On the last trip to Dungarpur we realized how very difficult it can be to find good clean food in a small town in Rajasthan. When we arrived all of the restaurants in town were closed because Holi (a Hindu holiday involving throwing colored powder on each other) was still in full swing. The restaurant owners told us they had to close since there was no one willing to work - for the next four days! We ended up having to eat at a few roadside stands, particularly for breakfast, and somewhere along the way I got food poisoning. For several days now I have been trying to come out of this, but I still feel weak and sick to my stomach. We had to leave town a few days early to get me back to where I could rest and get well. I am hoping to head out to my friend's farm for the next few days and get some work done, cook for myself, and relax until I am really better. I had forgotten what this kind of thing does to you, especially when it is also really hot outside.

All day today I was fighting against the assumption that I do not speak Gujarati. In a store a clerk asked my friend for my name and even though I replied in Gujarati he didn't listen and kept looking at my friend. When I asked a rickshaw driver to take me to a particular place he refused and complained to someone that since I could not speak Gujarati he would not be able to communicate with me. I told him in Gujarati that I do speak and he would not hear me. I asked, "Bhayaa mané Gujarati aavre ché to problem shu ché? (Brother, I know Gujarati so what is the problem?). Again he said no and again I repeated the question. Finally he said "barabar" (fine) and we were off. On the road we talked for a while and he insisted on speaking very slowly and I insisted on mocking him and also speaking very slowly, but eventually we were both doing it in good humor. On the way home I said a word or two and the driver looked at me in the rear view mirror and said, "Gujarati aavré ché?" (do you know Gujarati?) and I said, "haa bhai" and we had a nice conversation. When I reached campus I passed a big group of young boys that work in the canteen and they started saying in Hindi, "here comes the english girl" and I almost turned to them and said, "careful mané Gujarati aavré ché ané Hindi bhi aati hai" (careful, I know Gujarati (in Gujarati) and I know Hindi (in Hindi)) but I don't think it is really worth it since they have gotten in the habit of teasing me and saying things in a way I don't understand. Probably they would just tease me more. I try not to get so upset with them, after all they all work seven days a week, don't ever get to go off campus as far as I can tell, and they are just kids. I completely understand that most foreigners these people may have met do not know Hindi and certainly don't know Gujarati, but it's sad to face the same barrier in communication all the time.

There are so many cool things about being here. I learn so much everyday. At the same time I would give just about anything to be able to shop for and cook my own food. I'm also dreaming of the day when I can once again feel anonymous, normal. I look forward to eating meat and drinking wine and wearing a tank top without feeling like I am perpetuating the very strong stereotype of western women as 'loose'. I have been going to a women's film festival the past few nights and that has been really refreshing. I have enjoyed the discussions after the films immensely. But this type of thing is few and far between. It's taken me a while to realize how the extremely conservative nature of this city has impacted me. I am shocked when I see a real kiss in a bollywood film, I almost never leave campus without a dupatta (a very large scarf, worn in such a way that it hides women's curves). While I still get frustrated that men never let me go ahead even when it is my turn, and sometimes they even push me aside, and I don't think anyone would give up a seat on the bus for me, I have come to expect these things, and even to accept them. I look forward to returning to my own way of life, and once again getting to be who I am all the time.

Sage was here for almost two weeks and it was amazing! There is so much to write about! I'll start with the first story that comes to mind.

I planned for Sage and I to fly into Chennai and take a bus to Puducherry/Pondy/Pondicherry (a Union territory that was a French colony for a long long time). When we arrived at the airport I asked the woman at the tourist information booth how and where to catch the bus. We had to take a rickshaw to a particular bus station, which we did, but not without a heated argument with the scamming rickshaw driver (even after I struggled and talked him down by half, I told a friend from Chennai how much I paid and he was horrified. Apparently, the rickshaw drivers there are famous for cheating people).

The rickshaw driver left us at the wrong place and while hundreds of buses were passing us all of the destinations were written only in Tamil (reading Hindi and Gujarati didn’t help me one bit here) and almost no one I asked for help spoke either English or Hindi. We were pointed in various directions and Sage decided that she was the hottest that she had ever been. I’m sure that it was above 100 degrees and there was no shade to be found. Finally a little old man wearing only a dhoti (a piece of cloth draped, a bit more elaborate than a loincloth), said “Puducherry? Come with me, come, come!” We followed after him and he told us to get on a bus, I asked the driver whether he was going to Pondicherry and he said no. But the old man persisted, “this bus, this bus. Get on.” I asked the driver again and then the conductor. Again they both said no. By this time I was getting really frustrated with this little man, but then the driver said that it was not a direct route, but that we could take this bus and then transfer to another. By that time we really wanted to believe that this bus would work. We got on and as we pulled away I saw the old man and the conductor out the window and they waived at me and said, “byyyee”. That made me really nervous and I worried that somehow they made money for getting us on the bus and that it was really going in the wrong direction. Fortunately that bus and then another did eventually get us to our destination.

Once we arrived in Pondicherry we got off the bus and were immediately surrounded by rickshawvalas. Another tiny man wearing only a dhoti came running up to us and I asked how much to Romain Roland Street. He said 100. I told him, “no, no impossible, that's too much”. He said, “how much then?” I said “50 rupees”, which I figured was at least closer to the real price. He agreed, so we followed him out of the station. As we went with him there were giggles and snickers from the other rickshawvalas and I wondered what that was about. As we arrived at his vehicle I understood. It was a bicycle rickshaw and a very old and crumbling one at that. We both laughed in disbelief (this was a very small man and there were the two of us and our large backpacks) and backed away. He cried “no please I can do it”. The other men were poking fun at him and teasing and trying to tell us that it was impossible, and that we should go with one of them in their auto rickshaws. We were tempted but when we looked at the little man we felt bad for him and said ok. That ride was the most embarrassing of my life by far. We crept along the street with motorcycles, bicycles, buses and cars filled with people pointing and laughing at our ridiculous situation. The poor little guy came to a slight hill and got out and pushed. The next time he came to a hill Sage got out and pushed as well. We felt terrible, and yet he peddled on and eventually delivered us to our hotel.