Continuous Convalescing

There's not much to report when you've been ill.

Apparently the pounding headache discussed the other day may have had some cause other than the annoyance of the Big Bazaar departmental store (they're actually called that here), as it turned out to be the portent of something (slightly) more serious. I, however, choose to blame everything that follows on the Big Bazaar, and no amount of convincing will ever get me to set foot in that place again. But I digress.

Yesterday, I woke up with a worse headache, which deteriorated throughout the day into an eye-splitting, feverish, nausea-inducing debacle. Worry not: I went to the doctor in the evening (my host family is extremely solicitous) and got antibiotics and more. I feel much better now, and a pathologist should be by in the afternoon tomorrow to check for all the more serious things (ameobas, typhoid etc) so I can, hopefully, rule them out.

Nonetheless, I wanted to start properly telling about the vast and rich heritage of Lucknow, about my family, or my housemates at the very least. This all has to wait because I have been convalescing in my invalid room for one and a half days, and have seen nothing more than the stairs as I shakily go down for meals. Luckily my room has at least one feature of interest.

In almost every Indian room, there live a few or more small geckos called 'chipkali' in Hindi. 'Chipna' means 'to stick,' and they were so named because of their extremely useful footpads, which enable them to stick to almost any surface, even upside down. Many Indian women are afraid of them for some reason -- it seems to be an expected feminine fear, something like American women's supposed fear of mice.

Anyways, I think they are charming and helpful. They earn their keep by eating an enormous number of bugs. They almost never fall off of the surface they're on, unless they get into fights with other chipkalis. And this, too, is a fascinating affair: they stomp their little feet and make a very strange noise that would scare you if you weren't used to it, a kind of growly clicking sound.

I was able to capture one of my resident chipkali's photos, above. There is also a very tiny baby one, but it was too demure to sit still for the camera, and attempts to get its portrait were in vain.

Barsaat

I've finally settled down a bit in my new Lucknavi home. I live on the top floor -- the roof, really -- of a popular paying-guest house in the Mall Avenue area. My room is spacious, clean, and cool. This last quality is thanks to a giant, whirring machine that sits in my window: the cooler. For those of you who have not lived in India, you may not have experienced the cooler. It's basically a giant box with open sides, which are covered in thin grassy reeds. In the front of the box blows a big fan, and a motor propels a constant stream of water through to the top of the box. The water then trickles down the reeds, and is evaporated by the blowing fan. The effect is amazing, although you have to be careful about mosquitoes becoming friendly with the pool of water in the bottom of the cooler.

Right outside my room is the rooftop garden, through which I walk to get to the bathroom, on the other side of the roof. It's dozens of hot-weather plants, from plumeria to various strange knobby succulents, all in terra cotta pots. Most people have at least a few of these plants, but my family has a veritable forest of them. It was a key factor in choosing where to live.

Today actually cooled off quite a bit, so cooler or no cooler, I wasn't too hot to sleep. Despite this, I woke up with a start this morning, far too early. The sky was so dark that it seemed even earlier than it was. Sure enough, the heavy clouds that had been thratening for some time finally broke into a huge storm. The Hindi word "toofaan" describes the thick, sudden rain and gusty wind that swept through the town this morning. It's where we get the English "typhoon."

Classes started today with a thud, as well, because all four of us from my program who live in this house were flooded in for some time. When the river outside of us slowed to a trickle and allowed us to exit, none of the cycle-ricksha drivers were interested in taking us on a 20-plus minute ride to our institute. We therefore arrived, sodden and somewhat dispirited, about an hour late, missing our very first class.

Nonetheless, I managed to have an acceptable day. Going to the 'mall' -- it shouldn't even have quotation marks, it's a bona fide mall -- that was miserable. The Big Bazaar (it's really called that) is the star attraction, and I thought it would kill me. Even now I have pounding headache from frustration (it may be big, but it didn't have most of what I needed) and elbowing my way through hordes of consumption-crazed Indian families. But after that, I had a suprising and lovely trip to a new tailor, which hopefully will become my tailor in Lucknow. One has to be careful with tailors, but the Fashion House comes highly recommended. This first suit I gave over for stitching has a very complicated design. If it turns out well, I'll be thrilled and stick with her.

By 'suit,' by the way, I mean 'Punjabi suit,' aka salwaar kameez. Mostly you buy them in matching pieces of fabric, one long enough for pants, the other intended for the top. They almost always come with a long, wide scarf. It's what I almost always wear in India.

At any rate, I should get going. I leave you with the image (hopefully) of me, dressed in what is commonly, irritatingly called Typical Indian Dress. This is near the Valley of the Flowers, in Garwal, on the monster trek from last week.

Not much to see here

Well, as a completely down-and-out traveler, all I want to do is read my book (this 900 page tourist tome called Shantaram), wash my feet of the Delhi dust, and take a nap. Somewhere in there figures in the cool, safe filtered water available from my program-paid hotel. It's much nicer than those I stay in on my own dime.

The train pulled into Delhi last night around 11:30. Everyone was horrified to learn that I would be traveling from the train station alone, in that much night. The man seated next to me in our posh AC chair class car wanted me, in fact, to stay at his own home. Earlier, he had engaged me in a zesty discussion of whether I thought God existed or not. My fat, unread book sat open in my lap, desperate to be read, to overcome this most irritating existential question. As though I hadn't heard him ask the first time, he asked again, in English,

"Madam, do you believe in God?"

I replied to him quietly, in Hindi, trying to mask irritation with smug piety.

"There are some things that you feel in your heart, that when you say them through your mouth, they only come out confused."

He was delighted with this answer, told me that because of this profundity, I would surely pass on my PhD.

And that, sir, is why I am perfectly happy to travel alone -- no unwanted conversation, just cool dusty night Delhi air that feels heavy and thick, and smells of the burning of rubber and cow manure.

Not Yet in Lucknow

On the advice of my father, this blog has been created. I feel a little silly writing it, so all of you friends and relations better not make too much fun of me for it.

Yes, I did indeed get horribly sick on my third day in India. This is a personal record. Since touching down in Delhi, I have had wretched food poisoning, altitude sickness, and (according to the doctor) "viral diarrhea" -- which is of course treated with antibiotics. I sliced off a good chunk of my heel on a sharp piece of car and banged my shin something awful on a sticking-out rock when I was riding a mule. I am a total mess.

Nonetheless, it has been an adventure. Dan and I took a rickety bus up the mountains from Dehradun to Joshimath. Joshimath is noteworthy because it's where the great Hindu thinker and religious figure Shankaracharya attained enlightenment under a mulberry tree. It's up in the Himalayas, and you can see snow on some of the higher peaks surrounding it. Nanda Devi is the only one which has a name I remember. Joshimath is also noteworthy because it's where I was fed a poison omelet, which made us lose a whole day to convalescing.

For a restful segue back to some level of activity, we took the ropeway -- India's highest and longest, they loudly proclaim -- up past this "ski resort," Auli, up to lay in the grass and gaze at Natural Beauty. Dan makes the good point that until half the 12-hour road from Dehradun isn't washed out gravel and vomitous hairpin turns, he's not sure how well this ski resort is going to get off the ground. It does seem a little questionable, but so much literature has AULI followed by a picture of a cartoon happy skier that they can scarcely turn back now. All the Indians we talked to seemed to think that it was foreigners who skied there, mutatis mutandis for foreigners...

At any rate, we follwed that with a trip over to Govindghat, from where we took the most harrowing hike of my life -- nine hours straight up the mountain to a village called Ghangaria. We should have put our things on mules, but of course didn't think of that until I had already determined stubbornly that I was going to carry my own things, darn it. It left me gasping, altitude sick and exhausted. The trek is supposed to take 4 to 5 hours.

More will have to come later -- I have to be off frm this Internet cafe.

It's my last full day in Dehradun, the captial of the recently-renamed Uttarakhand. Tomorrow it's back to Delhi for a boring orientation with various officials -- ambassadors, ministers of who-knows, etc. Lots of hands to shake. After that, I will be finally arriving in Lucknow to begin my coursework. I am excited about starting my proper schooling, especially since my vacation-type time has been a constant adventure. Reading and writing will be easy compared to the last few days.