A Courtside Lesson in Somali History

Yesterday, while resting after completing my daily ritual of shooting a basketball at the rickety hoops Suzanne and I assembled, sans wrenches, last week for the new girls’ basketball court, one of the 10^th grade students visiting for the day decided to give Jake, John and I a lesson in recent Somali history.

Coming to this country several weeks ago, I realized I knew practically nothing about the history of the region, be it the tumultuous events of the past few years, or the earlier story of a place that went from being one of Africa’s most promising countries, to the world’s most famous failed state.  Seeking to remedy my surprising ignorance, I procured a copy of I.M. Lewis’s A Modern History of the Somali, one of the few comprehensive texts on the Somali people, thankfully on hand in the school’s library for Stephanie to use in her African history course. Lewis, a social anthropologist by discipline, is probably the leading scholar on the Somali people, a nation unfortunately split between five “states”, from Northern Kenya, the Ogaden desert of Ethiopia, and Southern Somalia, to Somaliland and Djibouti in the north.

As any scholar of history, ethnicity, and nationalism will tell you, the misalignment of nations and the modern boundaries of states, often as a consequence of ignorant, malicious, or simply uncaring Western colonial decisions, is one of the chief drivers of conflict in today’s world and often a recipe for recurring disaster. The Somali nation, a uniquely dismembered people in terms of the state boundaries imposed upon them, suffer the further complications of their unique position at the intersection of Africa and the Middle East; a crossroads of religion and commerce notable equally for the value of the bountiful goods that pass by its shores as for the starkness and unforgiving caprice of its desert environment.

Jumping into Lewis’s work toward the end at the chapter titled “Nationalism, Ethnicity, and Revolution in the Horn of Africa”, and reading on to “Chaos, International Intervention, and the North”, I came to respect the incredible complexity that modern Somali history has contained, playing host to foreign influences from near and far, while struggling with its own many identity crises between the traditional clan structure and radical new forms of government under Military Dictator General Siyad Barre’s promotion of Scientific Socialism. Making my way through a fairly dense text that at times seemed to gloss over major events like the beginning of the Somali Civil war and the flight of General Barre, while explicating in detail the Machiavellian maneuvers of Barre’s inter-clan positioning and foreign policy dilemmas, I arrived at a better understanding of the diverse obstacles that have been thrown in the way of Somalia’s development as a modern nation. The complex milieu of sub-clans, political leaders, warlords, militant movements and shifting alliances is difficult to reconcile into one cohesive narrative, so I won’t attempt it. 

However, the 10^th grade student, Abdurrahman, managed quite well in his own limited vocabulary to explain to us on the basketball court what this conflict has meant to him in his short 15 years.

Growing up in Somaliland, stable since its self-declared independence in 1991, Abdurrahman has watched the southern part of his country fall apart in stops and starts. Relating the perspective of a friend who lives in Mogadishu, where not a night passes that does not involve gunfire and the blasts of munitions, he tells how his friend’s visit to Hargeisa was met with astonishment at the peace and quiet that allowed him to sleep through the night undisturbed. According to him a similar peace was achieved for a brief 6 months  in the south in 2006, when the Islamic Courts Union succeeded in expelling the violent warlords from Mogadishu and achieving some measure of stability for the beleaguered capital. This peace was shattered by the US-backed Ethiopian invasion that reignited the conflict and re-opened the door to the warlords and to Al-Qaeda, ushering in the past 4 years of near constant violence in the ravaged city that was once the jewel of Africa.

Supplementing this 15 year olds views was an article from the Nation shared with me by a friend from home, detailing the extensive support the US has given the capricious and self-concerned warlords that have battled each other for their control of the area, leading to the rise of Al-Shabab and its tactics of terror. This article is eye-opening, not only for the mercurial nature of the alliances and loyalties of many key figures in the conflict, but for the level of foreign, in particular US, involvement in the region, exemplifying a policy of intervention and secret dealings that has had much the opposite effects to those intended by US strategic aims. It’s hard to see much distinction between the uninformed backing of factional leaders today that accentuate divisions between clans and militarize their differences, and the partition of the Somali people between 5 states by the colonial powers many years before, leading to the conclusion that Western policy in the Horn of Africa remains essentially misguided, and unchanged.

Cause for much more hope, and debate, is Abdurrahman’s pronouncement that he longs for the day of a unified Somalia, an unusual viewpoint seldom heard in Somaliland which is fiercely protective of its tenuous sovereignty and marked separation from the chaos to its south. Whether it reflects the hopeful naiveté of a 15 year old unmarked by the brutal cleavages that have arisen between so many, or a powerful sentiment for reconciliation in the face of so much division, Abdurrahman’s dream is invaluable, for it represents a generation on the rise, and one, as far as he is concerned, determined to seek his education abroad, but then return to his country, for his cause is with his people.

A Coat of Many Colors, a Field of Many Dreams

Several days into my first week here at Abaarso Tech, and I am paralyzed.

Paralyzed, not by lack of possibility or motivation, but quite the opposite; there is just so much to be done here, so much that I can take part in, contribute to, create, that I am paralyzed by the possibilities, and the creeping knowledge that I will not have enough time to accomplish all that I want here in this windy oasis of learning.

First and foremost, I want to teach. As someone who has spent uncountable hours pushing and struggling to make students care about learning in the desperately underperforming yet even more desperately under-motivated Philadelphia school system, the chance to lead a classroom of students, many coming from some of the least privileged households in the world, yet thirsty for knowledge and advancement, is a ship finally come to shore.

To plunge fresh minds into the river of knowledge and immerse them completely, to start fires in the forest of curiosity, to squeeze the milk of reason and the syrup of intellectual stimulation from the craggy rocks and stunted trees of this desert landscape, this may seem slightly overwrought, but often these delusions of grandiosity are the greatest motivation to push onwards towards the mirage, against the insidious sands of ignorance, the unbearable heat of complacence, and through the stark desert landscape of a closed off mind.

A true love of learning is not such a dry and brittle tender that it is easily ignited, but with the effort to get it alight comes the knowledge that it will continue to burn with a smoldering alacrity long into the darkest night, serving as a beacon to others and lighting a path forward through the unknown. As the proud defender of one of the world’s last remaining libraries in Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 declared as she went up in flames along with her treasured stacks of books:

"Play the man, Master Ridley; we shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England Somaliland, as I trust shall never be put out."

(Originally a quotation from heretics burned at the stake during the Reign of Bloody Mary)

Not that the state of the world is quite to the point of Bradbury’s dark vision yet, but a mounting number of books and documentaries have come to decry the state of education, at least in America, lamenting its long decline and calling to arms any and all who would strive to save this vaunted institution. While America’s primary and secondary schools fall further behind, our Universities remain a bastion of excellence, holding the majority of the top rankings throughout the world and attracting talent from every corner of the globe. Perhaps this merely represents a shift in our comparative advantage, just as the manufacturing industry has all but disappeared from our shores, so the “factories” of basic education are finding the competitive environment unencouraging, while high tech and higher education flourish. In any case, though I will attempt to comment on the macro trends of global education at a later date, let me return to the (plethora of) tasks at hand.

Yes, I want to teach, to instill a love of learning in my students, and to introduce and encourage them along a journey that includes a profound appreciation of the classics, knowledge of contemporary writers, and the empowerment to dive into any work of literature and find meaning. As I am teaching writing, I want my students not only to be great connoisseurs of the best writing available, but to become accomplished practitioners, eager and willing to make their own mark on the word wielding the greatest weapon of all, the pen, err, keyboard.

Beyond my core objective of teaching, my goals run the gamut, from the most mundane to the most complex of endeavors:

I want to improve the landscaping at this school, to align rocks into pathways and sculptures rather than them being a constant hazard underfoot.

I want to change the school’s system of waste management, to limit the burning of unsavory materials that pollutes the air and wastes potential resources, to turn plastic and glass into new things and to develop a sense of responsibility for the environment amongst the staff and students.

I want to raise the school’s image amongst the global conscience, through promotion and engagement of social media, as well as outreach to a greater base of donors and supporters.

I want to be active in the most literal sense, coaching a basketball team, giving tennis lessons, playing football, for the health of my own body as well as the promotion of team skills amongst the students, cohort that they are that must rely on each other to succeed.

I want to prepare the students for applying to college, to help them crack the SAT and TOEFL, to write superior personal essays, to secure feasible financial aid. Partnerships will need to be developed with US universities willing to give them a chance and the students must be ready to survive and compete in a culture very foreign to their own.

I want to introduce a system of peer mediation and conflict resolution amongst the students to further their independence and interdependence when dealing with life’s issues, and I want to enhance their emotional intelligence, teaching them the soft skills of cooperation, communication, trust, responsibility and tolerance.

As for myself, I want to improve my own teaching ability, increase my knowledge of Arabic and Somali, gain knowledge of management and finance from the AT University programs, and make connections within the Somali community for greater cultural understanding as well as future development projects in the region and the greater Middle East.

As of now, these are the tasks before me. Only time will tell whether a year’s time is sufficient, but all I

can do is begin. Each great oration starts with a single word, and even a small wall must begin with a
single stone, so it’s time to shake the paralysis and begin picking them up, one dusty rock after another.

Our current method of waste disposal, 

one of the many tasks to be accomplished.

(Notice the mini-guard in mid-air above the flame ;)

First Impressions: In Pictures

From the Highest Building in the World 

(Burgh Khalifa, Dubai)

                                                         

                                                       To Our Humble Mosque and Laundry Drying Apparatus 

                                        To the Great Plains of Scrubland and Valley's Surrounding Us

                                                     And One of Our Dashing Guards, Ahmed

                                               And the Pleasant Foliage that inhabits this land

                                          And the actually somewhat Pleasant Garden outside my Room

We have Abaarso Tech and its surroundings, a place to spend the next year exploring and enhancing!

Finding the Country that’s not on the Map

“No sir, that is not my passport number”, “No I don’t have any other passports, you must have made some mistake”

These were the first words I had the great fortune to speak to a Somaliland Official, uttered mid-morning at the tiny building that served as Hargeisa’s airport, arrival hall, customs, and immigration. We had done everything right, printed out the letter urging the government to waive the required exchange of our America dollars into the intensely devalued Somaliland currency, bringing with us our ticket stubs and the sheet of paper with all of our names printed on it that served as our official visa to enter the state-that-isn’t-a-state known as Somaliland. Of course doing everything right is no guarantee, and sure enough, my passport number and the one they had printed for me were completely  different, causing me some anxiety that I would be unable to enter the country…at least in any other country this might pose a problem, however, seeing that many other mistakes were present on our visa, not least the misspelling of the word “Republic” in the official title of the “Republic of Somaliland”, I thought I had a pretty good case for letting me in, and by golly, it had been too long of a flight to be turned back now!

My journey to the country that’s not on the map started off with a fairly typical though perhaps inauspicious delayed flight from Raleigh to New York’s JFK. I had planned to spend my 5 hour layover meeting up with my friend Mike Chen and relaxing in the airport, but instead had only time for a quick hello and the receiving of a gift of trail mix before I had to rush into the security line for my next flight to Moscow. Arriving in the gleaming (apparently brand new) Moscow airport, I immediately recognized how clean and soft the floors looked, and in following up on that intuition, lay down for a delightful 7 hour nap. Then it was time for our flight to Dubai, the Vegas of the Middle East, and a fitting juxtaposition to presage our arrival in one of the world’s newest and least developed countries. After checking in to our hotel, which appeared to double as a Chinese, Korean, and Pakistani brothel during the on-season, the other teachers and I had the chance to scout out some delicious Lebanese Shwarma at 3am before the sun rose and the iron curtain of fasting fell across the (outwardly) pious little Emirate. Awaking early, I had the distinct pleasure of taking Dubai’s brand new metro for a ride, an amazing piece of engineering that evoked the futuristic cities of science fiction, by which I was swiftly transported to the Tallest Building in the World, which proved too large to fit in one photograph, and too expensive to enter and rise to the top ($100 for a peek from its view). After a little more mall-centric site seeing, we met up with Kyle and Ayu, two former Abaarso Tech teachers, who for the next several hours fielded a constant barrage of questions from all of us information starved teachers, and valiantly stood their ground against this onslaught of curiosity.  After breaking our fast at a delicious Indian restaurant, we made our way to the airport, where we awaited the final two legs of our quest to enter the un-mapped nation across the sea.

Our Dallo (Djibouti)  Airlines flight, on an aircraft that appeared to be acquired from Spain, and was operated by a crew from Tajikistan, offered a number of peculiarities which bare relating. Among the expected group of Somali passengers, there was a large contingent of what appeared to be Pakistani Sheikhs, robed and bearded, who took every occasion to demonstrate their piety and defy the normal guidelines for airplane travel. As one took the loudspeaker to voice the call to prayer, several holed up in the small bathroom to purify themselves from head to foot, and as we approached an area of turbulence, though the pilot desperately flashed the seatbelt sign, all rose and knelt in the aisle to pray, much to the consternation of our anxious young flight attendant.

Arriving safely in the early morning, the departure/arrival room of the small Djibouti airport was brimming with camouflage, a large contingent of US Navy personnel evidently were making their long awaited escape back home. The look in their eyes said it all; they had no intention of welcoming us to the small, hellishly hot country they had just been toiling in, their focus was purely on McDonald's, Mom, and Apple Pie. Finally we were called out onto the runway and exactly according to our expectations, boarded a propeller place with no AC and seats that flopped around brokenly in the wind. This proved surprisingly comfortable (for me) and the combination of hot air and roaring propellers lulled me into a deep sleep, until 45 minutes later we touched down on the dirt runway of Hargeisa (Int'l) Airport, and experienced fresh breezes sent down from the hills to welcome us to the country beyond the cartographer’s reach.

Now no matter how fresh those breezes were, I was not going to wait around in that airport for the next bunch of frazzled deliveries to push their way into line, so I explained, as best I could, that the visa was “full of mistakes!” I may have said something to the effect of “you even got the name of your bloody country wrong! Of course you made a mistake with my passport number!” In any case I eventually prevailed, and breathing deeply with relief (though somewhat disturbed at the same time by the depth (or lack thereof) of screening), was able to rejoin my compatriots, claim my luggage (they actually checked the tags!) and make my way along the dusty road to where the Abaarso Tech bus awaited us.

Driving through the streets of Hargeisa, I’m not sure what I had expected, but the dissonance that I felt led me to believe that it had been something else. Hargeisa was unlike any other capital city I had ever seen. In many other economically deprived, underdeveloped countries, the rest of the country may suffer, but corrupt dictators pour all the resources at their disposal into making their capital’s appropriate flagships to their pride and arrogance. Here however, nary a building of any size, nor a thoroughfare of any particular pomp or care was to be found. As we passed through the heart of town, and no large stores nor sizable offices appeared, and as we drove by the Presidential Palace, a building that distinguished itself mainly by its large fence and the cleanliness of its walls, it became apparent that either Somaliland distributed its wealth much more evenly… or the country simply had fewer resources than I had imagined. In any case, the capital was soon left behind and as we bounced along the road to Abaarso I was able to appreciate the removed location of the school where I would be living and working. On top of a hill, surrounded by valleys and dessert planes, the school was a bucolic call to action, and I had arrived at last to do my part.

Heeding the Horn's Call

Today is Sunday, and I am at the Illustrious Quail Ridge Books and Music, such a mecca of learning and opportunity to support your local community that I woke up at 530am to get here 3.5 hours before it opened!
(so now that Mom's happy...)

Tomorrow I leave lovely NC for a year to head to the Horn of Africa, where I will be teaching English at a high school called Abaarso Tech in the small independent (though unrecognized) country of Somaliland. 

For those who don't know where it is, don't worry, I didn't either

The first leg of my tarantula-like journey starts tomorrow afternoon, when I fly to JFK. From there I will be taking Aeroflot (is it just me or does that name not inspire soaring birds and flight? especially the "flot" part...) to Moscow, where I will be connecting to a flight to Dubai. Because Abaarso Tech takes the liberty of creatively finding the cheapest possible way to get to Somaliland (hey, I would have done the same), I get to stay in Dubai for a day! Whether this means I will go Skiing, or play Tennis on the highest outdoor court in the world, or take in the view of a series of Islands shaped like a Palm Tree from the Highest Building in the World, I'm not sure, but at least I am excited to be visiting a place that was a large component of my Thesis (see previous post, keyword: notfun) if only for a brief amount of time. I can only imagine that the skyscrapers of Dubai and the lavish celebrations of Ramadan will create a sharpe contraste (why did i just put e's on those wordes?) to Somaliland and the little village outside of Hargeisa where my school is located. However, some people live of juxtaposition (not saying i'm one, not saying i ain't) and at least the comparison should be informative.

The next day, from Dubai  I fly to Djibouti (jokes encouraged) where its just a quite morning hop over to Hargeisa where hopefully somebody will meet me at the airport (please?).

That's all I can really say for now, rest assured, after I rest, I will tell you if this series of puddle jumps went at all according to plan, and will begin blogging (fingers crossed) regularly, about my experience in Somaliland and the hands on work that I will be doing there!

For now, i leave you with this, a Hand (not mine), on Somaliland.

 

Learning and Serving in Egypt and the US

Ok I lied, I am ALMOST going to bring us up to present day in this next post, only because I had the privilege to take part in an incredible program this summer called LearnServe Egypt, which I think deserves a little mention here. ( For more complete coverage and perspectives, visit www.ifeegypt.org )

LearnServe Egypt was a six week program created by the Institute for Education in partnership with Mercator XXI LLC, and the AUC School of Business, where 6 Americans and 6 Egyptians were united to form lasting bonds of friendship and have endless hours of bus sing a longs (initiated by yours truly) and discussions over everything from sarcasm in different cultures to the Egyptian Revolution and the prospects for its future. oh, and we also had a mission of creating the plans for social businesses that would benefit Egypt and forge greater ties between Egypt and the US.

The first 2 weeks we spent in Egypt, traveling around to visit sites, businesses and listen to speakers from the government, business and education worlds, while staying at the lovely dorms at the new campus of the American University in Cairo. Here we identified social problems and started coming up with business plans that would address our problem areas, culminating in a final pitch on the last day where a group of Egyptian Business leaders shredded our hopes and dreams with a chain-saw.

The second two weeks we tried to keep working on the putting the pieces back together but mostly fiddled with Skype and Google+ and decided it would be easier to sleep alot and post on each others Facebook walls :D

The Third and Final Phase took place in Washington DC, where we all stayed in the Dupont Circle Hotel and at first really enjoyed DC, then met tons of super interesting speakers (like the former deputy secretary of defense and current president of CSIS, the former mayor of DC, the CEO of DCs fastest growing company, and the Ambassador from Egypt, among others!), then had to work ALOT, then enjoyed DC even more! This all culminated in another Final Pitch, this time to a panel of American venture capitalists and Business Leaders who then proceeded to... be alot nicer than we had expected, gave us great feedback and told us our plans were excellent!

All in all in was a fantastic intro to many new things for me, particularly in entrepreneurship and business formation, and I'm sure the many skills and connections will prove invaluable both in the immediate future and on down the long and winding road (dah dah, dah dah, daaa)

Ok next post I really will enter the present, pinkyswear

(Yet another) Updater Interlude

Salaam Alaykum!

For anyone who may still upon occassion pass by this blog (hopefully not like a ship in the night), you have probably noticed that not much has happened in a while... OR HAS IT??

The fact is, yet again, I have been remiss in my blog duties (bluties?) and haven't updated in quite awhile, much like the last trip to the middle east when I left us hanging after a *thrilling* part one story of a trip to Syria, I have left "us" hanging once again, somewhere in Jaipur if I recall correctly...

Now if my virtual self were to be accorded a physical manifestation, he could be assumed to have remained in "Double-Jaipurdy" for quite some time now. For the living, physically embodied Siler, this is not the case though, and a few things have happened since we left our protagonist, trekking through the forts of the old Marahaja and fending of men with mangoes and boundless curiosity.

In summary:

I left Jaipur, finished my internship in Bagar, went to Delhi and stayed with Shubhi in her delightful abode where I ate meat! and was eaten by her "delightful" dog Mischief. Planned to meet up with Lindsey and go to Agra, Went to the wrong train station in Delhi, finally found a bus to Agra, barely saw Agra fort and the Taj Mahal, ran to the next train, parted ways with Lindsey, arrived in Amritsar. Had a truly amazing experience at the Golden Temple where I had free lodging and meals (!!!!) Saw the crazy border closing ceremony between the goose-steppers and shouters of Pakistan and the Shouters and goose-steppers of India. Went back to Delhi and stayed with Sam, Michelle and Sean in The Den Of Disease. Went to Kujaraho and saw pornographic temples :P Became somewhat ill, escaped the Den of Disease, went to Jaisalmer, Jodhpur and Udaipur (the Most Romantic City on Earth), returned to Delhi and the Den of Disease :( left with Sam for a healing and rough and tumble (at the same time!) jaunt through Lucknow, Varanasi, Pokara, Kathmandu, Darjeeling and Kolkata. Missed our Fastest Train in India, Took the LONGEST TRAIN RIDE EVER. Arrived in Delhi to return home to the USofA.

whew. After that I went back to Penn, had no sleep but lots of fun, wrote a thesis (also no sleep but NOT fun), graduated, came home to NC.

That should be enough update for now, bring us up to the present day in the next post, I promise!

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!

From Ra-leigh to Del-hi with no Del-ay

So now that we've gotten some of the background info out of the way, its time to weave a riveting narrative of high-jinks and low-blows as adventures pop up like mushrooms after a rain (haha rain...) and I get more experienced than the Jimmy Hendrix's band.

or rather, life was like that for James Bond and Marco Polo perhaps, but today we have something called the 9-5 and its become frightfully universal, though not universal enough it would seem, because here at GDL we have the innovative model called the 8-8, that is, breakfast at 8, lunch at noon, and dinner at 8 pm, all time in between is spent task-bound and nose to the grindstone, except for occasional breaks to enjoy some Chai, or mango juice, or write a blog post, or get some water, or play the "if i was in america i would be eating ____ food right now game". So its not too bad really, particularly when one is indoors where shade and fans ameliorate the harshest task-master of all, Mr. Sun.

The events leading up to this routine are pretty typical as well, at least for a certain jet-setting class, but for those of us not bread on international flights, and the generally delicious meals that they entail, it was certainly a treat, in particular getting to catch up on movies i'd missed in the controlled chaos of school work at Penn, i savored the opportunity to knock down the Fantastic Mr. Fox (ok, but a bit underwhelming), Marley & Me (tragic and tear-jerking, in all the right ways, it hit pretty close to home), Shutter Island (stressful and at times exhilarating, but mostly startling and a bit upsetting), and The Princess and the Frog (everything you expect from a classic Disney piece, good songs, great characters, and a wholesome and inspiring message).
Now that the important things are out of the way, i might mention Delhi a bit, after arriving late at night I was driven to the hotel UPIASI was putting us up in and met up with Sarah and Meg who were chilling before bed, we made plans to explore some of Delhi as well as purchase the requisite clothing tomorrow before heading out to Bagar by eveningtide. After making our way to a House of Textiles and purchasing several fabulous outfits, we autorickshawed into Old Delhi, looking to get a feel for the sounds and smells of this famous city, and oh did we ever. Old Delhi was a Hot Mess, in caps, emphasis on the hot, and after being turned down from entering the Jama Masjid (the largest mosque in India), and unable to sit on the searing steps without cooking our buns prematurely, we wandered down the bustling main street in search of some food. Finally arriving at a place we could sit down indoors, I indulged in some Pani Puri Chaat (waaay too spicey) and a Mango Lassi (refreshing) after which we wandered a bit through the heat, dodging bikers, cows, donkeys, rickshaws and cars and looking for a Jain temple that included a bird sanctuary, unsuccessful and unabel to enter the Red Fort (closed mondays) we tried to convince an autorickshaw driver to take us back to the India Habitit Centre, which he, speaking no English, did not do, but brought us somewhere in New Delhi where we found someone else to finish up the job. India was going to be a tough cookie it seemed, but daunted I was not, all that was needed was to learn Hindi, learn to tolerate spicy food, learn to tolerate extreme heat, not get sick from the water or food, and not die in the street and everything would be fine, might even be an adventure :)