June 16 - 22, 2008. Shillong

Tags that students taped to an AIDS awareness and support poster.

Jenny, teaching kids in Shillong about HIV/AIDS

Women making bags with "loin looms" at a vocational school.

The inputs.

Jenny and me at the Shillong Country Club.

Kids at one of Mother Theresa's Orphanages

Jenny getting the Hindu Bindi placed on her forehead.

Jenny with bindi.

This picture was taken at Kamakhya temple in Guwahati. This is a group of Hindu men who are on the first day of a four day fast. I hope the second guy from the left makes it.

A couple of disclaimers:

1. Due to weather complications, we were unable to ride a military helicopter last week. The colorful, but not quite as glamorous alternative, was a car ride, discussed in paragraph one.

2. I was humbled this weekend while visiting a Hindu festival in Guwahati. Most of the men in attendance were in possession of at least one trident. As you’ll recall from our previous post, I made light of a plaque, at a temple in Delhi, which stated that tridents couldn’t be brought in.

We spent last week in Northeastern India, about 40 miles from Bangladesh, and 150 miles from Bhutan. Winnie, our intern host, arranged everything and joined us for the trip. On Monday, after flying into Guwahati, the capital of Assam, we drove to Shillong in the neighboring state of Meghalaya. To accurately represent the road to Shillong, one would need a wholesale box of hairpins, some Himalayan foothills, green in bulk, 1100 head of cattle, a Scottish loch, and a handful of broken down Tata coal trucks. In other words, while I’ve never been more carsick in my life, Jenny thought the scenery was absolutely incredible.

Shillong was formerly the capital of British Assam (in the mid to late 1800s), and the city still retains some aspects of British culture and architecture. The streets are very thin, and have moss covered, stone walls on either side. Many houses and buildings are built in the Tudor style, and the Shillong Country Club – one of the first golf courses in Asia – is modeled after the early Scottish courses. Shillong is also about 35 miles from Cherrapunjee, statistically the wettest place in the world. As I said before, green in bulk.

Winnie’s husband is a retired military special forces general, and he was the head of the base in Shillong for several years. Apparently he and his troops spent most of their time performing counter-terrorist missions in the region. Fortunately I think the special forces made substantial progress prior to our visit, and very little of the terrorist activity was aimed at American interns in the first place. Maitri started in Shillong, and Winnie still has an apartment near the center of town. From our bedroom windows, we could see soft, green mountains across the valley. The mass of trees made the mountains look like the thick wool on a sheep headed for the shears.

We arrived on Monday afternoon, just in time to catch a rock shattering thunderstorm. After a brief visit to an international trade expo featuring vendors from Thailand, Bangladesh, Pakistan and Kenya (of all places), we walked down the main Shillong thoroughfare and did a little window shopping, and finally settled into the apartment. Our first few days consisted of planning the logistics for two school presentations. With the rest of our time, we visited schools, training centers, and an orphanage that was started by Mother Theresa.

Maitri basically has a two person team in Shillong, led by Sanjay, a graphic designer and small business owner. Sanjay lived in Europe for about 5 years, has the best soap collection in Shillong, and is working on a coffee table book on the Rajasthani Regiment that was the only loyalist regiments in colonial India. Sanjay is a very accomplished guy, and he helped us all week long.

Our presentations went off smoothly. One was at a small private school, and the other was at the Army School of Shillong. We basically gave a presentation on HIV/AIDS, performed a brief skit, and answered any questions that the kids had about the subject. The questions ranged from “How much spit would I have to swallow from an infected person to contract HIV?” to “How old should I be before I start a relationship?” The culture in India is very conservative, and these kids – some as old as 17 – hadn’t talked about relationships, AIDS, or many other teenage topics. We administered a survey prior to our presentation, and many kids thought that one could contract HIV just from being close to an infected individual. Jenny gave an oral quiz towards the end of the presentation, and it seemed that most of the misinformation had been cleared up. After our presentation, we had each student write, “I will think before I act because…” on a red piece of paper, followed by their reason. Each student then taped the paper on an outline of a large AIDS ribbon we had drawn. After every student had posted their statement, the ribbon was red, indicating support for those with HIV/AIDS, but also demonstrating the students’ resolve to do everything they could to eradicate the disease.

On Friday, before our visit to the Army School, we stopped by the country club for an early morning walk. After circling a number of the fairways, we stopped on the 9th hole to drive a few balls. I had a hard time proving that I was the best golfer in our group that day, and Jenny frequently out-distanced me.

Jenny, trying to make me look bad.

However, as I grew up on a healthy diet of Fiesta Fun miniature golf, I rely on my short game to compensate. I drained a 40 foot putt at the end of the morning to solidify my status in the group, and the golf pro – a weathered Nepalese man – asked me if I wanted to practice driving again.

(This is what I do.)

Aside from our school visits, we visited an orphanage founded by Mother Theresa. It was neat to see the caretakers in the same indigo-bordered white robes that Mother Theresa wore, and a large photo of Mother Theresa hanging in the main hall. Unfortunately, the caretakers weren’t as eager to have their pictures taken as the children were.

The orphanage had some of the most adorable children, but some heartbreaking stories as well. Most of the children were left at a hospital by their mothers immediately after birth, and several of them were left in the street as newborn infants. The orphanage’s rules indicate that extended family members may retrieve a child, and a set of sisters was split up when an aunt and uncle sought out the older of the two, and likely put her into prostitution. The younger of the two, who is blind, and whose face is somewhat deformed was left at the orphanage by the family.

All of the children were ecstatic to see Winnie, who used to throw them parties at her house, and who still brings them treats when she is in town. This time, Winnie brought little watches for all of the kids. The watches were all different colors, and were painted with cartoon characters and diamonds, etc. I helped Biki (pronounced Beeky), a 12 year old girl, put her green Hello Kitty watch on, and she gave one of the more touching displays of gratitude that I’ve ever seen. Biki is an orphan with cerebral palsy. Needless to say, she didn’t start out with much in this life. But Biki’s smile grew the closer Winnie came to her. After Winnie had waded through the group of children, and was in front of her, Biki struggled to bring her hands together in front of her face and bowed her head, still smiling.

On Saturday, we woke up bright and early, to beat the unpredictable Shillong weather and catch our flight in Guwahati. People frequently get stranded in the road by impassable roads, horrible weather related traffic problems, etc. On good days, the drive is two hours. On bad days, it can be as long as seven hours. We had a one o’clock flight, and we left the house at 7:30, giving ourselves about five hours. As it turned out, the weather cooperated, and there was no traffic. We made it to Guwahati before ten, and Winnie took us to a Hindu festival at the Kamakhya temple on top of a mountain overlooking the city. The festival only takes place once a year, and this was day one of four. Kamakhya is the site where the Hindu goddess, Sati’s, reproductive organs apparently landed after she was inadvertently torn into 51 pieces by gods who were attempting to appease Lord Shiva. It’s a long story. Briefly, though, Kamakhya is an extremely important location in Hinduism for fertility. Sati, the goddess, is also the namesake for the Hindu practice of “sati”, where a widow is forced to throw herself onto her husband’s funeral pyre. That’s another long, interesting story for another post. But the festival and temple were awesome. We didn’t get to go inside, but the outside was more than enough. Nancy, Kaitlyn, Jenny and I had the bindi placed on our foreheads, and flowers placed around our necks. We also performed a ritualistic chant that I’m assuming had something to do with fertility (hopefully it doesn’t work toooo soon – sorry Moms).

So it was a wild, picturesque week, but when Jenny and I arrived in Delhi, we both strangely felt like we were, kind of, home.

June 14, 2008. Hindu Weaponry and "Walk-About" Kahn

After a week in the office, we left home this morning for Akshardham temple. The ride to the temple was with a Formula-1 rickshaw driver, and let's just say we got there faster than we had anticipated. Akshardham temple is on the Eastern outskirts of Delhi, and holds the Guinness World Record for being the “world's largest comprehensive Hindu temple.” And it’s a good thing I left my trident in the apartment. At the security check point, a plaque displayed all of the items that could not be brought onto the temple premises. The forbidden items made quite an interesting cast, and included: digital cameras, the Islamic burqua, fencing foils, samurai swords and yes… the three-pronged trident.

The temple itself is incredible. The base of the temple is a cutaway frieze, depicting tens of life-size elephants, as well as lions, monkeys, and other Indian animals. The entire building and surrounding edifices are made out of Rajasthani pink sandstone, and apparently, the temple was constructed without a single piece of steel or concrete. And did I mention that the temple holds a world record for size? It should also hold a record for intricate detail. There wasn’t a square inch of wall or ceiling, inside the temple, that wasn’t carved. There are over 20,000 deities cut into the structure, and an eleven foot gilded statue of Swaminarayan, the founder of this denomination of Hinduism, sits in the center of the temple.

Prior to our visit to the temple, the four of us went to a number of attractions on the temple grounds. As the temple was completed in 2005, the Swaminarayan denomination created one Disneyland-esque (with emphasis on the “esque”) walk-through attraction, an IMAX movie, and an enjoyable boat ride through 10,000 years of Indian history. One of the most interesting parts about the boat ride was hearing how everything was done in India much earlier than it was done elsewhere in the world. “So and so discovered the laws of physics 300 years before Newton…so and so discovered flight 1000 years before…etc.” The narrator was brazen and smug, and by the end of the boat ride I wanted to shout “Hey pal, Disneyland opened in 1955.” For Jenny’s sake I held back.


We spent the rest of the afternoon shopping near Connaught place, and eating vegetarian and chicken masala pizza at Pizza Hut. Jenny and I are becoming quite the shopping pair. Jenny makes the final decision on the product, and I do the bargaining. Today we whittled our bill nearly in half for a piece of silver jewelry and a 1 foot tall, rosewood Buddha head. Unfortunately, however, the novelty of street shopping in Delhi is eroded by “walk-abouts” as I call them – the guys who don’t have a store, but are as eager as Hurricane Andrew to sell you something frivolous. Apparently, aside from looking like I sport a trident, I’m also the guy who looks like he wants to buy wooden snakes from street vendors. Nobody has tried to sell Jenny a wooden snake.

June 10, 2008. Birthdays, Shopping & Flame Throwing Air Conditioning Units

Only a few pictures this time:

These are three of Winnie & the General's six dogs. (L to R) Big Boss, the Yorkshire Terrier; Lamaji, the Beagle (a.k.a. Kyle Korver for his tan coat, knee high socks, and magnetic pull on the women in the office.); and finally Buddy, the Lab. While Buddy is the friendliest dog in the office, you could argue that he "doesn't have the belt through all the loops".


Winnie brought cake in for Kaitlyn's birthday. (L to R) Kaitlyn, Winnie, Me, Jenny, Shenahz, The General (Retired Director General of the Indian Military Special Forces - yeah, he's the man), Nancy, Sonali, & Sonal. Winnie & the General are the founders. Sonal, their daughter, is CEO.

Scott treated us to dinner at TGI Fridays in Connaught Place with Liz. It was great to have some good old American cuisine for a change. We also enjoyed hearing about their excited adventures this summer in China, Singapore, and Cambodia.

The 2007 Kamas Valley Fiesta Days Demolition Derby

As Jenny and I were getting ready for bed two nights ago, our air conditioning unit started making loud cranking sounds. About 20 seconds later, the A/C unit emitted a large flame and clouds of smoke. So we talk to the handyman on Monday, and he goes into our apartment to fix the unit while we’re at work. We get home from work, and there is a pile of dirt, wires and pipes in the corner of our room, as well as a mysterious dirty rag. So I open the bathroom door, and the toilet seat is completely covered in urine. Front, back, everywhere. I’m giving Jenny the benefit of the doubt this time and blaming it on the handyman.

As far as work goes, Jenny and I are both working on some pretty exciting projects right now. Jenny has put together the first Maitri quarterly newsletter, and is also creating a twelve week course on health for Indian women. She is putting together a curriculum and I am drafting a proposal on ways that Maitri can incorporate microfinance into their operations. I have made a spreadsheet delineating how much money Maitri will need to raise to start their operations, and different interest rates they should charge to create funds for additional loans. If the project gains traction, it could be an amazing experience. Winnie has said that she hopes to implement the proposal before we leave. This weekend I believe we are flying to Shillong, a mountainous city in Eastern India, and, while it’s still unclear what we will be working on there, it should be a good time.

After traveling three weekends in a row, and with a trip tentatively planned for next weekend Jenny and I decided to stay put for a change. Our first three weekends consisted of lost luggage, bumpy bus rides, and Indian night trains. This Saturday morning, we slept in. That’s one of the nicer things about living in an area for a while – you don’t feel rushed to do everything at once. You can take time to relax. When we were in Washington D.C. last spring, I remember walking along the Mall and passing a family that was obviously on a trip. The mom listed seven Smithsonian museums, and then said, “we have four hours left before we need to go to the airport, which ones do you guys want to see?” It reminded me of my childhood. I felt relieved that I didn’t have to go to the airport for another 2 months, and I felt spoiled because I had already had two entire afternoons in the National Portrait Gallery alone.

In the afternoon, we went to Kahn market. The word “market” is very ambiguous in India. On the one hand, a market could be a row of thatched huts along the street, with cuts of meat hanging from the ceiling, or mangoes piled up in front. On the other hand, a market could have a movie theater, a TGI Fridays, and a United Colors of Benetton. Kahn market is somewhere in between. You ask yourself, as you drive up alongside Kahn, why anyone would have highly recommended this place to you. It doesn’t have the authentic market look of say, Pikes Place in Seattle or the fish market in downtown Boston, or an Indian roadside market. And it definitely doesn’t look like a higher end mall. Imagine a gray, dilapidated strip mall that you pulled out from under a viaduct. That’s Kahn market. Once you get past the façade, though, the shopping is world class. That’s one of the things that blows me away about India. While many of their streets and buildings are dirtier than mud, their styles and colors are probably the most unique and extravagant in the world.

As I was with three females, the shopping was done mostly in jewelry stores, clothing stores, and home décor stores. I’m hesitant to say that after six and a half hours of shopping, I was saying “cute” and “fun” with way too much ease.

We made a reservation for lunch at a Western restaurant called The Big Chill, and then climbed a narrow, dark flight of stairs to FabIndia, India’s version of IKEA. FabIndia was actually very impressive. They had everything from men’s leather slippers to wool rugs to colorful Indian curtains to pottery and table cloths. And it was all pretty high quality stuff. We bought a leather bag for Jenny, and two table cloth and napkin sets. All together it set us back about $65. From FabIndia we went to The Big Chill for some Western food. Jenny and I shared a barbecue chicken salad and pepperoni and gouda baked pasta with mango shakes and a tropical smoothie to drink.

After lunch, we went back through a number of clothing stores. We stopped briefly in a book store and thought seriously about buying a large coffee table book entitled “The Monumental India Book.” We decided against it when we saw that it cost $300. Jenny bought three pairs of silver earrings and a shirt, and we called it a day. Honestly though, for the ladies out there, India has some pretty outstanding shopping.

Back at our apartment, we hung out and watched a movie. Nothing too crazy. Our cook, Janki, made us puri (think fried scones) and stir fry. While we have a pile of Bollywood movies by our DVD player, we opted for Best in Show for a second straight evening.

At church on Sunday, Jenny and I met an American family from Ogden. The Miners were in India with their daughter and son-in-law, the Speths, picking up their grandson Elder Speth. Elder Speth had served in the branch we attended, and had also served in a branch just down the street from where we were in Hyderabad. Apparently the Church is growing rapidly in India. The branch president of the Vasant Vihar branch we were attending had only been baptized one year earlier. Elder Speth had actually done his baptismal interview. Brother Miner introduced himself to the Elders quorum as a retired chemistry professor, and I thought I would mention to him, after the meeting, that my Grandma was Henry Eyring’s younger sister. Not wanting to come off the wrong way, I decided against it. It turns out I didn’t have to mention it though. Jenny had made a connection with his wife in Relief Society, and Brother Miner’s mother was Caroline Eyring, Grandma’s sister. Brother Miner (Bryant is his first name) is my Mom’s first cousin, and we had a good laugh about the connection. What an interesting coincidence that I bump into a close relative from Ogden, who I’ve never met before, at a branch meeting in Delhi, on the other side of the world. Brother Miner talked about being a missionary in Europe, when Aunt Rose and Uncle Grant went to Germany to buy Mercedes and travel around Bavaria.

Today we celebrated Kaitlyn’s birthday in the office, and tonight, Uncle Scott took us to TGI Fridays in Connaught Place. It was fun to get caught up on all of Scott and Liz’s travels around the world, and hear about their reactions to Indian culture. Fortunately it doesn’t sound like anyone has urinated on their toilet seat (yet).

May 31 - June 2, 2008. Indian Night Trains and a Ride on the Ganges

Some Photos First:

Jenny and me, shortly after boarding our night train from Delhi to Varanasi.

Dad at 5:30 in the morning.

Wood, near the steps of the ghats, used for cremations. Sandalwood is the most expensive wood to use, and is considered the most noble wood over which to be cremated.

Kaitlyn, Jenny, and Nancy, at the beginning of our boat ride up the Ganges.

Just a dude, meditating on the steps of a ghat.

Another dude, deep in meditation.

A cycle rickshaw driver in Varanasi.

Women bathing in the Ganges.

Jenny and me, walking along the ghats at 5:00 a.m.

Interesting topics discussed in this posting include: bats the size of eagles, India’s not-so-glamorous version of the Euro-rail, silk bedding, what “personal space” means in India, and a naked man completely covered in dried mud.

We had originally planned on traveling to Agra and Jaipur. However, due to Gurraj riots in Rajasthan, West of Delhi, we decided that it was a better idea to head the opposite direction. Rajmal, our intern hosts’ driver, took me to the train ticketing office on Friday morning, where we waded and fought our way through the masses to get last minute tickets to Varanasi. Even with an Indian leading the way, the ticketing office was remarkably inefficient. We had to get in one line to reserve the tickets, and another line to pay for the tickets, all the while, fighting to maintain our spot in line. The recurring thought that has been in my head for the last three weeks is, “There has to be a better way to do this.”

Kaitlyn, Nancy, Jenny and I left for Varanasi after work. The train pulled out of the station, and went right past the Red Fort as the sun was going down. I had heard a lot about the Red Fort before, and kind of dismissed it. The thing is absolutely massive. Imagine if they had constructed the Pentagon out of Southern Utah red rock and then placed a huge gate with towers in front. It’s that big, and that picturesque. We’re excited to go inside when we get a chance.

When I think “night train” or “sleeper car” I’m usually thinking about the separate compartments that the Euro-rail offers, with clean sheets, air conditioning, and a sink. Northern Railways, the Indian counterpart to the Euro-rail, was not quite as lavish. We’ll start with the bathrooms. There were two bathrooms per car, one of which had a sign that read, “Western Bathroom.” I peeked into the one that didn’t have a sign on it. It was literally a hole in the floor, with a pipe leading to the track. The “Western Bathroom” had a toilet in it, but no toilet paper, and no running water.

The train’s beds were vinyl, and didn’t look like they had been cleaned in years. A thirty-something Indian man perched himself on my bunk, and managed to communicate to me, “When you want to sleep, you tell me and I’ll move.” In the meantime he made himself right at home. He took off his shoes, one of which fell down the bunks and landed in between the four of us as we discussed the novelties of riding on an Indian train. The guy also had a full meal and left some scraps and crumbs for me. That’s what “personal space” means in India.

The windows of our car were pulled down, and we absorbed the odors of the night. Pungent, burning garbage was the most prevalent aroma, but the train also apparently passed through a field of rotten mangoes, deceased squirrel and unleaded gasoline. Despite the siege of our olfactory senses, we enjoyed the evening ride, and admitted that we were glad we were doing it. Man after man passed by calling out “Chaaaaaai! Chaaaaaai!” or “Bread, butter, omelet!” We had been advised against having the food and drink on the train, but it was interesting and annoying to see and hear the people come by with their goods. I took an Ambien and slept 8 hours away.

Our train stopped for twenty minutes, about 200 yards from the Varanasi station, before finally completing the journey (three hours late). Again, I said to myself, “There has to be a better way.” Tens of taxi and rickshaw drivers vied for our attention outside of the station before we finally negotiated a three dollar taxi ride across town to the ghats and our hotel. Our Lonely Planet book explained that, in Varanasi, the best information to give the taxi driver is a point of interest near your hotel. Otherwise, they will try to take you all over town, or will try to convince you that your hotel is overbooked, out of business, etc. so that you book a room in their friends’ hotel. The hints were useful as our driver tried to get all sorts of stuff out of us before we left. He wasn’t pleased when we continued to tell him that the only place we wanted to go was Assi Ghat. I’ve never had a taxi driver laugh at me and ask, “Why are you so serious today? You don’t like to have fun?” I thought to myself, “Why do you care, you’re a taxi driver.”

The Hotel Ganges View got rave reviews from my Lonely Planet book, and Nancy’s Frommers book, so we decided that, for $60 a night, the four of us would cram into a room and try it out. If any of you go to Varanasi in the future, the Hotel Ganges View is the place to stay. It’s located about 50 feet from the steps of Assi Ghat, and feels like a 1920’s, Indian-themed, Avenues mansion. The lobby and dimly lit dining room have white and black marble checkered floors, and there are lots of interesting knickknacks, paintings and coffee table books on shelves and tables. With the exception of a picture book on Abu Ghraib (which reminded me of Mom’s coffee table book entitled Global Nuclear Terrorism) all of the books in the room had photos of India, Nepal, and the Ganges. There were also cases of books that had been signed by famous Indian authors whom the hotel owner knew.

Our room was on the third floor, and we walked up a steep wooden staircase to get there, past a large, coral sandstone balcony with about twenty pots of flowers and green grass. The balcony overlooked the Ganges and a large Hindu temple. Painters were working on bright images of Ganesha, women, cows or birds. Some painted on their canvases while others painted directly on the walls of the hotel. Every room in the hotel was stylin’. Our room was trimmed with gold paint and had really cool light fixtures.

As it was too hot to walk the ghats in the mid-afternoon, the women decided to shop indoors. So I sat by as they searched through silk scarves, skirts, and blouses. In one store I couldn’t help but take a picture of a slightly pudgy Indian guy in a tank top and a mullet, hanging out on his mat as Kaitlyn, Jenny and Nancy went through his silk goods. Eventually we stopped by a Lonely Planet recommended silk shop, called Open Hand, where Jenny and I bought a couple of handmade, six piece silk bed sets.

In the early evening, we hired a fifteen-year-old kid named Pradeepa to row us up the Ganges to Harischandra Ghat, one of the main ceremonial cremation ghats. As it turned out, all of us wanted to do some of the rowing......so Pradeepa got paid full price for doing half the work. We passed by boys swimming, men doing their laundry, and women bathing. We could see the fire at Harischandra Ghat, and as we got nearer, four men carried a wooden stretcher down from the street. The stretcher was carrying a body wrapped in cloths, and the first stop was the river, where the body is apparently doused with water. The ceremony stopped for a bit, and Pradeepa started back to Assi Ghat before it resumed. When I looked back towards Harischandra, after about two or three minutes, the fire had grown quite a bit.

As we returned to Assi Ghat, with the sun completely beyond the horizon, our solemn thoughts about the cremation ceremony were obliterated by an influx of bats. Their arrival was as sleek as their shape. First there was a tiny one, flying drunk. Then there were a handful of tiny ones. Jenny pointed up to the sky and spotted a large flying creature that looked like an eagle. As it got closer, we realized that it had a 3-4 foot wing span, and that it too was a bat. No joke, it was the largest flying creature I’ve seen since spotting a Bald Eagle in the Olympic Peninsula last summer. After a while, there were hundreds of little bats flying around, and a constant stream of large, anxiety-inducing bats. They flew about ten or fifteen feet above us, and every once in a while, they dipped down and snatched something out of the water. Creepy.

We had dinner at the hotel – a buffet for the four of us plus three other tourists. Among the best dishes were a cauliflower and bell pepper dish, a really good lentil curry, lemon rice, and hot chapattis – think small flour tortillas. The other person sitting at our table was a British photographer, named Sebastian, who was on the back end of a four year trip around the world. He started out in Costa Rica, had spent almost three years in India, and had touched down in a handful of other countries.

Sunday morning came fast. We were up at 4:50 to catch the sunrise on the Ganges and take a walk along the ghats. I’ve decided that the two best places in the world to people watch are Las Vegas and Varanasi, two cities at opposite poles of the spiritual continuum. There were more women bathing in their saris, men leading their water buffaloes to the river, and a group of people doing early morning yoga to the sound of a ritualistic bellman. There were sudhus (men who cake themselves in mud for meditation purposes), more people meditating, and two or three more tourists. We passed Harischandra Ghat again and saw the end of the ceremony that we had missed the night before. People stood around a pyre of wood and oversaw the cremation of a deceased loved one.

Jenny, Nancy and Kaitlyn hired a yogi to come to our hotel for an hour after our return from the ghats. I’m already pretty flexible, so I went back to sleep as the women stretched and meditated outside our door. They all claimed that it was effective, since their muscles were sore the following day. We went to several markets in Varanasi and bought a few more silk items, before heading for the train station to catch another train back to Delhi.

Once again, we became all too familiar with the inefficiencies of the Indian rail service. There are many amazing things in India, but an efficient rail system is not one of them. For an hour, nobody could tell us where our train was, or if we even had seats on the train. Apparently, we had been given standby tickets, and we had to go through a bunch of lines and charts to figure out where our seats were.

Jenny and I have now traveled in India by taxi, rickshaw, bus, train, plane, motorcycle, and company car. If you are interested in going from point A to point B in India, and it is anywhere over 10 miles between the two points, take my advice and fly there. I had the middle of three bunks in our section of the train. As I fell asleep, a man, whose family was sleeping on the bottom bunk, stood up and coughed directly into my face. This went on throughout the night. Jenny woke up early in the morning to three teenage boys sitting on the bunk across from her, staring at her. Good times.

After traveling on an Indian night train, and dealing with the madness that is the Varanasi taxi/rickshaw scene, we felt relieved to arrive home on Monday morning. F-block, with its 1970s East German architecture, never looked so good, and our quiet ride to work was an absolute breeze.