And end up looking more like this:

Honestly, I was apprehensive about participating in the day; uncertain of how crazy and out of control the celebration was going to be. But Arjun convinced me that it was all good fun. And that the meat of it would be over quickly – the “playing” with water and toxic paint would only last a few short late morning hours and the rest of the day was just about chilling out, peacefully. Ok then. I’m in!

I threw my camera in a plastic bag and we headed out into the unknown – Arjun with a smile of familiar anticipation and Wendy and I with nervous chuckles and a few shakey ‘here we go’s.

What we found was quite a surprise. The city was shut down. Dead. Virtually every shop was closed and there was no traffic in the streets, save for a few motorbike passersby. The people we met along the way were friendly and jovial – inviting us to enjoy homemade sweets, after christening us with gentle paint streaks on our faces with friendly blessings of “Happy Holi!” Even the kids we encountered were pretty tame. No one threw water balloons at us. We were not pummeled with unwanted bombs of paint. It was actualy quite civil. And lovely.

We happily made our way over to Vidya Bhawan, a Seva volunteer dormitory not far from our house. What we found there was much more of what I was expecting – but more fun that I had anticipated. We romped around with Seva staff and other volunteers – painting faces, throwing paint and water, and dancing around like a bunch of wild monkeys. Great fun!

After several dousings of water, everyone retreated to the sun to warm up and laugh at themselves.

Quickly tired out, the three of us musketeers decided to pack it up and head home to get cleaned up. We were still pleasantly surprised to see how quiet the city was and ran into more celebratory folks along the way.

Just barely an hour after heading out, and 120 photos later, we were safe and sound at home, eager to see if we were going to be multi-colored for the rest of the week. After a good twenty minutes of good ‘ol fashioned elbow grease and exfoliating soap, I was amazed to come out of the shower mostly paint-free. He wasn’t kidding. Short, sweet and a colorfully good time. Happy Holi!

We hopped on the 5:30am bus which had us sleepily bumping along a rugged road out of Udaipur. Rajasthan is famous for its many ancient Rajput forts, and Kumbalgargh was appealing for its remote location, deep in the heart of the Aravallis. It is also perched above what is now the Kumbalgargh Wildlife Sanctuary, where we hoped to spend our first night.

The early morning sun brought a little warmth to our chilly ride while treating us to a view of the beautifully bucolic villages that lie along the mountainous route. We arrived in Kewara, a small rural outpost 7 kms below the fort, just past 8am. Before heading on, we had a quick chai and the common Rajasthani rice breakfast of Poha. Emily picked out some snacks and the three of us headed up the road to the fort. We could have taken a shared jeep, but chose rather to wake up our legs and minds with a long walk with the locals. Within a few kilometers of the fort itself, we began to see the ancient wall that provides 36 kms of protection to one of Rajasthan’s most important forts.

Built by the 15th century Rajput Rana Kumbha, the isolated fort is most famous for its success in protecting Mewari rulers in danger, having only been taken once in all it’s history – even then requiring the joint efforts of the three armies of Amber, Marwar, and Mughal emperor Akbar, who were only able to hold on to it for 2 days.

The impressive wall surrounding the fort is as wide as 8 horses abreast in some places. It encloses 360 temples, 700 cannon bunkers, various palaces and gardens, and a small, still inhabited village along with a few food and trinket vendors. We spent most of our morning’s wanderings at the main palace near the fort’s entrance.

Over lunch we learned that spending the night in the nearby wildlife sanctuary was more logistically challenging then any of us were up for. Before long we were on our way to Jhodpur where we would spend one night before heading to the ultimate destination of Jaisalmer. Though the fort at Jhodpur is supposed to be another Rajasthan gem, we must have somehow known that real adventure awaited us in the far desert outpost of Jaisalmer. We were not regretful.

With the countdown bearing down, Bri and I took a few deep breaths and dove fully into enjoying our last days together in Udaipur. As I will be somewhere in Northern India for the end of my Fellowship, it is almost certain to be a Delhi-based reunion come July. To close out his time here, we decided to hit up a few of the yet seen Udaipur treats and spend quality time with old and new friends (Brian made many), while shopping for gifts for family and friends.

Just down the road from Seva Mandir sits the beautiful garden oasis of Sahelion Ki Bari. This enchanting haven was originally built for 48 maidens meant to be part of the dowry of the city’s princess. Fed by nearby Fateh Sagar Lake, it is a lovely spread of green lawns, colorful flower gardens, lotus pools, marble pavilions and fountains. It was remarkably peaceful, welcoming, and romantic. Though I slightly regretted not visiting sooner, it seemed perfectly appropriate that my first visit was with my sweetheart.

There were many last minute to dos. Thus, we had a full-day planned on Brian’s second to last. After a quick breakfast, we hopped on the bike and headed up to Monsoon Palace, the ‘Summer Resort of the Maharajas’ (also called Sajjangargh Fort). The Fort sits atop a hill overlooking all of the city’s lakes and is easily spotted from most places in Udaipur. Construction of the palace began in the 1800’s by Maharana Sajjan Singh who had the dream of a 19-story summer retreat.

He died before the second story could be completed and I imagine it is in much the same state today as when he passed. It is now owned and run by the state government, who took over its operation following rocky years of ownership by the Army and the Forest Department (the Fort is surrounded in all directions by the Sajjangargh Wildlife Sanctuary). Though the palace remains largely incomplete, it is a popular viewpoint to take in the tremendous Aravelli landscape that surrounds the city, as well as the city itself. It’s also a hot wedding spot. If you’re of the rich and famous, of course.

Looking out across the valley that is now a city, Brian remarked at how fertile this place must have been at one time. You could see why it was so easy to fill the man-made lakes of Udaipur’s fame. Before a population explosion and consequent exploitation, the valley below must have been an oasis of its own following the rains.

Next stop: coffee. Brian remarked earlier that coffee is not the Indian drink of choice. So, it is not uncommon then for us westerners to seek out an outlet for a good ‘ol cup of joe. You might pay a premium, but damn it’s nice to have a rich, non-Nescafe coffee. Barista is one just place for me, often an office away from Seva, and where we re-caffeinated before heading to the old city.

One of the things that really excited Brian about being in India was the idea of having a suit tailored. An all but dead trade in the states, one can easily find any number of talented tailors to craft the threads of your choosing and fit here. After much deliberation and multiple visits to several tailoring shops, Brian set his heart on what became a real handsome number. Black with delicate pin stripes, in a luxuriously supple merino wool. Shirts to compliment. I was inspired during one of his fittings to have a woolen winter coat tailored as well – how many ill-fitted thrift store coats can one have sitting unworn in the closet anyway?

Recharged by Barista iced lattes, we eagerly headed to the tailor to pick up our new duds. Agreeing that our biggest expenditures thus far were WELL worth it (and a more-than-considerable savings than anything comparable at home), we were happy to accommodate our friends who asked for a fashion show later that evening.

Our last stop in the old city that afternoon was to our beloved friend Kailesh’s shop for gifts to send Brian home a belated Santa. Kailesh has taken a keen liking to his “best friend” and “dear brother” Brian and was only too happy to treat us to family prices in his shop of beautiful Indian household wares. Kailesh will clearly miss Brian terribly, but promises to phone him as soon as Brian has a mobile in the states again. Kailesh also promises to take very good care of “[Brian's] Jenny” when he leaves Udaipur. He is not to worry one bit, as I am now cordially invited to dine everyday, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, with Kailesh and his wife Goodi. How very kind (and tempting)!

I sure will miss that guy.

He is an independent.  He doesn’t even have a set crew.  Not that that matters.  He has a lot of talent to draw from. There are those 26 grand children.  Kheta is a patriarch. Tradesman and earner. His people live in desert villages 30 to 60 kms outside of Jaisalmer.  And many haven’t been farther than Jaisalmer in their entire lives.

Most everyone else in the camel tourism business works for somebody. And that somebody usually colludes with a hotel. Tourists always sleep somewhere. And tourists sleeping somewhere in Jaisalmer are keen to fork over some cash for a desert safari. The desert has a magnetic draw here. Sleeping on the soft sand under four blankets and endless sky is worth the price of the plane ticket.

This past generation of camel men have seen their livelihoods transition from nomadic trade to adventure tourism.  The competition is high. There are only four months of tourists in the brightest of scenarios. You have your work cut out for you as an indepent.

Kheta generates his own leads approaching window shoppers and sightseers. His english is moderate to good. The first thing you notice is his seriousness. This is a thoughtful, pensive man.  His life is often hard. But when he does smile you can tell that there are people that really love him. He is a grandpa.

Once Kheta has managed to connect with someone and book a tour he will go about gathering a crew, camels, supplies and transportation. All this is made tremendously difficult by the fact that Kheta can read neither english nor hindi.

He is going to get a phone but the prospect is daunting. Meanwhile, he will go to a guy down the alley in an unlit office stall. A bookish guy with a rotary phone.  The whole scene lingers from a bygone era. Kheta hands him a list of numbers with names scrawled in Hindi and Merwadi. This will take a while.

We had tea with Kheta. It was oddly unfortunate because though Brian had shared many a chai tea thus far in India, this was the first time it was he who had offered, invited, ordered and hosted. What came was not the per usual shot glass of sugar with a splash each of cardamom, tea and milk, but rather a full mug of tea – no sugar. Under any other circumstance this would have been perfect. Kheta was gracious but this was, obviously, not his cup of tea. Ba-da-dum. ((wince))

Regretfully, we had already made arrangements to travel back to Udaipur. A sleeper compartment in a bus bound to depart in just a few hours was reserved in our names. There was work and obligations back in Udaipur. The trip itself is fourteen hours. We said our goodbyes to Kheta and eagerly promised to recommend him to any of our friends that were traveling to Jaisalmer.

We would not be making that bus. A seed had been planted. An honest human connection had been made. We would be spending the night in the desert. Of course this turned the rest of the day into a bit of a scramble. The bus tickets would have to be postponed until tomorrow, bags would have to be stored and most importantly we would have to locate Kheta again. His business card only gave a vague direction to the areas of town that he most often frequented.

It was around four pm that Brian found Kheta just as Kheta found Brian. He was happy about our decision and immediately set to worrying over the logistics. There was a lot of work to be done to get us out into the desert before sundown. Now, Jenny and Brian had made it a point to walk the streets less trodden over the past few days but the high-paced maze of alleyways in Kheta’s wake was wholly new and invigorating. We hustled to keep up, waving to our old shopkeeper friend across the square. There was a grateful and comforting solace in the reassuring look he gave us. We had made the right decision.

In a slum outside the city where some of Kheta’s family lived, we waited patiently for details to be arranged. Things took a turn. That strong strong special lhassi imbibed hours earlier was rearing its head. The countless grandchildren bedraggled and attention starved became one monstrous organism pulsing and sprouting toothy little mouths and grabby fingers. Keep it together.  And more importantly, keep those little multiplying devils at bay. The arrival of a rickshaw to the rescue was a welcome sight. Pile in quick, gun it.

40 km, three abreast in a rickshaw. ugggh. The odds of survival were better against the man-eating slum kids. Spewing fumes, this has got to be the least environmentally friendly thing we could have done. Jenny seems happy. Head hanging out like a dog to the oncoming wind, overly content to snap blurry picture after blurry picture. Better keep that environmentally friendly business to myself. Kheta looks weird. He is worried that Brian is unhappy. Brian is worried that Kheta’s face is twitching and maybe shape shifting. A perverted version of the days chain of events rapidly unfold across Brian’s addled brain.  What have they done? Jesus, was that old shopkeeper from town in on it? Motoring off to the desert with only sand and Pakistan in front of them, Brian is momentarily terrified that he has made a horrible, horrible decision.

We reached the outpost village at twilight. It seems that due to the last minute preparation, Kheta was only able to acquire the surliest of camels. Jenny bailed on one. It was a pro move. The beast had marched a 180, feinted like he was putting his front legs down and then swooped his neck up, pissed off and roaring. An angry Downward Dog into Cobra Pose. Jenny hanging every limb outstretched grasping the saddle, eyed Brian. He was cheering. And full of beta. Hold, hold, hold… Okay. Exit strategy confirmed: a brisk twenty inch drop onto sand, only slight danger of being consequently crushed by the jynormous animal.

Despite this incident, we both had a great a time on the camels. They move rhythmically, a surprisingly comfortable ride. Moreso than, say… a bike. And apart from that first camel that Jenny was on they all seemed to be powerful and agreeable creatures. I imagined the lineage of the camel families going back with the lineages of these camel men. Young Kamal was the guide responsible for the care and maintenance of the camels. He is twelve years old and immensely talented.

In addition to Kamal, there was Harlal. Harlal is twenty years old, quick witted and living it up. He is a country boy doing what he loves and tourist season is good for a guy who loves hiking and camping in the desert. People like Harlal. He is married, recently newlywed to an absolutely beautiful woman. He seems like a young man with it all together. Jenny can’t believe that he was ever one of those kids running reckless in the towns. He says he was the worst. One rupee One rupee Pen Pen One rupee. Everyone laughs.

We sit around the campfire. The composition of the crew is excellent. Three generations of camel men who love where they came from and what they do. They take turns singing. Kheta drumming on a bucket, composed and traditional. He takes a lengthy solo. Harlal kids him and Kamal joins in. They talk about those old days when Kheta would drink beer with his European customers and the serious man would never stop talking. The customers, they say, would be brushing their teeth and then in bed and then in bed with the covers pulled over their heads. Kheta doesn’t respond to the chiding. He gives the two their space but absolutely no acknowledgement. This is a story they tell to customers. People love it. Completely unprompted Kamal and Harlal break into country roads take me home wesssvirginia. Wesssvirginia is a magical place to many a camel man adventure tour guide. Two goat herders, friends of Harlal sleeping with their flock beyond the next hill approach and join the group. They agree to bring goat milk for the morning chai.

Kheta has at least two brothers that he is very close to. Kamal is the youngest son of one of those brothers. He respects Kheta immensely and Kheta adores him in return, although in a very serious manner. He is a proud uncle. I imagine Kamal is likely the best in the family at getting Kheta to smile. It is Kamal who leads my camel when we are out the next morning. He wants to give me a good ride and soon takes him off leash. The camel knows what he wants and he takes direction well. We ride out through the scrub to miles of pristinely barren sand dunes and disembark for hours of leaping, tumbling and rolling. It turns out 12 year old boys are great company for such an activity.

I remember passing that first plastic water bottle, barely fighting off the impulse to shout down for Kamal to pick it up…wait… yup there it is and there’s another one and there is a hundred more. We pass an old camp littered. Kheta looks sympathetically to Jenny. Bad camel men.

With his usual seriousness Kheta announces that we are late for the bus and that we should get the camels running. We weren’t close to late but you can’t leave the Great Thar Desert without letting the camels out a bit.

]]> http://heyjennyb.com/2010/02/12/kheta-camel-man/feed/ 4 http://heyjennyb.com/2010/02/07/a-man-and-his-mustache/ http://heyjennyb.com/2010/02/07/a-man-and-his-mustache/#comments Sun, 07 Feb 2010 15:56:19 +0000 brian http://heyjennyb.com/?p=770 The mustache travels well anywhere. Its silly and intriguing, always a conversation starter.  Plus, Jenny digs it. But in this land of western Rajasthan the mustache is revered. It lights up people’s faces. Brian is a rock star, a dignitary, a re-incarnated warrior. He is everbody’s friend. He walks down the street shaking hands, sharing tea and waving to the good buds from the day before. More than once he has been told in friendly backhanded broken english that he would be nothing without the mustache. It’s the mustache that makes a man.

Jenny thinks it is hilarious. She says that she has become invisible, unnoticed. She implies that this is a good thing, a welcome relief.

Sambu speaks no english other than ‘hello’. He is the most confident, charismatic and aggressive of the many eager barbers to get their hands on the white mustache man. Brian has been here for two days and has passed Sambu’s stand a few times but there would be no passing this time. Sambu clasped onto Brian’s arm and pulled him up into the chair. A crowd gathered to watch the spectacle. White mustache man was at the mercy of Sambu’s razor and style.

The Hotel Jaisal View rests on the northern rim of the city. The rooftop provides a great view of the urban center below spilling forth from the 12th century era fort. To the west a smattering of windmills and to the east miles of scrub desert out to the horizon. It is out there that the Indian army tests and buries their nuclear weapons. Not  the cheeriest conversation piece perched on a crisp morning awaiting the sunrise.

The hotel was run by a man named Anna who drove a motorcycle with his name emblazoned upon it. He was a schmoozer, always appearing mildly but pleasantly intoxicated.  The rate was $3.30 a night.  After three days the room tab would be dwarfed by the beer tab.

We woke up in the pre-dawn to scramble and stumble up a cow path to the point for optimal sunrise viewing. Unaided by caffeine. Somewhat unfortunately that would become a theme here in India. They grow a lot of coffee in this country they just don’t have much interest in drinking it.

Waiting for the day to break we met a man of the Bhopa caste, folk musicians. (Jenny had met and befriended musicians of the same caste indigenous to Rajasthan when she was in Pushkar and posted this video on YouTube). He insisted on us accompanying him back down to his house. We slunk past three children lingering in different stages of sleep to meet his pregnant wife in the back room cooking chai over an open flame. She made jewelry and sold it to the tourists from a roadside blanket in the fort. We agreed to stop in and see her that afternoon when we were sightseeing. The two boys awoke, crawled into our laps, fed Brian bidies and told Jenny jokes. The young girl cried and everyone laughed sympathetically. An offer was extended to return for dinner and a private concert. We marveled at the course our morning had taken.

The fort at Jaisalmer was built in 1156 and people still live there. About a quarter of the population lives inside and many more venture in every day to ply their tourist trades for at least four months a year. This place bakes in the summer. There are crowds and vendors but it is easy to slink away and see the living parts of this giant. We find friendly people. A man takes us up to the rooftop of his brother/cousin’s homestay. We spy three big touring motorcycles outside and smile. (As a side-note Jenny and I have seen three groups of touring bicyclists thus far. One on the bus ride through rural Rajasthan to Jaisalmer, one in Udaipur, and one at the train station in Mumbai.)

The towering fortress with its elegant havelis is always going to be under threat. Climate change and plumbing infrastructure are the most immediate concerns. The place was not built for water. It became listed as a world heritage site and it would be a great achievement for mankind and for all the people of this city if it were preserved.  Smithsonian has published a good piece on the town and the fort.

Wendy, ethnobotanist and ex-patriot from Madison, joined the crew making us four strong heading over to the bhopa community for dinner.  Brian straggled behind humoring the masses of street kids. He arrived and found the ladies cross legged on a patio awaiting the musicians.  He couldn’t get those street kids off of his mind. So cute. So excitable…so dirty. Little dirty dirtballs. 12 Pig Pens.  Grabby, germy fingers and snotface. Did he really eat a grape out of that one’s hands? His mind took an abrupt turn down into the depths of obsessive compulsion. There was no hand sanitizer. Invisible things were crawling on him spreading up from his own throbbing hands.  He excused himself and took off for the hotel.

Brian and his mustache are very popular here in Jaisalmer. This contributes to his natural proclivity to wander. So it wasn’t shocking when he returned an hour later comfortably cleaner and slightly drunker.

The food proved to be fantastic. The chapatis cooked over the open coals still rank as the best we have had. This is quite a feat considering chapatis are a staple of every meal. Overall it was a tremendous experience meeting this family in the morning, visiting with them working that afternoon and feasting as guests of honor with their musical friends that evening. Not something you will find in the Lonely Planet.

]]> http://heyjennyb.com/2010/02/07/the-great-thar-desert/feed/ 5 http://heyjennyb.com/2010/02/03/distractions/ http://heyjennyb.com/2010/02/03/distractions/#comments Wed, 03 Feb 2010 15:07:23 +0000 jennyb http://heyjennyb.com/?p=672 Christmas came early to Udaipur, with the eagerly anticipated arrival of my sweetheart, Brian, on December 16. Much to my excitement and surprise, he came with a camera in tow – a shiny new Canon G11 – a kind and greatly appreciated response to complaints about how poorly my Samsung i85 shoots at night, I suppose.

Being Brian’s first trip to India, the initiation of his two-month visit was properly spent touring around Udaipur, getting him acclimated and showing him a few of my favorite things. Because he is doing some volunteer work for Seva Mandir while here, we were able to put him up in the volunteer’s apartment I’ve been living in. Sweet!

A few days after Brian’s arrival, our dear friend Emily popped in, following her 20-day solo trek in Nepal. Her visit was happily timed with Christmas (which is actually recognized as a holiday here) and we all headed off to the desert for a fantastic 5-day adventure.

Equally well-timed was an early January retreat of the AIF Fellows, which just happened to be held at a resort in Kerela, a state in Southern India. Brian and I jumped on the opportunity and I arranged my two-weeks of leave to follow the event. We have only just returned from an amazing (mostly off-the-beaten-path) tour of rural Kerela.

The journey began with a visit with great friends in Mumbai, on our long way via the train to the southern tip of India. Following the AIF Mid-Point in Kollum, we spent a few days enjoying sunny beaches before we tired of tourists and were inspired to head to the hills and out of the guidebook for what unfolded into an unforgettable adventure. Along the way, we made lots of friends; romped around quiet hills of tea, coffee, and spice plantations; experienced India’s approach to running national parks and wildlife sanctuaries; spent many a happy day hiking through serene landscapes; and sat peacefully enjoying many a gorgeous sunset.

The last few weeks have been a whirlwind of fun, adventure, great stories, and lots of snapshots. Consider this the trailer, yo.

After a lovely 5-hour train ride through Rajasthan’s semi-desert landscapes, we arrived in the city of Ajmer where we hired a car to take us the remaining 11 kms to Pushkar. My friend and fellow Clinton Fellow, Tatiana was awaiting us at our hotel. After some negotiations with the hotel owner, (who was understandably surprised to see we planned to board 8 people in the two rooms we had reserved), we took his advice and headed across the street to an Ashram offering a free meal to residents and travelers alike.

The leaf plates and bowls are one of my favorite things in India, though I’ve already in my short time seen them replaced in some places by the more modern plastic or paper/aluminum version. I was starved from the long journey and didn’t think to snap a photo until I had pretty much devoured the delicious kachori, parantha, dahl, and namkeen – a few of my favorite things. After lunch, the big group split up and Tatiana and I hit the streets.

The Pushkar Camel Fair happens in one of the holiest months of the Hindu calendar, Kartika, the eighth lunar month, and is held in one of India’s holiest cities – Pushkar is a pilgrimage town that devout Hindus should travel to at least once in their life. The town’s holy lake is said to have appeared when Brahma dropped a lotus flower there and is home to India’s only (and one of the world’s few) Brahma Temple.

Tribal peoples from all over Rajasthan, pilgrims from all over India, and tourists from all over the globe descend upon Pushkar in time for Kartik Purnima (the eighth full moon). The Fair is preceded by the trading of camels, cattle, and horses amongst hundreds of thousands of Rajasthani traders. For just under two weeks, the small, devout town of Pushkar comes alive (and overcrowded) with cacophony of colors and sounds of more than 200,000 traders, musicians, Sadhus (mystics), religious pilgrims, tourists, and animals.

Many of the above photos were taken during our first morning’s adventure: a ‘Spiritual Walk’ (aka parade) that began just outside of our hotel in the early morning.

Pushkar essentially wraps around the (currently drought-dried) holy lake. The lake is rimmed by 52 bathing ghats – where we were shocked to see topless women bathing (an extreme anomaly in very modest Rajasthan) – and 400 Hindu temples. Every one of our 5 days in Pushkar was filled to the brim, morning and night, with the sights and sounds of the convergence of religious celebration and livestock trading – streets were continuously filled with hoards of people and the musical chantings of godliness rang even in our sleeping ears.

The visiting Thar Desert animal traders were set up just outside the main bazaar in a campground of medieval reminiscence. We took a few opportunities to wander around amongst the camels, horses, and gypsies.

What began likely hundreds of years ago (if not more) as a trading and religious gathering has now, in many ways, also become a State Tourism-run mecca of events. The tourism board organizes programs to draw and entertain tourists, such as a moustache contest (a must-see for me), a turban tying contest, and more. I had hoped that Brian would make it here for the moustache competition, but alas. (Though he is set to arrive here in Udaipur on December 16 and will be here for two months. My excitement is not easily contained!)

The photo of me and the flag waving contestant was “arranged” by one of the event photographers – I had to stand there and pose with this guy (who was furious at his loss) in front of dozens of cameras. It happened so fast; someone kind-of pushed me next to him, indicating they needed a photo and next thing I knew I was empathizing with the paparazzi-loathing stars. I quickly grabbed an envious onlooker and pushed him into my place. Who knows how many places those pictures have shown up!

Obviously by the number of photos here there was a lot to see and do in Pushkar that week. A few of us were blessed to get “behind the scenes” a bit and befriend some really wonderful people. I think I’ll save that story for the next post – stay tuned!

I’m also very lucky to have three really swell, perfectly compatible roommates. I share a room with a lovely Wisconsin-born lass named Wendy and the boys rest their heads in the apartment’s two other rooms. Fizzy is very sadly packing his things, as I type, to head back to London after a year and a half stint with Seva. Arjun is an American-born Indian whose family is from Delhi – he’ll be here until December when he returns to NY to finish up his degree in Economics.

We are four fat and happy clams to have a wonderful Indian woman, Santosh, who cooks lunch for us five days a week and tidies things up when needed. We each add Rs. 500 (about $10) to her monthly salary from Seva for her motherly services.

Santosh’s story is a fairly typical Indian lower-class one. She is a mother of three beautiful daughters whose husband died three years ago. I sympathetically apologized to her about this only to have her assure me that it was actually a blessing. Married when she was 17, theirs was an arranged marriage and he was an alcoholic, abusive man. The only tragic thing for her was that because she had left him before he died (to escape his daily wrath), she was not entitled to any of the common monetary, or otherwise, recourses typically due a wife in such a circumstance – and of course she now has the stigma of being a widow, and three mouths to feed on her own. Despite how difficult this must be at times, she is one of the happiest creatures I know, always smiling and laughing, and has become a welcomed, pure joy in my everyday life here in Udaipur.

Our little apartment is about 10 minutes walking from the Seva Mandir compound (more on that in a minute) – which I do walk, back and forth three times daily, even though I recently acquired a bicycle (woo-hoo!). We have a small kitchen, hallway-like dining area and three rooms – two of which are “real” bedrooms with closets and their own bathrooms and one that was a ‘common room’ before Fizzy made it into his bedroom. (Though this didn’t change the common-ness of the room much – Fiz loves nothing more than to have his guitar in his lap, singing self-written tunes to anyone interested in sharing his cozy company – this home will not be the same come tomorrow evening when he boards that plane).

There are probably about 15 foreign and 5 or so Indian volunteers working for Seva at the moment and Seva’s mission is accomplished through 8 different departments (and almost 300 staff) – Natural Resources Development (my department); Health; Education; Early Child Care; Women Empowerment; People’s Management School; and a Child Representative Program. Each department has an ‘In-charge’ and we all have a staff ‘Reporting Officer’ whom we are accountable to. None of us has an office – most volunteers work from the third floor of the library (which is open to the public, but run by Seva) or a computer lab in the main administrative building (across the street from the library). Seva has several wireless internet networks, which are not the most reliable (I splurged on a mobile internet modem that functions about as well as the Edmond house satellite internet connection, but is super handy as it works anywhere there is a cell signal – one of the smartest purchases so far). There is also a dorm facility in the compound, where many of the current volunteers reside, and an on-site chai walla – cooking up the most deliciously sweet tea all hours of the working day.

Seva, like many Indian companies and organizations, has a 6-day working week, so we only have Sundays off (though every other Saturday is a “holiday” too). A typical day has me first waking to the morning chorus of our street dogs (whom are in love with me and I them) sometime between 4 and 5:00 am, only to fall back asleep until the nearby mosque reminds Muslims to start their morning prayer around 5:30. I begin really waking by 6:00, but usually stay in bed until a little after 7:00 when the first of the street vendors comes down the street – selling I can never figure what.

Since I got a bike I’ve taken to morning rides at least three days a week, which I combine with a heart-thumping climb up to a nearby hill-top temple before returning home to enjoy some breakfast (usually yogurt, nuts, and muesli) with some home-made chai (I’m getting quite good, if I do say so myself) while I check personal emails, sometimes g-chat with Bri (thank you google!), and read some internet news.

I am to work no later than 10:30 and so far have been more than busy until 6 or 7 in the evening. I often eat a bit of leftover lunch for dinner and spend the evening chatting with roommates, watching Arjun and Fiz play Scrabble, reading a book, or whatever my tired self desires. I’m oft dreaming by 11 or 12, just to do it all again.

Many of us were thrilled to line up a yoga instructor last week – Wendy’s Argentinean boyfriend, Kury, who distinctly reminds me of Roberto Benigni of ‘Life is Beautiful’ fame. Now we have an hour of yoga on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings after work. Score! This combined with the regular cycling and hill-climbing has me feeling much more jenny b-like and has become the necessary physical compliment to my very busy working schedule. Life is good.