Looking back over my last update, I feel I didn’t convey how astonishingly and wonderfully unique and different this place is (well, apart from the laughing lizards and insane elephant). So I decided to begin my new travel log blog update with a list of some of the many unique and different things that have, by this point, become more or less commonplace sightings in my new home, half a world away from the home I grew up in.

Interesting sights I’ve seen around Kerala:

~Innumerable women rushing down the roads on motorcycles, riding side-saddle-style with saris flapping in the wind.

~A temple elephant getting a slow-motion sponge bath in the river, being scrubbed by several men (who, mind you, the elephant could easily trample) one of whom would occasionally shout commands for the elephant to “lift right leg” or “lie on left side” with which the elephant would sluggishly but docilely comply.

~Every single one of the thousands of trucks on the roads is topped with an ornately carved wood panel, usually sporting colorfully painted floral patterns and the driver’s name in big bold block letters.

~In the Varkala train station, an unfortunate man irreverently referred to by Maya and Ben (a couple from Canada) as the “bubble man,” who looked like a picture out from a textbook of bizarre diseases: every visible inch of skin was covered with marble-sized growths. Ben, who had been traveling across India for over 4 months and who had seen his share of diseased beggars, said he would award this guy the prize for the most shocking freak of India.

~Somewhere within every restaurant, rickshaw, and bus I’ve seen is an altar to a Hindu deity or Christian saint. Many a Vishnu, Shiva, Ganesh, and the gaudiest most astonishing representations of Jesus and Mary I’ve ever seen—it seems like every Christian-owned vehicle or establishment tries to outdo the rest with their altars to Mary and Christ: I’ve seen Jesus plated in silver and gold, Mary in a box surrounded by flashing colored lights…

~Auto rickshaws everywhere. Initially unusual but now absolutely commonplace for me, the roads are swarming at all hours with auto rickshaws, or rickety little shells of vehicles typically painted black and yellow. Three adults can, with some effort, squeeze into the back seat while the driver sits up front. The rickshaw drivers are a wonder in themselves: they seem to love using their horns and passing larger, more securely-shielded vehicles.

~Women wearing saris while working in the fields. After wearing a sari to dinner one evening (Sarah, the Portuguese aspiring Bollywood actress, wrapped me in one of her many beautiful saris), I can’t fathom how women can comfortably work in any field, do any laundry, or just walk around town without the fear of their sari coming unraveled.

~Coconut wallahs. Many men here have the ability to shimmy up a coconut tree (oftentimes wearing a dhoti) and hack down a bunch of coconuts to eat or to sell. Then they hack of the top with a few blows of a machete so someone can sip the milk inside.

~Dancing birds. Many an evening as the sun sets over Kerala, an enormous flock of birds flies in unison over the River Pampa. Thousands of birds become one entity as they dip and dive over the horizon.

~Giant bats can often be seen feasting on fruit or flying overhead. Usually active in the evenings, these giant fruit bats fly in the most fantastic way by flapping their immense leathery wings. Less common than a live giant bat but not nonexistent: dried fried giant bats hanging off of electric wires.

Elephant Dung/Poop/Shit/Toilet Paper:

On an evening walk down to the riverside rest house to watch the elephant bathing along the ghats, we came across—and nearly missed stepping in—a fresh elephant present. I had just been discussing painting with Meeran, a woman from Spain who is a professional painter, and this fresh elephant pie reminded me of an interesting tidbit told to me by a woman I met in Mexico. Also a painter, this woman said that the absolute best quality paper she’s ever come across for doing her watercolor sketches is… drum roll, please… elephant dung paper. She gave me a small sheet of the stuff and said to keep an eye out for the paper while in India.
I was intrigued. Meeran was too. So one day in painting class, Meeran decided to ask our painting instructor, Anil, if he’d ever heard of this legendary paper. Meeran attempted to explain it in English: Elephant dung. Elephant poo(p). Elephant shit? Elephant toilet. But as Anil has a very limited grasp of the language, she soon resorted to drawing. So she drew an elephant. Shitting. And the poop being pressed into paper. All of us laughing all the while. He finally understood what we were trying to explain but said, “No, I do not know this paper.”
A couple days later, I remembered to bring my piece of the infamous paper. The first thing everybody did with it: smelled it. No foul smell. But it did have a very unique texture. Apparently Anil had looked into it and found that I wasn’t just pulling his leg, the paper did exist. “We should learn to make this paper in class—there is much, what you call… elephant shit? All over roads in Kerala.”

Weekend in Varkala:

For my first weekend away, I tagged along with a group of four others on an excursion to Varkala, a town popular for the tourists because of its cliff-side beaches (this wouldn’t have been my number one choice of destinations but I take what I can get). The group caught a morning train from nearby Chengannur to Varkala. I was glad to be traveling with such savvy travelers on my very first India train experience. During the 2-and-a-half hour journey, everyone else read (they weren’t greenhorns like me) while I watched the Keralan countryside rush past the window. Homes large and small, people going about their business (or non-business), livestock wandering beside the train tracks (I even saw a goat that appeared to be tethered to the tracks…), rice paddies and lush forests surrounding it all.
Along all the cars of the train, from the bars on the windows, hung garlands of fresh flowers placed there by pilgrims. Each station we came to was brimming with men and boys dressed in black, which I later found out were pilgrims going to Sabaramila, a notable sacred site of Kerala that was currently having a Hindu holy festival. Another curiosity of train travel: at least every five minutes, a snack-wallah (vendor) would walk by shouting out to all the passengers whatever food or drink he was selling. Every time was a different man selling a different item. But every one of them had the same simultaneously disturbing and hilarious shrill and monotone voice. The chai-wallah (tea seller) would yell, “Chai, chai, chai, chai…” over and over, sounding strangely like a robot. “Vellum, vellum, vellum,” said the guy toting bottles of water, “Buri, bura, bura buri…” was what we could distinguish of the pastry vendors’ chant. We joked that the only qualification for being hired as a snack-wallah on the trains: that voice. Merely typing about that voice can never do it justice.
As we approached Varkala, backwater canals became coastline. We arrived, took a taxi to the beachfront, found a hotel with a balcony overlooking the ocean to house us for the night (a 3-person room for under $8), and everyone donned their bikinis to head to the beach. Apart from me, that is. I had realized as I was packing the previous night that I hadn’t brought a swimsuit. But from what little I’ve seen so far of Indian culture, I don’t think I’d feel comfortable wearing a bathing suit here anyhow. So I went swimming in the sea wearing a t-shirt and pants while all the women around me sported bikinis. Even while walking around the city proper, I saw several Western women wearing bikinis. In the course of the two days I spent in Varkala, countless Indian people commented to me how impressed and pleased they were to see me wearing a churidar and thus at least attempting to respect the local culture. They were even more impressed when I used my pathetically limited 20-word Malayalam vocabulary to speak with them.
It was in this manner that I met Ibrahim, owner of one of the cliff-side shops catering to tourists. Originally from Srinagar in Kashmir (near to the northernmost point of India), Ibrahim moved to Kerala (on the southern tip of India) 10 years ago to sell products imported from Kashmir. Over the course of the weekend and over a couple cups of chai, I ended up spending over 5 hours talking with him. He offered me incredible kindness and hospitality, and the fascinating perspective of a person who has lived in the midst of India’s extreme north and south and between the gap in the culture of those two worlds.
On Saturday evening, Sahaj (an Australian woman who has had experience as a yoga instructor and is in India following a system of spirituality centered around yoga) led anyone interested in a yoga class on the beach. And she really meant “anyone interested”: our group grew when several Indian men asked if they join us. At one point, a stray dog wandered towards us and sat on Sahaj’s foot. Once she removed the dog, we were able to see an authentic “downward facing dog” position—apparently the pup wanted to join us for yoga also. So as the sun was being swallowed up by the clouds hanging over the ocean, Sahaj guided us through suliya namaskaar (sun salutation) and dozens of other positions. Our faces to the sea and the setting sun, our backs to the cliffs, our eclectic group did our yoga in a line along the shore. I had to struggle to keep my concentration and to keep from laughing at the hilarity of the giggling Indian guys attempting to do yoga with us.
Much of the weekend—when not doing yoga or checking out the line of shops along the cliff side or getting our protein fix (all our meals at the center are vegetarian)—was spent swimming in the ocean. I was surprised how warm and refreshing the water felt: the temperature to me felt on par with that of Lake Michigan at the peak of summer. The waves in Lake Michigan, though, can’t even be compared to these waves: towering two-meter high waves were constantly rolling in, slapping our faces with saturated sea saltwater. It made for spectacular swimming and body surfing. I was surprised at how many people at any given time were lounging on the beach and how few people were swimming. Perhaps the rough waves deterred the bikini and speedo-clad sunbathers for fear of losing what little they were wearing…
Sunday morning started off perfectly with another yoga class on the now-deserted beach—just Sahaj and I this time. After another swim, a bit more shopping, another visit with Ibrahim, and one more dose of protein, we caught the train back to Chengannur. We arrived in Chengannur with the intention of taking a bus back to Aranmula and so picked a bus that was heading in that direction. But the bus just sat there in the bus station. And sat there. For over 20 minutes. Maya and Ben became fed up and decided we should just splurge on a taxi. We worked out with the driver: a fare of 150 rps to drive the five of us to Aranmula. He drove us to some mysterious deserted town whose name was not Aranmula but also began with an “A”. We are sure that he understood us to begin with and was trying to pull some scam. “Oh, Aranmula?” he said, feigning confusion, “260 rupees.” We tried to argue with the guy as he was driving us to the correct place. Maya and Ben had taken supposedly a dozen taxis from the Chengannur station to the center and the fare was always 150 rps or less. So when we got out in front of the VKV office building and he was still asking for 260, Maya disgustedly slapped the 150 on the rain-splattered back of the taxi and we all walked away. As the driver passed us, I thanked Brahma/Visnnu/Shiva that he didn’t run us down. Always an adventure in India…

Allepuzha Excursion:

Another weekend, another adventure. Three other women staying at the center—Tam from England, Rumi from Israel, and Sahaj from Australia—planned a backwater boating trip for this weekend and I was invited to join them. So on Saturday morning, after an early breakfast, the four of us piled into a taxi and headed for Allepuzha (pronounced Ah-leh-poo-ra: for some strange reason, this cross between a “ra” and a “la” sound in the Malayalam language is romanized as “zha”). This taxi ride was just as wild as the one on the morning of my arrival, or perhaps even more so since the roads were more crowded in mid-morning and I could actually see the closeness of the passing cars and motorcycles and buses and trucks and livestock in daylight. But as I felt and said before, these guys who drive the roads of Kerala know what they’re doing and we made it to Allepuzha—safe and sound—by around 10:00. Our driver dropped us of along the riverside and we immediately set to work trying to find a private boat for a reasonable rate.

After an hour and a half of haggling and scouting visits into at least 10 establishments called “Official Tourist Information Center” ’s, we settled for a 4-hour outing on the backwaters with the boatman who had been most persistent and perhaps most desperate—the guy followed us around for the whole hour and a half. A 4-hour private tour of the labyrinth of canals winding around the city, for four people, with a stop at a rest house surrounded by jungle for lunch… all for under $12. We did well, I’d say. After boarding the slightly rickety motorboat, we headed out on the legendary backwaters of Kerala.

Once we emerged from the city surroundings and into the more rural area replete with rainforests and riverside homes, I saw the reason for this region’s fame and its tourist-attracting name, “God’s Own Country.” One of the most magical, exquisite environments I’ve ever been in the midst of. One could breath in the beauty, feel in on the breeze, hear it in the ripple of the river. I spent the whole duration of the “cruise” sitting atop the roof of the boat and observing the life flowing past me along the banks of the river. Seeing women in vividly-colored saris doing laundry and dishes along the ghats, children playing in front of their riverfront homes—and in the river itself--, men in dhotis bathing and fishing and rowing canoes (the car of the Kerala canal)… this union of the mundane and the divine was, to me, the most captivating part of our backwater boating excursion.

Once back on terra firma, the enchantment of the backwaters remained in my minds eye but didn’t exactly carry over into the city of Allephuzha itself. The lush landscape along the web of canalways became a virtually treeless web of city streets. Along these busy streets we wandered for a while, did some shopping, stopped for chai, said goodbye to Rumi (she was meeting up with a friend) and found a place to stay. Our guesthouse was a five-minute walk to the seaside and that’s where the other ladies wanted to spend the evening. Quite a contrast to the teeming-with-tourists beaches of Varkala, where the only locals were women selling pineapple and papaya and men vending umbrellas, here we were the only Westerners on the beach. There were over a hundred people—all Indian, mostly families—sitting or strolling along the shore (no one swimming to our surprise), watching the sun setting over the sea. We joined them and watched an exquisite sunset, attracting our fair share of stares from passerbies all the while.

After the sun was lost beneath the horizon and daylight turned to twilight, we were all ready for some supper and walked around in search of a suitable restaurant. Within a one-mile radius of our hotel, the only place open was a rundown little vegetarian joint. We sat down in the midst of a pack of gruff-looking Indian guys and were served a delightful meal of masala dosa (lentil and rice pancake/crepe/tortilla-type things with a filling of potato tomato curry) and mango juice for roughly 10 cents.

The next morning, we returned to the beach and were surprised to find it virtually deserted on this superb Sunday. After a yoga session followed by a refreshing swim, we found a good place to sit (in other words, not a place that someone else had found a good place to shit—the beaches here seem to double as bathrooms) and do some reading. That didn’t last long as we soon became the center of a congregation of Indian guys who wanted to practice their English or teach us Malayalam. They were all quite friendly and one man who lived nearby and had the best command of English even invited us to his home to meet his family. After conferring, Sahaj and I decided to take Rajesh up on his offer.

“Only five minutes walking” turned out to be a fifteen minute plus stroll along palm-canopied pathways through a lovely and lively beachfront community. Our journey was briefly delayed due to a run for refreshments: Rajesh swiftly shimmied up a coconut tree and hacked down a pair of young coconuts to serve his unexpected guests. He also took a detour to show us some of the canoes, fishing boats and snake boats (Kerala-style canoes used in festival boat races) he had built in his carpentry work. As we turned a corner into a cloud of smoke (I later found out that the smoke was coming from a outdoor crematorium), Rajesh announced, “This is my street!”

We were welcomed into his home, introduced to his parents, and within a minute of our arrival, practically the whole neighborhood gathered to catch a glimpse of Rajesh’s out-of-the-ordinary guests. As we attempted to talk with crowd around us (few of whom spoke much if any English), Rajesh hacked off the tops of our coconuts and handed them to us. “You want straw?” he asked after we didn’t immediately start sipping the coconut milk. “Yes, please!” answered Sahaj. So a friend of Rajesh was sent on a mission to locate some straws. In the interim, we chatted in simple English and sign language, enjoying being surrounded by this circle of smiling faces while they seemed to be equally enjoying our presence.

The straw searcher returned roughly 10 minutes later with a massive package of straws, by which time a pair of cups had been unearthed to contain the contents of our coconuts. Once we had finished with the coconut water, Rajesh pulled out a machete, cut the coconuts in half, handed Sahaj and I spoons, and showed us how to scoop out the meat. That was tasty stuff, a meal in itself. Once we were finished, we glanced at the time and realized that it was past the appointed time for meeting Tam for lunch. Neither of us was really hungry for lunch at that point, but still thought we should return before Tam began to worry about our whereabouts. After extending words of thanks (“Na-ni” in Malayalam) and farewell (“Namaskaaram”) all around, Rajesh hailed a rickshaw for us and we returned from this charming, fleeting glimpse into Indian life to the realm of the tourist once more.

Following lunch for Tam and a snack for Sahaj and me, we boarded the public ferry (which was packed with people, mostly locals) for a ride to the nearest train station and for a different view of the backwaters. Our threesome had to split up to find seats, so for the duration of the 28-kilometer journey to Kottayam—that took a little over 2 and a half hours—I sat on a makeshift seat of a 2-and-a-half-inch-wide wooden ledge. From this vantage point, I had an excellent view of more riverside scenery… and occasionally, when the ferry became especially crowded (the boat would pull to the side of the canal ever ½ km or so to pick up more passengers) the rear ends of Indian men. Despite that (and my own sore bum), it was a pleasant journey.

When we reached Kottayam and our travel troupe assembled on shore, a man that Tam had met on the ferry offered to go well out of his way to take us to the train station. I was pleasantly surprised by his helpfulness: he led us to the nearest bus stop, rode with us to the stop nearest the train station, showed us the way to the station, bought our train tickets, found us a nice set of seats, and sat chatting with us until the train started moving and he had to jump from the moving train.

Sari wrapping:

“I want to show you how to wrap a sari,” Sarah randomly announced one evening. She pulled out a gorgeous chiffon sari (which, ironically, she’d bought in the U.S. for over $100—here it would cost at least six times less) and said that I was to be her mannequin. Over a pink shirt that showed several inches of stomach, over an underskirt (this is used to tuck the fabric), she wrapped several yards of sari around like a skirt, then a couple yards of pleating that was tucked in the front. As a finishing touch, the remaining tail was tossed over the left shoulder and pinned in place. It was gorgeous. I was afraid to move, lest the several yards of seemingly insecure sari fabric become unraveled.
Then we looked at the time. Oh no, we were late for dinner. “Well, you’ll just have to go wearing that,” Sarah said. So—cautiously—made my way to the guesthouse, hopped the four-foot wide perpetual puddle at the end of my block, and sat down amidst the stares of the staff and other students. This audience voiced their approval. But after I was finished eating, Sumitra (a member of the administrative staff and quite a stunning young woman) came up behind me and whispered, “Come here, I will fix.” She led me into her bedroom in the guesthouse and—giggling with the dance instructor, Danya, about Sarah’s questionable sari wrapping skills—re-wrapped the yards of embroidered burgundy fabric around me in one of the styles worn by Keralan women. (Supposedly there are over 100 ways of wrapping a sari.) I tried to keep track of how and where the fabric was being folded and tucked but I soon became lost. Standing in front of an altar to Ganesh being dressed by two Indian women—that was quite a special moment. Sumitra pinned a swath of cloth over my shoulder and their work was finished. To top it all off, they painted a bindi on my forehead.

Temple Concert:

In the compound of a Hindu temple, I sat on a yoga mat surrounded by other spectators of a karnatic music concert. Vocal ragas melded with vivid violin melodies around the heartbeat of percussion… Simultaneously, a flock of mosquitoes feasted on my flesh. It was past midnight and I had every reason to be exhausted. But I didn’t care. The honor of being in the midst of these amazing musicians, the gift of being invited to witness a performance like this in a temple in India, the undeniable energy surging from the speakers around the stage… this is what kept me awake and alert and attuned to the intricacies of the music until almost one in the morning.
On our way to this late night concert, which began at 9:00 PM, the other spectators from VKV received the following assurance:
“The concert will be over by 11:30 at the latest, my vocal music teacher assured me,” so said Brit from Sweden, whose vocal music teacher was to be performing. “And only that late if both the performers and audience really get into the music.”
Evidently the performers really got into the music. And I don’t know about the rest of the audience, but I sure got into the music as well. On the stage in front of us sat four musicians: Brit’s vocal music teacher front and center with a voice so strong and unfaltering that it became the center of the music as well (also the only woman on stage), two outstanding percussionists (alas no tabla because that is a North Indian instrument not used in South Indian karnatic music), and a brilliant violin player (who played in the same style as I saw on the day of my arrival—the violin resting between his heel and his calf).
Not only did these musicians have tremendous talent but also incredible stamina. The concert got started at 9 PM, shortly after we arrived and unfurled our yoga mat seats. Almost constantly they played—the music never stopped for more than a few seconds but occasionally one of the instrumentalist would sit out for a couple minutes. The singer sang continuously for 2 and a half hours, the violinist and percussionists played for most of that time. Then, around 11:30, (at which time “the concert should have been over, at the latest…”) began the most mind-blowing drum duo I’ve ever seen or heard. This went on for over a half hour. The beats climbed to a climax of spectacular speed and volume… and then stopped.
“Is this the end?” those of our original 6-some turned 3-some (the other 3 had either had enough of this music or were sleeping in the taxi) were wondering. I silently hoped not. My hope was granted: the violinist pulled out his instrument again, the singer switched on her mic, and they were at it again, refreshed and re-inspired. One of the 3 who hadn’t been enjoying the concert as much as the rest of us had came and sat down again. ‘That’s the spirit,’ I thought. “Can we please get going now?” she whined. So at 12:45, after almost 4 hours of amazing music, Brit and I finally capitulated to the complaints of the tired and the humbugs and decided it was time to go. We had to drive over a kilometer before the music, which was being blasted from speakers surrounding the temple to the surrounding town, was drowned out in the darkness and the jungle.
The next morning, Brit found out during her vocal music lesson that the concert finished around 15 minutes after we took off. After 4 hours of performing the previous night, the vocalist’s powerful voice could be heard resounding from her classroom from 10 AM on.

My first Kathakali lesson… in front of a television crew:

“Oh, by the way,” Louba, the woman from France who founded the center announced one day over lunch, “there will be a television crew visiting this afternoon.” That afternoon, just as I was heading out the door for painting class, I received a phone call from an anxious-sounding Atman (Atman is a member of the VKV staff) asking, “Can you please be at the school building in two minutes?” I knew this was regarding the film crew but was left wondering why they wanted me. In two minutes, I found out: since there are no Kathakali (a traditional Keralan form of drama and dance done in Hindu temples) students here at the moment and that is THE traditional art of Kerala, I—a student of tabla and painting, who has never done any Kathakali before in my life—was to be the lucky Kathakali student to be filmed for TV. Well, I figured, now is the time to learn.
The arranged the camera so the Kathakali teacher was sitting behind it showing me what to do… and I was sitting in front of it mirroring his every move. Attempting to, at least. He took me through all 24 basic mudras (hand positions and gestures—many of these consisted of positions my hands have never assumed in my life) and all the while I was incredibly and senselessly nervous, my hands trembling as they did the close up shot of the most complicated mudras.
“You have just done all 24 basic mudras of Kathakali,” my ten-minute-teacher announced for me and for the camera crew. ‘I’m done,’ I think, and breath a sigh of relief.
“Now, I am going to teach you the nine major facial expressions used in Kathakali,” the teacher announced. So I sit facing the camera contorting my face into exaggerated expressions of “anger” and “ecstasy” and “heroism” and I forget what else, although I’m sure a look of fear pervaded it all. And I couldn’t understand all the banter in Malayalam going on around me but not once did I hear it explained that “This girl has never done any Kathakali before so don’t judge her pathetic performance to harshly…” I’m hoping that footage is never broadcast and that it is perhaps destroyed instead. At least that was a memorable introduction to Kerala’s famous art of Kathakali.

Real Kathakali:

A couple days after the late night/early morning due to the temple concert, I had the opportunity to attend a real, all-night Kathakali performance. Despite the potential exhaustion that would ensue, I didn’t want to pass up the opportunity. (Unfortunately) neither did the humbug that initiated our early return from the temple concert, a woman named Vicky and currently the only other VKV student from the U.S.A. So on a Friday evening after dinner, Vicky and I climbed into a rickshaw for a ride not to a temple, where Kathakali is typically performed, but to Louba’s mysterious ashram. Louba, the woman who founded VKV, also founded this ashram and dedicated it to her guru.
There was quite an enigma surrounding this ashram among the VKV students. When we alighted from the rickshaw and entered the ashram’s imposing gates, it felt almost as if I were entering the inner circle of some secret society. The place was swarming with Westerners, mostly French and English speakers, and we followed their flow until we reached the “green room”, where the Kathakali performers’ makeup was being applied. Three young performers were having their faces painted green with ornate designs in white, yellow, black and red, in the guise of a hero of Hindu mythology. This ceremonial process of costuming and makeup application I watched for a while, until an echoing explosion of drumming signaled the start of the performance.
I followed the sound of the drums to the theater and found a seat among the throng of spectators. At the beginning of the performance, the audience consisted of over 80 people, an overwhelming majority of them Westerners. This ashram is less than 10 minutes away from VKV and we never see any of these people. Vraiment mysterieux! Chanting (in literary Malayalam, which is similar to Sanskrit—all incomprehensible to me) was eventually added to the drumming. As the music was escalating in drama and volume, a pair of guys carried out a colorful curtain and held it in front of the stage. The dancers meanwhile assembled behind it.
The curtain was thrown aside and three performers—the same three that I’d watched being done up beforehand, all representing heroes with green facepaint—emerged from behind it. In unison with the music and each other, the three began to dance. Slow, stately, in sync movements combining mudras, facial expressions (including eye position), and the whole rest of the body. From my brief intro to Kathakali, I had trouble with just one of these areas in isolation. Here all three performers united all three areas and each other and the music—that was incredible to watch.
This threesome was just a precursor to the performance proper, which began around 11 PM after a long musical interlude with another amazing drum duo. Again the curtain was suspended across the stage; again it was dramatically thrown aside, this time to reveal a green-faced hero king and a man portraying a woman. These two interacted with even greater synchronization than the students had. They interacted for over an hour.
“How long is this nonsense going to go on?!?” whispered an exasperated Vicky. “I have no idea what’s going on!”
Admittedly, neither did I. But I was enjoying it for the exquisite refinement of their movements and the underlying power of the music. Only several days later did I learn the story from Louba. Here’s a synopsis:

A Hindu diety assumes the form of an alluring temptress in an attempt to seduce a wise ruler, to test his will and moral fortitude. The ruler is forced to grant a boon to this woman: he cannot refuse to do anything she asks or he will have to kill his beloved son. I could smell disaster there. And sure enough, the woman asks this ruler to give her the favors of his love. After a long internal struggle—“do I give in to this woman and betray my marriage, or must I murder my own son?”—this troubled king takes up a sword and calls his son to him. “Daddy, what are you doing?” this lad must have been wondering as his father raised the sharpened sword to strike off his head. But just in the nick of time, Vishnu hurries down from the heavens and stops the swing of the sword. The son is saved and the king is praised for his strength of character.

The dramatic Kathakali rendition of this saga was just getting started when Vicky announced, “I really have to get home and go to bed. This is putting me to sleep.” So thus I was pulled away from the performance just as things were starting to get interesting. We left a little before midnight. The performance lasted until almost 2 AM. Another three-hour Kathakali drama followed, finishing up around 5:00 in the morning. This place never ceases to astonish me with its wonderful, captivating and fascinating uniqueness. I'm cherishing and enjoyng every waking millisecond of my experience here. And, hopefully, my excess of waking milliseconds vs. my lack of sleeping milliseconds won't be too detrimental...

“Why on earth did Melissa decide to go to India of all places, and for 6 months no less?!?” many of the folks back home are no doubt wondering. Several reasons exist, but above all: I wanted to experience a culture as different as possible from the familiar flaw-filled northwest Indiana culture that I grew up with. Don’t get me wrong: every society has its draws and flaws, India not excepted. But I believe that being immersed in another way of life is the excellent opportunity for learning. Being immersed in a way of life so completely different—on the surface, at least—from the one I grew up with: that, to me, is the ultimate learning experience.

That was what drew me to India (and NO, I was NOT drawn here by any desire to contract malaria, to get myself killed in some other horrible way, or to channel the devil through yoga, as some of the homebodies back home might have thought…) And so far, I have NOT been channeling any devils (though I have been doing yoga every morning) I have NOT felt the least bit ill (knock on wood), and I am still alive. Moreover, I have been experiencing a completely different culture, I have been learning loads from the experience, and I’ve been enjoying myself immensely all the while. The world is bigger than a cornfield, after all.


Adventures from my first full day (November 19):

Despite the previous days potentially exhausting record of 52 hours without a wink of sleep, I was awake—and feeling full of energy—before 5 a.m. the morning after I arrived. For a while, I simply sat on the firm mosquito-netting-surrounded bunk listening to the chanting flowing from the loudspeakers of the local Hindu temple.

Home half a world away from home:

Among the things stood out to me about what my fellow students said about the Vijnana Kala Vedi Cultural School, whether they were staying a week or several months, was that the school was always referred to as “home.” My first day in my new home was the last day for 6 students. With many apologies, the VKV staff moved me out of the office building from my initial accommodation in what is fondly known of as “the hospital room”—a room usually reserved for families as it contains 4 beds—to one of the actual houses. Hooray! My new room—with only one bed—had a much more home-like feel. Three other students currently call the Tharayil House home.

Tharayil House Cast of Characters…

Sarah~ My floor mate, Sarah, is a girl from Portugal who has been here since August studying Hindi and dance in hopes of becoming a Bollywood movie star. I can tell when she’s in her room by the constant stream of Bollywood music blaring from down the hall. Instead of being bothered by it (like some of her former floor mates apparently have) I appreciate living next door to someone with good taste in music. And Sarah appreciates living down the hall from someone who appreciates her music.

Shadi~ In the room just below mine lives an polyglot anarchist named Shadi (pronounced Shah-dee) who was born in Switzerland, raised mostly in Turkey, and has been living in India for the past 15 years. While very nice and incredibly interesting, the one downside of living above Shadi is that he likes to sleep until noon, which has prevented me from practicing tabla.

Elsa~ Down the hall from Shadi lives a Swiss girl with four dreadlock rattails snaking down her back. She’s here doing an intensive woodcarving course. I’m enjoying practicing my francais avec Elsa.

Larry the Laughing Lizard~ A permanent fixture in my room, Larry is a roughly 6-inch long yellow gecko who likes to serenade my every night with a surprisingly loud call that sounds eerily like laughter. Though he woke me up my first night in Tharayil, I’ve gotten used to Larry. In fact, we’ve become friends: he helps keep my room mosquito-free.

Neighbors~ Tharayil House is for the most part surrounded by the homes of Indian families, with whom, I was disappointed to hear, there is virtually no contact. Behind the house, however, are some residents with whom I’m glad there is little close contact: just behind Tharayil house is a large, lush pen live at least 3 elephants reside. Two are taken out frequently to pay visits to the local temple, while the other (who I’ve heard is violent and slightly insane…) is kept tethered in the backyard.

Becoming acquainted with Aranmula:

At breakfast, I tried to get a feel for what everyone was doing with the weekend free day, wondering if perhaps I could tag along (and not be left to fend for myself my first full day in India). No such invites came my way. The morning was spent settling into Tharayil (I decorated my bed and added color to the room by draping colorful scarves that previous students had left behind) and wandering around Aranmula.

At lunch, Atman, one of the administrators at VKV, offered to give Tam (an English woman who’s also relatively new to the center) and me a biking tour of Aranmula. We all mounted our bikes, I in my new churidar (a knee-length tunic type shirt/dress worn with pants and a shawl), and took off for a visit to the mural painting gallery. This small-scale museum was filled with impressively detailed traditional style mural paintings, mostly of traditional subjects. My favorite piece of art in the place was a portrait of Gandhi-ji. Seeing works of this art form done by professionals was a good prelude to my mural painting classes, which begin Monday.

The next stop on our tour was the studio of a family who does the traditional mirror-making craft of the village, Aranmula Kannady. A group of guys sat in their dhotis sanding and scraping and polishing the metal mirrors. After the biking tour and before dinner, I went on a walk around Aranmula with 3 women—Tam (a Brit), Brit (from Sweden), and Meeran (from Spain) down along the Pampa River that runs around the outskirts of Aranmula. A long canoe ferried us across the river. On both banks, people (mostly men, who surprisingly didn’t seem disturbed by our presence) were bathing. Later on, a bunch of men were giving a bath to an elephant (and the elephant certainly didn’t mind our stares). After exploring the paths through the jungle-like forest on the far side of the river, we sat on a ghat and watched the sunset. As darkness fell over Aranmula, the cacophony of birdcalls grew louder and several giant fruit bats swept overhead. What an introduction to Aranmula!


Laughing Lizards, Dying Dogs: the Struggle with Sleep in Aranmula

I’ve introduced you to my noisy new friend, Larry the Laughing Lizard. Like I said, he enjoys serenading me at night. Once I got used to Larry’s loudness, I began to hear a host of unfamiliar night noises: the elephants talking to each other, the dog across the street whining all night in such horrific tones that it sounds like he’s, if not dying, at least in pain or under torture. And of course there are cars and trucks on the road at all hours of the night. Using their horns at all hours of the night.

And then by 5 a.m. every morning, the temple chants begin. Though the temple is at least a half-kilometer away, the chants (which some of the students living nearer to the temple say sounds like an unpleasant Indian rendition of polka) are blasted over loud speakers for the entire village to hear. This nightly racket prevented me from a decent nights sleep for a few days. After being here a week, however, I hardly notice them any more. Perhaps because I’m so exhausted every night from my accumulated lack of sleep. But every morning, I wake up full of energy (probably still running off of adrenaline) to experience this amazing place.

The People around Aranmula:

One feature of VKV that I appreciate is being in the midst of adventurous like-minded travelers from around the world. I’ve gotten to know several students from Swizerland and Spain; one from Sweden; a few from France; women from Israel, England, and Australia; a man from Turkey/India; and a couple from France. I enjoy my frequent conversations with Louba, a former French citizen who founded the cultural school and has lived in Kerala for over 30 years. The center’s staff members—teachers and administrators—are also friendly and interesting.

The one downside of the center is that even though we are located in the midst of the Keralan village of Aranmula, there is little contact with people of the village. All around us, they go about their lives wearing their colorful saris and skirt-like dhotis, staring and occasionally smiling at us students. But on the whole, the center acts as an enclave for foreigners. Though the accommodations of the center are integrated into the community, I’ve gotten the feeling that it is difficult for us Westerners to become part of it. Even for Louba, who has lived here 30+ years. One of the biggest barriers between us is language. Few Aranmulites speak English. None of the center students, not even Louba, are fluent in Malayalam. One of my goals for my stay is to attempt to break out of these established barriers.

Classes:

Aracanut, betel leaf, and 1-rupee coin in hand, I was initiated as a student of tabla and painting. This interesting gift, called a dikshana, is traditionally presented to by a new student to a new teacher. I presented the same to Ashok-ji (my tabla teacher) and Anil (my painting teacher) before beginning classes last Monday. In one week of studies, I’ve learned much about these traditional Indian arts while learning about the culture they come from. Though initially a little intimidating, I’ve been overall impressed with the progress I’ve made with tablas. The first few days, I must admit, I found it—while enjoyable—a little frustrating. I needed frequent reminding that I’d never touched a percussion instrument before in my life. But on Wednesday of last week, I received my very own tabla set. Being able to practice what I learn has allowed me to feel much more comfortable with the instrument. (Although I do feel sorry for my fellow Tharayil residents having to listen to me practice…)

Painting came a lot more naturally for me, considering that I’m no stranger to the paintbrush. The traditional mural painting that Anil is teaching us is a highly stylized form of art using established ideas of form and a limited palate of yellow, brownish red, green, and black. These few colors are used to create impressively detailed works of art. I saw early on that creating a painting like this is a very tedious, time-taking process. My first week of studying painting, I didn’t even touch a paintbrush. I copied what felt like hundreds of hands and feet and faces and jewelry in different styles and positions. This Monday, I was thrilled to be finally ready to use a paintbrush. From the other students, I understood that typically we are able to choose, from a portfolio of options, which Hindu deity or scene of Indian landscape we would like to paint. For me, for whatever reason, Anil handed me an outlandishly minutely detailed drawing of Ganesh and said, “You, paint this.” I’m pleased with Anil’s choice—after all, what could be more Indian than Ganesh—but it’ll take a while.

In addition to these two subjects of my choice, there is also the option of studying Kalaripayattu, a Keralan form of martial art. This I did for four days. I’m glad I had the experience. But my knees could deal with it no longer. I’ve decided to save them for yoga and biking around Aranmula. The Kalari (martial art) teacher, Ravi, tells me every time he sees me, “You should go to see Hari, the ayurvedic doctor. Your knees he can fix in one day.” Perhaps I’ll give it a go once my crazy class schedule becomes more manageable. Also, every Monday-Wednesday-Friday, students have the option of attending a group yoga class. I of course attend every session. Learning yoga from an Indian guy named Swami-ji on a palm-thatched platform in the middle of a rainforest… What a way to start a morning!

All in all, I find this to be THE MOST beautiful, incredible, interesting, enjoyable, and overall outstanding place I've ever been. I send my love to all you eager followers of my adventures back home. In Western culture, you would say, "I send my heart." Supposedly, however, according to Anil (my painting teacher), affection in Malayali culture is not said to come from the heart. But from the liver. So I send you my liver! Namaste for now!