It’s been a looong time since I’ve written any poetry, so go easy on me, yeah?

I’m traveling with a ghost,

She sits patiently in a corner in my mind,

Legs swinging and smile knowing,

And waits for me to stop ignoring her,

She doesn’t speak, or move around,

She is so calm for her age, so mature,

She doesn’t cry or ask for sympathy,

She just waits

I’m traveling with a ghost,

When she we see the pigeons pecking, peeking,

She looks imploring, eyes asking, mind chasing,

But I pretend she isn’t there

She’s always there when the children pass by,

School socks slipping, collars tugging,

But I look away

And, crossing her arms around herself,

And sighing loudly,

She just waits

I’m traveling with a ghost

I can’t get rid of her, can’t acknowledge her,

She never leaves, never speaks,

I don’t know what she wants!

I’d give her toys, or friends, a nice new place to live

But she still wouldn’t go

Maybe she never will

I just wait

When I think about it logically it does make a sort of sense for me to call my journey a pilgrimage, as many of my fellow travellers do. There are indeed elements which make it very similar to a journey of devotion to a place where pilgrams hope to find enlightenment, though my path leads more to the metaphorical destinations of solitude, silence and the psyche than actual places of worship. I was told once by a wise old philosopher/auto-rickshaw driver that I was quiet due to my holding too much of my heart in my head, over-thinking and never trusting and I was instructed that the cure to this was to follow my heart so, while my motives might not match those of the Hindus and Hare Krishna’s I encountered in Varanasi, nor the countless Buddhists I saw in Dharamshala, I too have been basing my travels on blind faith.

Before I begin to worry my empiricism-loving friends, who I’ve promised I will not return home to a raving hippy or fanatical cult member, I should mention that I have not placed my faith in some omnipresent universal force or divine entity, I have not chosen to excuse myself of fault or planning by resigning myself to a path of faith or destiny, nor handed over the reigns of my daily routine to the rituals of a religious text. My faith has instead been placed in something far more fallible, far more physical and human and, I will freely admit, something far more egocentric; Me. My entire journey has relied upon, been planned around and been thoroughly entrusted to myself and my own abilities, something I entered this journey without little prior knowledge of.

Until India I had never been without family and friends for more than a few hours at a time, had never relied wholly on my own judgement nor dealt with so many external factors without an instant support network. As such, I started out uncertain of how I would respond to the world and, at each step, I was unsure if whether I had responded as I should. I constantly questioned my actions and responses, waiting as though for a study score which reveal the answer to my permanent question; “Am I doing this right?” My need for feedback reached the unconscious level of waiting for some external sign, a universal report ordaining “C+ on your volunteering and a D for Varanasi. You lost points on shyness and limited communication as well as not paying enough attention to what you ate”. As much as I was enjoying myself I often passed up opportunities due to etiquette, timidity or over-thinking, something I would immediately regret.

Nervous about being alone I will confess, with great embarrassment, to imagining a companion, a calm and rational friend who would observe my barely-keeping-it-together internal expression and kindly (or occasionally in a manner which could only be described as exasperated) ask “What’s the worst that could happen?”. Missing my plane, going through a bus crash and the regular encounters with the sleazy, the scary and, for lack of a better word, the ’touchy-feely’ of India’s dominant gender, were all events likely to provoke the company of my imaginary friend. At times a handsome, faceless guy, he would apologise for the idiocy of his sex and serve as a comforting, protective presence or on other occasions, my mother as a young woman, wise in her travels and approachable in her familiarity. It was only recently I realised how the regularity of these imaginings had decreased and how when they did occur the companion closely resembled myself (something which may have slightly damaged the effectiveness, such as the occasions when my imaginary self is hiding behind me with an expression that says “Hey, do I look like I want to get any closer to that rabid dog than you do?”)

And that’s been far from my only discovery. The journey ‘inside’, to refer to it in the flakiest term possible, has held many lessons in regards to what I want, like and do when unbiased by others’ decisions and while it’s been joked for years that I am ‘truly my father’s daughter’, inheriting his penchant for procrastination, his bunions, slow temper and distaste for conflict and serious business discussions, this trip has served well in highlighting to me my connection with Mum, and that which she has passed on to me. The travel-bug, of course, (though unfortunately not the caste-iron stomach, which perhaps has to be earned) but in addition, the calm exterior in uncomfortable situations, the decisiveness(even if it takes me a little longer) and (I hope) the sense of quiet confidence which allows one to appear totally at home in their surroundings and leads to one being asked by others for directions (even by Indians!). Of course there is also the recent discovery of my genetic petrolhead-ism (sp?) though most of you won’t know that about my mother and I doubt she wants to know it about me!

I’m by no means finished with my journey yet, learning more and risking more each day in the testing of my limits, but I’m happy to be recognizing the changes and feel constantly rewarded for my ever-growing faith and the realisation that there’s no real ‘right and wrong’ to this.  So far, in my assesment at least, I think I’m headed for an A+.

Under a thick cloud of fog and fumes, alongside a Ganga choked by tradition, religion and pollution, stands one of the world’s oldest constantly inhabited cities; Benares. It’s a place steeped in history, touts, karma cola (purchasable spiritualism) and ritual, where stepping out one’s door requires careful mental preparation. You’ll be pushed and pulled, hassled and groped and faced with a barrage of queries and offers. It’s hectic, at times overwhelming and at best, irritating as all hell, but it is survivable. And, though it may take some effort, once you see past the tourist crush, Varanasi has a grandeur, a constancy and spiritualism, which is as undeniable as the filth and the stench.

The history of Varanasi gives it a continuity with the past which is as bizarre as it is beautiful. The sight of a baby being woken and washed in the Ganga is a sight heavy with the strange knowledge that the child is a descendant of generations of individuals who were woken in the same way, individuals whose ashes now float in that same water. This knowledge and spiritualism is most prevalent at the city’s most confronting sight; the burning ghats.

Intensely intimate and undeniably awkward, the covered (or sometimes not) bodies being eaten by flames, as a mourning family watches on, is not a sight for the faint-hearted, nor those who find the cultural difference of watching a stranger’s funeral too bizarre. The experience for me was decidedly detached, something which I suspect was triggered by the rather emotional (and negative) responses of the people I was with. All were a few years my senior, yet few had experienced a relative’s death nor seen a dead body before. Beyond this, many also confessed to not having faced the eventuality of their own death and therefore felt forced and confronted by the sight. For myself, the bodies were merely shells which had once contained life, which experienced nothing now. I thought the reality of seeing the dead body necessary for the mourning process and the choice of fire rather than interment a personal one. I foolishly recall being proud of my calm, seemingly mature reaction.

Returning happily to Shivpuri from Varanasi, and the food poisoning I’d acquired there,  the reality of death was once more present. With horror, Gracie and I learnt that one of our kindergarten students, a favourite of mine, had died of a fever the previous night. My calm processing of death was thrown out the window at the thought that a 4 year-old girl from a well-off family could die of such an easily prevented cause, purely because her access to suitable medical facilities  required an 8-hour inter-state drive. Far beyond being mature or even emotional, I went into complete denial, something I have yet to properly come out of. The idea that when, 3 weeks ago, I was playing with her at the kindergarten, lifting up her and her friends and giving them dizzy-wizzies until I declared I was exhausted and she, so adorably, stood before me with her hands out, informing everyone that I needed my rest, is the last time I’ll ever see her, is beyond comprehension. The thought that there will be no more early morning wake-up calls of ‘ex-scuuuuuuuuse mee!!’ when she would decide it was time for us to play with her, the thought that there will be no one to steal pappadams for her little brother by marching into the mess hall and hiding a handful in her hand bag…unthinkable. It’s undoubtedly been a damper on our placement and yet, even now, none of it seems real. I’m still in a dazed disbelief, a happy delusion that all is fine and well, punctured only by the occasional, painful reminder; her little brother playing by himself, the kindergarten playground, the sight of her shoes, sitting outside her house are all like a punch in the gut, a sudden, grounding moment when pretending is impossible. Death may be something we must all face and deal with in our own way but sometimes, it feels better not to. Is it so wrong to pretend?

While the sights, smells and sounds of India are captivating as ever, it’s difficult not to become a little blase when sunk into routine. Although life here seems a blur of festivals (especially now that we’re entering festival season) there are, in fact, days, even weeks, in which we face nothing but 6 days of classes with children that at times make one hoarse with yelling at them.

At these times we make our own fun and find greater significance than any sane person should, in the little things. For example, following months of gastronomic monotony, the sighting of a man selling fresh green leaf (I think it was spinach) can make ones day and the future promise of carrots, which will come into season in the next month, is utterly delightful. The occasional pleasure of finishing a day of work and catching a favourite movie on cable is enough to leave one smiling for the rest of the evening (or tearing-up with a little bit of homesickness).

We’ve slowly worked to control our sugar and junk food intake, which has made the occasional chocolate or sweet we do have all the better and even phone calls, textmessages or the use of a computer are a thrill, the connection with home an occasional, most enjoyable distraction.

Best of all, of course, are the opportunities to travel, when we make it outside of our school and the tiny town we inhabit and out into mystery of the country we have come to love. These quick jaunts into the unknown find us weaving adventures out of the small acts, which become so significant when alone, such as; the acquisition of cupboard-like hotel rooms (for $3AUD!), western style-food (never again) and making acquaintance of other tourists (an experience which is greatly desirable after months of language barriers).

The most interesting activity of travel, is the sourcing of transport, a feat which requires patience (things won’t leave or arrive at the time you were told they would…you get used to it), flexibility (ever tried fitting 12 people into a 1 x 1m box? Imagine said box travelling at 30km/h on a road with more pit-holes than flats and you’ve pretty much simulated a rides in a tempo) and logic (when your bus veers to the side of the road and pulls to a stop beacause the front windshield is smashed-in and the driver and front passengers are covered in glass shards, stay calm. Assess the damage to the driver and the bus and phone ahead to anyone you’re meeting. Add at least 1 hour to your ETA)

See, anything can brighten your day when you’re having this great a time!

In India it would appear that almost every day is special. The Hindus, Buddhists, Muslims, Christians, Parsis, Jains, all the different religions of India divide up the weekdays and spread around the festive vibe until life becomes a haze of incense and puja (prayer), feasts and fasts and, best of all, dances. Last week, on the night before the full moon, we celebrated the final day of Ganesh’s birthday, a ten day festival during which nightly puja is observed and countless offerings presented to the numerous shrines set up around town (and of course the small shrines each household sets up). On the final day the puja reaches fever pitch and the worshipers are showered with powdered dyes and receive blessed food, before the clay statues are loaded into their cart, car, truck or (in our case) school bus, which will convey them to the river to break down.

Under the statues watchful gaze loud chants are uttered and the drums beat fast and infectiously.As a foreigner, theres little doubt that you’ll end up getting dragged into the chaos and, if you’re lucky (or otherwise, depending on your preference), it’s quite possible you’ll end up with a solo dance, surrounded by a circle of clapping, laughing schoolboys (or that could just be me). The tempo increases constantly till you’re chasing a beat so fast your feet seem barely to touch the ground and your heart is racing a million miles a minute. It’s in this crowd, under the clearest of star-filled skies, in the light of an almost perfect moon and the beams of the school bus which follows your dancing feet, that one feels the most alive. We pound the driveway in time with our shoulder jerks and head wobbles, till the dust creates a cloud too thick for the sky to be seen, and the air becomes muggy and dense. We are united by the beat which pounds in our heads and pulses through the ground from our synchronized stamping. Corny as it sounds, in that moment we are one, a hive mind. Our movements combined as, together, we experience the rush, the waves of adulation and exhausted exhilaration and we draw from the core an energy and excitement which sucks away all stress and fatigue, hunger and anger, in the best possible form of group therapy possible. We are India, a whole which is greater than the sum of the parts and everything else, especially time. fades away. When, the drums fade out and the bus rolls away, time remains absent and the connections forged linger for a moment. united by the immense satisfaction. Sated and sleepy we return to our rooms for the best nights sleep ever.

Despite the faulty internet connection and inability to use any technology without it mysteriously breaking (we’re blaming it on the eunich who cursed me in Agra) I am, in fact, still alive and loving life. Routine has been established, sprinkled with a fair amount of bad habits and rather boring activities, and time continues to pass without a great deal of excitement.

Days, weeks and months have lost their meaning here, where we mark time by new, more interesting means. The trips and sites; Agra, the Chattris, the fort. The firsts; samosa (the beginning of an addiction), chocolate (the re-kindling of an addiction), motorbike ride (awesome fun) public perfomance (don’t ask) and a full interaction in Hindi (full of confusion and a few patronising smiles). The things we’re missing out on; the birthdays (Jess, Nat, Lory…), an election, parties and public holidays. All markers on the timeline, part of the fabric of the trip and the fun that’s thrown in with the daily routine of classes, curries and cable TV (we get to watch How I Met Your Mother!!!!).

We spend our time compiling lists; the different classes, students, teachers and servants, all divided into good and evil. The meals and what days they come on (most importantly ‘Samosa Days’; Tuesday and Saturday). The places we’ll go, the days we’ll have off, the festivals we’ll experience (currently one for Ganesh, who it has been decided is watching over my trip, following my Malaysia incident) Everything is noted and anticipated, countless plans made and then fulfilled (or more commonly broken in order to be replaced by spontaneous adventures, far more exciting than those originally planned)

In other words, even the mundane and repetitive is made exciting by the smiling faces of the (incessantly talking) children, the spicy aroma of the foods, the utter torment of the pot-hole covered roads (the worst in India) and the sheer frustration of haggling, all of which serve as an exhilarating reminder that I AM IN INDIA!! 

natticus-deactivated20110412 asked: ELIOT IS AWESOME... not a question but you can respond to it however you please.
LOVE NATTiCUS

Awww shucks…

Hope you had a magnificent birthday by the way :D

So I’m just writing from the internet cafe at our hotel in Agra where we’ve come for the thoroughly neccessary visit to the Taj Mahal. We’ve already been offered the opportunity to ‘chill out’ by a guy with a ‘Hemp: for a cleaner planet’ sticker in his jewellery shop window and the touts have been persistant and patient, following us everywhere since our fatigued arrival at the bus stop. There’s just been a blackout (god knows what my computer is running on) and we’re going to try and make it to the Taj for sunrise so I’d best be off to bed but I’ll do my best to upload pics on my return to Shivpuri.

India is chaotic and organised, green and orange-red, happy and horrible, shocking and stunning and absolutely mind-blowing. It’s totally foreign and yet exactly like coming home and both nothing and everything make sense.

Shivpuri, a small town in Madhya Pradesh, seven hours from Delhi and two from Gwalior, is small, crowded and hectic and everyone, and I mean everyone, stares. I’ve been told I look Indian almost ten times but that doesn’t stop people in the street from stopping to gawp at the foreigner. Everything rushes past loudly and the concepts of brakes and indicators are practically unheard of. Cars, trucks, buses and auto-rickshaws are driven with one hand steering and the other poised over the horn ready to beep when turning, overtaking, warning and pretty much any other reason they consider worthy, including when they see a foreigner or simply feel like it.

Five mins out of town however, the lifestyle changes dramatically. Within the walls of the Happy Days School, a huge lush property which includes the standard school buildings, many staff members houses and an old mill, the pace is slow and the days long and lazy. We rise early and make our way to the staffroom to plan classes or to the kindergarten to play with the littlies (who are absolutely adorable). In class we face a barrage of questions from eager children (generally in grades 4-6 and ranging from 7-12 years of age) who want to know whether we’re vegetarian, what our favourite food, animal, sport and hobby are, what the names of our parents, siblings, aunts, uncles and grandparents are and on and on till the bell finally rings and we move on to the next group.

Classes finish at lunchtime, 1:40pm, when we make our way to the mess hall. We eat there then head back to our room where we laze about, reading and listening to music, sleeping or watching Indian cable TV and doing our best to replicate the dance moves. If it’s not too hot we head to the roof which looks out over the gatekeepers hut, the car park and the highway. Up here there is a mess of power cords, some shade from the neem tree and about thirteen peacocks who retire to the nearby eucalyptus to sleep and caw at night. This is my favourite place. It’s shanti, peaceful, and up here all the stress and wildness, all the shock and confusion, just fades away to nothingness and I’m completely at one with myself and the world. Clichéd, yes but satisfying none the less. Here I can watch the sun rise or set and watch life as it passes, by foot, truck or auto-rickshaw, mooing, barping, yelling or laughing or simply blasting Bollywood hits from large speakers precariously balanced on automotive roofs. It doesn’t get much better than this.