Ethics

I have spent the past 13 years of my life sitting in classrooms, thinking theoretically. In September, I am going to start a block of at least four more years of intellectual existence (Parents, do not worry, I am not on the five-plus year plan. I am just leaving room for grad school.). In class, when teachers proposed moral dilemnas, I always said that I would take the high road. I said that I would intervene if I saw a man beating his wife, but that I would also try to respect the autonomy of foreign cultures. I wanted everyone to think that I was a hip, enlightened liberal.

Now, I am working in a developing country with people who live on less than one dollar per day and am having to accept that there often is not a clear, moral answer. Four of my students have reported being physically abused by their parents. I am confident that at least two of them are being habitually abused for reasons that exceed castigation. Teenage parents living below the poverty line do not always handle their emotions well. Each time, I have told the social worker at my organization what the children have said; each time, the social worker has spoken to the parents; and each time the parents have claimed that they have not layed a finger on their children, prompting the social worker to do nothing. Apparently three-year-olds who do not know how to imagine magical pairs of shoes can fabricate elaborate stories about their parents pouring boiling water on them and hitting them until they bleed. I asked my boss if Ecuador had a system for intervening in domestic abuse: foster care, counseling, anything. I was told that child abuse is illegal in Ecuador, but that I would be invited to leave the country if I were to report anything to the police.

Normally, when I face a problem or obstacle, I put it on my check-list, deal with it, and then cross it off. Now, I am in the midst of one of the most emotionally painful experiences of my life, and there is absolutely nothing that I, the ultimate get-it-doner, can do. The only solution is to change the system and the culture´s tacit acceptance of domestic violence. But let's be honest: I am a gringa hanging out in Ecuador for six months. The mob will not listen to me.

Feeling powerless in the face of injustice sucks.

The Latest

THERE'S A HOLE IN THE STREET, DEAR QUITO, DEAR QUITO, A HOLE IN THE STREET, DEAR QUITO, A HOLE

Whereas in the good ole U.S. of A. we have four seasons, Quito only has two: really rainy and not really rainy. Right now I am slogging through the really rainy season. On Monday, all of the rain caused the most important local highway to develop a 40-meter wide hole at one of its most important junctions. Fortunately, no one died. Unfortunately, there are now copious amounts of traffic. This morning, I spent almost two hours taking a normally 25-minute bus ride to work. It was enough time to make friends with guy whose job it is to stand in the bus's doorway and scream out the intended route (do not worry if you have no idea what I am talking about; it is an Ecuadorian thing). He was nineteen, enjoyed volunteering for the Ronald McDonald Foundation, and had a penchant for tongue twisters. I hope that the Ecuadorians fill up the hole soon. This traffic is driving me nuts. Tomorrow it will only get worse. Students and teachers will be back on the busses, going to school after a 2-day, hole-induced break.


I WORK FOR THE UN!

I just became a United Nations Online Volunteer. The UN has a website where people from all over the world can sign up to do Internet-based projects for NGOs and UN bodies in every continent. Right now, I am updating a database (in Spanish) for a Brazilian NGO with an English name. Go figure... I really enjoy being a UN Online Volunteer because it means that I will be able to work in Spanish after I return to the States and network with nonprofits from all corners of the globe.


OTHER EXCITING NEWS

I just got an apartment. I have a bedroom (with faux hardwood floors), walk-in closet, and bathroom just off of a large, rooftop garden overlooking Quito (needless to say, if this apartment were in NYC, the rent would be ten to twenty times as expensive and I would not be able to afford it for a very long time). I share a sizable kitchen with several other tenants. The set-up is perfect because I have plenty of my own space. However, if I want to eat a meal with someone else, I do not have to worry about being lonely.

My university released its fall course catalog yesterday. I think that you can all guess what I did for two hours.

My Trek Through Indigenous Ecuador

On Monday, I left the cosmopolitan hills of Quito with one mission: to learn about rural Andean life. My friend, Heathrow, and I went to the Terminal Terrestre and caught the first bus to Latacunga. The Trolébus ride to the terminal was an advenutre in-and-of itself. Heathrow and I both had large backpacks and came very close to taking out the shorter Ecuadorians.
Three hours of philosophical discussion later, Heathrow and I arrived in Latacunga, a small, Andean city which has as many barbershops as Manhattan has Starbucks franchises. We checked into a cute hostel which offered cappuccinos, homemade cookies, and crayons, only to discover that some of our friends from Quito were also there. After we unpacked, we went for a walk around town. Downtown Quito may be a UN World Heritage site, but Latacunga and Ibarra are both more beautiful.
The next morning, Heathrow and I woke up early to catch a bus to Laguna Quilotoa. The three hour ride was surreal. We zoomed past stunning, green scenery as locals chatted away in Quichua. I tried to ask a few women questions, only to discover that they did not even speak Spanish. When we finally arrived in Quilotoa, a small town of fewer than 15 buildings, we booked into a hostel (the only one with hot, running water), ate lunch, and embarked on a hike around the laguna.
Laguna Quilotoa is one of the most stunning sites in all of South America (please Google it). It is an old volcano that has turned into a large, green lake. The edges are surrounded by mountains. Heathrow and I hiked around the top. It took us 4.5 hours and drained us of our energy. Not only were we hiking around a precarious ridge with perpetually changing elevation. We were at an altitude of roughly 12,000 feet. When I looked down the mountain, I saw clouds.
Heathrow and I got back to the hostel just in time for dinner. We met a taciturn Swiss couple and three dishy European boys who were willing to debate politics and history for three hours. After dinner, I went to bed. As you can probably imagine, I was very cold. Being near the equator does not keep you warm when you are up, above the clouds.
On Wednesday morning, Heathrow and I took a bumpy, wet camioneta ride to Chugchilán, another small Ecuadorian town. We spent the day relaxing, and the evening debating with the dishy Europeans. Just before dinner, we realized that we would have to catch a 3 am bus so that we would be able to visit a famous indigenous market in Saquisili.
At 2:30 AM, I climbed down from my bunk bed to get ready for the bus, only to discover that Heathrow had never returned to the bunk room. I spent fifteen minutes getting dressed, brushing my teeth, and packing my backpack. Still no Heathrow. At this point, I was concerned. What if Heathrow had been kidnapped in the Andean cloudforest? Would it be better to continue on to a town with cell phone reception, or stay put and look for my friend? Was I, his travel partner, also vulnerable? I threw on my backpack and went to find Heathrow. First, I asked three drunk Swiss tourists if they had seen Heathrow or our European friends. Surprisingly, they were no help whatsoever. I finally found Heathrow in the common room. He had fallen asleep on the couch while talking to the Europeans.
At 3:00 AM, the bus arrived. Heathrow, our European friends, and I all jumped on board. We were greeted by the smell of feces and awful Andean-Ranchero-Electronica fusion music. At 6:30, we arrived in Saquisili. We visited the animal market (a cacophony of squealing pigs and bleating goats) and several fruit stands. Then, we decided that it was time to go home. We hopped on a bus and returned to Quito.

You know that you need to get back to school when...

...you write a nine page paper about urban agriculture for a World Bank scholarship competition because you think that the question sounds like fun.

International Women's Day

Tomorrow is International Women's Day. Today, we celebrated at work by parading through the streets of Quito with banners that said, ''Mujeres, tu puedes,'' (women: you can) and other feminist slogans. Guess what my boss said on Monday, immediately after she announced that we were going to have a parade. ''So, we are going to need five strong men to carry a giant female doll along the parade route.'' Ironic?

¡Soy de la U!

Last night, I went to my first Ecuadorian soccer/football game. Watching football in Latin America is amazing not because of the action on the field, but because of the fans. I spent 90 minutes standing in the middle of a singing, dancing, screaming, drinking mass of quiteños who had shown up an hour early to decorate the stadium with signs and streamers. They even had their own drumline. The crowd was electric for the duration of the game. However, they went nuts whenever La Liga Deportiva Universitaria (the team from Quito) scored a goal. In the end, La Liga won (3-1) and I knew three fight songs.

Football ticket: $4.50
La Liga jersey: $5.00
Going to a football game in Latin America: Priceless

Time Out

Ladies and gents, I just got a promotion at work. I am now Market Secretary. That means that I am the boss of my market nursery school. One of the first changes that I have instituted is an increase in discipline. In the past, the kids wreaked havoc because no one enforced rules. I now give time outs. At first, the kids all wanted time outs. The question, ''¿Quieres un 'time out?'' sounded so exotic. Now, they are starting to realize that it is not fun to sit in corners by themselves.

In addition to augmenting discipline, I have tried to develop more creative activities. This past week, we studied the parts of the body. On Ear Day, we made musical instruments, and on Stomach Day, we decorated cookies.

In Case You Were Wondering What It Is Like to Swim In Rapids

Yesterday I went white water rafting with South American Explorers in Santo Domingo. The trip was a blast. We hit awesome waves, fell on top of eachother inside of the boat, and got sore from paddling.

At the end of the trip, I got to have my own adventure. We were braving the last section of rapids when I fell out of the boat. Suddenly, I found myself underneath the raft. I pulled myself out, only to be propelled 20 feet away from the boat by the water. I attempted to swim back to the raft, only to get dunked by three massive waves. I swallowed so much water that I felt like I was going to pass out. Fortunately, I did not. I met back up with the raft and my friends pulled me inside.

Extra, Extra

Right now, I am sitting in an Internet café next to a man who cannot sing. The owner is watching TV with the volume on high. In spite of all the chaos, I cannot resist the temptation to tell my readers about my latest Ecuadorian discovery: quality broadcast news. That's right. Rupert Murdoch is yet to takeover the equator!

My favorite newscast occurs at 7 am on Equavision. Carlos Vera, the anchor, uses the program as a forum for discussion about Ecuador's in-progress constitution. On the past two mornings, Vera's guests debated the definition of ¨sovereignty¨ and ¨nationality.¨ My politically-active heart is singing. There is a place in this world where it is okay to discuss philosophy on broadcast television!

World's Best Hamburgers

Like any proud American, I enjoy one of my country's greatest delicacies: the hamburger. However, I must concede that the world's best beef patties are not served in a diner in New Jersey, nor in a fast food joint on Route 66, nor at a barbecue in Texas. They are all on the equator.

Since arriving in Ecuador, I have had three hamburgers. Each one has been exceptional. Since there are not a lot of refrigerated trucks, the beef comes from local, grass-fed cattle. When it arrives in the kitchen, it is mixed with eggs (the secret to an amazing burger) and a myriad of seasonings. Then, it is molded into wide, flat patties (making it possible to fit the entire concoction into one's mouth). Finally, it is served with all possible fixings. I am going to learn this culinary art and bring it home.

Crazy Weekend

The past few days have been very eventful. Sunday was the Super Bowl, today is Super Tuesday, and all the while Latin America has been celebrating Carnaval (don´t worry Parenting Team, I´m making good choices).

I spent the weekend at Playa Escondida, a secluded beach/ecological reserve on the Ecuadorian coast. The beach had almost no tourists. My friends and I were able to spend the days swimming in peace and hiking to fishing villages, and the nights in a cabana, enveloped in mosquito netting. My room was made almost entirely out of bamboo, had no windows, and had incomplete walls on two sides. There was a hammock next to one of the short walls and a house next to the other. Consequently, I could not change without lying on the floor and squirming like a worm.

When I got back from the beach last night, I moved in with my host family. They are very friendly. This morning I sat with my host mother for a few hours and chatted.

I hope that you all enjoy the big night tonight (of course I mean Super Tuesday, not Mardi Gras/Fat Tuesday/Carnaval). I know that I will be watching CNN en Español.

Los Termas de Papallacta

Today, I went on a day trip to Los Termas de Papallacta, famous hot springs located about two hours from Quito. I met my friends at the bus station at 9 am. We bought tickets for the two hour trip for two dollars apiece. Then we boarded, which cost an additional twenty cents. Many Ecuadorians bypass the boarding fee by hailing buses in the circle outside the station. The ticket collector stands in the bus´s doorway and screams out the destination. Locals listen for their intended location. When they hear it, they jump on, sometimes while the bus is still in motion.

The ride between Quito and Papallacta was absolutely gorgeous. We drove up and down beautiful, green mountains. As we neared Papallacta, driving became dicey. We were on a dirt road that could barely fit two lanes. The right side of the bus was inches from the edge of a cliff. When we arrived in Papallacta, we had to hire a camioneta (a pickup truck) to drive us from town to the springs. The road was steep and bumpy, and the benches in the truck bed were not bolted to the vehicle, causing us to bounce around.

Papallacta was worth the harrowing trip. We chilled out in the hot springs and admired the scenery (again, we were in the middle of the country, surrounded by green mountains). There were barely any tourists in sight.

Late in the afternoon, we got out of the pools and prepared to return to Quito. Our decision was affirmed by the sound of thunder. After we got dressed, we took another camioneta to the bus station and waited. When the bus arrived, we discovered that there were not enough seats. Several of my friends had to stand in the aisle and hold onto a bar overhead (I offered to switch with them later on, but they refused). As the ride progressed, seats opened up. We ended up having a delightful, laughter-filled ride back to Quito. My friend C (I´m still trying to decide what to call her in my blog) sat next to José, one of the nicest people that I have met so far in Ecuador. He told me (C is just beginning her Spanish studies) that we seemed like an amazing group of people and that I had a beautiful smile and should never change. Then, he got off the bus.

When we got back to Quito, we had a fantastic Indian meal and went home. I am hoarding leftover garlic naan in my room.

How to Make Friends, Comfort Crying Children, and Find Peanut Butter and the Best Chocolate in the World in a Foreign Culture

MANTEQUILLA DE MANI

As many of you know, my favorite food is peanut butter. I eat it every morning for breakfast. Since Ecuador does not have the comforts of home, I decided to go out and buy peanut butter yesterday. Imagine my shock when I was not able to find it in five different food stores. How can a country of more than 13 million people live without peanut butter?

After searching for two hours, I decided to take my mind off of my gastronomical depression by attending a practice session of a local ultimate Frisbee club. I thought that playing ultimate Frisbee would be a great way to get exercise and make new friends, my number one priority this week. I put on my exercise gear, braided my hair, and hopped on a bus to the club’s field in the north of Quito, where I was let down once again. The field was empty.

I proceeded to walk down the street, feeling dejected and lonely. Suddenly, I came upon a monolithic structure: Megamaxi. Since none of my readers are Ecuadorian, I will have to define Megamaxi. It is one store which contains a RadioShack, a Moviestar franchise (the Ecuadorian equivalent of Verizon), and a large complex which houses all of the contents of Target and Super Stop and Shop (Dominick’s for my Chicagoan readers) combined. Somehow, it was invented outside of the United States. If any store were to have peanut butter, it would be Megamaxi.

I walked inside and was immediately confronted by models in crop tops handing out samples, a lavish ceremony for a new nutrition supplement for infants, and loads of gringos. Desperate to find my favorite food, I ran past all of the distractions and approached an employee.

Antigone: ¿Dónde está la mantiquilla de mani?
Employee: En numero cinco.

I ran to aisle five and grabbed a jar of George Washington Carver’s greatest creation, only to experience sticker shock. One standard jar of Jif cost more than six dollars. I wanted peanut butter so much that I was willing to pay ten dollars for it.

After I paid, I returned to my hostal. Instead of eating a normal dinner, I decided to sit in my room and eat peanut butter.


THE BEST CHOCOLATE IN THE WORLD

There is no story for this caption, only a fact. Ignore everything that you have ever heard about chocolate from Belgium, Switzerland, and other countries in Western Europe. Ecuador’s Café Kallari sells the best tasting chocolate in the world, and they do it in a socially responsible manner.


THE DENTIST

Virtually every small child fears the dentist. Anyone who instinctively welcomes the placement of sharp, metal objects in his mouth would not survive evolution. Today I was charged with taking fifteen children between the ages of 2 and 8 from their market in southern Quito to the dentist.

My fellow volunteers and I are proud to say that we had an 80% success rate. Three children cried too much to have their teeth cleaned. One seven-year-old boy had come to the market play group for the first time. When he sat down in the dentist’s chair, he started bawling. I held his hand, explained that the dentist was only putting air, water and toothpaste in his mouth, and promised him that no one was going to hurt him. Despite my assurances and stories of surviving 18 years of biannual dentist visits, he was not able to overcome his fear of the dentist’s frightening-looking tools. In the end, the dentist gave him some fluoride. Then I picked him up and carried him down four flights of stairs so that he could rejoin the group. You always know when a little kid really needs a hug because they nuzzle their face in your neck and shoulder.


YES, I AM A GRINGA

Carnaval is coming. In Ecuador, it is customary to celebrate by throwing water balloons at and dumping buckets of water on other people. Being a gringa only increases the likelihood of getting wet. So far I have been hit with three water balloons. Keep in mind that Carnaval is not supposed to start for another week.


I’M MAKING FRIENDS!

My first few days in Ecuador were lonely because I did not know anyone. However, my social life is quickly improving. Tonight, I am going to café with a bunch of girls from work. Then, I am spending Saturday and Sunday visiting the equator and local hot springs with some other volunteers.

In one week, I am going to start a homestay. It will be nice to have someone to eat breakfast and dinner with every day.

The First 48 Hours

ANOTHER CRAZY LADY

Last night, I ate dinner with a woman who was absolutely nuts. She has been traveling for the past five years. She is currently on her third bout around the world and her ninetieth country. I do not think that she was crazy because of her globetrotting ways. I thought that she was crazy because of her ridiculous proclamations:

-The Indians should face most of the blame for South African apartheid. She proceeded to blatantly ignore me when I pointed out that Indians suffered during apartheid. Ghandi, for example, was kicked off of a train because of the color of his skin.
-People are poor and impoverished because their brains are less advanced than everyone else’s, not because of limited access to resources.

The list could go on, and on.


ECUADORIAN FIRSTS

During the past 48 hours I:

-Purchased my first Ecuadorian cell phone,
-Worked at CENIT for the first time, and
-Successfully used local public transportation for the first time (believe me, this is a big deal).

I am sure that many more firsts will come in the future.


I AM OKAY

I know that many of you are worried about me. I want you to know that so far, Ecuador has been much safer than I expected. People treat women more respectfully here than they do in most of the other foreign countries that I have visited recently.

You should also know that I will not be able to use the Internet or a telephone every single day. Please do not worry.

The Joys of Airplane Travel

THE LAST SALAD

Right now I am sitting in the airport in Atlanta, waiting for my flight to Quito. I just ate a salad, my last for the next five months (I am not supposed to eat raw veggies in Quito because they will retain microbes from the local water after they are washed). The salad was really delicious. It had red peppers, and green peppers, and olives, and feta cheese, and onions, and tomatoes, and yummy dressing. I think that I will have to make myself salads and wash the ingredients with bottled or boiled water while I am in Quito (granted the former sounds disgustingly bourgeois).


GRUMPY OLD WOMEN

I am sitting at the gate, next to several grumpy old people.* Representing the Americans: ¨Lorna,¨ a confused woman who belongs in a tour group. She keeps on asking stupid questions in her ¨outside¨ voice, and just tried to board the plane two hours early. Representing the Ecuadorians, ¨Magda,¨ whose favorite hobbies include identifying gringos and gringas whose very existence annoy here, and complaining about them to her husband. Even though Lorna has a stronger voice, I am convinced that Magda would win in a fight.


I´LL GIVE YOU MY KIDNEY IF YOU GIVE ME A NEW SEATMATE

The women next to me was nuts. She asked me to help her fill out her customs and immigration forms because she was illiterate.** I read the questions from the form to her, verbatim. Instead of giving me her address or telling me whether or not she had visited a farm in the U.S., she kept on mumbling a list of the members of her family. Halfway through, she announced that she could not handle answering the questions anymore and pretended that she only spoke Quechua.

As the flight progressed, Nutso continued to get on my nerves. She decided that her elbows were entitled to the entire row, causing great discomfort on my part. At the end of the flight, passengers streamed into the aisles and waited, like sardines, for the door of the plane to be opened. Nutso could not wait. She forced her way into the packed aisle by ramming into my body, and proceeded to remove her suitcase from the overhead compartment. Nutso´s suitcase landed in the middle of a clump of people, separated from her by my body. Even though no one was moving (the plane was still closed), Nutso decided that she had to get to the front. She started pulling on her suitcase (neglecting to ask me to move my shins). When her suitcase would not move, she pulled harder. I ultimately had to mount the back of a row of seats and lie on top of them. I felt a little bit like Roberto Benigni at the Academy Awards, minus the jovial dance.


*To be clear, I do not think that all older people are grumpy. I know many cheerful senior citizens.
**To be clear, I did not think that she was nuts because she was illiterate.

Postcards From Mumbai

The Crazy Guide

When my mother and I arrived at the airport, we were greeted by Dobby, an extremely small man with a long, grey beard and greasy, long hair. Dobby was well intentioned. He cared for a hobby farm at a local school. However, he was nuts.

On our first day of sightseeing, Dobby took me to an Indian music appreciation group while my mother went to a meeting. As I listened to Dobby bond with the group’s leader, I half-expected to see Cheech and Chong fall out of a hidden, smoky closet.

Dobby: Hey man. This music is so good.
Leader: I know man. I, like, saw this group the other night. Her voice is, like, so good.
Dobby: (turning to me) Leader travels to all parts of the city to go see the best classical Indian bands.

Keep in mind that Dobby and Leader were both at least fifty years old.

The next day, Dobby took my mother and I to Elephanta Island to see man-made caves filled with carvings of Shiva, one of the three main Hindu gods. Dobby was determined to teach us everything that he had ever learned about anything. As we walked from statue-to-statue, he recounted almost every single parable from Hindu scripture. Whenever, we took out our cameras, he stopped talking. My mother told him that we could multi-task, but he did not believe her.

Within Elephanta’s caves, there are a few chambers that serve as temples to Shiva. Dobby decided that he wanted to prove to us that one of the temples had amazing acoustics. He took off his shoes, walked inside, and started chanting. At first, my mother and I were charmed by the robust tones flowing from our small guide. However, Dobby, the Energizer Bunny of chanting, would not stop. Tourists kept on walking up to the temple, standing awkwardly, and then leaving.

Dobby’s quest to educate my mother and I did not end at the mouth of the caves. He spent the idyllic, hour-long ferry ride back to Mumbai subjecting my mother to a dissertation on his yoga master. It should come as no surprise that we told Dobby that we needed to go back to the hotel for a nap once our boat reached the shore.


The Astrophylosopher

On my first afternoon in Mumbai, I decided to take a walk along the coastline in front of my hotel. When I stopped to look at the ocean, I met Phaedrus Descartes Hawking, an astrophysicist who was interested in studying creative writing. PDH believed that he had successfully used physics and philosophy to discover the correct Ultimate Theory of the Universe. We ended up spending more than two hours analyzing physics, comparing our respective cultures, and debating questions central to the essence of humanity. I have no idea whether or not PDH was full of it. However, it was one of the most interesting conversations of my life.

Chaos Ain't Limited to Greek Mythology

It has been a while since my last post. My apologies. Life has been a whirlwind.

Last Wednesday, I went to the airport in Delhi to catch a flight to Mumbai (for the record: Indian airlines serve significantly better food on their flights than their American competitors). Having spent the last three days removing my shoes at every religious edifice imaginable, I was shocked to discover that the security guards did not ask me to take off my footwear. They did, however, frisk everyone with their special security wand.

When I landed in Mumbai, I discovered a city with a completely different culture and climate from Delhi. Whereas Delhi, a hotspot for Mughal architecture, is an ideal place to learn about India’s past, Mumbai is where you should go to learn about its present and future. The city is a corporate, cosmopolitan explosion. The skyline is filled with large buildings and neon signs, and the streets are congested with traffic. The influx of corporations means that there is barely enough land to go around. There is less than one acre of open space for every 1000 people, and the real estate costs more than comparable properties in Manhattan. In spite of its rapid growth, Mumbai, like the rest of India, continues to struggle with poverty. At least fifty five percent of its residents live in slums.

Walking around Mumbai is a little frightening. Drivers spend so much time sitting in traffic that they refuse to stop for pedestrians. One morning, I was walking away from Mani Bhavan (Ghandi’s residence) when a woman unsuccessfully tried to pickpocket me. I was so distracted by my brush with theft that I fell flat on my face while crossing a busy street and almost got run over by an SUV. Pickpocket and near death experience aside, Mumbai was amazing. I feel lucky to have gone and would love to return.

Now that I am back in the States, I am getting ready to move to Ecuador. Unfortunately, my housing situation is still fuzzy. My homestay organization has told me next to nothing about my host family. I, as a general rule, do not move into strangers’ homes at ten o’clock at night. As such, I have decided to stay in a hotel for at least the first week so that I will be able to meet my prospective host family and make sure that I am comfortable with them before I move in. Finding a suitable hotel that could pick me up from the airport in the middle of the night was difficult, but I have succeeded.

As Sunday has grown more imminent, I have gotten nervous about going to a developing country by myself for five months (surprise, surprise). Please keep me in your thoughts and prayers. Pro-Antigone cheerleading routines are also accepted.

Antigone in India: Day Three

Greetings all! I am still in India and am still jetlagged. Even so, I am having a wonderful time learning about another culture. I only wish that I had learnt more about Asian history before coming here.

Yesterday, I spent the morning riding around New Delhi with a driver named Baloo. When I first met Baloo and was told the plan for the morning, I felt uncomfortable. Calling a grown man “Baloo” while he chauffeured me about town and called me “ma’am” sounded like a scene from a racist Nineteenth Century novel, like Around the World In Eighty Days. Despite my reservations, I ended up having a wonderful morning. Baloo and I discussed the weakening dollar, the impact of multi-national corporations on Indian working conditions, and Baloo’s experience as an extra in the epic film Ghandi. After lunch, my mother and a guide joined us, and we visited Humayun’s Tomb, a gigantic mausoleum built in the Persian style.

Today, my mother and I focused our energies on site seeing. The highlight of my day was a rickshaw ride around Old Delhi. My mother and I jammed our derrieres into a small seat attached to the back of a bicycle and took a harrowing trip around streets that were approximately two yards wide. Our ride reminded me that I was no longer in Kansas. We zipped past shops selling saris and exotic birds, people yelled who-knows-what at each other in language that I presumed to be Hindi, and the traffic system lacked both rhyme and reason; people went where they wanted when they wanted and frequently collided. As I took in the energy and chaos, I felt very conspicuous. My mother and I were often the only White people on the street and attracted many stares. Later on in the day, someone asked to take a picture with us because they were so intrigued by the color of our skin.

The last stop of the day was a Sikh temple. Traveling to India has made me develop tremendous respect for the Sikhs. They believe, among other things, that everyone is equal (as a symbol of this, everyone has to remove their shoes and socks before entering the temple; fortunately, they kept the ground very clean), that violence should only be used as a last resort, that it is important to work hard, and that it is important to serve others. The Sikhs take this last belief very seriously. Every day, Sikh temples serve free meals to anyone who enters their doors. The temple that we visited served 10,000 people lunch per day. In addition to sharing food, temples create their own social programs. In Delhi, one Sikh temple was running a program that gave away free potable water. Sikhs have an easy time running their service efforts because they require their followers to contribute their time to the temples.

Tomorrow I am going to leave from Mumbai. I look forward to reporting on how it differs from Delhi.

Antigone In India: Day One

Last night, I landed in India at 9:20 pm. Along the way, twelve hours that were supposed to have taken place on January 5 disappeared into thin air, and I jumped ahead ten-and-a-half hours in time. It suffices to say that I am severely jet lagged.

When I woke up this morning, I was revving to get out the door and see India. My long journey and subsequent night of rest had left me with more than 24 hours to anticipate my adventure. The wait was worth it. India is completely different from any country that I have ever visited. The semi-trucks are covered in campy, brightly-colored paintings (even the gas tanks feature pictures), cattle and buffalo wander freely in the streets, and people travel on the highways with every mode of transportation imaginable, including, camels, donkeys, bicycles, and cabs that look like green and yellow golf carts.

This morning, my mother and I started our trip off with a four-hour car ride to Agra. Along the way, I managed to make a little boy’s day by taking his picture with my digital camera. When we arrived, we went to lunch at a restaurant recommended by our guide. The food was delicious, traditional Indian fare. Unfortunately, I have not been able to eat a bite of anything here without thinking of traveler’s diarrhea. After lunch, we went to the Taj Mahal.

Taj Mahal
The Taj Mahal was built by the fourth Mughal Emperor, Shah Jahan, in loving memory of his second wife, Mumtaz Mahal. According to legend, Mumtaz Mahal grew sick after giving birth to the Emperor’s fourteenth and final child. Her husband visited her on her deathbed and asked her if she had any wishes. At first, Mumtaz only asked that her husband not marry again (this did not preclude him from having 1500 concubines) and that he treat their children with kindness. The Emperor then told her to wish for something else; he wanted to show the world his deep love and affection for his wife. Mumtaz requested that he build her a beautiful mausoleum. Shah Jahan began to build the Taj Mahal six months after his wife’s death. It was completed twenty-two years later, in 1653.

The Taj Mahal is lesson in symmetry. When Shah Jahan had to build a mosque on one side of the building, he elected to build an identical structure on the opposite side, even though he had no use for it. The back of the Taj Mahal faces the open banks of the Yamuna River. It was comforting to see that at least one culture does not try to fill all spaces surrounding famous tourist sites with gift shops and restaurants.

Agra Fort
Our second historical spot was the Agra Fort. The Fort has existed since at least 1080 AD. However, it was significantly renovated by the third Mughal Emperor, Akbar. In 1658, Shan Jahan (the Mughal Emperor who built to the Taj Mahal) was overthrown by his son and imprisoned in the Agra Fort. Unable to visit his wife’s mausoleum, he watched it from a tower atop the Agra Fort.

The Fort was absolutely beautiful. I liked it more than the Taj Mahal. My favorite room was a large receiving area that overlooked a courtyard. It was filled with magnificent pillars.

Orphanage
In between historical trips, my mother and I visited an orphanage run by the Sisters of Charity (the order of nuns to which Mother Theresa belonged). The children were incredibly sweet. Many of them came up to us in search of a hug.

The orphanage was just one of many reminders of India’s extensive poverty. Here, the average annual salary is 710 USD and thirty five to forty percent of the 1.027 billion-person population lives on less than one dollar a day.

On that sad note, I need to go to bed. It is 11:30 pm over here and jet lag made me wake up at five this morning.

Namaste!

Guess Who's Back

My blog is back up! While it was down, I was still running around. Before I get distracted by India and Ecuador, I would like to tell you all what I have been up to.

Running Like Turkeys With Their Heads Cut Off
The Saturday after Thanksgiving, my dear friend Sofonisba Anguissola and I decided to spend the day in New York City. Within the first two hours of our adventure, we managed to eat lunch, walk through Times Square, ride on a merry-go-round in Bryant Park, visit the New York Public Library, explore an exhibit about Jack Kerouac, and stumble upon the Parsons building and fabric store featured on Project Runway. While Sofonisba and I enjoyed all of our activities, we were most thrilled by our brush with Project Runway. We spent a good twenty minutes touching fabrics, imitating Tim Gunn, and pretending to be models.

After running around Midtown, the Garment District, and the Theater District, we decided that it was time to kick back and relax in the Village. As we filled up on lattés from hip cafés and window-shopped at pricey clothing boutiques, we developed a severe problem: we had to go to the bathroom. The casual reader may laugh at our predicament. Relieving oneself is basic human function. It is not supposed to be difficult. Unfortunately, we were in New York City the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Every clean bathroom (a rarity in and of itself) was mobbed by tourists. After meditating on our challenge, we decided to run to my mother’s office, convince the security guard to let us in, and sneak, like spies, into the stalls. After we completed our mission, we rewarded ourselves by pretending to be hip New Yorkers. We went out for dinner and then watched a documentary about consumerism at an artsy movie theater.

Ms. Wanders Goes to Washington
One week later, I decided to trek down to Washington, D.C. to visit my extended family and watch oral argument at the Supreme Court. I traveled to and from Washington on a Greyhound bus. When I told people that I was going to take the bus, I discovered many stigmas. As a result, I would like to take a moment to preach the wonders of Greyhound:
• Greyhound has amazing customer service. The representatives smile, tell you that they love their job, make you the focus of their attention, and do not charge a fee when you change your schedule.
• Greyhound is flexible. When I showed up an hour early for my 10:00 AM bus, they told me that I could hop onto the 9:00 AM bus. I did not have to fill out any paperwork or pay extra money.
• Greyhound is a great deal. My round-trip ticket between New York City and Washington only cost $35. The trip itself lasted a little over four hours each way. A plane ticket would have cost gobs more money and would have required just as much time because I would have had to go through security, check my bags, and find my gate.
• Busses are more environmentally friendly than airplanes.

Now that I have gotten my love for Greyhound out of my system, I would like to focus on another object of my affection: Constitutional law. My last day in Washington, I went to the Supreme Court to watch oral argument. My grandmother and I hopped in line on the front steps of the Supreme Court at 8:30 AM. One and a half hours later, we were led inside, barely missing the cut-off. The case that we watched, Sprint v. Mendelsohn, was fairly boring. It focused on the use of “me-too” evidence in employment discrimination lawsuits (“me-too” evidence is testimony from individuals who believe that they have also been victims of discrimination). However, I loved watching the Supreme Court at work. I got butterflies in my stomach as soon as I walked into the room and saw all nine Justices. As the argument progressed, I had fun looking out for each Justice’s famous habits: Thomas refraining from participating, Breyer asking pointed questions, Breyer and Thomas cracking jokes, etc. When I left, I felt even more excited by the prospect of pursuing a career in Constitutional law.

The Girl in the Café
When I was not gallivanting, I spent most of the past month working at a local café (the same establishment where I worked this past summer). I loved my job because I was able to drink free lattés, practice Spanish, and taste-test gourmet recipes for my CIA-trained (Culinary Institute of America) boss, Skip. Skip had a penchant for pathetic jokes. We spent a lot of time exchanging witticisms in the kitchen.

This concludes Antigone update. In other news, I just accepted an offer to work at an academic summer program in Massachusetts after I return from Ecuador.