having been in India for a year now I'm well accustomed to the bugs around here, especially the ones that frequent my room but this was not something I had seen before.  The strange thing about it was that when I saw it all the way back in the kitchen it definitely had some mass to it, despite there being no lights on I could clearly see it from two rooms away, and unlike bugs that fly around pretty erratically this object shot straight from the kitchen like an arrow headed right for me. 

                And even as it comes right for my face it doesn't change trajectory, before I can even move out of the way I see it right next to my eye and feel something soft hit my hair right above my ear.  I remember thinking, damn I've got a bug caught in my hair, although that didn't make sense as I didn't hear any buzzing or wings flapping and despite a frantic search for whatever it was there was absolutely nothing caught in my hair.  Also there was nothing flying around in my room, nothing lying on the ground around my bed where it hit me, no matter where I looked in my small bedroom this white ball was gone as soon as it showed up.  Now you might be thinking something like that could have easily escaped or flown off without my knowledge, but if I'd been able to see it distinctly from two rooms away in the dark you would think I could spot it in my well lit bedroom up close.  Not to mention there was no buzzing sound, nothing.

               I couldn't figure out what it was and I have not seen anything like that before then or afterwards.  And the strange thing was I felt oddly calm about it, when whatever had bumped into my head it was a strange feeling.  I felt a depression in my hair but nothing after that and I remember thinking that it simply felt like someone was trying to get my attention.  A little friendly pat like, 'hey buddy why aren't you paying attention to me?' 

               And that was case #1.

 

Case #2:

               This was maybe a few weeks after the first incident.  I had long since written off what had happened, figuring it was some kind of fluke or perhaps I somehow made it up.  Mostly I just forgot about it, out of mind out of sight. 

               I had brought home a bag of mangoes I bought off the street and placed them on top of my refrigerator, it's pulled far enough away from the walls that no bugs or little rodents can get into open containers so I tend to put sweet items there. 

               Later that day I was again sitting on my bed listening to music with my headphones on.  I can't hear a damn thing going on in the outside world when I wear these so any noises would have gone by unnoticed.  As I was about to get up from my computer I pulled out an earbud and as soon as I did I heard rustling coming from my living room.  I could hear something rummaging around in a plastic bag and it was so loud that I was convinced a rat had somehow gotten into the mangoes I bought that day.  Not only was it loud but it was a constant rustling, it sounded like something wrestling around in a plastic bag. 

               I was not eager to deal with a rat, I had in fact long since worried about this day.  Not that I mind rats, they are preferable to cockroaches any day of the week, but I was never sure how I would get it out of the room without squashing it and getting rat guts everywhere.  While I pondered what to do and looked around for a heavy enough shoe to take with me, the rustling got louder until I distinctly heard a rapid, thud thud thud.  I knew right away what must have happened, the mangoes rolled off the refrigerator taking the plastic bag with them. 

               I readied myself to go into the room fully expecting to find a large, tooth rat, big enough to rival those in NYC.  And what did I find?  Absolutely nothing.  No rat, no plastic bag, nothing on the floor, and the mangoes still sitting pretty right on top of the refrigerator right where I left them.  Despite scouring the small living space there was not only nothing on the ground, there were no other plastic bags save for the one that was sitting on the refrigerator.  And no rat.  Absolutely no explanation for what I heard, nor why everything seemed to happen the second after I took my headphones out, the only time I would be able to hear all this commotion.   

               Though this might seem innocuous enough I couldn't help but be bothered by this; probably because I was mustering up all this strength to go in there and chase a rat only to find everything sitting in perfect order with nothing amiss.  It was incredibly frustrating and felt like someone was playing games with me.

 

Case #3 -

This next one is even more of a mystery to me.  Skip a few more weeks ahead after the mango incident, I was sitting on my bed most likely scouring facebook with my back to the door.  Next to said door is a dresser that I've ended up dumping all kinds of miscellaneous items on top of (a bad habit I have) and one of these was an old foundation bottle I had. 

               I don't remember when I left it there or how it got there but it was just one of those random items that floats around your room until it eventually meets the trashcan.  Anyways, as I said my back was facing that direction so I was unable to see what happened next.  Spread out on some pillows with nothing moving around the room, I all of a sudden heard something hit the ground behind my head and bounce once or twice before coming to a stop.  I look over and that foundation bottle that had been sitting on top of my drawer was now lying in the middle of the ground at least a good  2 feet away from the drawer.  My reaction was just to look at it in pure confusion, I mean how in the hell did that just get to the middle of the room on its own (I knew it hadn't bounced from the bottom of the drawer because I heard it hit the ground right behind my head which was parallel to the middle of the room)?  I thought perhaps it might have been teetering on the edge and finally fell down.  But that didn't make any sense as most of my drawers were slightly pulled out (another bad habit of mine) and if it had merely slipped off the edge it would have landed inside one of them.  Just in case that was what happened I tried to reenact it only to find that even when dangling precariously on the edge it still needed a nudge to fall down and even then it barely made it a few inches away from the drawer. 

               That container hadn't bounced before it hit the middle of the floor, I heard that distinctly because my eyes immediately went to where they heard the first noise which was nowhere near the drawer.  Basically, there was no way it could have gone flying off like that unless someone gave it a good, firm push.  Despite this I still wasn't nervous or scared so much as stumped as to what was going on.  It had been a perfectly normal boring evening and then out of the blue that thing went flying.  The only thing that was somewhat unsettling was that so far everything had been going on in the other rooms, now it seemed my bedroom was starting to have it's own curious episodes.

 

Case #4 -

               Now for the latest case and according to the few I've mentioned this to the most unnerving.  This one is harder to describe simply because the timing of it has gotten muddled around in my head.  But again it started with another boring night, spent with me watching T.V. online and about to take a shower.  I had been procrastinating said shower so I was sitting on the bed for a good hour or so.  Deciding to finally face the inevitable and muster up the courage for an ice cold bucket shower I  felt something on the right side of my body; I can't remember the exact feeling but just that I noticed something felt different.  There were two spots on my right leg that felt peculiar and on my upper body but I'm used to random twinges and aches like this so it didn't leave much of an impression on me.  I got to the bathroom, poured some water over myself and noticed a burning feeling on the right side of my body.  I look down and notice on my right calf three scratches right next to each other, then on my upper thigh three more identical scratches, keep looking up and the same three scratches on my right side and on my upper right arm.  As I'm typing this I'm sure there are those reading that will think, 'holy crap I would freak out!'  But for some reason, either because it just seemed ridiculous to think that someone scratched me or something else, I wasn't really that freaked out by it.  Despite the bright red scratches that were left, they didn't really hurt just burned.  Soon after, maybe like 10 minutes later, the scratches were completely gone.  Not a trace that they had ever been there.   

               Now I have had eczema since I was a little kid and I'm no stranger to scratches.  But this was not the same, to give myself red scratches like that I would have had to dig my fingernails in pretty deep and pretty deliberately.  Whenever I scratch an itch it simply leaves behind all these small white lines, you know when your skin is a bit ashy, but the scratches are so harried and scattered it just looks like a mess.  In no way is it typical to leave three scratches like that.  Also I don't see how I could have done it to myself without noticing, especially in 4 different places on the same side of my body.  They weren't there before I got in my room and they certainly weren't there the hour before I sat on my bed.  I wasn't walking by anything, and there was nothing on my bed that could have given me those scratches. 

               I'm not saying someone or something gave me them, I'm just saying I have no explanation for how they got there or why they would disappear so quickly afterwards.  A scratch like that should stay for a while, I know because when I was younger and my brother and I would get into fights all I could do was dig my fingernails into his skin.  And trust me, those marks don't go away easily.  But I do know this, they don't make me any more nervous than I was before. 

               Despite everything I still don't feel threatened when I'm in my room and I think that's the most important part.  The one current theme running throughout each strange event is the vague sense that someone is trying to get my attention.  Not in an other-worldly way but it's the same when you think you hear someone calling your name and you turn around to see a friend waving at you.  That's the feeling I keep getting from these events. 

என் ஊர் My Native Place

Recently I've been thinking about nationality and what it means for me to be American.  See, there's no possible way you can walk around here without being asked the inevitable question, where are you from?  And while most people from the U.S. will have it pretty easy (unless you speak with an accent, if you are white people will assume you are from the states) because of my ambiguous looks I am constantly getting this question.

              When I answer, I'm from the U.S. , they look at me like they aren't quite sure what that means.  I've thrown them for a loop; what with my dark hair, my dark eyes, and brown skin I am anything but the poster child of America, despite the fact that "minorities" (i.e. brown people) more than make up the majority.  It doesn't help that I tell them I'm teaching Japanese at a woman's college but it does give them a starting point for their next question.

               "Are your parents from Japan?" 

               No siree bob, there is not a single drop of Japanese blood in my veins.  Or Chinese, or Thai, or Nepalese, or Tibetan, or Arabic.  Those are just a few of the many guesses that tend to pop up.  In fact one (drunk) Arabic guy kept following me around slurring, "But you are the most beautiful Arabic woman I have ever seen!"  Somehow my repeated protests of 'I'm MEXICAN' didn't make it past the beer haze.  But then I suppose that's my fault for trying to correct a drunk. 

               The point is people tend to guess everything under the sun except for what I am, Mexican-American.  And what does that even mean?  Do I hold two nationalities?  Nope.  Am I more Mexican than American? Well if I went down to Mexico I'm sure they would make fun of me for my funny spanish.  Yet here in the U.S. it's naturally assumed my parents are immigrants and thus I only have my birth to prove my true "heritage" (despite the fact that Mexicans have been in the Americas for far longer than our European-bred American citizens, we are still being told to go home.  Ahem, we ARE home, that's the joke).  Abroad this idea is even more implicit which is why I can never simply say I'm American. 

No Jazmin, where are you REALLY from?   

Where am I really from?  Well to be perfectly honest I have no idea.  I think the movie Selena put it best (sorry but I'm taking it there). 

               "We have to be more Mexican than the Mexicans, and American than the Americans, because our home is right next door."      

               This has always resonated with me.  I know that it's not like there are people running around constantly telling us to prove our culture but I couldn't help feeling like I was never good enough for either group.  This is made even worse when I run into non-native Spanish speakers whose Spanish is more grammatically correct than mine and never fail to spell a word in Spanish correctly.  I can't help but feel an immediate dislike and anger towards them that I know is completely irrational.  I want to scream at them, pull their hair, spit at them and protect my country because as hard as they study they'll never have the ancestry that exists in the blood beneath my skin.  For some reason I feel I have to protect that heritage, yet I know I'm being a hypocrite.  Here I am teaching Japanese despite the fact that I'm not Japanese myself.  Just like those non-native Spanish speakers will never know what it's like to wake up to your parents blasting Vicente Fernandez in the early morning with the smell of burning chiles itching your throat, I will never know what it's like to be Japanese and all that goes with it. 

              

               I realize this all goes back to issues dealing with my heritage and what it means to be a Mexican-American; I still remember coming home from school telling my parents I didn't want to speak Spanish anymore because all the kids in class kept making fun of my brother and me.   I regret that moment more than any other in my life and I don't know who to hate more.  Those kids who laughed at us when we answered questions in Spanish or myself for letting it get to me. 

               Another part of this probably has to do with my difficulties in interacting with my abuelitos.  My abuelo who speaks both English and Spanish I never had a problem with, but with my abuela who only speaks Spanish I always felt like I was missing out on a closer relationship.  I wanted so badly to be able to communicate with her yet whenever my family and I spent time in Vegas I immediately became tongue-tied and nervous.  It was like I was being cross-examined by my own family and if I failed it meant I should be kicked out, although this was an absolute falsity only existing in my mind.

               You might be wondering why on earth I'm discussing this on a blog meant to be about India.  But it is in fact India that has re-awoken this turmoil inside of me.  Every time someone asks that dreaded question, "Where are you REALLY from?" I revert back to that angry child who wants to claw someone's eyes out.  The simple answer is, I don't know.  For the past 4 years I've been spending at least 2 of them abroad and the more I think about it the more I realize I might not find myself gravitating back to the U.S. anytime soon.  Do I really belong there even though so many of my fellow citizens would be more than happy to see me gone? 

               Do I belong to Mexico, a country that I've not spent more than a few weeks at a time in?  In government-terms that would be a definite no.  Even culturally, how could I say that Mexico is my native place despite never having had the chance to experience life there?  I am simply floating in a limbo of nationalities.  My passport say's American but my skin say's otherwise. Perhaps this is what globalization does to us in the end, simply scatters us to the point where we can't recognize ourselves any longer.

               The other reason I've become so introspective is because if I'm not truly a Mexicana than that means I'm simply American and that terrifies me more than anything else in the world.  In India they are constantly telling me there is a reason for everything they do.  There is a reason for the bindi, it cools the forehead (and in a place like Madurai you can bet every little thing helps); there's a reason they wear their anklets and a reason why they wear gold.  They don't just do these things because it's the cool thing to do but because their history has taught them.  They know how to utilize the heat to their advantage and what the best meals are to cook and so on and so forth.  America simply doesn't have that; partially because we are too young but also because we are so incredibly diverse there's no way we can decide on one heritage.  That's why we hyphenate everything, Mexican-American, Indian-American, Italian-American, we need some kind of identifier so we know how to categorize people.   

               But you see I want that lineage.  I need those ancestors and all the collective knowledge they've gained because without it I'm nothing but a blip.  I need something to teach to those who come after me and a firm identity in which to stamp them with.  And if I don't belong to Mexico and I don't belong to the U.S. then where do I belong?

               Perhaps this is why I am constantly on the move, always wanting to see as many new cities as possible.  I'm subconsciously searching for the place I feel a connection with and now I understand that's how I've viewed languages.  I've never wanted to learn languages that I have no interest in.  For example people kept telling me to learn Chinese but I had no desire to do so despite how beneficial it might have been.  I wanted to learn Japanese because for some reason or another something about it resonated with me.  The sound was familiar and comforting.  Maybe I'm waiting for someone to ground me to one country, I'm not sure.  I suppose I'll just have to keep searching and hope that someday that search takes me back home a mi gente.     

Monsoon Season in Mumbai

               What I'm about to say might cause some visitors of India to balk, shake their head, or possibly scoff without even taking a moment to let my words sink in.  I think, while acknowledging my limited experience with India, that Mumbai could possibly be the soul of India.  This is a wide claim, I understand that, but hear me out.

               I don't mean to omply that the many vast cultural sites dotting India take precedence over the fancy designer label Mumbai crowd, but it's not India's classical soul I'm talking about.  What I mean is that Mumbai is soulful.  I can't think of another word for it but one night time tour of the city and you'll get an idea of what I mean.

               It's the tongue and cheek array of graffiti that covers the city walls.  It flows from references of Bollywood movies (Wake up Sid, anyone?), to political messages, and finally the skulls that peek out proclaiming 'stick no bills or I kill you'.  You immediately get a sense for the young scene here and that these aren't just passive students with time to kill.  Mumbai is full of people trying to make a statement with their city and there's no way you can leave without feeling that. 

               I can't remember how many times I would turn a corner only to fall down a street that was lined with tea stalls, snack bars, and just to round out this holy trinity, there would always be a tarp lying somewhere covered in novels for sale.  And everywhere businessmen, students, families, and shoppers would be hanging out for a cup of hot tea and a quick chat. 

               Then there were the street artists.  And I'm not talking about the guys do their best to talk up wooden elephant dolls that were probably made in China.  I met one man who was selling his drawings for the hefty sum of 700 Rps, all done with ball-point pen.   And while all of them were portraits the impressive thing he did was combine classic elements of Indian art with his own personal style.  They were everything I knew I had been saving my rupees for when I walked away from a crafts fair empty handed.  I didn't want the kitschy souvenirs that invariably all have similar counterparts waiting to be bought in the U.S., I wanted the original pieces of art done by hand that reflected the imagination and soul of a country embodied within an individual.  That was exactly what I found at a busy downtown intersection that could have been any urine-drenched cobble sidewalk in India. 

               And that's exactly what I mean when I say I found Mumbai to be soulful.  I'm not denying that Madurai doesn't hold a piece to India's heart and soul, if anything Meenakshi temple is the trump card that nobody else can beat.  But I hadn't been able to find anything unique for sell that not a million tourists before me hadn't already been properly fleeced for.  Something that could connect me to a specific person, something that could create the bond that a single meeting can't. 

               This isn't all there is to Mumbai of course.  There is obviously the glitzier side, the money, the bars, the shiny buildings that want to leave all temple towers behind.  It's hard to ignore that and perhaps there are traveler's out there who would very much like to ignore the bright malls scattered throughout the suburbs.  But personally I can't believe that's a good enough reason to right off a city nor is it our right to scoff at that.  Are we admitting that we only travel here because we want our India to stay all dusty bazaars so that we can run away from our many array of superficial malls?  Obviously there is a demand here for them and who are we to say where consumerism should be allowed. 

              Of course that's just one side.  Turn around and you'll think you've fallen into Turkey somehow.  Walk another mile or so and you'll swear you must be in Paris with the Eiffel Tower not far away.  The architecture in Mumbai is both breathtaking and whimsical; there are so many different influences and creators from far-away corners of Europe and elsewhere.  I still can't decide if I'll ever see another city quite like that; it was like a Snowglobe in constant motion with different people, different styles, and different backgrounds constantly colliding together.   I think this speaks volumes about why I enjoy cities such as Mumbai and Bangalore so much; people from different corners of India and beyond have been drawn to these places.  And this is evident not just in the city's faces but in their very attitude.  Perhaps this is where my American side comes out, I can't help but be drawn to a certain level of diversity and I can't help but think that diversity is beautiful. 

                Then again there will be many who bemoan this type of integration simply because it's often working tandem with modernization.  Some might even say that it's modernization that has taken away the true spirits of many rich heritages across the globe and it is a common critique of most major cities.  For example amongst Japan-enthusiasts there is the age old argument of whether Tokyo is the "real" Japan.  Since when did Tokyo jump ship and secede from Japan, would be my question to those people.  The same can be said of Mumbai.  But I don't think there's anyone so arrogant willing to say there is only one true India.  Surely by now it has become obvious that India's heart and soul has spread to the U.S. the U.K., anywhere you find Indian communities.

               But how can I make any strike against modernization?  Aren't I, too, a product of that modernization?  I'm a Mexican-American teaching Japanese in South India, nothing about that statement has any type of cohesion.  I'm as scattered as a person can be.  At least that's one way to look at it.  I choose to see this as a reminder that while I might have been born within the man-made borders of the U.S.A. that holds no sway over my true origins.  After all, aren't we all just children of the earth? 

               I suppose what I'm trying to say, dear travelers, is that you shouldn't count out this rather unique city.  Sure you will run into more than a fair share of other foreigners but that's not Mumbai's fault; it's merely proof that this world is getting smaller every day.  Hopefully you can put aside your own ideas of what India should be and remember that the only constant we have is change.  And the only way you can truly get to know a country is to listen to those who not only live in it but listen to those who mold it.   

P.S. Dear Readers who may or may not exist, I apologize for becoming so philosophical all of a sudden.  Looks as though my blog is just as scattered as I am. 

Exploring Madurai on my Scooter

June Narrative:


This post is a little different from what I've been doing in the past but since it's particularly relevant to how life is for me right now I decided to go ahead and include it.  Rather than rehash an old experience I'm choosing to share my June Narrative which is something I turn in to my superiors at Shansi after my first year here in Madurai.  I enjoyed writing this partially because it's helped me process some of what I've been going through in India and also because it's helped me work through my own issues with India.  Hopefully you all get something out of this as well although I can't guarantee it will be as fun to read as all the others.

   

               Since I arrived at Madurai I've been trying (not so successfully) to keep a blog about the crazy mishaps and bumbling adventures I've had so far.  I thought that perhaps for  my first June narrative these stories would be a perfect way to summarize my experience thus far but I realized that they only show a fraction of how my life has been thus far.  It wasn't until I picked up a new hobby that I realized what my narrative should be about and how I could represent what I felt to be the India I have experienced thus far. 

               This new hobby of mine, well at first I thought it was the one activity that combines together all of the things to enjoy about India but cuts out all the frustration that can sometimes tag along.  I realize after taking some time to think about it that this isn't an entirely accurate assumption.  What I'm talking about is driving, more precisely driving the Shansi scooter throughout the streets of Madurai.  And I think that for my first narrative writing about driving is the perfect way to explain how I've come to understand and enjoy Madurai.  

               I, like the many Shansi fellows before me, have fallen in love with the Lady Doak scooter.  More precisely, I've fallen in love with driving this dusty thing around Madurai.  When I first left for India practically anyone who had worked at Shansi was adamant that I should start driving as soon as I get used to traffic.  Carl and Deb mentioned many times how for most of the Madurai fellows driving a scooter around town and the nearby villages was by far some of the better memories.  I don't doubt it either.  Today, for example, on my way back from the gym rather than head straight back towards Lady Doak I decided I'd rather explore one of the streets that leads out of the busy city.  It was a spur of the minute decision but everything seemed right about the choice.  There was a cool breeze blowing no doubt due to the monsoon that just hit Kerala and there were more than a few rain clouds leaving pockets of sunlight to come down.  This may sound like bad weather to drive in for some but if you've ever lived in India you'll realize this is a wonderful reprieve from scorching temperatures.

               I wasn't headed anywhere in particular and I didn't even know if there was anything worth seeing in the direction I was headed in but there was something about that drive that made me appreciate where I was more so than any other moment (lately that is).  I think this is because while driving you get to experience everything that makes India, India. 

               For example, surrounding me were the same people I saw every day; the older women with the colorful sari's and jasmine flowers tied in their hair, the motorcycle-driving fashionable sunglass-wearing guys hanging out at the tea stalls, and little children playing cricket out on a field.  Normally my presence in this scene would not go unnoticed and at some point all attention would turn towards the foreigner who is clearly sticking out like a sore thumb.  But when you drive you pass by it all in a blip, meaning you get to hold on to that moment without someone coming up to you asking to take your picture.  Or some guy coming up trying his be st to tease you into going out with him. 

You can appreciate everything.  The beautiful palm trees that stick out into the street, a wedding reception being set up by the side of the road, or just all of the colorful fruit stalls that are scattered everywhere.   Even the smell of burning trash becomes a little bit easier on the nose, as crazy as that sounds.  Not to mention everything is easier to deal with in India when you have a pleasant breeze blowing on your face; instead of sweating like a pig you can actually enjoy the sun rather than try to hide from it.  In a nutshell, It's just you on the road without having to worry about being the intruder.  Of course you aren't the only one there; you might have a bus barreling down the road behind you or five other scooters trying to edge you off the pavement.  Then there's the occasional temple elephant out for a leisurely stroll on the streets; and make no mistake, they might be massive but they move quick.  If you aren't careful you'll find one nearly cutting you off at a busy intersection.  But once you get the hang of Indian traffic you can start pushing back and rather than wait for everyone else to pass you start to assert yourself. 

It's one of the few times, I think, that you can actually feel like a part of what is happening rather than watching from the outside in.  There's a certain type of confidence that comes from being able to navigate your way around a city and an even greater confidence when you know that you can push back.  It's like you are actively having an opinion about something which, for me at least, has been hard to do without feeling like I might be making unfair assumptions.  I suppose it represents being completely independent which is not something I've felt often in India.  Or I should say I haven't felt successful at being independent in India.  I constantly feel as though I have to ask permission to do things despite the fact that I'm 23 and I think part of it is because I'm at an all girl's college where the girls have very little independence themselves.  I think this is a big part of the reason why I enjoy driving so much and I can't help but wonder if this is also why some of the past fellows enjoyed it.  Maybe not so much for the independence aspect but perhaps because even if someone gives you a weird stare they are gone and in your back mirror before you really have time to notice.  And this gives you the chance to really look around the country you're in without any bias and without worrying about everyone else.

               But it's certainly not an easy hobby.  It took me 6 months to work up the courage to drive my scooter around.  6 months.  That's 6 months of straight haggling with every auto driver I meet and hoping that the driver I chose actually knew where I wanted to go.  It also means being at the mercy of random strangers because I had no idea how much it should cost to go to the train station or downtown, or anywhere for that matter. Even after I started it took me 2 more months just to drive farther than a 3 mile radius from the campus.  Not only had I never ridden a scooter before but just looking at the traffic in Madurai I thought everyone was clearly out of their mind if they thought I was going to put myself in the middle of that.

               In fact many of the teachers kept asking if I was using my scooter and pressuring me to take it out because if not the battery would die.  I didn't tell them at the time I would prefer the battery dying over myself dying somewhere on a street in Madurai but that feeling was definitely present all throughout those first 6 months.  So my scooter collected dust and I lied my teeth off telling everyone how much I enjoyed using it  

I'd say it took me about 3 months to feel completely at home driving around the city.  The one thing I've realized is that there is reason to the madness.  The first thing you notice about driving in India is the sheer lack of rules to it; everyone is going where they please and there is no such thing as driving the wrong way in traffic.  Almost everyone does it when it's too busy to cross the street meaning that you can't just blank out while driving.  But it's because of this obvious lack of regulations that everyone is hyper-aware of what is going on.  It's also the other reason there is so much honking because at any given time the drivers want to let everyone else know where they are in case someone tries to merge or turn suddenly. I don't think I would go so far as to say that most people in India are safe drivers (because I don't think you can call someone who puts their baby on the handlebars of a bike a safe driver) but I think it's safe to say they are definitely very good drivers.  They pay attention, there isn't as much texting or messing around while driving, and have a pretty good judge of the space around them.  And this might have something else to do with why driving is so enjoyable here.  Rules are bent, twisted, forgotten, or just non-existent at certain points but that just means that most mundane actions you take up become less mechanical and require far more subtlety.  Not unlike Frogger there are obstacles everywhere you look and it requires you to be far more invested in what you are doing.   

               For example, yesterday I was in an auto that nearly took a cow's head off.  We were driving downtown when a cow taking a nap by the side of the road felt it was an appropriate time to start meandering around in traffic.  Thankfully this was near a busy intersection so most of the cars had all slowed down but it didn't help that our auto got boxed in between the cow and five other motorcycles.  I figured the driver would stop and wait for the other cars to go by but no he seemed confident that he had enough room to edge by.  I think I held my breath during that moment because if I wanted to I could stick my hand up and touch the cow's head.  I wouldn't even have had to put my hand out, all I would have had to do is lift it up. 

               Thankfully we managed to squeeze by because I don't know what I would do if I were in a vehicle that had just killed a cow in traffic.   Although people hit cows here a lot more than some might think.  There have been countless times where a truck or SUV accidentally "bumps" a cow from behind although neither the cow nor any passerby's seem to take much notice.  Suffice to say it's this type of encounter that can make driving in India somewhat frustrating; not to mention the incredible amount of black smoke coming out of everyone's exhaust and the constant roar of honking that's annoying enough to send even the best driver into a fit of road rage.  While it's easy for me now to say that everything I enjoy about India can be experienced while driving it's also very true that some of the most frustrating things about India happen while driving.  People cut you off, they box you in, the streets are over-flowing with cars, people, cows, marching bands, funeral processions, you name it; so it's easy to see how it can all become a little overwhelming.  And that's why once you overcome that sense of being overwhelmed, you know you have dug in a spot for yourself here.  At least that's how I've felt on the road. 

               I'm not sure how well this suits the purpose of the June narrative but at least for myself I've discovered that my new hobby has helped me reconcile quite a bit about India that I didn't completely understand at the beginning.  Which is why I think this topic is fitting for the end of my first year and I hope that it can also provide some insight for future fellows. 

India: Where Childhood Lessons Go to Die

              In my posts up until now we've all been able to share a laugh at the crazy antics Indian men have gotten up to and even I've found these mishaps to provide a form of entertainment.  Sure some of it has been a bit iffy but with these situations there was a definite line between being uncomfortably amused and uncomfortably angry.  India had yet to cross over into the uncomfortable angry zone thankfully.  But all of this was about to change thanks to the foolhardy actions of a few scrawny preteens looking to prove themselves.

               It was sometime in December reaching the end of 4 months in India when it all went down.  I was walking back from the gym filled to the brim with that great high only exercise can bring.   I felt sure of myself dodging the traffic and leaving behind confident footprints in the dusty road.  I still had the last song I listened to on my Ipod stuck in my head giving me an upbeat Wisin y Yandel song to have as my soundtrack home.  To say the least I wasn't preoccupied with anything going on around me and as far as I was concerned nothing could break the good mood I was in.

               Then came the harbingers of doom: a group of 12-14 year olds riding two to a bike.  They started up with the usual catcalls I'm more than familiar with.  A chorus of: 'Hey Auntie!'  'Come to my room Auntie!'  'Come to my house!'  Typical drive-by talk although this was the first time I had ever received it from someone younger than 16.  Also the first time I had ever received it from someone on a bike, usually guys don't get this cocky until their ride has four wheels versus two.  As TLC put it best: "A scrub is a guy that can't get no love from me, hanging out the passenger side of his best friend's ride trying to holler at me." 

               Here's where I finally began to apply all those childhood lessons my mom had struggled to beat into my brain many years ago.  I was no stranger to teasing; my brother's favorite hobby was to see how worked up he could get me with the least amount of energy.  And every time he succeeded in getting a rise out of me my mother would be there quick as a flash reminding me that if I ignored him he would leave me alone.  So rather than unleash a few snappy retorts in Spanish I held my tongue and focused on enjoying my walk back to campus.  I even felt proud of myself; here was a moment where I could have gotten upset and engaged in their petty actions and instead I kept my composure.  I remained calm and aloof, ever the picture of effortless cool maturity.

               Well so much for that.  I should have realized it was pointless to use childhood lessons from America here in India, really I should have.  Where as in the states if you ignore the person who is bothering you there is a high chance they will eventually leave you alone, in India if you do that they just work harder to get your attention.

               The boys continued their shouting and doubled back to get in a few more comments but by this point I was starting to get annoyed so I tuned it out.  As I turned the street corner I didn't see them on their bikes any longer and simply chalked it up to stupid boys being just that, stupid boys.  Which was why I never saw the next part coming.  Without any warning I feel an open palm slap me on the back of the head.  This was no trifling tap, oh no this person had put some muscle behind it, not to mention the fact that the slap was propelled by the moving bike.  They wanted it to  hurt.  Before I even had time to turn my head I see three boys on one bike, the one sitting at the end had his arm extended and was guffawing it up with the other two.  The cool composed woman from before?  Yeah she was gone.  Enter pissed off Mexicana.

               I didn't miss a beat after that, as soon as I saw that little bastard with his shit-eating grin (excuse the expletives) I started cussing them out in Spanish like my life depended on it.  Two reasons behind the Spanish: 1) I was seeing red at this moment and was too angry to notice what language came out, and 2) I was nearby the campus and part of me realized it was better that no sweet, Lady Doak student heard me swear like a sailor.                 

               It didn't matter if what I said was in English or Spanish, that little boy knew I was saying some nasty things and he started yelling at me in Tamil.  So here we were, two people mindlessly shouting at each other across a busy intersection without a single clue as to what the other one was saying.  It was all over in seconds though, as the boys were on a bike and thus made a quick getaway, which left me fuming on the side of the road ready to punch the next person who came up to me.  What upset me more than anything was the cowardice in their actions; by them sneaking up on me and riding off on their bike they left me no opportunity to properly punish them for their bratty behavior.  They got the drop on me and no amount of yelling on my part could change the fact they clearly got the last laugh.

               My crime?  I'm still figuring this part out but it seems that my ignoring them was more than just a subtle blow-off.   It was a clear blow to their manhood that they couldn't get a reaction out of me and thus decided I should pay for my sins of daring to ignore someone of the male persuasion.  To say the least my good mood from earlier had been completely and totally doused by these jerks and I'm still wary of young boys on bikes now when I go outside.  Also all my childhood lessons?  Yeah I've decided to throw those out the window because clearly ignoring does not work here.  At ALL.    

               Now that these boys had initiated me into physical harassment it seemed that India felt I was fit to deal with similar situations.  Enter New Year's.  I have to preface this next tale of woe with the acknowledgement that my New Year's was amazing.  I spent it at a small, gorgeous Kerala beach with the wonderful freedom of being able to once again show some skin.  I escaped into a paradise of bikinis, cute guys, delicious cocktails, and wonderful clear blue water.  Not to mention I spent New Year's having my faith in men restored by someone who showed me that not all guys are skulking Neanderthals.  Plus I ended up on the local newspaper with some friends, so how can that not turn any vacation into a badass trip?  No one could do anything to change the fact that my trip to Kovalam was the perfect medicine, which I'm thankful for because it's not as if people didn't try to undo the magic.    

               Yet again India was determined to have the last laugh.  The night of our departure (I had been travelling with a friend Hallie whom I met in Madurai) we were making our way to the train station via bus along with some new friends we had made during our trip.  We all had a similar mind of needing to get to the city and thus worked together to find the cheapest option that would get us there.  Upon arriving at the bus stop it became apparent that we were not the only ones with that same desire; there was already a horde of people waiting to get on. 

               One of the guy's with us said to be prepared once the bus came, it was going to be a free-for-all towards one door and the bus would leave whether you were on it or not.  When the bus pulled up the hill and towards the crowd I decided to latch on to him because clearly he knew what he was talking about and likewise I felt Hallie latch onto me.  The bus stopped, the doors opened, and chaos ensued. 

               Now I'm no stranger to pushing my way onto a crowded vehicle, after all I DID live in Tokyo for a year.  I know what's up.  But this was on a whole other level; it was like trying to push toothpaste back into the tube through that small hole.  It was just as messy and just as disgusting.  Now this wouldn't have been so bad, like I said I know all about crammed train cars, except that as soon as I entered the fray I suddenly felt every single hand all over my body.  Even though I still had my grip on the guy in front of me it took me a moment to realize that every other guy around me suddenly had his hands on my chest and ass squeezing as though he had never laid hands on a girl before. 

               I'm not talking about an open-handed brush past my body either, this was pinching and squeezing to the point that it hurt.  But what could I do about it?  I was so focused on getting onto the bus it took me a few seconds to realize that the people grabbing me was no longer Hallie whom I'd assumed (stupidly) had grabbed onto my chest out of fear for the other people crushing us.  Besides there was so many people crushed up against all of us that it was hard to tell where you weren't being touched.  Once again like the incident before there was nothing I could do about it.  By the time I got on the bus there was no indication as to who had groped me, for all knew it could have been every single one of them.  I've never felt that many hands on me at one time and I certainly wasn't going to make my way through the crowded bus demanding who copped a feel. 

               That pretty much rounded up my New Year's trip and signaled to me that paradise was over; I was heading back to my everyday life.  But I found that after this vacation I did feel much more at home in the city and even began to gain confidence on the streets with my scooter.  The trip really did bring about a new sense of freedom, as well as escape from any more boys on bikes who might try to slap me in the future. 

               To round it up I never thought I would be so flippant about getting groped but when you don't have any other choice save to get over it you find that's exactly what you do.  Further proof of this is the fact that I just now remembered the groping that occurred New Year's night on the beach.  Almost forgot about that one, but then again it's easy to do once it becomes so habitual.  This was very similar to the bus except on the beach.  As guys came up to our group of friends wishing Happy New Year's and shaking our hands I quickly got lost in the crowd.  The moment that happened was the moment I felt hands pinching my chest and slapping my butt.  Another way of saying Happy New Year's in India?  I think not.    My only option was to fight my way back towards our group of friends and find the champagne bottle once more. 

               Though after these particularly nasty experiences it has gotten better.  I'm not sure if this is because Madurai is getting used to seeing me around or perhaps my use of the scooter has made it more difficult for guys to gawk.  I'm sure the next time I travel I'll find more shopkeepers who follow me around or wink, either way I'm not letting my guard down again as that seems to be when they pounce. 

              

Of Men and Leeches

               As promised, here is my second tale of woe with Indian men.  Although to be perfectly honest it started off far more promising than my first story however that didn't stop it from ending just as badly.  This is the story of how I somehow managed to snag a stalker for a day at an amusement park; but what makes this story even more interesting was how ridiculously good looking this stalker was.  Since when did stalkers stop being creepy and start looking like models?

               Before I can explain though it's necessary to give some background information.  You see I probably never would have been in this situation were it not for the fact that I had accepted an invitation to travel with a group of English Grad students to Kerala for a 4 day trip.  Sounded innocent enough, how much trouble could I get into with a bunch of Lady Doak students complete with stiff English Professor as a chaperone? 

               I should have known better the moment I stepped on the bus at a bright and early 4:00 A.M. to depart from the college towards our first destination, Munnar.  My thinking was that despite being awake at an ungodly hour I could at least sleep the entire time, fresh for our arrival to the hill station.  Yeah right.  Imagine my surprise when I asked the girls if they were sleepy and they replied, "Oh no we only slept for an hour, now we are going to play music on the bus and dance!"  Dance??  At 4 in the morning?  The only things I want to be doing at 4 in the morning are either sleeping or wrapping up the end of a great night out.  As many who know me are aware, I am very much not a morning person.

               This also presented a problem concerning the years of conditioning I've received that any movement on a bus was bad bad bad.  I have many memories of bright elementary school years where I would turn around in my seat to talk to a nearby friend only to be yelled at by a very disgruntled bus driver.  Want to switch seats with someone else while the bus is moving?  Well you better expect to hear an earful from a swarthy figure up front.  In fact this ban on standing up in a moving vehicle is so engrained in all of us that even a group of Oberlin College Seniors in a school bus heading towards Cedar Point didn't dare go higher than one knee on their seat.

               Yet here I sat with years of adults telling me I knew better than to get up from my seat, while these Indian girls shook their hips at me in what can only be described as a 'come hither' motion.  What surprised me even more was that despite this rowdy group of students and the music that was blaring from the speakers, the bus driver never once made a single protest.  Despite it being 5 in the morning he seemed more than happy to oblige the many requests being shouted at him.  I have never in my life met a bus driver with such a calm temperament.  So in the end of course I got up, joined in, and realized why exactly it's such a terrible idea to move around in a bus.  Sure I was able to stand up for the majority of the time, but the rest of the time my body was being sent flying this way and that.  Into her lap, into the window, nearly into the front aisle, and it wasn't just me.  We were all barely managing to stay on our feet as the bus wound its way higher and higher up the hair pin turns of the mountain side.  Dancing in a bus with bad shocks while it's moving?  Bad idea.  Dancing in a bus with bad shocks while it climbs its way up the steep and narrow roads of a mountain?  Even worse idea. 

               But neither the teacher (who gave off a bit of a sour appearance) nor the bus driver ever once batted an eyelash, even when one of the girl's nearly knocked the teacher over with her elbow. 

               This was the beginning of my Kerala adventure.  The countryside was of course gorgeous, the scenery was amazing, and I had seen my very first real-life elephant getting a bath by the side of the road.  Disaster only began to strike towards the tail end of the trip, although I guess in the long run none of it was so dramatic as being worthy of the name disaster.  But I digress; it was on our way towards Cochin where we would be going to an amusement park when I encountered my first nasty surprise.  Now that our bus was heading down the mountain a whole new atmosphere had taken over inside.  Rather than the latest Tamil item number on full blast, the bus driver was playing a movie while the girls clutched onto their stomachs hoping they didn't hurl.  I was doing fine personally, no motion sickness, but I did have the annoying problem of needing to pee really bad.  Thankfully for all of us the teacher had us pull over next to a small creek so the girls could throw up for a while.  How nice of her. 

               While some of the girls did that a couple of us went down to the creek to take care of our business.  Now at the time I wasn't thinking what kind of creepy crawlies might be down there; I mean I've been camping before so peeing in the middle of nowhere is nothing new.  But it wasn't until after I was finished, waiting around the creek bed for the others, when I noticed something amiss.  I could have sworn I saw something black crawling towards my feet, but even though I inspected as best I could I didn't see anything.  I figured I must have made it up, until I heard something that made my blood run cold.  One single word, leeches. 

               One of the girl's had started screaming, jumping up on her friend shouting she had seen a leech.  The others merely made fun of her and told her she was imaginging things.  Slightly relieved I glanced around, not noticing anything, decided the best thing was to get out of there before any more scares happened.  I don't think it's necessary to add that I hate leeches, mostly because I don't know many people who actually like them.  But ever since I saw little and saw this movie where two kids jumping in a river only to come out covered in leeches I've been terrified of them.   Creepy black slimy things that gorge themselves on your blood?  Not something I ever wanted to encounter.

               However we were back safe on the bus and I was content to listen to some music on my Ipod whilst enjoying the Kerala scenery.  That is until about 15 minutes later I felt something wet hit the top of my foot.  At first I think, hmm something must have fallen from the chair in front of me.  I move my bag and there wriggling on the ground in front of me is a shiny black leech fattened up with my blood.  I have to say I'm very proud that I didn't scream or make a big fuss, I merely tugged on my friend's shirt and pointed.  She laughed and confirmed my worst fear, meanwhile the teacher had noticed and asked for the bus to be pulled over.

               While one of the student's dispatched this creepy blood-sucker, the teacher has me check to make sure there are no more leeches.  I'm freaked out, terrified that if I search some more I'm bound to find them hiding underneath my sandals or God forbid underneath my pants.  I don't notice anything and the bus starts to move again, but just to be sure I take off my sandals at the request of the teacher.  Drop one, nothing.  And just as I reach for the second sandal I see something go flying into the air from underneath my foot and sure enough going airborne is a second leech.  Needless to say this time we all screamed. 

               Again I feel the need to give a shout-out to the bus driver.  Here he had a grown woman and about 8 other girls screaming as if there was an axe-murderer on the bus, and he acted as calm as could be.  He didn't slam on the brakes, like I might of, or swerve to pull over.  Instead he kept driving until he spotted a decent place to get out of the way of traffic.  Talk about a seasoned veteran. 

               This second leech was much fatter which made me want to stomp on it with the hopes of sending the message that it can't just walk away with a free meal from me.  Too bad they kindly set it out on the side of the road before I had the chance.  That was my first (and hopefully last) encounter with leeches.  What makes them creepier to me now is that I had no idea I had two leeches happily chowing down on me.  I suppose it's a good thing they don't hurt but it freaks me out to think I might have never known if I hadn't felt it slide down my foot once it detached.  Yuck.  I know they are helpful in certain medical situations but they still freak me out.  If you've ever seen Stand By Me you'll know why.

               Now for the second-half of my "disasters".  As my dad put it, I had experienced two types of leeches during this trip.  After our first scare we made it to the amusement park without any other delay.  I was pretty excited because I mean come on it's an Indian amusement park, but I realized I was headed for trouble soon after arriving.  Turns out in India rather than having one amusement park with roller coasters and a separate one with water rides they put them both together.  I admit this is actually a much more convenient idea but the problem was I had no idea.  Sure, they had been going on and on about water games but I assumed they had meant the typical log ride which splashes everyone, or maybe even one of the circular buoy's that is a bit like Russian roulette when it comes to getting wet.  Nope.  We're talking full-on water rides complete with wave pool.  Complete and total submersion. 

               It had come to not only my attention but the attention of everyone else that I was wearing a pretty sheer shirt that once wet would be as useful a barrier from prying eyes as rice paper.  As for my change of clothes, well that was a white shirt.  Looks like the universe is out to prove I'm just a big ol' hussy.  In the end it was decided I would double up the shirts which did work.  In a way.  Too bad my chest seems to be a million times bigger than the girls here my age.  I couldn't for the life of me understand why when I got out of the water everything clung to me so that all my extremities became even more pronounced, while the other girls looked just as innocent as ever in their churidars.  I wasn't the only one preoccupied with this dilemma; I found nearly every other male eye following me that day.  And I wasn't even showing skin.  Well, not much.

               At first it was kind of funny, really.  I mean they all seemed so riveted it almost felt like I had complete control.  Not unlike a dog who follows a bone when you move it this way or that, I could have had these guys walking into poles which can make anyone a little power hungry.  But in any case I ignored them, running around happily with the girls and demanding that we get on all the rides. 

               It wasn't until mid-way through our adventure that I noticed a particular guy with his friends who seemed to pop up at more than one ride with us.  After a closer look I realized that, yes, he was clearly staring at me.  Normally I would have chosen to ignore it, or perhaps tried to ditch him, but upon even closer inspection I noticed this guy was freaking gorgeous.  I mean he was model good looking, with that long white kurta against his dark skin, pouty lips, and intense eyes it was hard not to fall for it.  Not to mention I had been in an all GIRL'S college in a city that already had a shortage of young good-looking guys for about 3 months now.  In other words, he was like finding an oasis in the middle of a desert.  So maybe I stared back for a while and perhaps I didn't completely discourage his following me, BUT I also never actually went up to him.  Not that I could have, I had my guard dogs circling around me at all times to make sure no devious man came up to have a "chat". 

               But there he stayed, with his friends, hanging behind going from ride to ride with us, chilling by the pavilion when we had lost our sense of direction.  Despite this incessant following I still would shoot a glance over every now and then.  At one point he was leaning against a pillar staring while sucking down on a juice box and can I just say I have NEVER seen anyone make drinking a juice box look sexy.  But by God I would be lying if I said I wasn't slightly turned on.  Not to mention he reminded me a bit of a Mexican guy after they get their sights on a girl, it was the same persistent nature.  So perhaps that's why I didn't think much of it at first.

               After a while he finally managed to catch up with us and at one particular moment while I was near the back of the group he came up behind me and asked if I wanted to go out for a cup of coffee.  I of course declined, mostly because I didn't want it getting back to the teachers that I had ditched the girls at an amusement park for some random Kerala guy.  Somehow I didn't think that would go over well.  He didn't care for that answer, of course, and asked why I couldn't just leave my friends for a little while, they would understand he reasoned. 

               I didn't have the chance to respond other than sorry because at that moment two hands grabbed my shoulders and steered me away while another girl pulled up the rear.  Might I say that South Indian girls make for the best birth prevention; while under their watch you can bet no one will be coming near you.

               Of course he didn't give up.  A few rides later he came back up to me and slipped me his number telling me to call, despite the fact I told him I wasn't from Kerala.  Didn't seem to be a problem to him.  For a moment I was actually kind of admiring this spirit, until the next part that is in which I once again chastised myself for falling for this act even if he was ridiculously good looking.      

               For our grand finale we decided to get on one of those log rides that is basically one big hill which ends up crashing into a pool of water below, and right at the top of that hill you get your picture taken so you can laugh at how stupid everyone's screaming face looks.  As we departed on our journey towards said pool I noticed that my admirer had slipped to the front of the line so him and his friends could watch us take off.  It was at this minute that I started to think, it is a little odd how they always know where we are.  It only got weirder from there.

               Once we got off the ride and headed over to check out our picture on the T.V. screens I notice one of the girl's starts arguing with the man selling the photos.  After enquiring what this angry, rapid exchange of Tamil could be about my friend tells me that apparently some guy had bought our picture and the man sold it to him thinking he was with us.  Creepy?  Indeed. 

               I couldn't do anything else but shake my head.  I mean really?  Guys here are on that level of sketchiness?  And for what?  A really bad picture of me screaming like some crazy chick.  It was almost comical except for the fact that some random guys had a picture of me that who knows what will happen to.  Actually I have an idea, but I'd rather not think about that.  Surprisingly enough the girls shook it off quickly and decided we should go to the wave pool to properly forget about this incident.

               On our way there I checked to see if I could find this guy, although this time I was hoping he had given up after that little picture moment.  While I didn't see him I did notice his friends hanging around the area, pointing towards our group and relaying some kind of information.  All of a sudden this turned into guerrilla warfare-style stalking, and there I was going back into the water which couldn't have been a good combination.

               And it wasn't.  As soon as we got into the water not only did all the guys on the men's side of the pool begin to crowd the partition and whistle at us, I noticed my dear admirer was standing with his friends at the edge of the pool with his phone out facing us.  Perhaps I had been naive before but I can at least tell when people are taking shots with their cell phone, which was exactly what he was doing.  While I was in the water, with my clothes clinging to me obscenely.  Again all the guys at the partition noticed this as well which was why the girls began handing me their dupattas so I could try to maintain some kind of chastity. 

               I managed to have a great time in the wave pool despite it all and after we got out of the changing room I was happy to notice my stalker had officially given up.  That night we headed back towards Madurai and all I had to remind me of this once seemingly innocent turned creepy affair was my stalker's phone number scribbled on the back of a ticket stub.  Once again India had proven to me that I can't be so careless with men as I had been in the U.S.  What could be considered harmless eye flirting back in the states was here apparently an invitation to take pictures of me without consent.  Not to  mention pretty much steal my photo. 

               Remember how I said I was learning?  Well I am, but that was still early on.  Again I would love to tell you that this is as bad as it got, however this was child's play compared to later.  This was at least non-physical harrassment; the real fun, so to speak, was yet to begin.

               Later on: Sexual Harrassment from 12 year olds and Groping: Another way to say Happy New Year's in India?