A week ago, Lyndi, Meg and I celebrated our 6 month anniversary in India. We marked it by having breakfast at the Gateway Hotel in Surat. There was a lovely buffet of fresh fruit, filtered coffee, Belgian waffles and muesli; among other things. The hotel was lovely; soft music playing in the background, BBC News airing on the silenced TV, black and white clad servers coming to refill our coffee cups. I felt out of place. The wandering school teacher look that I am sporting doesn't quite fit in with the posh NRI's and wealthy businessmen and their Blackberries. Anyway, I didn't really care; there was fresh food in front of me that had not been made with tablespoon heaped upon bucket-full of oil. I was paying attention to that and the hushed quiet. Silence. Ah, welcomed silence. How I've missed you, peace and quiet.

Flight or Fight. I remember hearing and learning these words vividly in my intercultural classes at Houghton. Sometimes, you'll want to run the other way. The honeymoon, "This is all so new and different!" stage is long gone. The blinders are off. There are serious flaws in the system to make me want to take flight, and I'm aware of them, not ignoring them, and finding it hard not to be annoyed by them.

The Flaws: students that don't give a crap and teachers/principals that look like they are ignoring it because, "What can you do? You work within your limitations"...So, I'm supposed to just give them work to do in class that they have the answers to in their "GUIDE BOOKS" (it is not a guide book when it is giving you the exact answers to any and all questions, exam essay, etc) ?? These are students that are in the commerce stream. Forgive me if I'm wrong, but I think that we are here teaching English to exactly that demographic: those that will run businesses and the like. India makes English compulsory for exactly the students and future businessmen that these students will become. Yet, they don't care. In a class of 40 or so (these classes are smaller because their classmates that made up classrooms of 70 or 80 in standards 9 and 10 have dropped out) 3 or 4 students will attempt to do what looks to me like, appeasing the teacher. They don't like to see me marching to the principals office armed with a list of complaints and urges. They answer the questions to the best of their knowledge (with the help of their trusty guide books!!). I called on some boys in the back that seemed to have a lot to say, only none of it was pertaining to the class or directed towards me. The kid stood there for a few minutes, unable to read. I put up on the board, "I'm not here to embarrass you, I'm here to help you."

I want to give up on the 11th Standard hooligans. Yes, I did say hooligans.

Fight. Well, I could fight for them. I could fight against my emotions and keep pressing on. I could look forward to April when I'm back in the States to a different type of insanity that seems fairly placid from where I stand right now. I could go into that classroom on Thursdays and Fridays and love those obnoxious kids enough to keep doing it...I could do that.

I feeling the ups and downs more now than at the beginning. Recurring events are more obvious to me. It's easier to focus on the downs; maybe because they remind me how much work I have to do, how long it takes to accomplish some things, and that sometimes there is just nothing that one person can do; which is hard to accept for the dreamers and optimists in the world. But I guess I should recount the ups, because they are what is making it hard for me to imagine leaving come April.

Our clerks office is great. They are always helpful and I don't know how many letters I have taken to them to deliver to the post office for me and had them pay for it for me. A week ago they asked me if I would teach them English and of course I said yes because I really like these guys and they are always trying so hard to communicate with me. We had our first lesson on Friday, to great success. We worked on the WH questions. Saturday I came in to say good morning and get the key for the library and Chindan asked me where his lesson was for today! I walked out smiling. At least someone is excited to learn. And any teacher will tell you, that's what keeps you going. It's keeping me going at the start of another hectic, full, demanding week.

Meet my new students: The Clerks Office Class

Second Wind

They say it takes 7 weeks to make things a habit. While it hasn't yet been 7 weeks, we all seem to be getting in the habit of getting out on the road for our daily runs. It's becoming a routine and one that I don't dread but look forward to at the end of what has lately been, a very long day.

Now that I am into my second term teaching, I can see how last term I was really just getting into the routine of things. This term seems to be going much smoother for me. While I work with great co-teachers, these last couple of weeks I really feel like I am making headway in the classes and being an effective and creative teacher. Recently, I have been being much more diligent about making sure homework is turned in, spelling tests are administered and punishments are doled out (instead of making empty threats). While I know these points are making a difference in my student's performance, it means more work. On top of this, we have a lot going on with all the new books that have been donated to the Foundation for our libraries. Running in the evenings gets my mind off work for an hour; relieving my stress.

As Meg and I ran this week, we talked about discipline problems in our classes; discussing what has worked and what really hasn't been effective. Discipline in an Indian classroom with an American as the teacher is often a precarious routine. While it is illegal to hit students, most teachers still do to maintain authority in the classroom. With 70 students in a class, things obviously get out of hand. I don't, under any stretch of the imagination, feel comfortable with hitting students so I have to find more creative ways to illicit their cooperation. On Friday, I put my new disciplinary plan into action - if homework was not brought in in my 9A class, the students would be picking up garbage from the school yard. One girl brought in the assignment. We went over her homework and I gave her one on one help while the rest of the kids picked up their trash that they prefer to throw on the ground; both in the classroom and outside it. Let's see if they bring in Monday's homework...we might have a really clean school yard after next week if not!

More training news to come...it's time to lace up my shoes for a long run....

Week 2

It was a long day; Thursday's are always long for me. In and out of chakras and auto-rickshaws, feeling as if I'm traveling the length of Surat district. The moment I got out on the road though, I felt better. Meg and I are still running in the evenings and for the first time since I've been here, I could see the stars.

Today we ran 2.5 miles at race pace - we don't really know what that is exactly so we just ran at a comfortable pace. The sparkle of stars above us and the sound of crickets in the sugar cane fields entertained us as we ran. The amount of traffic on our "Sugar Cane Lane" is so less at this time of night (I just used and Indian phrase right there. What is happening to me!?); just us, the trucks empty of their sugar crop on the way back home, and bicycles coming at us in the pitch dark. It's a perfect end to a long day.

But, I have another cold - India has completely killed my immune system and I'm exhausted from the long day. Will post more after our long run tomorrow! Happy running everyone...

The Week 1 Endurance Test

It's week 1 and I've already decided that I hate running in the mornings. Lyndi and Drew seem fine with waking up while it's still dark, running through the smoke of villager's cooking fires and sprinting past parked trucks with their drivers either fast asleep at the wheel or looking out their windows at us in incredulous wonder. My feeling is, mornings are for cups of coffee, the newspaper and struggling with my sari.

Meg and I have decided to run in the evenings. It gets dark early here, same as most of the world right now, so we are often jogging towards fast approaching darkness.

We took a new route tonight that took us through the migrant worker's tent village across the river. There, exercise is not something one chooses to do for their health. I wonder if staying 'fit' even crosses their minds. Staying fed is their driver. They work hard in the sugarcane fields all day, the women bend over their wash at the river; beating the life out of their clothes to clean them - why would they want to run on top of that? The crazy white girls are providing some entertainment, that's for sure.

It's still week 1 and I'm feeling pretty good. My legs haven't reached the leaden stage yet. Maybe that won't happen, but I'm guessing it will...

Until next time...

Hitting the Pavement

When my roommate suggested I start training with her for a marathon my first thought was that it was a great idea. We started running during the summer season, before monsoons, and after a few weeks we realized that no matter how early we woke up, it was just too hot to continue it. Then monsoons started up and it was raining nearly 24 hours a day for a good long time. At this point I thought training was a crazy idea.

A vacation full of food in Nepal prompted me to reconsider the marathon training option. That, and we have decided to make it a fundraising opportunity for Nanubhai. The hope is, that people will be interested in reading our daily blogs on training, have an interest in rural education in India, and want to sponsor us to run. Soon, there will be a link on the Nanubhai website (www.nanubhai.org) to this blog and Lyndi, Drew and I will write about our training experience and our experiences in India.

We started yesterday. I always hate getting back into the habit of running. The first weeks are terrible and you want to give up. The weather is cooler, that's for sure, but conditions are still tough. The pollution levels, even out here in the rural areas, are intense and the roads we often run on, not more than a one lane, pot holed path full of stray rocks and buffalo dung. But, it's beautiful. The scenery is constantly changing and running through the villages as they wake up is always an experience.

Completed day 2 today. Muscles are sore from running twice yesterday and probably not stretching properly. Is it time for a day off yet?? Lyndi is a rigid trainer so...probably not. That's what I get for training with an experienced marathon runner...wish me luck.

In Emptiness there is still Longing

Delhi took more out of me than I thought I had to give. I have always disillusioned myself into thinking that I didn't want to grovel back to God at a time of despair; grasping for his blood-stained feet like the mere woman that I know I am. When I gave up my facade of self-reliance and asked for his hand back, I wanted it to be at a time when I was doing well, my life was in order and I had maintained, after having found; peace. I felt that then, he wouldn't be able to hold my return over my head; guilting me into pleasing him as so many have before.

And then, as my head hung over the window of a bus, puking till there was no more and then, again...I decided spirituality cannot be found in this place. How can it be? The smooth talking shop owner, sidles beside me, persistent to find me entering his shop. "Would you like a scarf, madam? I have excellent handbags..." My inner self screams, "NO, leave me be for 2 minutes to make it to a bathroom!" While I let him read my mask that is answering with a cool, "No, thanks". No spirituality in the striving....

My rickshaw weaves, in and out, sputtering towards the next intersection where I am sure we will never make it through. Our driver shoots his browned arm out the open side to stop the bullet-like approach of a similarly hurried rickshaw, driven my a similarly harried rickshaw driver; his browned arm expressively gesturing to his own on-coming bullets. I see no God in the frenzied hurry for some arrival.

The smell of India assaults like nothing I can compare. One moment I am smelling incense from a temple and the next, a man with no seeming dignity is peeing in a long stream to my left and then it is his unwanted emissions I am indignantly made to smell. Smell - it doesn't seem the appropriate sense because I can feel the sticky, sick of the city permeating through my skin; coloring my skin as the sun. My eyes burn and sting, reacting to the pollutions no one is fighting to gain control of. Another man coughs, spits and pulls out his prick for another round with indignity. In humility, where there appears to be no amount of restraint, where is a god that gives dignity to it's people?

Many come to India to find spirituality. They sit for hours in a lotus pose at an ashram, eyes closed, looking for enlightenment. Thousands travel to the footsteps of the Dalia Lama's exiled home and plead for peace. But, my trip to Delhi left me wondering if it were at all possible for me to have a similar spiritual experience. How could I find God when no part of my being seemed to be at quiet enough to hear him?

My body told me how as I knelt, retching into a dirty hostel toilet...Oh, God, please help me. Make it stop. Send some light. Send some peace. I'm sorry I have to beg you now, instead of coming to you with some grace left. But, please...if you're still into hearing from me...please make the void go away...

And then, the sickness slowed a little and I made it to our train; followed by a chorus of men trying to take us to the airport when it was clear we wanted the train station and just like my crackers evaporated into the beggar child's mouth, so go's my resolve to rely on the someone who held my hair back to mop up my sweat as I lay, feverish. "Why can't you back off and leave your scamming lies to someone who will know better the first time?!" Where are you now God? Are you in the pushing and the striving and the battling for one more grasping step? I can't see you..I'm about to snap - oh, wait, I think I just have only I can't be sure because the sound of my own voice has been drowned out...

The words of my friends ring in my head. Once I finally made in online to regain contact with a world that feels sane (but only maybe in perspective) right now, I hear them beg me to make sure their friend comes back to them in one piece. I think, maybe, I will be in many new pieces. Not all of them bad.

One piece will be the one that finally gained a measure of peace, lying on the hard floor for hours on end; Jars of Clay pumping it's inspired lyrics into my head, my heart, and my soul, last of all.

One new piece will believe the words of Isaiah's when he writes Israel's words that have sounded so much like my own: "'My way is hidden from the Lord; my cause is disregarded by my God"...Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow weary and his understanding no on can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.'

One more piece of me will want to fathom....

Many more pieces...an ocean of possibility.

And one last piece that I can fit right now will be singing with Jars...

My soul was restless for redemption
My feet were lookin' for a place to stand
Well, I ain't got no life
And you no I ain't got no money
Just the faith of an empty hand
Amazing grace, I feel you coming up slowly now
Like the sun is rising, heat on my face
Oh the love that keeps on shining, don't let the shadows come
Ya know I've gotta feel your healing rays

Maybe, a piece of God, a piece of spirituality, and a piece of me have been found in India yet...

Faluda Adventures

I have been here more than three months now and I haven't really gotten to the point where I crave food that I can't have. I don't wake up, mouth watering, after a dream about a steak. I don't walk past the Mc'D's in Surat and feel the lure of the arches. I like Indian food for the most part and denying my cravings and succeeding is sort of thrilling in a weird way. But..some days you just need ice-cream. There is a ice cream treat here called faluda and last night, we were craving it. Not knowing where to look for it in our village, we called our helpful friend, Kaushik-bhai. Lyndi called and I could hear the deep disappointment in her voice when he said that you couldn't get it in our town. All 4 of us groaned in unison. Her face perked up though, when he asked her to call back in 5 minutes. Ten minutes later, he is in front of our house with his car and we are piling in. We have no idea where we are going but, we have our wallets just in case (even though, we would never have had to pay for it). Next thing we knew, we were pulling in to their driveway and his wife is pulling out the ingredients to make us homemade faluda! Vermicelli, ice cream, milk, crumbled cookie pieces, large glasses.

How did we go from asking for directions to eating what it was we were looking for in a friend's home?...that's India.

Ganpati Pappa! Moria!

Ganpati Festival ended today all over India. After one last night of dancing Garba at the local Mundir (temple), I went to bed exhausted, feet aching, the smell of incense clinging to my clothes; happy. Resurgence; the act of parading the Ganpati (et la; Ganesha, in English) through the village before putting him into the river, was to being any time after 1 pm so, all schools in the area had early classes. I walked into my classes to find more than half of my students missing and I can't say I blamed them. It was rainy and dreary and the anticipation of the coming events was much too distracting. Fun Miss Kitty just couldn't compete with what was about to happen.

The dancing began with the beat of drums. Everyone in the community I was spending the day at in Madhi ran for the street and the tractor that was pulling Ganpati down to the river. Immediately, I heard children shouting, "Kitty Teacher!". These shouts were quickly followed by me being covered in pink powder. I had asked why the pink powder being smeared by your neighbors all over your face and I was told it was so that you enjoy. The more pink on my skin, down my shirt, in my hair, the happier I became so, I guess whoever told me that was right. Next, my hands were being grabbed. Students from the school that I barely recognize out of their uniforms, town's women happy to be away from daily chores, and the occasional intoxicated Kaka (uncle) pull me into the springy two-step. Right hand pumped in the air. Left hand. Right! Left! Men alternate with boys playing the tabla to the music blaring from the speaker system coming from the float-like construct carrying Ganesha to his final resting place for 2009.

The river was a riot in a cloud of pink dust; music coming from too many different directions. By this time, I am covered - literally, covered in the pink stuff so that my hair looks like I've dyed it red and my camera is only taking fuzzy pictures due to all the dust in the lens. Walking at a slow "Indian pace" after being scolded several times by my new friends for walking too fast, I watch as the heads turn...I look behind myself, hoping to see another foreigner - anyone to make me less conspicuous. Alas, it's only me and the stares aren't going away as Ganesha is temporarily forgotten in my wake.

Luckily, this is a favourite festival to many and the cheers are growing louder with every step I take towards the river and the crowds that are carrying their Ganpati's down to the river on the shoulders of men. Slowly, reverently, Ganpati is places in the water along with the desires you have prayed to him for throughout the festival.

And then, before your eyes, Ganpati is gone. Not to be seen in this form again until this time next year.

Humorous Photo #1

Is this a joke?

Wisdom, Prosperity, Good Fortune

About a week ago, the men of the town began constructing a structure across from our flat which happens to be right beside one of the local temples. They worked late into the night putting together the steel poles. The next day began the painting and the putting up of brightly colored neon lights that flash all night long. Next went in the sound system and finally, the statues of Lord Ganesha. Today began the 10 day long festival of Ganesha; the supreme god of wisdom, prosperity and good fortune.

This festival begins a month of many. Unlike Aluna Festival which is more for the girls who fast for many days for their future husbands, this festival is geared for the boys. They stay up late building the pavilions that fill all the societies in town and then they will sleep outside to stay with Ganesha.

The Hindu holy scriptures tell the story of Parvati; the wife of Lord Shiva, and how she created Ganesha from sandalwood out of need of a guard while her husband was away at war. She thought of Ganesha as a son and flew into a rage when her husband, Shiva came home from war and not knowing who Ganesha was, cut off his head. In order to pacify Parvati, men were sent to find a replacement son for Parvati whose head could also be lopped off and pieced together with Ganesha's body. It sounds like a crazy story and that's mostly because it is. The body that was found was that of an elephant and that's why the idol is now a figure of an elephant with many arms.

Driving through any city, town or village in the weeks leading up to this festival, hundreds of statues of Ganesh are being molded and painted by artisans. The colors of these is quite shocking; all neons and brightly made up. There is nothing quite like the Indian love for the bright and flashy. And the best part is that each little community in towns (known as the societies) build their own pavilion for the Ganesha and it gets quite competitive. I hope to find my way to all of the spots during the 10 days. Only problem is, I will be forced to eat more ladu with each of these stops. Ladu is made from ghee (refined butter), sugar and spices. It's delicious but I feel it clogging my arteries and slowing down my movements. Ten days of it and I just might die.

The festival still has 9 days to go and I'll have so much more to write later and plenty of pictures, too. Stay tuned...

The Many and the Brave that Travel Superfast

As our train creeps along at a camel's walking pace; the countryside merging into smelly, congested cities, children hop on the ends of cars for a free (albeit, taken) ride. They crawl at times, shuffle, past our sticky blue vinyl seats with their palms outstretched for our leftover food and spare change. The look in their eyes tells you they are adept at making you feel sorry for their plight. The droop of their brown eyes is meant to pull at your heard strings. I turn my head away because I can't take one more pathetic look and because instead of compassion I am feeling aggravation and annoyance at their constant begging and the way they pass by the Indian passengers for us, the soft American women.

The train touts that it is the "Superfast" Express train but, the hours tick by slowly, sweat trickling between my shoulder blades; makings it's slow crawl down my back like our train snaking it's way south to Chennai. Flat fields of green in Gujarat turn into dry, acrid looking soil with patches of green gardens, their borders cleanly lined with fierce looking cacti plants. Occasionally, a man working the soil wearing the loincloth/skirt common in the south, will look up from his toils as our train passes him by. I am too far away to see a far away look in his eye; our slow "Express" train moving too quickly to catch the lift of slight, darkly browned shoulders in a sigh.

There are so many ways to write about my travels to make it sound like an adventure but, sometimes it feels more like a misadventure than anything. "Devoted", five times daily, praying men prey on us, chatting us up, asking unsuspecting and naive Milly for her phone number, offering food from their personal supplies. Sadhus squat on the ends of our car, mostly looking out the window or doors at the passing landscape. In the middle of the night when I, unfortunately, wake with the unstoppable urge to pee, I see him still sitting there and an eerie feeling passes over me; one I wish to ignore. Has he only been looking out the doors this whole time, contemplating how we are all connected to a cosmic universe, or did his eyes only begin to wander?

The distasteful journey continues with me actually plucking up enough courage to throw my trash right out the window with the rest of the passengers; adding to the refuse piles made up of tin trays from untasty meals, bags, bottles, used feminine products, etc. I feel like out the window I just threw out my American bred civic responsibility to keep our spaces green. Sure, things are green here, but they are also red from Thumbs Up wrappers and silver from tin plates and cans. The first few times I did it there was a pain in my heart, the 4th, 5th, and 6th times I was a little more numb to it. Hey - it kept my tiny, crawl space relatively free of debris.

Thirty-six hours, a bus ride and a short walk later, we arrive travel worm and Brother's of the Holy Cross where we were told we will be staying. In typical Indian fashion, they tell us they are sorry but, no women can stay here, it is a man's dorm. "But, we were told to come here by your staff" we argue in our now Indian inflected English. A half hour later, they admit their mistake; we are in fact staying in a dorm next door and they deposit us in a room that makes me think of a bad camp experience. The mosquitoes immediately begin to feast on my fresh meat and the bed is akin to the concrete floor it rests on but, all I can think about is ripping (peeling is more like it) off the grime in a shower (cold, please) and finally going to the bathroom in relative privacy. And this time I don't want to see my waste disappearing in a trail down the tracks, Oh, thank you God, Krishna, Buddha or whomever is listening for soap and water!

The return trip has been forgotten for the moment out of sheer unadulterated highs brought on my walnut facial scrubs, hemp shampoo and clean underwear. Oh, the bliss.

This is the account of a brave traveler in India.

More Rain, Please!

The rainy season is now in full swing. Women wearing brightly patterned saris with blue pieces of tarp tied around their heads for protection trudge off barefoot into the rice field for a day of hard labor. My van flies by students racing determined through the downpour to the school still too far into the distance; their skinny legs pedaling fast down the crowded street. Life doesn’t slow down when the rains come – this isn’t like D.C. in a snow flurry where no one drives, busses stop running and people fly into paranoia and buy every food item they think they might need for a 10 day shut in. This is like Buffalo, NY in the winter! People don’t just suck it up and make it through, they thrive! I must get asked at least twice a day if I enjoy the atmosphere (which translates to, do you like the weather?). I hate to tell them it’s not that fun being wet all day and the mud between my toes is slightly disturbing and the mold is growing like ivy on a brick wall (only much faster) because it’s so damp so, I smile and say, “Everything is so green! (yes…the mold is green) It is very beautiful!” They take this to mean that I love the rainy season that is securing their financial future for the year as much as they do.

Nothing really prepared me for this experience in a way that I would know how to respond to some of the things that I see and hear so often here. Yesterday, I was teaching my 11th Standard class of Commerce Stream students. These kids have started coming to Madhi from rural schools and their English is far below what I expected from this age group. There is a rather confusing way that schools are made up here. Madhi is a government high school but, not all the kids have gone there from k-12. Some transfer in to the school in 8th Standard coming from schools where there may not be a teacher even present every day. Others come in 11th like this class because they want to take Commerce courses so that they can get in to College. These students won’t be studying anything but Commerce after graduation. Their life is decided for them in 10th grade when they take their board exams. One student told me yesterday that his dream was to be an engineer and I thought that was great but his bench-mate said that it was only a dream because the only thing he could do was b-com. His future is in running a shop or working for an airport. The sad thing wasn’t the hopeless sound of his voice. It wasn’t the look of resolution on his face. The sad thing was the smile that said, “This is my life, might as well wear a smile doing it.”

Is teaching them English really going to change their lives? I am looking for signs that it has given them tools to pick their way through the refuse piles that litter gutters. I am looking for excitement in my classrooms not because the novelty is here to do a half hour side show routine but, because I am teaching them something valuable. One of my co-teachers asked me to read an essay that a student was presenting the other day. It was about the role of the teacher and what they mean to society. It ended with a line that went something like, “Teachers are changing societies by bringing knowledge to the community”. I look at the men and women working at my school in Madhi and I think of the relationships that I am building with them daily here and think that they really are giving something of value to these kid’s lives even if it means that they will be doing a B-comm job the rest of their lives. Maybe I can be the inspiration giver. Maybe my 11th Standard student really CAN make it as an engineer.

Gemcho from India

It's been exactly a month since I touched down in the Mumbai Airport. That experience alone was challenging, frustrating and liberating all at once. I knew from that start to my 10 month journey that things weren't going to be simple, each day would be a challenge, and I would probably always be a novelty here. I have since seen that that assumption was correct.

I began sitting in on classrooms at the Madhi High School 3 days after I arrived. Thus began my autograph signing career. It's a month later and still today, I was swamped with crazy girls wanting me to sign their notebooks. One of my students taught me to spell my name in Gujarati the other day so I'm going to start using that instead of Khill. I don't think they will think it's as cool and maybe the novelty of my handwriting will wear off when they see something they could forge themselves...here's hoping. But really, the autograph signing is not the most incredible thing that happens to me each day. That title might go to my Spoken English class that I teach each morning of the week at 9:30. These are some really energetic 8th Standard boys and girls. It's an amazing way to start your day; seeing 41 little faces stand and say "Good morning, Madam!" in unison. It always brings a smile to my face. Then comes my Gujarati quiz. I made a deal with them that I would learn 3 new Gujarati words or phrases each day. Now, I must say "Stand up" or "Sit down" in their language instead of English. It makes them so happy to teach me something that I just have to do it.

I know it's taken me an incredibly long time to write this first blog. It's not that I don't think to just about every 2 days or so, but, things move slowly in India. People walk slowly, people react slower, and things get accomplished at a much slower pace than we are used to. Case and point: Internet that was supposed to be up and running before we all got here...1 month later...no internet. "you gotta roll with it".....So, I'm rolling. It should be said that Indians do one thing quickly....and that is DRIVE. I won't describe it for you. I wouldn't do it justice, you would be scared for my life, and my mother would call me straight away telling me to wear that non-existent seatbelt.

Well, I'm going to sign off for now and prepare to celebrate the 4th of July from India! That might look like the 7 of us eating greasy Gujarati food, firing off fireworks with the kids and making a chocolate cake on the stovetop. Yum.

take 1.

Eleven days and counting! When I applied for this job in India, I didn't think the time would come so quickly for me to be leaving. There are bags to be packed, supplies to be bought, people to hug over and over again...and the list goes on but I will spare the details.

Eleven days from now I will be aboard a plane flying to India! Is it going to be the India of Slumdog Millionaire? I wonder what it will smell like...I always wonder that about new places for some reason. I've wanted to go to India since I can remember; it's a little surreal that I'm now about to go and it's not for a 10 day trip but for 9 months.

I'll have so much more to write over the coming weeks and months but for now, I just wanted to get this started. ...Where will I write from next??