Double Jaipur-dy!

This past weekend we set out on the road for a long awaited vacation and a much anticipated touring of some of the grand historic forts and palaces that lent Rajasthan its title as the Land of Kings. Awakening early (pre-safai) to set out on our bus trip to Jaipur, the capital of Rajasthan, we "arrived at the ticket counter and purchase our passes, after which we settled into seats to await the call for departure at the station" aka, we walked out onto the road next to GDL and stood in the sand until a bus sped by us, which we ran after waving until it stopped and let us on. Some things in India are actually just more convenient than in the US, namely transportation, which you don't have to find, it finds you. We were lucky enough to flag down a private bus, for which the fare for the 5 hour trip to Jaipur is 85 Rupees (less than $2), while the government buses ran around Rs 120) The whole idea of the government owning things like bus lines, and even in the markets certain clothing shops, continues to miff me, especially as the government clothing shops tend to be more expensive and unwilling to negotiate their prices like the private ones will.

Anyway, we thankfully settled into seats (which were never a given) and sat back for the ride, which took us through much of Shakewati region and through the Sikar district, a nice traversal of this section of Rajasthan. I had been yearning to see more of this most acclaimed state of India (by some accounts) such as the famed palaces of Udaipur, India's "most romantic city" or the fantastic desert forts of Jaisalmer, or the blue brilliance of Jodhpur, unfortunately none of these places were closer than a 12 hour trip by bus, and thus, out of reach for the purpose of our weekend getaway. After settling in to the lull of travel (aka near misses with oncoming traffic, screeching stops to avoid cows, the rush of water and snack sellers at each of the innumerable stops yelling "pani pani paniiiii") I dove into the book I had picked up from the GDL storeroom, the account of Greg Mortenson's heroic adventures constructing schools in Pakistan's Northwest Frontier and Afghanistan's mountain border region, entitled Three Cups of Tea. The book enthralled me with its portrayal of Dr. Greg's travels and his constant struggle against the odds to bring education to some of the most remote parts of the world, and before I knew it we had arrived in Jaipur and I had to close the cover and deal with reality.

Fortunately we had with us local knowledge, in the form of Kamal-ji, who had worked at several hotels in Jaipur and had arrange for us to get three A/C rooms in his friends hotel for much less than the usual rate, so we traveled there to drop off our stuff before taking a ridiculously crowded bus to the Amber fort, arriving mere minutes before it was set to close, but deciding to go for it as our experience with things happening on time had lead us to believe we would have plenty of time to explore the passageways and many rooms of this fantastic palace/fort build on the side of a hill that the old king had moved out of when he built his new palace down on level ground and founded the old city of Jaipur.
After enjoying sunset from this venue we made our way back to old Jaipur, known as the Pink City because it was painted a shade of pink to welcome the Prince of Whales at some point way back in the day and the tradition has persisted to this day.

Walking along the bizarres in front of the towering building of windows known as the Hawa Mahal, Jaipur was a much more pleasant place to tour than it had been under the hot sun of midday and as we met up with our earstwhile companion Pankaj at a circle in the street we noticed a group of foreign looking folk across the way walking towards us while trying not to fall victim to the onslaught of traffic whizzing by them. These were none other than the Penn interns from Delhi who had ventured out into Rajasthan for the weekend as well, not with the intention of reunioning with their country and schoolmates, but lead by coincidence to meet with them amongst the palaces and the pink.

The next day we made an early start of visiting two other grand forts overlooking the modern city, Jaigar and Nahalgar, with old and faded palaces between their walls and grounds rich for the imagination to weave visions of court life as well as fabulous parties, or councils of war, or grand ceremonies that most have taken place high above the tumult of present day life.
Coming down from the heights we again entered the fray, intent on discovering a few more old gems before our bus back, but adamant not to pay the Rs 300 fee to enter the City Palace, though it be the grandest of the lot. Coinkydink struck again and outside the entrance we ran into the Chintan interns again, walking through the bazaar of kitchen appliances until we parted ways, ostensibly for the bus station where Sanghamitra was waiting having spent the day with some of her friends from school feasting on Pizza Hut and McDonald's Iced Tea. However Harsh's friend arrived with his air conditioned car just as we were about to leave to join her, and for the next two hours he ferried us to a shoe store owned by his uncle where we got a fantastic deal on the traditional Rajasthani camel leather shoes, a clothing store where Sarah found the perfect all white Kurta pajama she had been craving, the most famous sweets store in Rajastham, where we had the most divine cold coffee I have even tasted, and a Kulfi place where we feasted on multiple helpings of Saffron spiced indian ice cream sticks, before feeling pangs of guilt and tearing ourselves away to head to the bus station, a peace offering of Kulfi in tow for the long suffering Sanghamitra. A hot a sweaty beginning had given way to, if not the royal treatment in all ways, a decidedly regal experience for out stomachs, and as the bus, a double decker sleeper, pulled out, I settled in to enjoy the trip home, embracing the liberty the mind has to wander through long drives in the night, and hoping to get some rest before work the next day, an feasible task, except for the mango man...

The mango man i had met buying mangoes right before we set off, and as I boarded the bus with my bag in tow, I saw that he occupied the seat behind me with his own. At first we engaged in some basic conversation, where we were from, names (which i obviously quickly forgot) but as more complex topics arose we resorted to using Harsh as a translator. Harsh obviously had other plans for his bus ride and fell quickly asleep, leaving my mango man to tap continuously on my shoulder, and attempt to engage in the most protracted conversation imaginable, a sample follows:

Mango man: India is very..... very very very very very very ...... long pause ... bad
me: no
Mango man: no, uh, india is very ... long pause.... very very very very very very, best?
me: yeah
mango man: india is very very very ..... best, why?
me: uh, i don't know, its your country, you are indian, you would no why its best better than me right?
long silence
i, thinking he has given up, rest back against my seat, only to feel a tap again on my shoulder,
turning around he begins again, and this goes on for some time, until we finally shake hands and say goodnight, and I put in headphones. all is well until one is dislodged from my ear and the comment from behind: very good music!
india is, very.... (oh no not again)
when he gets off at his village, i finally decide to take the ladder up to the sleeping compartment, and lay in what feels like a coffin during an earthquake, until the arrive in Jhujhunu, home sweet home, or at least not too far from our adopted oasis of peace, Bagar.

This Snake-Charmed Kinda Life

This past weekend we decided to break out of the four walls of GDL that had come to contain us and explore some of the sights of Rajasthan, at least those not a 12 hour bus ride away (sorry Udaipur and Jaisalmer). To this end we made plans to hit up the town of many Havelis, Mandawa, a rather prominent tourist attraction on account of its preponderance of old mansions an palaces decorated with paintings and now slowly fading into the graveyard where grandeur goes to rest in. We would leave Sunday around noon, but first we had some good old fashion fan boying to do in support of the USA's futball (soccer) match against England in the beginning round of the World Cup.

This "rivalry that began with the revolutionary war" was supposedly "accentuated by current tensions over the BP oil spill", but really it was just a highly entertaining match between most of the GDL staff's home country, and the former occupier of our current locale. We were planning to watch the match (which began at midnight) at Shrot's (the director of Source For Change) house (an old Haveli itself actually) in the nearby village where he lived, and since there were so many people going (the promise of cold soda and snacks a powerful incentive) he decided to hire a jeep to save money from the bus fare. As we crowded around the jeep Shrot became increasingly pessimistic about the likelihood of us all fitting, claiming the jeep could hold 8 ppl max, and we were 12 at least. We told him it could be done, and with this attitude we all piled in, packed like sardines, until the last person came out, conveniently carrying large suitcase! This almost discouraged us completely but the can do attitude persisted and we stuffed them in too and set off with speakers, projector, chips, drinks and enthusiasm in tow.
Before the match began we found ourselves discussing a issue that had been eating at Sahel for some time, the disconnect between Indian culture's view of love and what was culturally acceptable for people to actually do in relation to their emotions. Specifically the way that songs and movies all were literally soaked in romance, longing and desire, and often portrayed those who married for love or acted from their emotions positively, whereas what is generally accepted in the culture is very different, characterized mainly by marriages arranged according to family position and prospects. We discussed the all pervasive Shaheries, or couplet poems that were traded back and forth in daily conversation and via text message, and which often focused on love and longing, as well as the fact that whereas in Hollywood one could find dramas and thrillers, sci-fi and fantasies, in Bollywood the only kind of movies were romantic comedies, and generally the most over the top melodramatic type of romance imaginable. Perhaps it was the very ridiculousness of these stories, and the songs that played for years on peoples tongues and in their ears afterwards, that made them an acceptable part of a culture where acting on love was not an option. These fantasies were an outlet for romance and a barrier as well, their extremes taking place in a different realm than that which at most people lived out their lives. Our discussion was cut short by the beginning of the match and we almost all fell asleep before the end of the 1-1 tie that kept the old rivalry alive.

The next afternoon we boarded a bus for Jhunjhunu where we would have to take a Jeep to Mandawa. Jeeps appeared to be in short supply and as we purchased some mangoes while we waited for one to appear, a snake charmer happened along, blowing upon a strange instrument that made his cheeks puff up like pomegranates as a jet black cobra rose from his basket. A crowd gathered around as they sensed our excitement and Pankaj took it upon himself to toss the man a few rupees in order to have him drape the snake across my shoulder, at which point all I could think to utter was the line Sahel had told me to memorize in my new role as the reincarnation of classic film star Raj Kapur "Farbee Dilhe Hindustani", causing the crowd in erupt in amazement that "my heart remained in India", as I made a surreptitious escape aboard our Jeep which had just arrived.

The trip to Mandawa was somewhat traumatic, as the road was big enough only for one car at a time, causing us to play chicken every time an oncoming vehicle appeared, waiting to swerve off the road until the last possible minute, but arrive in one piece we did, after close to an hour of pure desert landscape, adulterated only by several herds of goats resting under the scant patches of shade. Upon first glance Madawa is not so different than what we had come to expect from midsized towns in Rajasthan, a bustling market of fruit and snack sellers, open sewers on the sides of the street and crumbly building with faded advertisements, but here a closer inspection revealed that many of these buildings were faded works of art, old palaces and mansions pained with colorful scenes and many a column and elaborately engraved archway. We made our way to the largest attraction, the Palace Madawa, and old castle like structure partially renovated into a luxury hotel, complete with, beyond all expectations, a crisp blue swimming pool! We resisted the urge to "fall in" accidentally, knowing it would probably get ejected from the premises, and contented ourselves with taking an absurd number of photos, including every possible pairing imaginable in the two high backed ornate chairs in the main dining room that appeared fit for only a king and queen. Afterwards we headed in search of the Haveli owned by Sahel's family, which his father has purchased the previous year, but upon arrival found it to be locked and the guard nowhere to be found. We resolved to relax for the remainder of the afternoon at a nearby well, a seriously elaborate structure long dried up but the perfect spot to suck dry our mangoes and entertain some local kids with some singing and dancing while a light rain fell on a distant temple. As the weather cleared up we headed back to the entrance of the town, happy to have seen more of the State of Kings that was Rajasthan and resolving to fall asleep for the nerve-wracking bus journey home.

Weather and Work, Bagar gets all Washed Up

"What you don't understand about cricket is that it is a huge mind game, once you understand that the game makes sense"
As I'm sitting here in the GDL courtyard, the power having just faded out from the fans, speakers and lights with the soft whir of a dying spaceship finally set to drift among the cosmos, several of the staff members along with a few members of the local community are practicing their cricket skills, which involves bouncing a tennis ball at a man holding a flat bat who is standing in front of a garbage can, evidently meant to represent the "stump", here as with most things at GDL a certain amount of "Jugar" is at play, a Hindi word meaning creativity in using what you have to get things done, sort of a combination of ghetto and innovation (ghettovation?)that i've been assured is a buzzword for operations in rural India. While those who are playing certainly seem to be deriving some enjoyment from the action, the only "mind" at work that I can observe is with the rest of us interns who, skeptical of this odd ritual taking place, are taking particular care to mind that our faces do not get pommeled with the ball being smashed in our direction. We'll be no doubt scheduling a viewing of Lagaan in the near future so that out minds can become acquainted with the stunning concept that is known by the deceptively minuscule and chirping name of cricket, despite being far and away India's most popular sport.

Speaking of Jugar, things have been heating up for the Mobile Naukri Marketing Team, where we have been set the target of 2,500 job-seekers registered in our database and 100 job-opportunities filled by the end of our internship in mid-July. Daunting as this may seem (and I assure you it doth), we have put together a comprehensive and and somewhat intensive plan to accomplish this goal, mainly by setting up shop in a major town center and handing out fliers/business cards and generally "bringing the buzz" with our "mobile marketing booths" that we will transport via India's luxurious and hassle free bus system (sarcasm alert) to the 6 greatest population centers in Jhunjhunu district, knocking down one a week with a maelstrom of Mobile Naukri Marketing that should be irresistible to Rajasthan's rural job-seekers. Only problem is we don't have a portable table or tent of any sort nor no anywhere to get one, slightly essential to our whole portable marketing booth plan of action, so we're going to spend the next day scouting around the GDL compound for possible materials to cobble together a table (some blocks and an old white board?) and tent (poles from the mops and a bed sheet?) fit to do the job. I feel confident we can assemble a regular "Jugar"naught that is unstoppable, unswerving, and quite possibly highly unattractive, but regardless we'll have our base station from which to conduct Mobile Naukri operations.

Speaking of maelstroms, we had our own actual freak weather event this past week when the first rains hit with a vengeance, dropping the temperature from the high 110s to the low 70s in the span of a say, and leading a number of us to play "storm volleyball" in the downpour, getting chilled and soaked but thoroughly enjoying every minute of furious play, accompanied occasionally by the thunderous applause of the heavens to celebrate a particularly destructive spike or bump. The rain continued throughout the night and the following day, keeping the power off with it and leading us to resort to candlelight and cellphone Hindi songs for our night's entertainment. By the time the sun finally reappeared the sweltering sauna of the previous week was a distant memory and we were all eager to welcome it back, knowing we would most likely be cursing it within a day to salutes of sweat and the rasping of parched mouths. Later I was to learn the change in weather was due to a major cyclone that had caused much destruction and several deaths in Pakistan and Oman before turning down into Rajasthan to flood us out of our heat-soaked stupor. As with many things in this part of the world tragedy and tribulation were often part and parcel, two sides of a capricious coin passing through the hands and lives of the many.

This was the case with the one other development of our week, the expedition to what we had expected to be out first Indian wedding, a glamorous and gala event involving the procession of the gold-festooned groom on a white horse and the excess of food, dancing and song until the wee hours of the morning. After an hour of walking along the highway in the dark, we finally arrived at the place, where the groom, (who was the former student of a man who ran an English training institute who was an acquaintance or one of the other staff members at GDL..), practically our best friend, greeted us warmly and gave us some chairs to sit and rest on. After which we grabbed some ok but incredibly spicy food and made our exit, no dancing, no music, not white horse. Turns out this was the reception, the wedding taking place at a special auspicious time around 1 am a week distant. What followed was over an hour of unsuccessfully attempting to flag down a bus to take us back to Bagar, which we finally achieved just after witnessing a motorcycle driver lose control and crash along the side of the road a little ways ahead of us. The next day the newspaper had an article proclaiming India's newly claimed position as number one in traffic fatalities in all the world, a claim that after our experience with the roads and those who drove them we found hard to dispute, and thus resolved to take extra caution when traveling about. Now to get invited to a real Indian wedding...

Broiling it up in Bagar

51 Degrees read the thermometer. And as the Indicore peeps at SFC began to get texts from those who had seen the news that number was becoming less of an obvious fluke and much more apparently the actual temperature of the day.
Thats 124 degrees in the Fahrenheit scale folks.
Thats Hot.

But with some good ole Rajasthani AC (as a man in a photo shop in Jhunjhunu today informed me it was called), known as the gumshot (a light scarf/towel that one dips in water and wraps around the head) we survived, and thus made it through the first week and on to our second here in Bagar, the town, that while it may not necessarily "love you back" right away, has definitely grown on me since the first impression of a dusty collection of haphazard structures thrown up in the middle of the desert. It actually has the feel of some of the other very old cities i've enjoyed exploring, like Damascus or Jerusalem, just on a much much smaller scale, and much less preserved. The crumbling houses hide a number of once grand and beautiful Havelis (old palace like houses with open inner courtyards), and the patronage of a few notable local families that have struck it mad rich and long moved away has erected a number of schools and preserved some of the more fantastic havelis as well. The Piramals, our earstwhile (but most likely unwitting) patrons are among these families, multibillionaires residing in Mumbai who have built the majority of the towns modern buildings and also fund GDL through their charity arm the Piramal Foundation. This also gives us a bit of cred with the locals who instead of just seeing us as complete outsiders see us as special "guests of the Piramals" even though they personally haven't been around for generations probably. Between fresh fruit shakes from stalls around town, daily chai from the chaiwalla next to Source For Change, and spicy chaat flavored snax eaten on top of Bagar rock, this place has more to offer than might at first meet the eye.

A Brief update on activities that will clarify they included pictures:

We've mainly been working on our project of building a soft skills training curriculum for SFC, with the goal of establishing an organizational culture and instituting a set of principles that will guide the work and set the work environment for the near future. The training will have many team-building activities as well as games and lessons focused on communication, problem-solving, decision making, creativity, and conflict resolution.
At Mobile Naukri we've compiled a list of multi-national companies to call when Sahel gets back from his workshop, we're also planning a skit to perform in the center of some local towns to drum up interest as well as have some "ambush parties" to get people excited and spread the word. Last week we went to Pilani, and town an hour away by bus to pass out fliers and put up posters, the weather was pretty hot and we got exhausted and took refuge in a restaurant midway through, but it was a solid chunk of marketing anyway. Pilani also contains one of India's premier engineering schools (BITSBITS)
This past Sunday, with pretty much only us Americans (in addition to Sanghamitra, a Bengali who grew up in Rajasthan), and our Nepali cook and all around man of the hour, every hour, Kamal-jie, we decided to take a special trip to Jhunjhunu to engage in an activity forbidden and spoken of only in whispers in Bagar, the eating of chicken. Our plan was to pick up the chicken from a restaurant that Kamal-jie has connections with (he's Nepali and loves non-veg, but must cook veg everyday at GDL, so he has chicken hook-ups kept in his phone in several surrounding towns where it can be procured) and then hike to the top of a hill and eat the meat just as the sun was setting over the city. We underestimated the time it would take them to prepare the meal (they practically slaughtered the birds in front of us, fresher meat has never been had), and so ended up eating on the roof of the restaurant, which afforded some lovely views as well and served a suitable locale for out forbidden feast of flesh. After leaving the scene of the succulence (it was some delicious, if incredibly spicy, chicken)we ran into a pre-wedding celebration where I was pulled into a virtual mosh pit of young men dancing up a storm in front of the bridegroom who was atop a golden throne pulled by a camel and dressed in an outfit befitting any prince of fame or fortune.
We also visited some Hindu temples, several beautiful ones can be found in Bagar, and a huge one is in Jhunjhunu, complete with a garden of animal sculpturs and a massive statue of Shiva. The elaborate colors and complexity of these sites of worship, as well as how open to anyone to come in and observe and experience them as they wish has struck me as one of the most visible manifestations of the religious freedom that persists here, and especially the all embracing nature of Hinduism, a religion that has room enough for some 330 million Gods, almost enough for every man woman and child to pick their own personal deity to worship!