ethno jazz

Mihaly Dresch quartet

I forgot how I love concerts. I avoid going, because there are people there (shocking, truly shocking), it's loud and energy draining, one has to get there, which requires dressing up and makeup.... I also forgot how I love saxophone. I even wanted to play sax when I was fifteen, until I found out how much they cost...
Well, last night I remembered both. Mihaly Dresch, the Hungarian John Coltrane, played up a storm at Porgy & Bess, a jazz club in Vienna. It was truly a complete sensual and emotional experience.
His saxophone had a beatiful velvety, sometimes almost hoarse 'shellack' to its sound. The deepest tones make your feet melt and become one with the earth underneath. The low tones resonate in your underbelly and spread warmth throughout. The alt wraps around your heart and the high pitched notes run through your hair like lover's fingers. Truly amazing.
The Dresch quartet mixes traditional Hungarian tunes - nostalgic ballads that Hungarian officers used to shoot themselves to in the pubs when a woman left them (they are known for this, it's part of the culture. Szomoru Vasarnap, or Sad Sunday is among such ballads), through the pesky csardas that makes you want to jump out of your seat and twirl around with the nearest Hungarian - with jazz. The fusion is effortless. Dresch picked up a solid hand carved Transylvanian flute with a husky, abrasive sound to it. You could almost hear the shepherds calling across the valleys hundreds of centuries ago. In half a second he picked up the melody with his sax, bringing you right home, with that lingering memory still on your tongue - reminding you who you are, where you come from and where is your place in this world.
Now I'm not a jazz connoisseur, so naturally I focus on other things. Dresch is, for example, a perfect Robert de Niro look-alike. The drummer looks like that Irish American actor, whathisname, Patrick MacSomething, and the cimbalist like that British actor that played in a movie about slave trade in Britain. Basist is a true copy of Kickycan, a member from an online forum I frequent. Now, we all know what faces drummers make. This one did not put the other drummers to shame. He flapped his jaw in the wind, stuck his tongue out, fiercely closed eyes. But do you know what faces a cimbalist makes? He hits the cimbalom strings with malettes as if his child's life depended on it, contorting his face not unlike a heavy weight weight lifter, other times looking surprised as a ten year old boy who just spilt a gallon of milk. On mother's brand new laptop. Unfortunately that's the extent of expertise I can offer, but if you have a chance, buy their latest CD, or even better, go see them. It's worth it. Here's a teaser, hope the link works:
http://video.tvnet.hu:8080/ramgen/c2/bmc/bmccd093/track03.rm

Dasha in Boxerland and Tough Body Mass

You have to accept a thing or two when you are a female and you decide, for whatever strange reasons, to start boxing. I got used to all the winks and smacking sounds as I pass through the gym real quick. After all, I'm trapped in a room where testosterone is oozing out of the walls, and that in Central Europe, where menfolk has not quite yet been subjected to the PC drill. Today I had an interesting exchange with a Bosniak - that's not a pastry (actually it is that, too, but this particular one was not. It was a young Bosnian, aka a Bosniak. Or he, rather.). About my students' age - must have been 18, 19, who knows. He was on a stationary bike in front of me, until I punched the display out of my bike. I really don't know how. He picked it off the floor and helped me punch it back in (it is a boxing gym, you know. We punch everything.) He was very chatty, this one was. First there was some Bosnian-Slovak-English small-talk about who's from where, yada yada yada, what am i doing in Vienna, blablabla, do I like boxing, yakedy yak. Then with his broken English he asks: "are you here alone?" I, confused (I'm a polite girl and I believe in the best in people) say:"Well, yes, but I have family and friends in Bratislava.: Bosniak won't have it. No time wasting: "No boyfriend?" I don't even know the bloody kid's name, and he may well be half my age, but hey. I'm a well-brought up and dainty lady. "Yes, I have one in Boston." Too much English for him, "No?" he asks. "Yes!" says I. "Boston." "No boyfriend Vienna" says he. Well, no, eeerrrrh, no I guess, he's not in Vienna. That seemed to have jumpstarted some thought process in him as he proceeded to ask in now perfect English: "Will you party with me?" Now this is a moment that we all know so well. The moment in a story that's frozen and that one keeps coming back to, mulling over millions of smart and funny things one could have said, in an ideal world. Instead I looked around, my brain drew a blank and I said :"Cough, ehm, ummmm, we'll see." He asked immediately and confidently when shall we see, the smegging little bugger. I caught myself a little and asked him just what did he mean precisely by 'will you party with me", although I did have a pretty good idea. He smirked the slimiest smirk the Universe ever witnessed and said in a deep voice (and coming from a teenager to me, an old hag, that seemed funny): "Weeeeell, what do YOU mean by partying?..." Eerrrrr, blank, blank, scratch my head, shuffle my feet, ummmm. I did manage to cough up something to the effect that I don't think so, and thank him for his kind help. But I can safely say I failed the test of assertiveness and coolness 100%.
Boxing trainers are also a funny bunch. Johann sent me from machine to machine, told me what to do for how long. Every now and then he'd come to me and poke at my quads or my biceps. He'd return and make strange grimaces at me, as if to encourage me to push harder. They were interesting in a rather odd way, not very motivating, however. He is still trying to talk me into training for the ring. Eh, might as well, if he will devise a mechanism how to get me from work to the gym on days like today, when my office is cozy and warm and lit, and the outside world is gray, drizzly, nasty, brutish, solitary, and short, like human life. He also wants me to spar with his wife, the beastly Frau Klaudia! He is out of his mind. I remember when my ex-trainer Kostas put me against his wife Alicia (whatsit with trainers making me spar against their wives?). She punched the lights out of me and gave me a nice juicy nose bleed. But that's the darned nose ring that I have. Must suffer for fashion. Well, Frau Klaudia is also into biking. So I concede to a bike race to begin with. Perhaps 50 kilometers. That sounds a little better. If I win, I get free boxing gloves, hooray. Frau Klaudia may be a mean boxer, but she ain't, NOBODY is, beating ME on a bicycle. Hell no. That means I have to get up earlier and pack in a ride before work every day now. As if I had any time left to pack new things in. But girl's gotta have priorities. No to Frau Klaudia. Dissertation can wait.

Fredi's Feuerhalle

I met up with Toci who happened to come into town for a conference from Bratislava and decided to go for a dinner and drinks. So we hit the Centimeter 5. - apparently there is a bunch of them. The great thing about it is that they calculate the price of sandwhiches according to their length. In centimeters of course. You can eat one meter spaghetti and a two meter sausage, which we of course had to go for. They close at midnight, so we were strolling towards our respective abodes, when we happened upon Fredi's. What caught my eye was a wobbly leopard skin clad woman with a glass of rosé in her hand and a chatty waitress. A young guy plopped over the bar, sort of half asleep, half bored witless. We decide to come in for a 'Kapurkova' - one last drink. An old Czech tradition. Or a lie posing as a tradition to provide an excuse for more drinking. We come in to see a typical Central European seedy bar environment: dim lighting, fake marble tables, plastic flowers here and there. One particularly nice addition was a tall table to stand around - as if it was taken from a bad train station food joint from times long gone and forgotten. Other decoration was also memorable - porn posters on the left (some hardcore, not much left to imagination really), right wall dedicated to soccer clubs posters and trophies. For an unexplicable reason also a poster of young George W. smoking a joint in between all of that. Neither I nor Toci speak any German, but the leopard woman was obviously relating story about a friend or family member: lots of wild gesticulation and grimaces suggesting no approval of absentee's behavior. They were in no hurry to close. After the half asleep youngster who turned out to be a Slovak Hungarian (Slovak citizen of Hungarian ethnic origin) crawled away, it was just as and the leopard with the waitress. Leopard didn't pay. I wonder how they survive. Might stop by there tonight as well. It's the best bar ever.

boxing

We are having a Wiener Schnitzel for lunch at the Institute today. I bloody deserve it. I can barely move, my lower back, shoulders, and quads are shattered. They were wrung out dry. I decided to pick up where I left off at Kostas's Garage of Pain in Jamaica Plains, where I was introduced to the world of boxing briefly. It took me awhile to find a boxing club in Vienna that wouldn't sound too intimidating and hardcore. Finally I settled on Schwarzweiss Wien Boxing Club. After all, their website says 'boxing for fitness' among other things, and there is a female boxer, with a straight, unshattered, nose depicted on the front page. I biked over yesterday, had my workout clothes with me 'just in case'. I should only watch the first time anyway. I bike through 9th, 1st, 5th and 6th bezirkt (district or whatnot) and find a rather large building. It takes about just as long as it used to from Somerville to JP. Ah, wish there was a Kostas in Vienna, with a little garage turned into a boxing studio, with picnics after training, guitar and good friends. No such thing. When I enter, I am soon seized by the trainer. He says we start in five minutes and to go change fast. Gulp. Me, too? Yes. I look around. The dark hall is dominated by a real boxing ring, with two guys going at it ferrociously. Groans, moans, and yelps dominate the silence. There are about twenty other men scattered about, some eyeing me, I suppose, amusedly. No other woman anywhere. Shit, shit, shit! What did I get myself into! Well, I ain't backing out now. Nobody can say I didn't give it my best at least. I change quick and come back with all my supplies - wraps, mouth guard, jumping rope. Trainer is pleased. He disperses us through the hall and starts barking numerous instructions. In German. Bloody hell. At the end he turns to me and says: "Jump". Ok. Jumping rope. Five rounds, three minutes each, with a minute of break inbetween. Why did I not also bring water 'just in case'? I will surely die today. I am thinking of Kostas'es garage. I could just run upstairs to get water in his kitchen, pet Mina the white cat and chat to his wife about the Sweetheart -their bed and breakfast in Western Mass. which they are trying to resurrect and start up. Whistle. Now we have to do footwork. We didn't really do that with Kostas. Damn. Long directions in German follow. I am told: "forward!". OK, forward I go. And then backward and to the side. Then the same with punches. Muscles starting to get tired. I realize I have no idea how long the training will be. Hour? Two hours? Oh great. Now we're running sideways in a circle. When the sadist whistles, we have to jump forward, punch, and run immediately in the opposite direction. Good god. Now the other arm. Then both arms. It's taking at least half an hour and all of my energy. When I think I am about to plop on the ground unconscious, it's over. Since I didn't bring any water I drag myself into the showers and find a hose there. Pretty nasty, but do I care? If I could survive tap water in Morocco, Turkey, and India, not to mention gypsy settlements in Eastern Slovakia, I can drink from a mildewy hose in Vienna. I go back to ask about next trainings, cost, and such. Turns out there's a bonus session for those who want - 10 stations where one lifts weights, wriggles with medicine ball, or jumps about for thirty seconds. Then on to the next station. Can I decline and say "no, that would certainly be the death of me"? No, I cannot. So I play along. Station 3 is pushups on a medicine ball. I cannot do pushups! Turns out that I can, when the brutish trainer Schwarz hovers right over me. By station 5 I feel positively light-headed and by station 8 I can see stars in front of my eyes. After that I give up. I would really faint. Or throw up. That would not be a good start.
Trainer praises me for 'being strong as a horse' (just what every girl dreams to hear) and tells me we need to work on the technique if I want to go into the ring - as in, compete in real boxing matches. Wot? Me? I look doubtful but he hardly notices me. Come three times a week for a beginning, then we'll up it to every day... Harrumph. Hopefully I will earn a ton of money in boxing matches and be able to pay someone to finish the darned dissertation that I came to write in Vienna. Now if you excuse me I gotta go lie down. Cannot sit straight. Or type.

Indian Diary...cont'd

Tuesday 16th August, 2005
In the morning we head for Kohima bright and early. I say goodbye to my little new antennaed friend, whom I’m happy to see in the bathroom still – that means he’s not in my suitcase. Into jeeps we are stuffed and off we go through winding beaten roads into the hills. Indian Government puts up amusing signs alongside the road: “If married, divorce speed”, “Go slow, somebody’s waiting for you at home”, “where drink competes with drive, you lose”, “don’t gossip, let him drive” – and other such jewels. We stop by at a hospice ran a peace-making group started by women who are trying to reconcile various factions within Nagaland. Once they went up on a three day long hike into the mountains in Burma to find one opposition leader who's hiding up there. Talked to him about this, that, or the other, and hiked down for another three days. Women. What more can I say… Nobody else ever made it up there.
Hospice has only 16 people and some staff. Patients are mostly HIV positive, former addicts, a few little kids with AIDS. They don’t distinguish between staff and patients, all work together, according to their abilities, in the little garden that they have. They also run a paper mill, the only one that makes recycled paper in Nagaland. We buy a few cards, a folder, trinkets, kids sing a few songs, we bid good-bye. We can see Kohima from here. City built on stilts - building upon building propped up every which way on the sides of the steep hills. Most sport corrugated tin roofs and formica or wooden walls. We check into our hotel, accompanied by our friends. We are taken to a traditional village near Kohima, to see what life is really like in Nagaland. Houses are again patched up from wood, metal sheets, mud and bricks, but the village is very practical. It shows that hardworking people that are able to sustain themselves live here. Every village has two round platforms made out of rocks, where the village elders meet every evening to talk or just sit around and gaze over the vast valley. Hills around are breathtaking. I take pictures like a Japanese tourist, wreaking quite a havoc among the teenage girls in the village, who scream, giggle, and run away each time I point the camera towards them.

On the way from the village we stop for a picnic at a Naga open-air museum. It's a made up village where each tribe has a model traditional house. We sit at the Angami house, feasting on food that Neichu's aunt prepared. It's out-of-this-world good. Unfortunately David is still getting used to India, has upset stomach, and glances suspicious looks at the food. We eat with hands. David sticks to white rice mostly. Our apetite is boosted by water buffalo and human skulls (replicas of the latter) hung from the ceiling. The open air village is under a hill adorned with a sign much like Hollywood, except it says 'Naga Heritage Village' or rather, '.A.A ERIT..E .I....E'. Rest has fallen off.
David and Hillel are off to meet someone, me and Jasmine are taken out shopping. I complete the collection of gifts that I already got – a Naga shawl and a vest – with more ethnic gear. If I am to bustle about the world as a silly white girl in tribal wear, let’s take it all the way. I get a necklace and a thingamajig for my hair, a bag, some placemats for mom… At least I’ll be set for the next few Halloweens. We stop for a coffee at the Dream Café, nice new little place started by Neichu’s friends. You can see the whole city from up there. Dominated, naturally, by the Police Headquarters, an impressive white palace, which probably cost more to build than the rest of the city altogether.

Our friends give me a bag of pan – a vile concoction of things wrapped in some sort of a leaf. You have to chew it and spit out saliva every now and then. That’s the cause of many Nagas and Indians’ stained teeth. It’s also said to be addictive. I can’t imagine how, as it tastes horrid and renders you speechless (having a bursting-full mouth of the grool) for a long while. Truly a nuisance, if you ask me. They are naturally making fun of me as I roll my eyes around, trying to save my bare life. We find an Indian-Chinese restaurant in our hotel. That’s cuisine that is not found anywhere else. Indian-Chinese has actually absolutely nothing to do with China, it’s just one of Indian peculiarities. Jasmine meets a special new friend there. This time it’s not a giant bug, but a human, albeit a weird one. Our waiter is extremely talkative and revolves around her like a satellite. He comes later into our room under various pretenses, asks for her address, sits down and talks and talks and talks. When we get rid of him gently, David comes and we all watch Forrest Gump that just happens to be on TV. Unfortunately we see our dear waiter again. He brings tea and 5:45am. That’s right. 5:45am. What the is he thinking?! We get rid of him a little less gently and resume sleep until 7:30. We were supposed to be woken up by the same ours truly at 7am, but no. That he forgot. Bringing tea at an ungodly hour has probably exhausted him too much. We scramble around, throwing things into suitcases and break our legs running downstairs where everybody’s waiting. We’re on our way to a friend's home for breakfast.
It’s a house where three generations of strong women grew up. All her male predecessors were killed in the Indo-Naga war. Her grandmother worked on the family rice paddies and raised kids alone. Her mother, losing her husband, too, started a woman's groups and is a pioneer in the field of reconciliation. A force to be reckoned with. Our friend herself is a dynamo. A true firecracker. She’s involved in HIV/AIDS social work, and a godzillion of human rights and charity projects. And is sharp and funny, always on point. We have the best pineapple in the world, as well as mangoes and other such wonders, straight off the trees. Before we leave, I ask for the restroom, and am shown to it. Great, it’s one of those holes in the ground… That’s fine, I’m the worldly and street-smart traveler, I’ve seen many of these before. Just how do I….good lord the floor is slippery…and oh, I guess one needs to practice aiming from early childhood… now, it’s all good, just…how the hell do I flush? Aaaargh, not knowing what else to do, I grasp a hose that is lying around and hose down the whole bathroom. Just in case. Thank god we’re leaving!
We clamber on back into the jeeps, and endure another two hours on the winding broken roads down back to Dimapur and off to the airport. Temperature rises with every meter as we descend down from the hills. Dimapur is hot as hell. Tfooey. I will miss Neichu, Naro, Bambi, and Akum though. Must come back soon. I’ll just have to find three more people in order to get the RAP (restricted area permit). Any takers? They don’t head hunt any more, I swear!

The tiny shaky airplane jolts us to dreaded Calcutta. I had a rough introduction to India in Calcutta the last time I was here. Cab drivers are insane, everyone is in your face, everything is dusty and weird! I am thus extra suspicious and eye everything with disdain. The four of us jam ourselves into one of them death vehicles and take our chances in the rush hour afternoon traffic. We get to hotel Lytton in one piece miraculously. One of the bell boys is grinning from ear to ear: “Do you remember me, ma’am? I brought you a plug converter last time!” Dayum! I must be memorable. He chatters for awhile, offering to bring the blue from the sky, if I want. No time for blue from the sky though. We are meeting with our main ally-and-enemy in one, good ole’ lisping Umpakaf (Omprakash, really). Before then, however, we want to make it to the famous Calcutta market. This time we’re equipped with Jasmine, who is Punjabi by birth, speaks Hindi and haggles like a pro. Calcutta market is a huge maze of corridor upon corridor, story upon story, of vendors with jewelry, bags, clothing… I can’t imagine how anyone can profit there. Immediately you are seized by someone who drags you through the belly of the building to his stand. Without him, you’ll never be able to find your way back out. Thus we have to do some business if we want to get out alive. In an unbelievably short time we bu y close to half a kilo of earrings, rings, bracelets, shawls… all under twenty dollars.
Omprakash is on his best behavior tonight. No lewd remarks, he even brings a gift for me and Jasmine from his wife. He actually mentions his wife! The gift is a sari. Very nice, but what on Earth will I do with a sari? I guess I can hang it on my wall. Oh no, and where will I put it now? I wanted to buy a bag, but they only had small ones. I give up. I will have to ask Hillel to carry some of my stuff in his suitcase… Next time, I will pack into a small suitcase AND leave some space in there for things I will acquire during the trip. It must be doable somehow.

August 18th, 2005. Kerala!

I can’t wait, I can’t wait! Tonight we’ll be back at the loveliest school on Earth, up on a tea plantation in Pullikanam! We fly through Bombay early in the morning, where we wait forever for a connecting flight to Cochin. There we are picked up by another jeep and off we go on the already well known route up to the mountains. Hillel sleeps most of the way in the jeep. That amazes us – the road is enough of a challenge to even sit still, not to mention sleep. David and Jasmine recollect some funny movie – Weekend with Bernie, or at Bernie’s, and cannot stop laughing the whole way. Hillel being Bernie – his head bobbing on the front seat, propped up by the seat belt. David also recalls Hillel’s latest butcherings of Indian names. That’s a special skill of Hillel’s. Nobody else I know is quite that bad with names. Indian negotiator for Nagaland Padmanabia is the most favorite target as of late. Hillel calls him ‘Padmanabooba’, ‘Padmandu’, ‘Padminabee’ and all sorts of other things except for his rightful name. I’ve never seen David laughing so hard and so long, tears running down his face as soon as “Padman…” is mentioned. Funny stuff.
We arrive! Our insect and lizard-ridden, yet the coziest and cleanest guesthouse welcomes us as if we never left. Down I run to see all the guys. Beautiful Nidhin is smiling from a long distance. And there’s Anitha and Asha. We meet with the faculty, talk about the training and about our programs in India. We’re exhausted and starving. Hillel mentions ‘Padmonoonon’. David loses it. We all chuckle helplessly. Finally dinner comes, we attack it with our hands and feet. I, the worldly and street-smart traveler, know by now how to eat with my hands, not that I’m proud about it or anything. Well, at least I pretend I know how. I choose not to see all the drippings on the floor, myself, and the unfortunate few around me. After dinner we make battle plans for trainings that start tomorrow. We have too many students. Instead of one three day long training we resolve to do two two day trainings instead. Ooof. At least I’ll get more practice teaching mediation this way.

August 19th, 2005
So the training marathon starts. One good thing is that I cannot get distracted with internet up here. It’s too hot and muggy during the day for the connection to get established, it only runs between midnight and 6 or 7 in the morning. I am able to connect but once in the entire time we are there, and that only for long enough to send out the silly G8 summit article I finally finished. It must be fate. Training starts smoothly. We get a group of 30 students – 15 older ones that we already know from February, and 15 new ones. The kids are extremely sharp. It makes me want to cry when I think of my students back in the States and compare the level of information intake, enthusiasm, and maturity. Although the Indian students seem more naïve at the first sight. We actually had a long and interesting discussion about that. David, who specializes in asking direct questions about the most sensitive issues, asks Nidhin and Arun point blanc how will they cope in the business world where everybody backstabs everybody else with such naïveté. Nidhin explains that if he gets to the top by honest means, there’s no reason to change that once at the top. If cheated and backstabbed, well, maybe he’ll lose money or will be taken for a fool, but he will keep his moral integrity, and that’s more important in the long run then anything. Naïve? Maybe. But hell, I absolutely love it!
We go until almost 8pm, breaking only for lunch and tea. There are two long role plays that afternoon, one really gets them fired up. It’s about the mosque in Ayodhya that was destroyed by a Hindu mob in 1992, because it was presumably built by the moghuls on the site of a former temple to the Hindu god Ram sometime in 1500s. There are a few heated exchanges as we get into the crux of our training – historic memory and mediation of identity conflicts. We have dinner with the faculty. We talk at length about their conflict resolution student group Shanti and Hillel pushes and pushes until they don’t promise to make the work at Shanti a part of school’s curriculum. That way students will have time to actually do something and not just talk about it in their spare time. After the endless meeting we collapse into beds, we watch a bit of Before Sunset with Jasmine, merrily snoring away within five minutes.

August 20th, 2005
In the morning we proceed to the computer lab for another perfectly futile exercise of seeking internet connection. We miss breakfast because of that. Training goes smoothly, we get better every day. Students tell us how they admire our teamwork. Go team! Another two role plays, and a role reversal exercise – that makes our work a lot easier. And more interesting for the kids. Nidhin takes care of all of our needs, always checks in if everything is OK. He has these piercing eyes that make one blabber complete nonsense when looked at, which he does often. I’m sure it happens to everyone. It’s a good thing I’m taken, much older, and extremely rational. Damn these Indians, why do they make them so gorgeous?
Anyhow, we dine with the students. David quizzes them about romantic relationships on campus: do couples get together? Do boys ever climb into girls’ dormitory? I always hold my breath and my eyes are about to jump out of my head when David asks something. But there’s something about David. No matter what he asks, it comes across as a genuine interest in the people, cordial and open. So no, there are no romantic relationships on campus, it’s forbidden. They are ‘like brothers and sisters’ there. They were entrusted by their parents as adults and they take that responsibility seriously, they say. They would never break the trust of their parents and teachers, that’s just how things are in Kerala. Nidhin carries my bag back to the guesthouse, and dedicates the flashlight to the road in right under my feet. I feel like a silly over-aged princess. We watch another five minutes of Before Sunset, sleep through the rest.

Sunday August 21st, 2005
Rising bright and early – Nidhin comes to wake us up at 6:30 (do they ever sleep over here?). Me, Jasmine, and David decided to go to the church today with the students. It sounds like a joke: A heathen, a Sikh, and a Jew head out to church… But it isn’t. They all go to church here together – Christians, Muslims, Hindus… It’s the same God anyway, they say. We get into a little bus that huffs and puffs up the rocky dirt road. The church is stunning. Small simple white church in the valley of tea plantations, palm trees, and flowers of all colors and shapes, under a turquoise sky and a kind warm sun. People here are farmers. They’re much darker than people in the North. Jesus, however, is whitest of whites, with pale blue eyes in every single painting. Funny, if you ask me. The sermon is in Malayalam. They sing a lot, which is great. We sit on the floor, sometimes kneel, sometimes stand up. Sometimes try to stand up, wriggling about awkwardly. Decent workout anyway. First twenty minutes is fun. Then it gets a bit old. Half an hour in, I start scrutinizing every single painting on the walls. And on the ceiling. And the floor. From paintings I move on to garments. Thank god for the saris – they are so colorful with many patterns. How long is this sermon anyway? One hour in, I start counting sheep for fun. Why did I want to come to church, anyone remembers? After forever the priest starts handing out the little wafers, whatever they are called in Catholic. Jasmine and I run for the door. We walk around the church, meet the priest himself. Back on the bus Nidhin gets teased by all the boys, who all giggle and cast quick glances towards me. Eeenteresting. It’s a good thing I don’t understand.
We start teaching the second batch today. These kids are even quicker and sharper, and we are getting to be even more stellar as trainers. It rules to have a good program lined up and then see it happen as it should and better. I am developing quite a fan club here. Girls Aswati and Ansa bring Anoop who apparently likes me very much, but is too shy to tell me. “Ma’am, he won’t stop talking about you.” Anoop is purple. Oh well, that’s what blondedness and blue-eyededness gets you in India. Wherever I move, swarms of them move with me. I highly recommend this to anyone whose self esteem is suffering a little. Tonight we join the entire Shanti crowd for dinner. They want to meet with us, even though they have a tough exam tomorrow. We bring in the faculty and mediate and agreement between students and faculty about the future of the Shanti program. Faculty promises to devote one month of internships to non-governmental work, and even count working for Shanti as a non-credit course. They will get training certificates and the school will send out a special letter of recommendation to all the job placements for students working with Shanti. Kids are overjoyed. Nidhin gets us real plates and sits next to me. More pushing and shoving as they make fun of him.
Jasmine and Hillel are packing up, they are leaving early in the morning. Hillel to New Delhi where we’ll join him a day later, Jasmine is going home, for she’s leaving to go to a Sikh camp in British Columbia, of all places. We have another five minutes of Before Sunset in bed. I’m thinking I’ll never finish this movie in my life.
Suddenly we hear a yell: “Jaasmiiiine! Daaaaashaaaaaaa!” That would be David, returning into his room. We sprint over there. “There’s this white thing over there. Look! I saw it crawling on the window, then it jumped on Hillel’s suitcase and there it’s sitting right there, on his shirt!” We look, quite skeptically at first. What the hell is that? It’s white, it looks almost as a jelly-fish, but how the hell would it get into the midst of a rain forest. It doesn’t move, probably startled by the light. Being extremely brave, I come closer. I see six or eight legs – it is a giant spider, size of a tarantula! But white. It’s an albino tarantula! We shriek and run out of the room. What do we do? Do we dare to capture it? David doesn’t, I’m more than hesitant. But then if we don’t, what will it do? It can kill us all overnight. We look around. There is an empty wastebasket that might do the trick, provided that the albino tarantula doesn’t move. We make a battle plan. It involves the wastebasket and Jasmine. She’s Indian by birth, and least frightened. We all approach the tarantula cautiously. It’s still there, pretending to be dead or something. Jasmine hurls the wastebasket over the monster. It’s trapped! We’re alive! We win! Now we have to get it away from Hillel’s shirt somehow. My turn. Wearily I move the basket, dreading the moment when the mini Odula starts scuttling about. It doesn’t. I notice it leaves small white traces as I move it with the basket. Am I injuring the thing? The traces look very much like…pieces of….napkin or something… I have a flashback to this morning. Three women came this morning to our guesthouse to clean. They were washing windows, among other things. With white paper towels that, when damp, can look a lot like albino tarantulas. Especially if you happen to be a hysterical Westerner. I take the basket off and grab the thing with my hand. David shrieks. I explain what just happened. “There can be a spider inside!” he maintains. Well, I can’t argue with that, but none emerged even after a close scrutiny. Not among the bravest moments in my life, but certainly among the funniest. Funny how the mind works. It’s white, it’s scary, it must be an albino tarantula, but of course. What could possibly be more logical?

Monday August 22nd, 2005
The next day Jasmine and Hillel leave early. We teach the other batch alone, just me and David. I am exhausted and feeling a sore throat coming. Yet it’s going well, although in the afternoon I have to delve into resources of energy that I didn’t know I had and I make no sense even to myself. It’s still going great, that’s how terrific our program is. In the session on perceptions, David and I act out the tarantula episode from last night. Kids are rolling in laughter, getting a huge kick out of it. We do a great job acting it out, too. Must be the endorphins flooding into the system as the program comes to a close. When we’re done, we are surrounded by our entourages. Girls talk to David about further training or somesuch, I start making photo CDs for the boyz. I am running out of juice on my computer- have to go get the cord in the room. Being the street-smart worldly traveler that I am, I decide to go alone up the hill to the guesthouse. I’ll be right back, I say. It’s pitch dark. At first it’s OK, as there is some leftover light from a lamp in the campus, then it turns completely black. Ever tried to climb a hill at night? Not that easy. I stumble about, losing the path every now and then. Two guys that live under the guesthouse spot me. They must think I am absolutely out of my mind. They shine a flashlight down the hill for me. I make it up, and grab the cord. Front gate is locked – that means I have to go down the same way. Wee! Serves me right, next time I will try to be a brave outdoor cat, I will think twice. I only fall about four or five times, unfortunately it rained earlier today. When I say rained, I mean rained. We’re at the tail end of the monsoon season. When it rains, it pours. I come down looking like Nikki Lauda after a winning Formula 1 race. Perhaps not feeling quite as victorious. It’s hot, so I dry rather quickly and soon enough I look almost normal again. Nidhin comes with Arun and they claim us for dinner. We bid farewell to the disappointed crowds, and happily retreat with the two of them into the faculty cafeteria, where we can rest for a bit. David is on a roll with his inquisitive questions on all things delicate. But nobody minds. Good times. We take pictures with the chef, who, according to David, has the best smile on Earth. The chef teases Nidhin again, who slaps him on his head. That flatters the worldly and street-smart traveler silly. Ah, the simple pleasures of life.
When we get back to the house, I finally finish the darn movie, not having enough energy to pack. Why bother anyway, it’s going to be impossible to pack prudently at this point anyway. Might as well stuff everything in using brute animal force at the very last moment in the morning.

23rd August, 2005
The alarm clock goes off at 4am. It’s pitch dark still. I turn on the light – no light. No electricity, in fact. Wunderbar. How am I going to shower and pack in the dark? I saw a candle somewhere, where was it? I rack my brain, walk around the kitchen and living room area like a blind man without a dog. Or a woman, for that matter. Yes, the little cupboard in the corner, that’s where it was. I break the candle in half, so that David can have a light, too. I play with the matches, trying to get the broken half to light up. After a good amount of time, the sucker is finally lit. I’m burstingly proud how well I did in extreme conditions. Electricity comes back on right after that. Naturally. I shower and perform another stuff-the-suitcase ritual dance. Nidhin and Arun come. They are coming with us to Vagamon, for today is the beginning of their five day holiday. We part with the gorgeous boys there and proceed to the airport. I can feel an onslaught of a flu or something coming. Tired, sore throat, bleary eyes. Curious about New Delhi though. We are heading for our big and famous conference on Partition that Umpakaf put together. Tomorrow will be the opening. Hillel is feeling grumpy about it, for it seems it will be way more academic then he wanted it to be, but at this point, we can only go with the flow. New Delhi seems like Washington D.C. to me. Certainly after Kolkata it does. It has many green parks, is rather clean (depends on one’s comparative frame) and spatious, it has low official-looking buildings. And many many roundabouts. It’s like a maze, I have no idea how to navigate through it. We are staying with Hillel’s friend Sharon. She came to India as a Fulbright fellow – studying Indian dance. Then she stayed for another half a year, another year, two years, forever. She is one of the most famous of Indian traditional dancers, even though she’s a Litvak from Detroit. Sharon lives in a colonial mansion on Barakhamba road. It’s a three story house with majestic staircases, patios, balconies. Her living quarters are at the top, on the roof, sort of. There is a beautiful shaded area with sofas and pillows to read and take tea in, a breakfast alcove on the other side of the roof. Her and her daughter Tara’s rooms (we met Tara in Bombay in February) are two wooden shacks on the side of the roof. There is also a kitchen and living room area. Sharon has beautiful original Indian artwork everywhere – large bronze statue, small statuettes everywhere, things hanging, standing, lying about. It has to be one of the coziest living arrangements in the world. David, Hillel, Sharon and I head out into town for dinner. Well, we are driven into town. Sharon has a driver, of course. She also has a cook, a maid and some other guys whose jobs I didn’t determine. Restaurant took it’s name from a thieves’market – chor bazaar – where trinkets of all sorts are sold. It’s called Chor Bizaar and it’s remarkable by it’s collection of furniture and antiques of all varieties. Our table is a remodeled four post bed. All the chairs, plates, silverware in the restaurant are different. There are no two identical things – you won’t even find two identical forks. Salad bar is an old car underneath a staircase that leads nowhere.

August 24th, 2005
In the morning Sharon takes me and David to the American school (elementary, middle, and high school) to see a South Indian dance performance. The school blows our mind. It’s monstrously luxurious and high-tech. They have two or three libraries, swimming pool outside, two cafeterias, large new auditorium and hundreds of spoiled rotten kids. School is naturally fenced off and gated and guarded by security armed to their teeth. I bet that these kids are loaded into limos or buses after school and then transported into their gated residencies. This way they don’t have to be in touch with real India out there at all. Performance is interesting, the dancer has a beautiful Southern Indian outfit. It’s dedicated to Krishna’s birthday, coming up in five days. She explains all her poses and symbolic of each move, even though it falls on the deaf ears of those vile teenagers. Govinda maduram, gopi maduram is one of the songs that remained stuck in my head ever since. Must find it somehow somewhere. It’s a song about how beautiful Krishna and everything he touches and looks at is (maduram being beautiful, govinda being eyes, gopi being girls-dancers that Krishna hangs with in the hood). After the performance we are taken for a tour of the school. I feel rather bitter about it, completely amazed by the stunning difference of lifestyles inside and outside of this fenced-off monstrosity. Can’t wait to get out.
On the way home we stop by at the market. I still need a bag for all the acquired stuff. I buy five. Yes, five bags. One tiny, two small ones, one bigger one to fit them all in, and a beautiful leather purse out of camel skin, stiched with camel skin. Girl’s gotta have bags. And bags got to color coordinate with clothing. Thus they need to come in all colors and shapes. I also buy two pairs of red slippers and a shawl. Contended after an adrenaline rush that accompanies such hectic shopping we retreat home and prepare for the conference opening. I decide to dress up. My black skirt has a slit on the side that shows leg way up above the knee – something I should have considered before I headed out the house. Here in India you can run around almost in a bra- with your belly sticking out and all, but if you show the teensiest bit of leg, heads turn, people stare, it’s just not done. We are at the Ashok Hotel, which is very fancy and all, but I still feel inappropriate, doing my best to hold the bloody skirt together. When I sit, you can’t see the slit at all, so I sit a lot. We find the banquet hall and I am very happy to spot Rohit there from a distance.
Rohit is Tara’s friend. We met him in Bombay in February and I was very impressed by him. He’s a young (my age, hence very young) writer, published a best selling book and writes witty articles on just about anything that strikes his fancy. Runs a few blogs, meddles into theater, simply a renaissance man. Took me about a month to find him online – I kept spelling his name wrong and I remembered his book completely wrong. The book is called Play on Edward, but I was googling, for unexplicable reasons, A Friend of Emanuel. I didn’t even know Emanuel back then, so who knows where the heck that came from. Anyway, I found him, we emailed back and forth, I saw his work and really liked particularly one short story that was turned into a comics by a twenty year old American whiz kid from Yale. Story was a fiction about Fadereu, a man that fades away if he stands still, and based on the Gujarat riots in 2002, when over 3,000 Hindus and Muslims burnt each other to death. I decided we must bring Rohit to Delhi conference and keep taps on him for ‘reality check’ on our projects and partners in India, as well as for inspiration and contacts for other interesting people.
Conference is crowded. We have the Minister of Defense, Sri Gopal Mukherjee, speaking, as well as the Governer of West Bengal, who happens to be Mahatma Gandhi’s grandson. Gandhi has a beautiful speech. At the reception one can meet all sorts of characters. Conference rats, writers-alcoholics, academics turned politicians, unsuccessful activists. Umpakaf seizes me every now and then and introduces me to random groups of men from various think tanks, which gets very tiring after awhile. At the dinner we are approached by a handicapped and by then also extremely drunk writer of sorts, who is angered by Americans meddling into Partition. We don’t understand much of what he says, for he happens to also have a bad speech impediment. He keeps insisting that we don’t understand because we are dumb Americans. Umpakaf is drunk himself by now. He has a highly unpleasant habit of quite offensive bragging when he’s drunk. He asks David, out of the blue: “Do you know who this is? No? Well if you knew anything about India, you’d know he’s somebody!” This he repeats with different people about ten times. Good times. Me, David and Rohit get out quickly and find a bar for a drink or two. I shall not bring any slitted skirts to India next time, though I try my best not to make anything out of all the stares. We take a rickshaw home. I am tired tired tired, my everything hurts, I have a stuffed nose and my ear is beginning to complain.

August 25th, 2005
First session starts on time, which is a major success. I’m a rapporteur for this session. I thought that merely meant taking notes, but no. Apparently that also means I have to summarize what the four presentations were about. My head is swimming, and I don’t understand half of what they’re talking about. Besides, the first two presentations are on Jammu and Kashmir. I am ashamed to admit that until a few months ago I didn’t even know any Jammu existed. Second two are on history textbooks. One on historiography in India, other in Pakistan. I stand up to summarize, wondering what the bloody hell am I going to say. I remember the dialogue from the Errol Morris’s ‘Fog of War’, where McNamara says: ”Never answer the question they ask you. Answer the question you wish they asked you.” So I go on with my usual stuff on the intimate link between personal and ethnic identity, blablabla, yada yada yada, somehow link it to Kashmir and historiography. It’s like that elephant joke: Kids have to learn all sorts of animals for an exam in biology. Joey learns only about elephant. Next day he gets called on. “Joey, tell us about a cobra,” teacher tells him. “Well, cobra is a snake. Snakes are long and very much resemble a trunk of an elephant. Now elephant is a mammal that….” And Joey proceeds to tell everything that he learned about the elephant.
Good. Rohit is next. Hillel asked him to present his comics, which is refreshingly different from everything else. Afternoon panels on film and literature are good. Academic as they can get, though. In the evening there is a presentation of a bibliography on Partition. So what if there already are some? And who cares that this paper bibliography that is just alphabetically sorted is completely useless in this day and age, when people want to be able to search online? Aaaargh. Seems like a waste of time (and of our money, for it is our institute that pays for this conference).
Dinner turns out interesting again. I am discovered by a Keralite who ventured to our conference by chance. He’s one of those clingy types. Follows me everywhere, talks quietly, and smiles stupidly. A handsome man, but what a weirdo. Even St. Peter doesn’t understand what the hell it is that he’s doing for living, it sounds shady though. I manage to startle the waiters by asking for whiskey. They carry it around and offer it to all men, but if I ask for one, that’s unheard of. Getting annoyed. The leech is unshakable. I find a full table with only one seat left and plant myself there, leaving the leech hanging. He leaves eventually. Tonight, everybody gets drunk again. Except it’s much worse. Umpakaf is pounding his fist on the table yelling at the wait staff, his buddy and co-organizer Riyaz falls on the ground. Just staggers and splat! He’s flattened on the floor. Thank god most of the participants have left already. Umpakaf is sitting on a dinner table, wobbling about dangerously. We opt for a quick escape.

August 26, 2005
The last day in India. I pack in the morning and drag the suitcase, and the assorted bags along with me everywhere. I don’t have enough energy to pay attention to the conference really. I sit next to general Kuldip Singh Bajwa. A major general, not just any general. Though retired. General is an old flirt, very amusing at that. He gives me his book on Jammu and Kashmir, where he served. Goody. Next time I’ll at least know something about them. He’s a Sikh, not that it really matters. Just throwing it out there.
Rohit brings a friend Sharad for lunch. I like Sharad. He is one of them kind people. You know how somehow you can just tell that somebody is kind? Just by the way they smile and by the warmth in their eyes, some genuine aura about them. Sharad is like that. He does a comics project in rural India, and anyplace rural really. They teach villagers the drawing techniques, and villagers then tackle all sorts of social issues through this art form – from AIDS, through water conservation, untouchables, anything that needs addressing in their communities. It’s a bloody fantastic project.
I am growing steadily gloomier and quieter. Leaving in the night, I start thinking about Vienna – what the hell am I doing in Vienna – and my dissertation – why did I start writing it in the first place? Not really looking forward to go back, I’d much rather stay in Delhi for, well, forever. We go for dinner with David, Rohit, and Sharad. We decide to capture this whole bizarre conference in a comics form. Umpakaf will be the superhero. I think his main powers should be deafening lisping and some vile slimy substance that will suffocate people. At least we have a driver to drive us around, that makes up for some of it. Sharad has to run. Soon we leave, too. Drop David off at Sharon’s. Drom Rohit off at the hotel. Drop myself off at the airport… Growing grumpy. I had three drinks at the restaurant, am sick and tired. Sleep most of the way home. Come home as if not to disappoint expectations of people: dirty, smelly, sick. How one should return from India. I resolve to remain dirty and smelly for away. I refuse to wash India out of my hair just yet.

Indian Diary of a Worldly and Street-smart Traveller II.

Indian Diary of a Worldly and Street-smart Traveler II.

Friday 12th August.
I sit on my little suitcase and for the third time I try to convince the zipper to close. It doesn’t budge. Gore-tex jacket has to go. And a few this and thats, too. Finally everything is trapped inside. Mustn’t accept any gifts or buy anything bigger than a latke, I vow. I don’t know why or where I would get latkes in India anyway.
At Schwechat, I already know there is free wi-fi at the C terminal, so I gaily fire off emails to all corners of the world about my upcoming adventures. To my surprise I find out the flight from Frankfurt to New Delhi is only 7 hours long. I expected 12 or more. Good good. Journey is exceptionally uneventful, I watch some Bollywood movie about family drama involving broken hearts of a multitude of people, random dancing in the rain, shy but very very meaningful glances of couples at each other with a hint of a possibility of a kiss – the usual. I read the training manual that I, David, and Jasmine put together for trainings in India. What on Earth am I going to teach Nagas from Nagaland and business students in Kerala? Anyway, I’ll deal with that later. My only goal is to get myself from international to domestic terminal at the airport in Delhi. Should be easy enough.
I get to Delhi shortly after midnight. Collect my little ready-to-burst suitcase (did I mention that it is little, though? I am very proud that I managed to limit myself to a tiny little suitcase) and look for some signs. No signs. Great. I ask around. What airline am I flying with? Damn. If only I could remember. The worldly and street-smart traveler forgot to print the information, as well as address and phone number for Hillel and David in Delhi. “Air India”, I offer. Puzzled looks. Air India does not fly to Kolkata. I put forth the Indian Airlines instead, just wanting to get to the domestic terminal. Well, there’s a bus going from around the corner. Merrily I proceed to the bus. I need to show my flight ticket. I don’t have it. Hillel has all the tickets and I am to meet him, David and Jasmine at the check in. I curse under my breath and kick myself in the shin again for not printing out anything. I am sent upstairs to the Indian Air office at Gate 1. I drag my suitcase, computer bag and purse upstairs. Hot and humid air mixed with dust and smoke hits me immediately. Carefully I step over tens of street people sleeping on the pavement. At the Gate 1, I am again asked for the ticket. I explain that that’s why I’m there, to get a replacement, or at least some sort of a paper certifying that I am on that flight so that I can get on that bus. No no no, I must go to gate 3. From Gate 3 I am sent to Gate 4 and from there again to Gate 1. I patiently explain again. Determined not to move unless somebody helps me I stand in front of the guard silently and produce the most pleasant and helpless smile, batting my eyelashes. After awhile, he brings some Indian Air representative. It’s simple, I should just take a pre-paid taxi from downstairs, where I came from. I curse under my breath again, smile firmly cemented on my face. Downstairs again through all the sleepers. After some time I manage to exchange some money (sounds easy, but you go try it at the Delhi airport in the middle of the night) and locate the prepaid taxi. I only spent hour and a half at the international terminal and am already on my way to the domestic terminal. Hooray. I have all the time in the world, the flight leaves at 7am.
At the domestic terminal, surprise surprise, they demand the flight ticket from me. Otherwise I cannot enter. I ask the guards whether I can stand there with them for the next five hours before my colleagues come with the tickets and practice my newly learned skill of a helpless cheerful blonde. They caucus for awhile what to do with me, and finally let me in. I have to sit where they can see me. I sit down, exhausted yet wired up, excited to find out I can get online. Not five minutes pass and I am joined by a character in a white linen suit and a hat, considerably drunk and eager to talk. Well I am a courteous young lady, so with the character I talk. It seems he has spilt at least one or two full cups of coffee on himself. I am soon to understand why. He is making rounds around the terminal, buying everyone cups of coffee and chatting them up if they aren’t able to resist him. I ain’t. During our conversation he claims he is a political science professor, journalist, jazz musician, a poet, hotel owner and Lord knows what else.

I am online, so I check him out. Mr. B., who is on the other side of the instant messenger, does some detective work too. There is indeed a Baljit Malik who is a jazz singer, there are even at least two journalists by that name, who knows. He hands me his small collection of poems about jazz. They’re not bad, either. Unfortunately later he took it back and gifted it to two Brazilians sitting across from us, whom he brought into the conversation. “We will see each other soon” he explains to me. Baljit brought me three cups of coffee within the three or four hours he shared himself with me, so I am all hyper by the time Hillel and David get to the airport. People from the café give each of us a complimentary box of coffee and a cup – Baljit must have really gone to town there. Damn. First gift. No space for a box. I force it into my computer bag. Jasmine comes, we get her through the security guards, armed up to their teeth, and off we fly to Dimapur in Nagaland.

Saturday, 13th August.
Nagaland looks very Naga-like from the plane. I know the Naga are hill people, so I expect to see hills. Hills there are. Many, everywhere. There are rice paddies on the hillsides, not much else. When we land, we are surprised to see about 50 soldiers guarding the clearing around the one and only short runway with automatic rifles pointed into the fields. Naga are tribal people and there was a lot of violent history among themselves as well as between them and the Indian army, but is it that bad? Wearily we proceed to a terminal that’s even smaller than Bratislava’s (there should be a competition for the world’s smallest airport in any given capital city). Our friends are waiting for us, even though we are some two or three hours late. After we fill out a half a meter tall stack of paperwork to accompany out restricted area permits for the Naga government, Indian government, Naga intelligence services, Indian intelligence services and who knows who else, we are loaded into jeeps and off we go to the hotel. Nagaland looks very much like Nepal or Tibet to me. Not that I’ve ever been Nepal or Tibet, but that’s what I imagine Nepal and Tibet looking like. People here are Mongolic, they don’t look like Indians at all.
After what seems like weeks of traveling without sleep we check into our rooms. Our ‘deluxe suits’ are quite simple, rather run down rooms with bare floors. I meet a new friend in the bathroom – a big bug, size of a five year old child’s fist, with long antennas and a quizzical look. He likes to camp between the sink and the bathtub. We learned to tolerate each other’s presence, though after a day or two my friend started to claim the center of the bathroom and when the light bulb blew and my only source of light was from the room, I had to pay extra attention to his whereabouts.
TV in Nagaland has every channel you can think of. I fall asleep to the American Chopper episode, which I thought was a quite bizarre experience. Who’d ever thunk one could (or ever would) watch such things in a land of head hunters and giant cockroaches…

Sunday 14th August
Today we start the training. Bright and early, for nine or ten hours almost straight. Luckily we have everything more or less set up, with plenty of exercises and role plays. Nagas are very reflective people. Deeply spiritual, even though they are way too humble to admit it. Training goes well, though we have not taken the Independence Day into account. Dumb of us. Perhaps it wasn’t the best of ideas to come during the Naga Independence Day (albeit unsuccessful independence, celebrated today) and Indian Independence Day, celebrated tomorrow. Something always goes wrong on independence days. Things blow up, people protest and clash, traffic halts and life is generally annoying.
We retire to our deluxe chambers early, to keep company to our insect friends. I have a deadline for and article for SFPA, actually due days ago. Impact of G8 on Africa. I’m not sure if I know more about that then I do about Nagaland, but such is life. Tough… I watch Seinfeld and Friends – since they are on TV. It would be rude not to… I shall get back to G8 and other villains tomorrow.

Monday, 15th August
Nagaland is a dry state. Theoretically. Practically it doesn’t look any different than your typical Slovak village on any given day. Corridors in the hotel smell of beer, men stagger around with red watery eyes blabbering something paranoid. Those that are not drunk, are high. Nagaland is directly on the Silk Road, connecting India to China. Very strategic position. Especially for smuggling of drugs, arms, and prostitutes. Heroin can be exchanged here for a kilogram of salt (which is rare and in demand) and is of the purest quality. Many young people are addicted. AIDS has become the problem #1. In fact, at least one of our participants, is a former addict. Now he works with youth at the Baptist Church.

Nagas are deeply spiritual and religious. Former head hunters, they have captured their first missionaries and essentially forced them to educate the Nagas. Self-imposed conversion. The Baptist missionaries have ventured into the neighboring Manipur (or Mizoram?) in the 19th century. They were scared of the head hunters from Naga hills and did their best to stay out of their way. Once they were spotted by the Nagas though, they were done. Nagas were convinced that those white people are gods – as one of the Naga fables recounts that such deity will descend to Earth to uplift the Naga people – and naturally abducted them to teach their children. Quite an inventive approach towards shortage of teachers problem. Soon enough the Baptist Church was everywhere in Nagaland. Today over 90% of the Naga are Baptist. Christian religion is strangely close to the old Naga tales – you will find stories about a tower very much like Babel, that lead to the fragmentation of Naga people into tribes with different languages, or a story about the flood which only one ship with the Naga people survived… Bible was a hit, actually still is.

I have time to sit and ponder all of this, because our participants are late today. The public transportation is out of business for today. It’s a security measure. Nagas don’t like the Indian Independence day, which is the day when they were forced into the Indian Union against their will. Things are messy within India itself. A bomb blast here, a riot there, five people’s throats slashed over elsewhere… We just have to hope nobody will think of kidnapping us silly Westerners in order to make some sort of a statement against India today. Mental note: never come to Nagaland during the Independence Day again. Finally we assemble and start another training marathon, until late in the evening. I’m not sure how much are our trainees getting out of it, as we stuff concept upon concept into them. Debates are good though.
In the evening, we are taken to meet with an army general who had his back and legs broken in 1980s with a rifle butt. Nagaland was in war with India for over 50 years. Now he’s trying to negotiate peace with India. Unfortunately the Naga demands include a condition of including what they consider Naga territories into the future semi-independent or autonomous Nagaland (whatever the arrangement with India will be). That would leave the neighboring Manipur with some 10% of their current territory, and carve significant chunks out of other four neighboring states.

For dinner we are taken to one of our trainees’ house. Her tribe is from an area close to Bangladeshi border. A group of Chiung men came to sing us their songs. They’re all decked out in their traditional black and red costumes with white sea shells. Those are interesting, since Nagaland is perfectly landlocked. There are theories that Naga are actually related to people from Papua New Guinea and New Zealand. They ventured towards Nagaland overseas, camping on the ocean side for a few centuries before they moved inland in the first few centuries AD. That would make sense, Papuans are former head hunters, too. Even their languages are said to be related.



Singing is very interesting. Melodic, with deep harmonies. Every now and then someone yelps or hollers some sort of a warrior cry, startling the living daylights out of me. We eat traditional Naga food, which involves lots of rice and meat. Less spicy than Indian food, more of a comfort food.
I can see how saturated the next two weeks will be. Must brace for it. Tomorrow we head into Kohima – city up in the mountains. We are pretending to be tourists, for our entry permit is for tourism. Somebody ‘cleaned’ my room. That means somebody invaded my private space and wreaked havoc within my orderly mess. Every little last sock is folded, everything I had out is neatly stuffed into somewhere. Where it doesn’t belong. Arrrgh. I pack my little suitcase again, mier nich dir nicht this time (no pretense of any design to my packing) and close it purely due to my resolve and faith and hope that I didn’t pack my cockroach friend or any lizard into it. I vow to be more orderly and keep my suitcase closed.

Wien...dex

Vienna is not without shortcomings, no. If it were, it would be unbearably perfect. I have learnt that those free open air classical music concerts with food and beer stands happen every night. And there are also open air movie screenings - BYOPicnic. Just like that. Here and there, scattered around the parks of Vienna. Tfoooey! What city behaves like that? Next thing you know they'll have free wireless all around town. Wait, they actually do. There is café upon café with free wireless connection... Vienna is the number one city in the world when it comes to hot spots. Dayum! It's been all this time right under my nose, a mere hour away from Bratislava, and nobody informed me about all these wonders.

I was thus happy to see that every major tourist attraction is under reconstruction. A sign of humanity. Scaffoldings, noise, dust... a breath of fresh air to me. Naturally buildings are cloaked with large sheets that depict exactly how the building will be reconstructed, but that don't fool me. American tourists peeking above and under the fences, dropping their safari hats and even themselves into dust.

A foreigner like me may find another thing puzzling, riding the Strassenbahn around town. And I am not referring to the fact that the trams are running on time, exactly down to the last second. In fact, if they're just a little ahead of themselves according to the schedule, tram will just sit at a stop until it's the right time to go. No. I'm talking about all the Burg Theaters and their mysterious connection to 'Kasinos'. “Burgtheater Im Kasino”. What on Earth…? Now, there are two possible explanations. Either the Viennese theatre goers are unnaturally attracted to gambling (or it’s a matter of status to be seen in one…) or, as my friend Walter from Germany maintains, ‘Kasino’ stands for a cafeteria. Originally it described an officers’ mess, then it was used to mark any public cafeteria. I reckon Walter would know, he’s German. But why do Viennese have a dining hall in every single theatre? That puzzles me.

I went to look at an apartment today. I had aid of an interactive map online. Everything was perfect. I found it on the screen easily, printed the map with location circled, grabbed the papers, went. Even gave myself a full half hour to find the place, though it was not far. I crossed the Danube channel and headed left, just like the map showed. Went for awhile, way longer than seven minutes Zwetelina said it would take. I scrutinize the map. The bastard that calls itself my loyal computer printed a map for Groß Schiftgasse instead of Groß Stadtguttgasse…. Needless to say….I was late. Half an hour late. I am cursed and I resign to fate. I will always be late. No matter what I do and how hard I try. I’m just not wired to be on time. It was a charming decrepit old house with an overgrown courtyard. Apartment was renovated and nice, visit uneventful. On the way back to the Institute though, I met a dead man. I am not sure if it qualifies as a meeting technically. I suppose that to meet someone would require the other person be alive and cognizant, but in any case I at least saw a dead man. Or a dead looking man. Right in front of the Institute (which reminds me, that I can now officially sing:”Root-eee-tooot, root-eee-toot, I’m the girl from institute…but that’s another digression and a looong story ) at the U stop. Two men on a bench, one sitting, one plopped down on the bench. One red if not outright purple, very much oblivious to the outside world including his friend, focusing only on his bottle with a blue substance, very much like Windex. All he cared about was not letting go off that bottle, which a passerby tried to pry out. His friend was neither red nor purple. He was very much gray with dark and yellowish circles around his eyes. Young man. Still clutching the windex in his hand. The same passerby was feeling his pulse, calling ambulance. I heroically walked on by…

At the Institute I was already late for a meeting that nobody told me about… It was an important one, too. We met to agree that we’ll meet every week… Harrumph. I go up to my office. I have a deadline of all deadlines tomorrow, need to finish one million training modules and then some bibliographies and role plays. So I decorate my office and sit down to write my blog. Now off to the stinking train to commence my two hour long commute home. And yes, everybody does stink. Again. What is up with you, fellow country persons? They also start pulling out food as soon as their butt hits the seat. Home made sandwiches… garlic and onion fill the air. Must take the fast train, one with the good looking people next time.

Got home OK. My mother is still getting used to having me around again. She cooked a salmon soup and a complicated zucchini concoction. She serves me as if I was a prime minister of some semi-important country. Even washes the dishes after me, which is making me a little nervous. I mean, the woman gives me money, cooks and cleans without hesitation. Who does that? She even asks how my day was and listens intently. Dad is not so thrown out of his element. We make civilized conversations as he passes to and from kitchen to get his wine spritzer. Now there’s an idea. I’m sure all my projects will proceed more gaily and speedily with some wine to accompany me. Yes. It doesn’t sound that bad to work anymore. Just one more glass and I can whip out a training module in a jiffy. Just watch!

Wiener Zeitung

I missed the bus no. 61 AGAIN. Kicking myself in the shin, berating myself for the incorrigible lateness-o-holism. Was it really that crucial to locate the mascara? I wait for good fifteen minutes. I resign to my fate and start looking around. It is the first time that I have the opportunity to evaluate the progress of my fellow countrypersons in a year. Got home just last Thursday, but other than my sister's brand new house, I didn't go anywhere.  Men all seem to be ready to head for the mountains. They wear, invariably so, khaki shorts of obscure lengths with gigantic pockets and awkward shirts of all patterns and colors. Many are greasy and stink. Oh boy. I glance at the watch. 8:18. I won't make the 8:32 train from the main train station.  Bus comes, I take it to the city, switch buses. I am now headed to the bus station. There is a bus to Vienna at 9am.  I get there at 8:50.  There still is a stand with lángos, fried dough with garlic, oil and salt, in front of it. Ever since I was a kid. I stand in line for a bus ticket. I have ten minutes. Good.  The lady in front of me asks for 4 adult and 6 child tickets. Not good. Each of them takes an eternity to print. Then she proceeds to count luggage they will have. She describes every single piece of luggage in detail and haggles with the woman at the ticket counter whether she needs tickets for the luggage, too. Grrrrrrrr. Three minutes. My turn.  I am told the bus is full, but of course.  2,700 nerve cells died for no reason.  I head out again. This time to the Petržalka train station. Goal: train at 10:04am.  I will never ever be late again, I swear!  This is a new train station, quite nice, for Slovakia anyway. I proceed to the counter. It dawned on me that I have no Slovak money. Damn fool. There's an ATM. Nope, my card STILL doesn't work, even though I called and yelled at my bank on Friday.  I ask if I can pay with a card. I can! Hmm, progress after all. I scuttle out of sight quickly, for I know as a fact, that this transaction is most likely not authorized by the Bank of America.  The only other ordeal to deal with is the passport control.  I left my only valid passport at the Indian Embassy, it will wait there for a week to be adorned with Indian visa. I did have another valid passport, but that I lost four days before flying home. Another fun story, but I digress. I have a passport that says it's valid until 2007, but it has been terminated. They only let me keep it because I have tourist visa to America in it.  I put on my poker face. Do I have a poker face? Mr. B. says that's my usual look, so I try to look most casually. The Slovak officer glances at my passport with unfeigned boredom.  The Austrian officer scrutinizes every page of it. He enters the numbers into the computer. Cold sweat appears on my temples. He stares into my passport for what seems like an eternity. He hands it back, I scuttle out of sight again, breaking my legs to get on the train, before his computer tells him I'm an illegitimate intruder.  I'm in! I'm in!  Lesson learnt: I will never ever be late again, and I will get organized. Apply for visa well in advance, have passports in order, and stop losing them.

People come on the train. The good looking people. People that work in Vienna (hey, that's me too, now!).  Not the people from trams and buses who need an Army of Mercy equipped with portable showers and sensible clothing.  I am, however, painfully reminded of one of the reasons why I left this country… PLASTIC BAGS!  There is a model on a next seat, some professional working woman on another, business man, another two models (or they all at least look like models to me). Each has a few plastic bags.  They must have a special lure to a common Slovak. They don't seem to be able to ignore them for five minutes. There is always something to be fetched from a plastic bag.  All of the contents in a plastic bag are naturally stored in smaller plastic bags, so each befetched item produces endless rustling.  A true hell for a sensory defensive (read neurotic) individual. It's an iPod time. It will be an iPod time very often in the next six months, I'm afraid.  The fields between Vienna and Bratislava are filled with wind mills. What are the Cape Codians complaining about? They should come visit. Vienna on the horizon. Hmmm.  Mixed feelings. Well, Vienna, here I come, whether I like it or not!

~*~*~

It took Vienna less than 10 hours to win me over.  I am a convert. I love Vienna. Not that it doesn't throw logs under a non-german speaking foreigner's feet (another of true slovakisms). I got off the train at Südbanhoff, looked around for information. None. Looked around for a map. Also none.  I pulled out my little outdated map of Vienna, figured out where I am and where I need to go. OK, I'll get there. I have to.  Located a tram stop. One of the trams goes to Wien Mitte. There's a subway there, that has to work. Now where does one buy tickets for these trams? Not at the tram stop, I can tell you that. I ask a pleasant looking man (a Wiener?), he speaks no English. I ask another young man, no English. Harrumph. Finally I see a row of machines, inside the train station, I go to explore. I'm in luck and purchase a day ticket.  Hooray.  I get to the Institute without major hassles, but tired and overwhelmed. Mrs. Maria is waiting for me already. The Institute with, to me, still unpronounceable name, is located on a branch of the Danube river in an old neighborhood smack in the center of Vienna. It is surrounded by trees and parks with benches.  Mrs. Maria proves to be a true Austrian quickly:" I have zese animls krowling in from ze outside. Zey bite me. Usually I kill zem quick, but some of zem still bite me."  That may be a gross exaggeration, as her and everybody's English is perfect, but it made me smirk nonetheless. My office faces a courtyard, it's large with artsy light fixtures under the tall tall ceilings. Great place to work.  After a few hours I drag myself to the Pension Gaber where I'm staying for two nights.  Another charming, Prague-like neighborhood, but I am beyond exhausted. Need to rest.  After an hour of just staring at the ceiling, unable to nap, I convince myself to go explore Vienna just a little. I'm glad I did.  After five minutes of walking, I hear music. I come across the Rathaus.  Everybody's there, the whole of Vienna. There is a large screen TV affixed on the Rathaus wall showing Beethoven's concert live. Rows of chairs of people watching.  Just behind them is a huge area with food stands, beer, mixed drinks… some sort of a food festival.  Absolutely wonderful. It reminds me of the Christmas open markets in Bratislava, except there's music and one doesn't have to shiver in a fur coat and keep oneself alive with rum and tea. I get a Kebab Kuhobi and a beer, watch people for a long time.  Walking through the quiet streets back to the Pension, I feel utterly excited. Maybe it won't be such a drag after all, this whole fellowship business. If only I can trick someone into writing my thesis for me…

perfect moments

Sometimes time stops and life concentrates into a perfect moment. Phone can ring itself off the hook, eggs can burn into shriveled pieces of charcoal, boss can be upset about missing a deadline... Nothing matters. Sometimes it is enough to warm up in the sun, soak all of its incredible energy through hungry, winter-starved pores of your skin and lean your head on a shoulder of a beautiful wonderous creature reading the Sunday paper next to you. Sometimes it is enough just to be. Sometimes you remember, if only for a few minutes, why you were put into this world.

The perils of spinsterhood

I am getting the hang of it. I really am. I am not disturbed to wake up alone to an empty apartment, to make coffee for myself, to read the paper in a heaven-sent silence, to hop around to music that I please to choose, even if it's, god forbid, the Prince or Fatboy Slim. I adore working on my own hours, getting to the office in the afternoon and staying until everyone sane is asleep. I enjoy being somewhat secluded. I have been doing this for quite awhile, enjoying every minute of it.
Then my mother, the family therapist, who is frighteningly *always* right, comes to visit. Quite observant, she is. She nods to my daily routine, as if to say "yup, I know what's going on here...". I am suspicious, but too busy trying to provide her with a good time in the foreign land that became her daughter's home. A few days after she departs, she writes me this pensive email, tying the moments from her youth before she met my dad to my present, which is, for the record, miles and kilometers away from any of her realities. She shares her concern about my comfort with being alone. "You should seek out male company" she concludes, matter of factly, but nonetheless, repeatedly.
Most mothers urge their children to be prudent. Reserved, judicious, good mannered. Not my mother. "Don't worry what anyone will think. Go out and have some fun. Live a little!" is my mother's, the family therapist's, who is frighteningly always right, heartfelt advice.
It threw me somewhat off base. For the first time I realized I may meet a different fate than I envisioned since I was a kid. And that it wouldn't be the end of the world if I did. In fact, it would be quite alright. Even more, it would be quite a tempting scenario. I thought I arrived at a point of perfect peace and harmony with myself.
Few nights ago I had a dream. I believe she is entirely to blame. I dreamt I was in my bed, just like I was, in the same position I was. I dreamt I awoke of a sudden chest pain. I could not breathe and I could not move. The cell phone was just inches out of reach. I couldn't get to it. I tried to call out my housemate's name, but my voice wasn't strong enough. I knew I was having a heart attack. "If only I had a mate," I thought, "I would not have to be found dead in three days rotting away, reeking to high heavens, decomposing into green and yellow heaps of decaying flesh, by roommates who are utterly innocent, creeping them out and certainly scarring them for the rest of their lives. I would have someone to call my parents and arrange a funeral in decency. Crap, this just stinks. This ain't fair and I can't do didley squat about it."
As I think this, I lie in my bed, realizing I'm breathing OK. Then I find out the chest pain is gone. It takes an eternity to settle the question whether I am alive or dead. I try my voice. It is there. Alive. Phew. I have no idea when I woke up, but I obviously did. What's one to do. I got up, poured myself a glass of merlot. I don't really like it, but it's for free, leftover from the seminar at work. I like that thought. One teensy bit of the real world. I browse through a2k until I'm bleary-eyed. I climb back to bed, ever so cautiously. I put the cell phone under my pillow, just in case. I leave the door crack open. Thinking happy thoughts: swimming in a summer lake, running across a corn field with Basha. Thump, thump. The heart' fine. I'll live at least until the morning. Then I can crawl to the living room. They would find me there the same evening. I wouldn't look that awful by then. And heck, if I'm lucky, I may even be fine for a few more weeks, months, years even. My eyelids get heavier. Damn the mothers who are frighteningly always right!