Four stories #4

Story #4- happy
I have alot of happy stories from my time in India, but since i was there for studetns teaching, I'll share the story of a few of my final 10th grade IB music class.
By this point I had pretty much completely handed ove the class to the new teacher, greg.. I told greg i wanted to do something a little special for my last day there. Benn, the teacher of 12th grdae IB music had asked me to give a lecture on Shostakovich at some point. it wokred out perfectly because the classes were back to back, and both had covered some relevent topics which I could tie into my lecutre.
Long story short, I gave two lectures on the first movement of Shostakovich's 9th Symphony. Those of you who kow how much I love Shostakovich's music understand how much fun i had during these two classes. On top of it all, this was a piece that neither Benn nor Greg had heard before. Not only was I teaching the class, I was teaching the teachers as well.
Pretty short story, but that was one of the happiest moements I had at kodai.

Future...
As far as the future, I've accepted a paid music internship at The American International School of Muscat (TAISM). Muscat is the capital city of Oman, and seems to be a really great place. The coutnry is internationall ranked as one of the most stable, prosperous, and peaceful nations in the world. I leave for Muscat on Febraury 7th.

http://maps.google.com/maps?q=The+american+International+School+of+Muscat&hl=en&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=52.68309,113.818359&vpsrc=0&hq=The+american+International+School+of&hnear=Muscat,+Masqat,+Oman&t=m&z=12

so yah... there it is.
thanks for reading

Four Stories- story #3

story #3- Sad (don't worry, we'll end on a high note)
This is a short one, but pretty powerful. It was certainly tough to experience.
First one: To begin my travels I went to my dad's apartment in Bangalore to drop off most of my things. There was enough time for us to spend as afternoon exploring Bangalore. We grabbed a Rickshaw to go to some destination (I don't remember whree we wer going). As is very common in India, we got caught in traffic. As is also common in India, beggars and vendors were wandering through the mass of stopped vehicles trying to sell things and get food and money. I had gotten into the habit of keeping my window closed during these times to try and avoid awkward situations like what I am about to describe. Unfortunatley Rickshaws are opne air.
My dad and I (and midori who was traveling with me through Dehli) were having a discussion about what India is like and how it compares to the states. During this conversation and boy comes up to my dads side of the richshaw and shoves a tow car in his face, trying to make a sell. We had all seen this plenty of times before, so we ignored it.
Suddenly I feel al tap on my arm. I turn to see a female begger standing in front of me asking for food. Initially I brush it off, but she turns her head to show me her ear... or what used to be her ear. That part of her head had either been cut off, or smashed in leaving a bloody whole where her ear used to be..... I still remember the long, awkward silence among the three of us, and the desperate attempts by the three of us to keep the conversation moving and ignore the heart wrenhing example of poverty that was tapping me on the arm.


so ya.... poverty sucks... not really sure what else to say about it.

Happier things next time.

Four Stories #2

Story Number 2: Scary
My friend Tim and I took a weekend and visited the City of Kochi. Our second day there we decide to spend at local beach called Cherai Beach. To get to cherai from where we were staying we had to take a ferry across the bay, then take an hour long bus ride to the town of Cherai, then finally walk about an hour to get to the beach. it was a bit of a journey just to get their.
Our day was awesome. It included swimming around in the Arabian Sea, hanging out with this group of Indian college grads who decided to make us their friends, getting Rs 10 for my picture, and having my first coconut.
We started to head back, and after the lengthy walk, got on the bus back for the ferry. Unfortunatley our journey back would not be as easy as going out was. I was under the silly impression that the stop for where we get off for the ferry would be the same stop where we had gotten on the bus from the ferry. This was not the case, and in typical Indian fashion, there were no signs designating where the ferry stop was. My only hint was that we were suddenly driving across the bay which we were supposed to be ferrying across, and inthe wrong direction no less. we tapped a gentleman in front of us, who because of his porr english refered us to another gentleman, who told us we should have gotten off at the last stop. At this point we were presented with a decision, we either get off, take the next bus back a stop and get on the next ferry heading back to Fort Kochi (where we were staying), or take the bus all the way around the city to the end of its route in Fort Kochi. We chose the later. We figured it couldn't possibly be that bad, just ride the bus until someone tells us we can't ride anymore.
About 15 minutes later the bus stops int he middel of who-knows-where, and everyone gets off. We find out from another passanger that we actually have to switch busses, because this one is not going any farther. Unfortunatley the bus leaves, and there is no other bus there to pick us up. Seaminlgy everyone else fromt he previous bus had gone elsewhere, and we were getting conflicting reports as to which bus station the next bus wouold be picking us up at.
Finally after wandering that part of the city for about an hour we return, and are directed to get onto a bus that has just arrived. This is probably the most packed bus I have ever seen. It is standing room only, and I barely have room the breath. It s a very good thing I am no claustrophobic.
The bus continues on it merry way, and as the bus nears the end of its route in Fort Kochi, it begins to get emptier. About half an hour from the end of hour route, I hear yelling in the back of the bus. I rutn around and see two gentlmen fighting, with a bunch of other men, including the man collecting tickets, standing and watching them. Punches are thrown, and at one point, they are trying to throw each other out of the moving bus.
Eventually the bus comes to a stop, and one of the gentlemen is pushed out of the bus and barred from re-entering. We heard later that he was drunk and said something that the other took offense to (probably something having to do with a girl).
We did make it home safely, but that was one of the most adventurous bus rides I have ever taken.

four stories

I felt bad for not putting a finnishing touch on my blog about India. I decided the best way to summarize this would be to tell a few series of stories from my adventure. I was inspired by a friend of mine who asked me to tell four stories from my previous summer: a happy story, a sad story, a funny story, and a scary story. I'll switch up the order simply for better "programming", and end my plans moving forward. I'm aiming for one post per day for the next 5 days to finnish things off. If i fall off of that send me nasty-grams or something.
Story #1- funny:
During my final two weeks in India I traveled north and spent 4 days in Mcloedganj, the home of the tibetan government in exile and the Dalai Lama. I decided to travel here the Indian way, with no plans what-so-ever. I simply woke up, packed my things, and walked to the nearest bus statioion.
India has these things called tourist police. There job is to patrol major bus stations, trainstations, etc. and look for confused looking white people (because what else could they be except tourists). The tourist police at the Chandigar bus station connected me up with a british guy about my age namedd peter.
As a small aside, I want to point out that this tourist policeman was a real creeper. He had this guset book that he was so proud of. He considered each and everyone of them his firneds, and kepe talking about how he had somany different girlfriends from so many diffrerent countries. At one point he leaned over and asked if I had enough friends. Yah... weird guy.
Anyway with both peter and I being english speaking ex-pats, we took the final leg of the journey together. We finally arrived at Mcleodganj at aroudn 1 am. Neither one of us wanted to pay for a room that night so we ended up standing around the main ganj with about 6 other like minded people, waiting for the sun to rise. It was actually a really amazing experience, being temporarily homeless up in the mountians with with a small group of ex-pats surrounded by tibetan monks.
The next day Peter, Myself, and danish couple decided to go register to see the Dalai Lama. He was in the middle of teaching about meditation. As we were walking around close to the temple peter stopped and asked us to read a sign with a list of donors who helped build the temple. The thirf name on the list was "Mr. Richard Gere, U.S.A". Maybe some of you knew this, but i had no idea Richard Gere was involved with the Tibetan cause.
We register and the next go to see the Dalai Lama speak. It was ana amazing experienece. Sitting cross legged in a room surrounded by Tibetan monks and crazy western tourists trying to find themselves, all the while listening to the deep throaty voice of one of the most powerful spiritual/religious leaders in the world. Its an experience I will no soon forget. At one point everyone put red strips of cloth over their foreheads and red string around there wrists. I didn't want to be presumptuous, so I sat there respectfully with the red cloth in my hands. Suddenly an elderly female monk taps me on the knee and, without using english, motions for me to put it on my forehead. I did so, and remained in complete awe for the rest of the cermony.
At the end of the ceremony the Dalai Lama walked out of the temple about 10 feet away from where Peter and I were sitting. People were bunching up trying to get closer to him, trying to touch him or give him things for him to bless. As he passed, surrounded by his enterage, I felt this incredible sense of awe. I was withing touching distance of this incredibly powerful man, a man whom many believe is a god. After that experience I can understand why they would believe this. He has an aura about him that is undeniable.
He walked down the stairs and the excitement of the crowd around us subsided. Suddenly peter taps me on the elbow and says "is that Richard Gere?" Sure enough Richard Gere was leaving the temple just behind the Dalai Lama; presumable off to hob-nob with the leader of the Tibetan people for the rest of the day.
I still can't decide which is more impressive, seeing the Dalai Lama, or seeing Richard Gere?

I'm limiting myself to one story, so if you want another one you'll have to ask for it.
More tomorrow