Say It With Your Mouth.

Plane rides aren’t associated with relaxation and calming. Plane rides to Kashmir? Even less so.

Our plane connected in Jaipur, a wonderful city. But this connection should have been Red Flag #3: a lot of people got off the plane, nobody got back on.

But on we flew to Kashmir.

Let me tell you, the first time you see the Himalayas, whether it be on land or from the sky, your breath literally leaves your body. When those mountains hit your eyes and you realize that you’re looking at one of the most iconic places in the world, one of the most picturesque, one of the most astounding, the amount of blessing and good fortune you feel upon you is breathtaking.

When we made it to the airport in Jammu, the pilot announced that there was some sort of holdup that prevented us from landing. He assured us it wouldn’t take long, and we’d be able to land soon. It took awhile, but soon I figured out that I had seen the same Himalaya at least fifteen times.

Suddenly, the plane went quiet. Now, I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure those things need engines that don’t shut off mid-flight. (Recently someone assured me that the pilot was most likely preparing to land. I didn’t have this info at the time, so I stand by my original interpretation.) I decided I wasn’t afraid to die; India kind of takes out fear of the unknown pretty quickly. But I did look around to see who would share this experience. My friend was sound asleep, the people behind me were sleeping. My only companion would be the wide-eyed 4-year-old in front of me. He stayed awake to look at the Himalayas, so I thought this could work out.

Luckily, our plane didn’t crash. I did, however, see something shoot up off the ground waaaaay in the distance. It was a big black rectangular thing with a smoke trail. It shot straight up at first, then quickly changed course and shot straight out to the side. It came from just over the mountains, or on the mountains, I couldn’t quite tell. I assume from the Pakistani side, judging by our position.

Right then and there, I thought that if I did die, at least I would die after seeing the Himalayas, in one of the most beautiful places on Earth.

We left for our trip super early in the morning, before the sun was even up.

And before we even got to the airport to fly to Jammu, we already encountered two very bad omens.

The first was completely our fault. A pesky mosquito kept buzzing around our heads in the backseat of our cab. Let’s face it: mosquitos suck when you’re fully awake. When you’ve been up all night packing and finishing papers and preparing for a two-week trip, mosquitos suckass.

So what did we do? We killed that heifer. Smashed it right into the cab window. Where it exploded. Just. Lovely.

My companion and I exchanged looks, wondering if it was our blood that just popped all over the window and feeling that while the mosquito got its due justice, we would pay for this. If I had learned anything about India, it was that this is a country of true karma, and no one is immune to the magic.

When we reached the airport highway, I felt that familiar gnawing in my stomach. That start-of-a-new-adventure feeling that tells you to prepare for the most amazing experience ever, but that also makes you wanna throw up in your mouth.

And then I saw something that really did make me wanna throw up: a dead man lying the road.

I couldn’t help but feel like this was a sign, a warning. I wondered if we should turn back. In retrospect, we would’ve avoided quite a bit of stress and trauma. But we would’ve missed a true test of our courage, and we wouldn’t have nearly as many amazing stories.

All this seem a tad insignificant? Remember it. Remember the Indian magic. It figures in to every single story I’ll tell you, every single place we traveled. It all comes back to the mosquito.

So. Slack though I’ve been on Tumblr, I haven’t been slacking on finding adventure. Two days ago, I got back from a two-week trip from northwestern India all the way back down south. And boy, do I have some stories.

We left March 30th, bright and early, to fly to Jammu. From Jammu, we took a shared taxi to Srinagar. (Just for clarification, this is in Kashmir, the place with the second-highest terrorism rate in the world.) We spent three full days in Srinagar, two of these days complete with day trips to Pahalgam and Gulmarg, where you can access the Line of Control separating India from Pakistan. After Srinagar, we took a shared taxi back to Jammu, then a bus to Pathankot, then a bus to Banoi, a small village near Dharamsala and McLeod Ganj, the seat of the Tibetan government in exile. After two days here, we bused it back to Pathankot then to Amritsar to see the Golden Temple and the Wagah border. That same night, we took an overnight train to Delhi. That afternoon, we took a bus to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. The next day, we took a bus to Jaipur. A couple hours later, we took a train to Jaisalmer to spend a few days in the desert on some camels. Then reverse: train to Jaipur. After two days here, we took a train down to Mumbai, spent two hours there, then took a train back to Hyderabad.

Now. Let all of that settle in. 10 cities. 17 total days of travel. At least 118 hours in cars, trains, or buses. For the next few days, I’ll be posting all of the adventures and near-missadventures (get it? near-miss/misadventures?) that we encountered on our trip.

Oh. And by the way. It was just me and one other chick. A blonde one. Running crazy through the bus routes and railroads of India for nearly three weeks. All by our lonesomes. This detail becomes crucial. Remember it.

With all the debate back home about birth control and its relationships to womens’ rights and religious freedom, let me tell you a little story about getting birth control in India. Then I’ll tell you how America’s approaching this whole issue in the complete wrong way.

Already fighting an infection and a cold, I waited in 97-degree weather for close to an hour for a bus that never came to go to the health center on campus, only to be criticized and insulted on my decision to use birth control.

The doctor repeatedly asked me what reason I had to use contraceptives. Was my family here with me? I said no. So where were my husband and children? I’m not married. I’m not married, yet I’m using birth control? No response. So I’m in India to sleep with Indian men?

Insert wrath of Sarah here.

The stereotypes Indians hold about American women are both disgusting and untrue. Based on the media they see, it’s commonly believed that we’re sexually openminded and down for whatever with whoever. Most people don’t acknowledge that our society simply operates differently. We exhibit greater tolerance in general. We don’t have a choice; America is not comprised of a homogenous people. Wearing knee-length shorts means we have diverse clothing options, not that we’re sluts. Hugging male friends in public means it’s culturally acceptable to hug our male friends in public, not that we have multiple sexual partners.

But no one has ever overtly said that they believe us to be this way. Their actions more than show it, but they don’t say it. Until I came across this woman.

I have never been outrightly accused of coming to this country for the sole purpose of having sex with multiple Indian men. I told her I was here only for study. Which means I must have sex with multiple American men back home. Otherwise what need is there for birth control?

With the door to her office wide open, with English-speaking patients just outside, she berated me—a fellow woman—for a choice she knows nothing about. I tried to explain that birth control is seen differently in America, that it’s used to make your skin clearer or your periods more regular. But that must be nonsense, because I’m “over-drugging my body” and “birth control should only be used for married couples.”

Humiliated and pissed off, I cut her off, something I rarely do. I asked her point blank: can I get my injection (I’m on the shot) or do I need to go somewhere else? I’m a strong believer in cultural relativism: it’s both stupid and unfair to judge someone else’s cultural practices or beliefs by my own. I pride myself on not backing down on my own moral and ethical opinions, but still recognizing that this is not my homeland and I have no right to push those opinions on a single person here. But that doctor crossed the line in the worst way. She didn’t just insult me, she insulted my country. How dare she assume that we purposefully would come to India with the sole intention of having sex. I would love to have the same liberty to make generalizations of an equal caliber about these men I supposedly came here to seduce. But my country taught me that such behavior is unacceptable, reflects more on the speaker than the subject, and is characteristic of the misinformed. And I strongly believe that.

(I was able to get the shot. After the doctor turned away from me and refused to look at me, she gestured to her right and gave me vague directions as to who might administer the injection. The woman who did was incredibly nice, did not question my purpose, and did not call me a whore. She won cool points. Close to a thousand.)

In the first doctor’s defense, she was older, likely more old-fashioned, and probably hasn’t come across many Americans. Not to mention the “facts” taught to students here aren’t accurate (one student thought America and Canada were one big country). And I can’t blame her for her beliefs on birth control, particularly one licensed by the FDA for use in India but not approved for its own Americans. Maybe it was genuine concern for my health and/or my reputation. Maybe she just caught me on a bad day. It’s not easy to be white here; sometimes it gets to me.

But I don’t feel like that’s a legitimate excuse. Particularly when the double-standard of they can say what they want about Americans, literally whatever they want, but we can neither defend ourselves nor comment on Indian social customs, is so prevalent in Hyderabad.

Moral of the story: There’s a limit to the amount of disrespect and prejudice and stereotyping I can take. Everyone back in the States complaining about the birth control section of Obamacare, you need to stop. On both sides. The choice to use—or not use—birth control is a personal decision that the government needs to leave alone. Those who support forcing people to provide funds for birth control, you live in a country with diverse religious beliefs. Start respecting them. Just because liberals are the most vocal in the media this week, doesn’t mean they are the only ones with valid opinions. Everyone in opposition, fight harder. For most of you, this is a religious question. For the rest, it’s a matter of personal freedom. Giving up on either of those fronts is truly a defeat on your part, one that you may very well have aided.

I’ve never more strongly believed in the need for women to make their own choices about their bodies. But I won’t cave on moral issues. One so personal as ingesting hormones should not be decided upon by an all-male, highly biased panel. If a woman wants birth control, she’ll find a way to get it. It’s free at health departments, and it’s cheap with insurance. If she doesn’t want birth control, she won’t take it. And if her religion tells her birth control is bad and she believes that, it likely tells her that premarital sex is immoral as well, so it’s entirely possible there’s no need for her to be on birth control in the first place.

Bottom line: this debate is rooted in people’s core values, things they should never be asked to compromise. Which means the government should back off. Including birth control at all was a stupid move. Politicians should have known the kind of damage that would do. Do away with requiring employers to pay for birth control entirely. A member of the Senate cited bolstering the economy and encouraging employment as a reason for paying for birth control. Newsflash: asking companies to pay for even more is not going to make it easier for them to hire more people. We don’t need encouragment to accept job offers; we need jobs to accept. You guys are trying to fix something that was never broken, and in doing so, you’re ignoring the real problems. But props to you on being ineffective.

Tirade over. :)

In 45 minutes, the group from Duke University will head back to America. They got here in October for a program that began back in the States and will finish back in the States. The interim was filled with Indian classes, Indian adventures, and American exchange students who will miss them dearly.

I have separation anxiety issues as it is. Life is topsy-turvy; my friends and I are revolving doors in each others’ lives. We’re always there, but not always there there. And then I come to India, knowing I’ll meet a multitude of people who will change my life, not expecting some of those life-changers to peace out so soon.

So, Rachel, Yvette, Katya, Sonam, and Alikiah: know that all of us back at Tagorgy (saw that on the roof) will miss the crap out of you. You are some truly amazing people who accomplished wonderful things during your time here. From the migrant school sign that Sonam showed to Bhavani the night you guys left, to having conversations in Hindi with auto drivers on the way back from church, to surviving however many months in India—you’ve definitely made your mark on Tagore, HCU, India, and all of us.

I pray you guys have safe travels all the way to your comfy, not-rock-hard beds and that India was more than what you wanted it to be and everything you needed it to be. Don’t forget the little people you left behind. :) We miss you.

(BTW. Reunions are already in talks. Get ready. We’re taking over.)

Remember the Nigerian man from the mall?

After I mentioned my love for African food, he offered to cook for us. We weighed the pros and cons, pros being free, delicious food and an adventure, cons being going to a complete stranger’s house in India. Just BTW: adventure always wins.

We peaced out right after our Hindi class, all dressed up and cute, and met one of them at the train station near their apartment. When we got to their flat (I get to use British terms here; it’s great), we could hear the music from inside blaring all the way outside. Part of me felt right at home. Another part of me remembered that these were still strange men in India.

Boy, were our suspicions wrong. They weren’t sketch at all. There were three of them, and they were all gentlemen. They brought us chairs, served our dinner, and bought us ice cream and water. Our dinner consisted of a giant ball of wheat and some chili-type stuff that was soooooo good. They told us we were Africans for the night and took away our forks. Then one of them informed us we were eating the wrong way: we were chewing our food. Apparently you swallow the wheat-dipped-in-sauce whole, which sparked the quote used as the title (white people, however, do choke, hence the reason for our chewing). Even if the rest of the night hadn’t happened, it still would’ve been one of my top experiences in India, just because of the food.

But for the next three hours, we danced. Nothing nasty, nothing with expectations. Just fun. I even took my pashmina off, revealing my—GASP!—spaghetti-strap tank top. And guess what? Nobody gave a rat’s ass one way or the other.

I can’t even begin to tell you how refreshing that is. To have even one night where guys weren’t trying to get in our pants, where a good time in the clean sense of the term was the only thing anybody cared about, to be a girl with boy friends without having to worry about anyone’s perceptions—it was necessary. Very necessary. I kept drawing parallels to Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books by Azar Nafisi. In her book, Nafisi talks about her students coming into her home and removing their veils to reveal individual women, different women, real women. We got a moment like that, finally. White skin, black skin, shoulders, shirts that didn’t cover our hips, Western dancing, all of it in one room under one roof, none of it an issue. We got to be us again.

“Fun is good.”

- Dr. Seuss

I cannot even begin to describe the amazingity that is a spa day in India.

For one of the girls’ birthdays, she planned a trip to a fairly inexpensive spa near campus. Our driver picked us up at 8:30, bright and early. He was on time. He was careful. Everything went smoothly—until he took us to the wrong spa.

He pulled up to a hotel in a ritzy part of Hyderabad. We thought maybe we had gotten the name of the spa wrong, so we went through the hotel and up to the floor which housed the spa. Definitely the wrong spa.

So we head back out to the front of the hotel, where our driver said he’d wait for us in case it wasn’t the right location. He wasn’t there. We mosey over to the parking garage, where we realize that we have absolutely no idea of knowing where he might have gone. Plus we had already paid him.

As we made our way out of the security gate and onto the road in front of the hotel, our driver pulls up. Thank goodness. He was super nice. He tried to help us find the correct spa and even talked to the spa receptionist on the phone to find out directions. Apparently it was 50 km away. (Someone in the hotel told us that, too, when we asked about our spa. But we didn’t believe them.) So we said eff it and went back to the hotel.

And I am so glad we did.

The place was gorgeous, and the employees were so nice. We spent at least half an hour picking out what we wanted. When we finished, the receptionist took us out to the pool area. And OMG. The spa had its own doorway leading to the deck. Its own DOORWAY. A cube with a door in it in the middle of the pool deck just for the spa. They had those giant circle beds and those chairs with the canopies over them. Plus a disappearing edge pool. Complete with pigeons and a view of the lake.

After awhile, the same woman came back to get us. She showed us to the changing room, consisting of: lockers, two showers with rain showerheads, a room with a chair in it, a bathroom, two vanity spaces (one with sinks, one with hairdryers and a bench), a jacuzzi, and a steam room. We got bathrobes, these weird granny panties, shoes, shower caps, the whole nine.

When we finished taking pictures of everything, we put on these huge towels and went into the steam room. Boy, was that interesting. Very steamy. There were these tiny mosaic tiles everywhere—the floor, ceiling, benches. There were also lights in the ceiling that changed colors like a Christmas tree.

The woman came to get us again, this time to have us change into the bathrobes and meet our massage therapists. They took us to a “blue room,” as we called it, to sit in super comfy chairs while we waited for like two seconds for them to call us back. (I forgot to mention that two of them had been called in to work especially for us. There were only two working already, and we had four in our group.)

I started by picking out which oil I wanted for my massage and confirming that I wasn’t allergic to any of what they would use for my facial. Then it was time to get it poppin’. I had a thirty-minute back massage that was absolutely wonderful. After the massage, the woman held up the giant towel used for modesty purposes. I thought she was telling me to put my robe back on, so I got up and made my way to my robe. I was not about to get a facial in nothing but my skivvies. Turns out I can’t take direction. She wanted me to turn over onto my back. I was going to LAY DOWN for my facial. What. The. Eff?! How pampered can you get? Part of me was mad at myself for blowing my I-do-this-all-the-time-your-spa-is-nothing-compared-to-where-I-usually-go cover. An even bigger part (pretty much 99.9% of me) was still beyond pumped and in shock about the whole experience.

The facial was so relaxing, I fell asleep. The last thing I remember is thinking how good it smelled that I wanted to lick the part that had gotten on my lip, but how the therapist might think it strange if I ate the facial. Then I thought I shouldn’t go to sleep because I wouldn’t remember the facial. Then she massaged my feetsies, and it was lights out. I mean, seriously. An hour-long facial? Yeah. I passed out.

After I got dressed, the massage therapist led me back to the changing room and turned the jacuzzi on for me. I didn’t bring any sort of swimsuit, so I didn’t bother getting in. I did, however, take a million pictures of myself post-massage before experiencing the most amazing shower ever. After that, I again took a million more pictures.

I ended up stuffing a washcloth, the undergarments (they’re hilarious; you would’ve taken them too), and of course the bathrobe into my purse before I left. I would’ve snagged a towel too, but it wouldn’t fit.

After the spa, we went to find food. We were starving. The birthday girl had a particular restaurant in mind, but it ended up being closed, as Monday was a holiday. So we went over to the mall instead.

Our first stop was a bookstore/cafe, where we got snacks. Then we went over to Subway for real food. On the way, I met a man from Nigeria. We weren’t able to talk much, since my group was on a mission for sandwiches, but he seemed pretty cool.

Corny as it sounds, while I was in line, I literally prayed that we’d meet up again if it would be a positive thing. I was so excited to meet someone from Africa again and find another foreigner in India who was still foreign to me. And sure enough, while eating my sub, he and his friend walked around the corner. I couldn’t tell if they noticed us; I couldn’t quite see from where I was sitting. But then they turned around and left. I thought to myself, “Not a nice trick, G-d. Not nice at all.”

But wait! They came back again! And this time over to our table. We talked for a bit, I gave them my number, and that was that. Mission accomplished.

After lunch, the four of us stopped for ice cream then went back up to the bookstore. I got another drink (the first was a strawberry shake, this one a strawberry iced tea), a book about two twins separated from the mother during the partition (sounds cheerful, right?), and presents for a special baby cousin of mine.

We even made it to the train station in enough time to make it back thirty minutes before dinner. All in all, I’d say it was a success.

Before I get started, let me just say this will be my third try trying to tell you about Gokarna. Let’s see if Tumblr lets me this time around…

At the end of last month, a group of us made our way to Karnataka, a state to the southeast of Andhra Pradesh. We were in search of Gokarna, one of the top six beaches in India.

Our journey began with a quick trip to Subway, followed by a walk to the bus stop. Which wasn’t a legit bus stop. Our ticket gave the following landmark: near the Axis Bank. No bus station, no benches. Just us and the bank.

The bus was a semi-sleeper and at first seemed rather luxurious. The seats reclined, they had foot rests, there was a television, a sound system, AC. I thought we had it made.

Wrong.

We chose the back row so we could sit together and dominate the rear portion of the bus. We also got our butts handed to us for the duration of the 11-hour trek. The back seats don’t recline as far; two don’t recline at all. There is no foot rest. I chose the middle seat. Unbeknownst to me, the middle seat is a piece of crap. I decided not to count the number of times I was almost thrown face-first into the aisle due to our bus driver’s finesse behind the wheel. I’m pretty sure he was speeding (not at all surprising) and halfway to positive that we were off-roading for a bit. I resolved to write an instruction manual for tourists who find themselves trapped in such a situation. After a few hours of testing different safety maneuvers, I learned that the only way to prevent death by middle seat is to prop your feet up on the top of the chair diagonally in front of you. You also have lean back kinda sideways against the armrest behind you and just hope the Canadian you’re sitting beside doesn’t mind you getting all up in his arm space.

(Needless to say, on the way back I bee-lined for the seat between the middle and the edge. Not as much falling out, and I could still recline.)

Our bus had made a few stops along the way, and we assumed these were for bathroom purposes. Wrong again. Apparently some of these may have actually been legit get-off-the-bus-you’ve-reaced-your-destination stops. Well we missed ours. By about 200 km. Because they don’t announce the town in which they’ve stopped. So at about 6:00 AM, we stood outside of a shop in the middle of some houses and palm trees and looked a little lost for a bit.

Not to be deterred, we finally did make our way to Kumta, where we were supposed to get off before. It took two buses (one that said it went to Kumta but really didn’t, and one that really did go to Kumta) before we got to board our fourth bus of the day to Gokarna.

Man, was it worth the trip. We walked through the absolutely breathtaking town down to the beach. From the first beach, we caught a boat to Kudle Beach, where we stayed for two nights. I was beyond thrilled to be back on a for-real sand-covered beach and away from the city.

Once we got to the shore, we made our way to the hotel where we had reservations. They swore up and down we didn’t. So we found another one. And this one was even better. A little more expensive ($4 per person per night), we stayed in a blue beachfront hotel run by two British ladies who turned out to be quite interesting. Palm trees grew in the middle of an open area that served as a front porch of sorts. A cabana was off to the side. The boys ended up sleeping here, and the girls shared one bed in an actual room. The room resembled the place where we stayed on our first night in Tanzania, even down to the mosquito net over the bed.

For the next three days, literally all of my activities consisted of laying on the sand, swimming in the Arabian Sea, and eating cheap, delicious seafood. I sunbathed in a tank top and boyshorts (closest thing I had to a bathing suit); no one stared or gawked at my Americanness. We sang songs in the sand to the sounds of our resident guitar player. I had breakfast just after sunrise and got up close and personal with a cow, all at the same time. Perfect much?

Over and over again it hit me that this is really my life now: going on vacation to the Arabian Sea just because I can. You never think that will happen. Never. You always comment on the people who somehow make that a reality, to live in these exotic places and go to even more exotic places to relax, because their lives are so stressful in the first place. But somehow I did it. All of us did it. That was the best part of the entire trip: waking up in paradise and knowing it’s not a dream.

I mean…I watched the sun set on the Arabian Sea.

How cool is that?

**By the way, Tumblr’s not letting me post photos within my posts. Until this is resolved, I’ll post them separately. Don’t forget to check them out! I’ll also try to add some to my Flickr page. You can view them there as well. I’ll share the link as soon as it’s updated!