Today involved leeches and burning the all-loving-heck out of my leg. It was a good day, though.

I had strange dreams all night and woke up in a strange place to sounds of motorbikes and chickens. Oh yeah, I’m in Malaysia today. I was in India last week. Tonight I’ll sleep on the ocean. Weird.

I slept through market time, but my host sister managed to convey that I was about to get a ride on the family motorcycle I had begged for the day before. I was ecstatic. I had never been on a motorcycle, though I’d always wanted to ride one. True, my first experience was driving through the Malaysian jungle with a backpack on my back, in pants that Mama Latipa made me wear, with Brahman cows by the side of the road, sitting behind a 15-year-old in a hijab– instead of he backstreets in Rome, behind a handsome Fabio, with gelato in my hands, while wearing an adorable sundress and leather jacket– but I was too happy to care.

My sister drove me to the restaurant for breakfast, then left to get Yadi. I was left with Mama Latipa busily serving a restaurant full of men. She let me help her make tea. She showed me how and then fussed at my attempts and kept adding sugar to the brew. She left me to “stretch” the tea. You do this by pouring in increasingly long stretches to cool the tea down. They did something similar with mint tea in Morocco. I spilled some, but she didn’t see.

I ate breakfast with an English speaking man. He discussed government subsidies on pilgrimages to Mecca for every Muslim citizen in Malaysia. He explained that our questions about religion were sensitive and not easily answered since Muslims were given such privileges by the government. His view was that the Brits, not Malays, had invited other religions in, so the Malays had the right to “take care of their own” as he put it. So interesting– especially in contrast to the other countries I’ve visited up to this point. For breakfast, we had egg dumpling type bread and curry sauce. Hard core. The man had us drink out of our saucers and said it was traditional for workers who were in a hurry to cool off their tea that way.
Who knows if he was playing with us?

In a tiny shop I found “Kentucky” brand fried chicken mix being sold next to fish that looked to have been unrefrigerated for at least 4 hours already. It gave me a bizarre feeling.

We went to see the character building adventure course all Malay children complete before a period of required community service. Then Mama demonstrated rubber tapping for everyone in the program and let me try. You had to go slowly so as to not “hurt” the tree. There were leeches that moved like fast inchworms and could jump onto your legs without you noticing. I helped a panicky girl pull one off. I don’t blame her. So gross. Another one was trying to bite through a guy’s sock.

We went back to the house, collected our stuff, and got another motorcycle ride to the restaurant. Mama had cooked up some banana curry—peel. After downing enough to please Mama, she gave me a tour of the village on the motorcycle. She drove me by the other homestay houses for my comparative pleasure and giggled gleefully when I faithfully insisted her house was the best. Everyone went back to the center, but she took me back to the restaurant to get my backpack.

She was rushing, the ever-present village men were observing and I was in a skirt. They drive on the left side of the road here, and, in my defense, I didn’t know there was a correct side of a motorcycle to get off. Really I have no excuse, but after an awkward dismount, I felt a stinging sensation on my leg and stumbled into the street as Mama Latipa yelled in Malay. I realized I had burned myself on the exhaust pipe. Pretty badly. I didn’t want to let on and have her explain to her friends at the center how the idiot American burned herself getting off of the motorcycle, so I carefully hid the spot from view. After all, my host sister started driving the thing at age 12. But it hurt badly and I was getting large blisters around an ugly brownish-red welt. She gave me a mug as a present and petted my leg during the closing remarks–then we said goodbye. I was sad to leave.

I got a bandage on the bus to cover the burn from grimy Penang and opted not to go to the clinic. I didn’t feel like being used as the next example at a preport listing of accidents, or like explaining how I ended up on a motorcycle since we aren’t supposed to operate one.

When we got back to Penang, Kelsey and I decided to walk to the mall for last minute shopping. It was only a few miles away and we didn’t mind the rain. We went through an area dubbed Little India and past lots of temples. We looked a fright, overnight bags, bandaged leg, nasty hair—but we were happy as clams. At the mall, we stocked up on stuff we can’t get easily on the ship like chocolate, ginger (for seasickness) granola and chewing gum. Then we hit McDonalds for real ice cream before walking back. Customs was a breeze. I will be studying all night or a Global Studies test in the morning.

Malaysia, I hate leaving you! You deserve so much more than a few days.

I’m in a rural village in Malaysia staying with a woman who speaks one word of English: “Come.” I want to go for a night walk, but apparently now is when the king cobras come out. Our guide said they can easily stand up taller than a man and can be 6 meters long. I don’t know if I believe him, but I don’t like the idea of Mama Latipa hearing me trying to leave. I don’t honestly know how that would go down. At the moment, she’s more scary than the cobra even if she isn’t as tall as one. How did I get here? It’s a good story.

This morning I woke up early so I could make an early tender to the shore. I found that I had received a letter from home and saved it to open in the park. No Americans were out and about yet, so I walked by Fort Cornwallis to a local park in the British architecture area where locals were doing tai chi. After reading the letter several times, I went to a local shop to buy some chocolate to give to the host family I would be staying with that night and some candied cuttlefish for the heck of it.

My homestay was with about 40 other SAS students. We drove about an hour to Kampung Relau, a typical Malaysian village with a homestay program. When we arrived, we were greeted by the villagers and heralded into a room were they formally called out our names and the names of our adoptive families. It was super hard to distinguish your name. I was matched with a woman who introduced herself as Mama Latipa—a large woman in traditional Muslim Malay clothing. She would be both the bane and joy of my existence for the remainder of my time in Malaysia. She has enough personality to fill several villages. AS it is, Kampung Relau is small and she reigns supreme.

Going in, I had no idea what to expect. I soon learned to expect no English. A translator at the homestay center explained that Mama Latipa did not approve of my clothes and could not take me to the market in them, so she would give me some of hers. This should be interesting.

Mama Latipa loaded us into her tiny car, which was evidently the source of some pride to her, as she smugly maneuvered it past her neighbors on motorcycles with frightening confidence. We drove for roughly 30 seconds to a restaurant—a simple store front with a kitchen and some tables obscured by flies. Her basic-English speaking niece explained that Mama Latipa owns this establishment. Mama dished up some chicken and fish curry in a hurry; I sat confused, looking at the whole fish that was looking back at me, with no utensils in sight. Mama tore into it with her fingers and threw me scraps like I was a baby bird being fed by its mother.

True confession: I don’t care for fish. I may have fessed up to this before in a previous post. I never really had the option of growing up picky due to a family policy of 1. Travel is important 2. Being picky can also be rude and will limit you in life 3. It won’t kill you to try anything. Still, there are a few things I never could get used to. Most Japanese food, cottage cheese, sweet potatoes and some fish. Don’t ask me why. I know, it’s embarrassing. I’ll eat them, but I won’t like it. Well, there I was with a dead fish being massacred in rural Malaysia and pieces kept flying toward me like missiles. I learned the word for “full” through much gesturing after downing as much as I could take. I was met by a disapproving glare at my small wrists.

I also learned that Mama Latipa doesn’t like English names and rechristened me “Yani,” a good Malay name. my fellow SAS adoptee is now “Yadi.” Mama Latipa will periodically shriek for one of us using our new names. After being shown off to her laughing customers with many annotations in Malay, we were hustled off to her house. She showed us our simple room and bathroom with pride, then had us look through every page of a large photo album filled with pictures of Japanese and Korean homestay students. I showed her pictures of my family, and finally met her approval. My chocolate was also a hit. She was enthusiastic but confused about the honey I gave her, thinking it belonged on her skin. With the number of flies around here, that would have been awful. I likened it to jam, and that seemed to make sense.

She then called for Yani and challenged me to a game that looked like mancala. Learning games from someone you can’t speak to is interesting. “Come” doesn’t get you far and my two Malay words “full” and “good” (sadap) saved me at the table but were worthless in this context. Not to worry. Mama Latipa taught by yells and hand slaps. Maybe not a teaching style we’ll be adopting in American schools any time soon, but alarmingly effective.

I caught on pretty fast. Her chubby hands flew around the board, cleverly cheating every now and again by dropping extra beads. After smearing me properly, she motioned for me to teach Yadi while she collapsed with a dramatic sigh onto the couch for some Malay soaps. We sat like that for about 2 hours, interrupted only once with a phone thrust to my ear to talk to her English-speaking daughters who were getting ready to return for the weekend from the hostel at which they stay during the school week. I seem to be the one she likes to spring new experiences on.

Chocolate is the universal language of women. We sat around a coffee table drinking a chocolate drink, eating chocolate bread and having chocolate pleasantly for a while, though we could only sigh about how good it was and smile.

Mama Latipa drove us back to the homestay building to meet with everyone else. It was pouring the rain, so they taught everyone else to play the mancala. Mama Latipa must have known this and decided to give us a competitive edge. She would do that. Yani and Yati had an advantage. There was also this rock throwing game. I like throwing rocks, so that was fun. My teacher had a super long pinky nail. I asked him about it and he explained that it’s lucky to have your pinky longer than the last joint of your ring finger. I’m lucky because mine is like that naturally, but he has to grow his pinky nail out. Interesting.

I found Mama Latipa at the center of the action surrounded by a large group of villagers and SAS students as she presided over a wok of boiling oil. We tried fried plantains, then she let me try putting plantain dumplings in the wok, scolding me and fussing about how close I stood to the wok. Sure enough, hot oil popped up and burned me. But after watching her I rolled the sticky dough ball off my fingers admirably, and was met with no complaint or correction.

Next, we drove (of course) to the village fishery, where I got lessons on how to cast a traditional net. I didn’t catch anything, but that was ok. It somehow didn’t seem very sporting. Mama drove us “home” where we met our “sisters” aged 13 and 15, and father, who drives a lorry carrying oxygen to the hospital. The rain was POURING at dusk, but we went to the night market. Mama asked me to pick out what I wanted, but a girl used to Kroger has no idea what she is looking for when looking at the full casts from The Little Mermaid and Chicken Little freshly slaughtered and lying on tables. I held bags and nodded when she asked me if I approved of something. She carefully looked over the goods with experienced eagle eyes. She picked a particularly thick fish and laughed gleefully when I gave a little scream of surprise when it was suddenly hewn in half and guts poured out. Dinner? Dinner.

After causing a stir in the market in my scandalous knee length shorts, we headed back to the house. I asked to help with dinner, but was told to shower. Cold water and Malaysian water actually made my hair look worse. I was given a traditional dress to wear, as promised. My best attempt at describing it is as an orange, paisley, Halloween-themed snuggie. We ate dinner (I learned that if you fuss over the fried chicken, saying “sadap” repeatedly, you don’t have to eat the fish soup or bean drink) and played more mancala (surprise).

The big event of the evening was a fake wedding ceremony between two SAS students at the homestay center to teach us about traditional Malay weddings. I already looked like half an idiot in my hideous garb, so I decided to get into it and asked for the hijab that is worn with it. My sisters enthusiastically came alive and outfitted me in one. Mama told me I could take it back to the U.S. She always wants me to be modest. The problem was once I put it on, I felt bad taking it off since they were so happy, so I was stuck with it all night. It was pretty interesting. They said NOTHING about my appearance until the hijab, then fussed over me and kept saying I was beautiful. People at the center were the same, and I got many more compliments. I felt hideous, but they really loved it. They acted completely different around me with it on.

The wedding was bizarre. We watched lots of kids’ dances, then anointed the hands of the “bride” and “groom” and received flowers and fertility eggs as favors. I subtly abandoned my hard boiled fertility egg on the nearest table. Everything went off without a hitch until the bride split the rear of her dress and they had us do the electric slide for 10 minutes to a song that was definitely not the electric slide. Then they asked us to perform a wedding dance from the United States and we brilliantly chose to perform the Jewish traditional “Hora” since we all knew it–in a Muslim country. Oh, Americans.

We had to wait for Mama to clean up all the fresh fruit she brought before we could go back to the house for bed. We have a fan, but the power just went out. Sweet dreams.

Some ports we’ve pulled into could be anywhere in the world, but not this one. Malaysia is like a tropical paradise.

Gary, our Malay driver for the day, first drove us to a house that once belonged to a rich Baba, called the Pinang Peramakan Mansion. Gary enthusiastically showed us around the century-old house that was decorated with Chinese and English influences. He explained that the high thresholds were to make it harder for hopping vampires to get in, showed the good luck bats overhead and pointed out the opium couch. He also explained the three necessities of a bride: embroidering these crazy detailed designs, cooking and…..I forget the third actually.

Even though Gary kept joking about Jeff and me being a couple, I explained that we were just not together in that way. He waved me off and explained that different zodiac symbols correspond and different people are good for each other, etc. I finally gave up. Many people in the countries we visit have difficulty understanding that American males and females are perfectly fine with platonic coed friendships.

Part of our admission fee covered some Malay sweets—-rice with colorful pastes and shaved ice served with beans, corn, green noodles and coconut milk. I was not a big fan of having beans in my dessert, but these things must be tried. Especially when you have enthusiastic guides watching the entire trajectory of your spoon with marked interest. We were offered some crazy expensive coffee that is gathered from the feces of a Malaysian ferret thing. So strange. Pooped out coffee beans?

Next we made a fast stop at the Chinese clan jetties. This is basically a community on stilts over water and a UNESCO World Heritage site. Gary explained that this is traditionally a Chinese mafia ruled area and showed us where daggers could be kept. He wanted to show us the Chinese homestay location here after he heard I was doing a Malay homestay tomorrow—there is definitely some cultural tension between the Chinese and Malay here.

Our next stop was a snake temple. I thought we might see a few snakes. I wasn’t quite expecting poisonous lime green pit vipers left to roam freely. Gary assured us that they are “lazy” during the day and descend at night to slither around. The “magic” of the temple is that they never leave. Just the same, Gary caught me walking near a bush and hurriedly had me move to the middle of the path through the temple gardens. That’s when I looked in the trees and realized they were up there, too. There were large pythons available on hand to hold. Uhhh…that didn’t happen.

After the snake temple, Gary drove us to a local bakery and had Jeff buy me some bread for feeding fishes. Then we visited an awesome temple built on multiple levels on a big hill. It was incredibly large with a huge goddess of mercy statue and we took a little train up to see–at Gary’s recommendation. We identified the statues of our zodiac symbols.

I fed the massive coy with the bread we bought. I always thought coy were gross until I saw these. So many gathered around the food I threw that they were coming out of the water. I got the courage to touch one slimy body. Their skins are really quite lovely close up. I had extra bread that I had fun giving to some Malay kids who were watching me jealously. I told them to do small pieces, but they evidently already knew. Gary had freaked out when I threw in my first big chunk and said I may have killed the fish. Fish in the Kentucky river aren’t nearly as finicky. Gary found it funny.

The rain started pouring as it does every day here during rainy season in the late afternoon. You don’t really mind getting wet, though, because it is so hot and the rain brings pleasant coolness. We waited it out in a temple and stood talking with Gary about religion in Malaysia. Muslims get governmental benefits and are only allowed to marry other Muslims—if they marry non-Muslims, their new spouses must convert. The word Allah can only be used by Muslims, and there was a big stink when the Malay Bible was translated using “Allah” for God. This was surprising to me, because it contradicts what I have often been told that Muslims believe there is one God and religion is a rather touchy issue. Christians are the ones who make the distinction. A Christian church was burned down in Kuala Lampour. Gary actually told us he is a Christian who converted from Buddhism, making my understanding of religion in Malaysia a little more muddled. He said he was in the wrong once and a Christian apologized to him, making him rethink things completely.

Jeff and I climbed a super tall pagoda and looked out at the gorgeous Malay country side. It was so nice.

Gary drove us to a local Malay eatery stocked by street vendors by the busy road that was full of Malaysians. He helped me pick out my food from the raw options waiting on the cart. Some of it went into a giant wok, and others mysteriously ended up in curry dishes like those we had in India. We had a nutmeg drink, and they also made me eat this whole squid—complete with innards you don’t eat. I’m super used to calamari, but this was definitely not fried. It looked like it could swim away. I made a brave showing, though, and ate it all under Gary’s watchful eye. It wasn’t really that bad at all.

We had to rush to make it back at four. Laid back Gary managed to get us back by five. Great work. I figured I had missed the Kelseys, so I got my laptop and left to go find wifi solo. I was really blessed to run into them getting on the ship as I was getting off. We took a taxi to the mall. OH MY GOODNESS. Westernization. Commercialism. Capitalism. Consumerism. HOME. We stood there shell-shocked in a mall like a hundred ones we had been to before this voyage and thought nothing of in the U.S. Shops had prices. Food was recognizable. Clothes looked like things we wear at home. Brands were recognizable. Toilets flushed. It seemed so strangely foreign and familiar at the same time. Then we saw a STARBUCKS. And we used internet that didn’t crash for 3 full hours. Something probably doesn’t translate here, but remember that I have been out of the country for the better part of 4 months now. We were so excited that we were giggly and shaky and homesick all at once. By the time we finished, everything else was closed except for Pizza Hut, We were on a Western kick anyway, so we went for it. The guy stayed open for us. We walked for a while before we found a taxi. 15 ringgits back. No haggling. Tendering to the boat was fun and easy. Smooth evening. Perfect. I love you, Malaysia!!!

I know a big question when I get back will be, “what did you think of India?” The answer is I have no idea. From behind my camera lens or down from my lofty bus window, I’m getting a tarnished image and I know that. Someday I hope to see from a seat at a family meal or a spot at the village water pump. For now, perhaps it’s ok that I’m watching instead of really participating in India. I’ve been told so much about how I should and shouldn’t feel that I need space to think—-and there is little room to think in the hectic streets while dodging cows and navigating your way across frenetic traffic.

India is so modern, I’ve been told countless times. Do not judge it or assume it is backward or still has the practices that made it notorious to the western eye back in the day. It is true: A thriving economy, young professionals and a film industry that stands as a peer with Hollywood make it a place with a future. Its growth over the last 60 years is astounding. Dowry is now outlawed and the legal age of consent is 18—higher than many places in the U.S., right? But I can’t assess India for myself from only this view, even if it would make my professors happy and demonstrate a thoroughly “unwestern” view. I have to be honest about what I’m seeing even in my short, sanitized time here: Piles of trash lasting for city blocks (they dump it in the street instead of in bins, and it is picked up that way). Rats, monkeys, cows and dogs roaming the streets. Boys out during school hours confidently holding out their hands for cash to tourists. Full grown men defecating in plain sight. And a stench so overwhelmingly putrid that one can’t breathe—not so much because of the tepid hot air, but because of the unmistakable reality that the stench is coming from a massive rotting buildup of human excrement. How does one respond to the armies of the diseased, the women with burned off faces and the limbless men?

There is no denying that modernization has come to India—and so might be the proper policies for reform, but something clearly isn’t working. The age of consent may be 18, but I learned in class that the national AVERAGE for marriage is 17, so there is no way the child marriage laws are being enforced. Dowry might be outlawed, but the paper I read this morning mentioned dowry violence as a possible contributor to the suicide of a young woman, and bride burnings still happen. People still know what castes they are even though the discrimination based on caste is outlawed. There are open sewers. There are signs about bribes on official buildings, but I know several kids on the ship who bribed their way out of tight spots. Bodies are dumped by murderers in a recognizable area in Delhi, according to the paper.

I guess I’m confused. I’ve seen a lot of poverty on this trip, but something is weird here. I keep hearing India proudly touted as a major competitor that is going to pass up the U.S. in importance, but I am driving by houses funded by the World Bank and learning about how India literally had to be bailed out by the world after a disastrous first bout of self-government. What gives? A lot to think about, that’s what.

I did a lot of reading and trying to get everything all prepared for docking in Malaysia tomorrow. I bought some Malaysian ringgits–the local currency–from Laura, then I actually ended up working out through most of the preport. I’m getting cabin fever and couldn’t bear the idea of sitting and listening to people talk in a crowded room. The main thing we need to know is that we will be tendered to and from shore after the first few hours. That basically means we will be taking a life boat from the pier to the spot where our ship is anchored to make room for other ships arriving.

If you recall, I am researching Nellie Bly, the turn-of-the-century female journalist who circumnavigated the globe; when Nellie was at sea in the straits of Malacca–just like the SAS Explorer is now–she spent the day similar to how I did today. I was entertained by reading her thoughts, which were written when she was close to my current age:

“The first day and the two days following were passed lazily on deck… Although the East is, in a very great measure, free from the dreadful crowding for life, still one is bound to see signs of it even among the most indolent of people. Only on the bounding blue, the grand, great sea, is one rocked into a peaceful rest at noon of day, at dusk of night, feeling that one is drifting, drifting, not seeing, or knowing, or caring, about fool mortals striving for life.”

Nellie was a bit of a xenophobe perhaps from her tone, but she certainly has interesting things to say about life at sea over 100 years ago. I’m definitely traveling in much more comfort in my trip around the world. Later, I sat outside with some friends, eating treats while we watched lightning (the first since I left!) and discussed the pirates of Malacca. Apparently we will be speeding out of Singapore after we fuel there post-Malaysia because this region is so notorious historically for pirates. Rumor has it that the crew stands by with water cannons ready just in case and that people have tried to board while we were in port before. Seems unlikely. After days like today though, I think I could do with the excitement.

On my last day in India there was no way I was sleeping in. After breakfast, I made plans with Megan to get a trok trok– I don’t know how to spell it, but it looks something like a rickshaw. The guy tried to get us to ride with him for 200 rupees. We got it down to 30. Our driver was sulky about the low price and began trying to take us to a “quick shopping stop,” i.e. an establishment owned by a friend from which you emerge only after buying something you probably didn’t want. I had heard of girls paying a fortune and getting stuck on these “shopping tours” with multiple stops not knowing where you are, so I firmly refused and reminded him of our simple agreement: to the mall. He got mad and left us on the side of the road.

I was perhaps too feisty for my own good today, as I was too stubborn to get back in and found myself standing on the side of the road in India with no ride. I wasn’t really concerned, though, because trok troks are all over the place. Soon another guy pulled up and I got him down to 80 rupees for the two of us for the rest of the trek. Too much, but girls on the side of the road in that area aren’t really in a good bargaining position.

Spencer Mall is pretty sketch. People try to get you to come into their shops like it’s a bazaar and prices are so soft you could cut them with a butter knife. I’ll have to be careful when I get back to the States to not walk into to Ann Taylor or Macy’s and try to haggle for something. I got postcards and haggled a guy down from 220 for a scarf to 250 for two. Then I ate lunch with some SAS girls we ran into. They had a bowl of Indian curry and we just kept ordering naan to go with it. It was so spicy that my face was literally sweating, so I got a drink of fresh squeezed lime and mint.

We wanted to try to make it back to the ship in time to get into the orphanage FDP. The trok trok drivers at the mall tried to convince us going back was longer and thus cost more. I wouldn’t budge for more than 100 rupees to get back, and we finally found a guy who would do it for 100. He complained quite a bit, though we knew that the ride was worth maybe 40 rupees. I gave him a 10 to leave us alone. The drivers know today is our last day and are less willing to strike a fair deal today. We made it back through security and scored seats on the bus. It was an oversold trip, but I guess enough people didn’t make it back in time. I can see why with the way trok trok drivers were acting today.

The orphanage was pretty neat. I was the first guest “kidnapped” after arrival, on my way back from my last traditional Indian toilet visit. The girl who grabbed me was a twin. She and some other girls showed me around for a long time. They have boxes and bedding rolls in big communal rooms for bedrooms. Their English was pretty rough, but they explained that Hindu is next to a Catholic Jesus. I explained that I worship Jesus and they said they did, too. They held my hand when they led me anywhere and showed me a room where some little girls performed the “vegetable dance.” I think something was lost in translation. The older girls then did a “pot dance” and pushed me into the center of the room, telling me to dance. Repeatedly. Fortunately, some other SAS students arrived and we performed the Macarena. Then we ALL did the hokey pokey, which they knew.

For the rest of the day, I played jump rope (They were impressed at my skills even though I’m not very good, and they weren’t nearly as good as the kids in South Africa) and swung on swings, and the boys taught me some cricket. I hit the ball with a gratifying “whack.” It was soft and rubbery, which made it fun to hit.

It was so hot. I drew a heart with sidewalk chalk and a little girl wrote our names in it. Then a little boy came by and messed it up. I even saw some little girls slug another smaller girl and take the thing she wanted from her. This orphanage was just a little “Lord of the Flies.”

I met one little girl who drew me a picture for my wall. I asked her to draw her house and she drew the iconic western one complete with chimney and cloud–like tree. I thought that was interesting. My favorite little girl was so cute. Some of the kids brought stuff and were giving it out, but she had nothing after several hours but an adorable toothy grin. She didn’t ask for anything, unlike the other kids, either. I pulled her aside and gave her a purple pencil. The look of sheer joy on her face made my heart leap and was more unforgettable thank the Taj Mahal. We all gave our last rupees to the orphanage, which is sort of an SAS tradition, as they are listed on the wall as a main donor.

As I was leaving, a little girl with a shy but brilliant smile waved with the purple pencil grasped tightly in her fingers.

I got back on the ship in time for my 5th passport inspection OF THE DAY. Then I was treated to a ten minute conversation with my sisters and future brother-in-law on the phone. That night I hung out with the usual gang and watched as we pulled away from the waving Indians on the pier. The tugboat speaker said “bye-bye” as it let us loose, and we were on our way to Malaysia. I was eating a contraband cookie in someone’s cabin when there was a “code blue” announcement, meaning someone had a heart attack on board. I was exhausted to the point of being out of my head, but managed to catalog my filthy clothes and cram them all into one bag for tomorrow’s laundry collection.

How can you not be excited when you are visiting the Ganges River? I’ve only heard about it my whole life. We had shortbread and tea and then loaded onto our bus.

The Ganges River is sacred to the Hindu people for purification purposes and many rituals. The people go night and morning and dip themselves beneath the murky waters. Hindus are supposed to get up before the sun, so they hold a hand cupped full of water up to the sun as the first water of the day. That’s no big deal, right? The catch is that the Ganges is also the sacred river of death. Cremated remains are deposited into the river—and cremations take place up and down the banks. The only people not cremated are supposed to be kids and pregnant women. They are just floated down. I was a bit nervous about this, because I would find those cadavers the most disturbing to see—and we were taking a boat ride.

We walked through the dark streets of the ancient city and down the stone steps leading to the ancient river. The sun still wasn’t up as we loaded onto two boats with long oars. I accidentally got on the wrong boat. I got off really fast and went over to the other one, but it was already taking off. I had to be thrown a rope, which I missed. That’s how I ended up sticking my hands in one of the dirtiest rivers in the world and getting its water all over me. In my defense, it was 5 a.m. and the girl throwing the rope apparently had pathetic aim. I pulled the boat back to shore and hopped in.

Our cruise up the Ganges as the sun “rose”/emerged from behind the air pollution was pretty unforgettable. We saw people bathing and swimming, brushing their teeth, washing clothes, praying and chanting.

I also saw what looked like a body floating down, but it was a ways away. Someone else saw an arm. Sometimes cremations aren’t too thorough, is my understanding.

We also saw a bunch of pyres where cremations were taking place. It reminded me of that scene in Lorna Doone (one of my favorite movies) or LOTR.

When we got off the boat, we were immediately accosted by the local vendors, but also by some guys trying to get us to go around a corner to see cremations taking place.

By now, we know that those types are looking for money, but you always have a few SAS students who follow them and get upset when they have to pay. It bothered me that something considered so sacred was such a money making endeavor. There are a lot of things to think about post-India.

Next we went on a walking tour through the back streets. It was definitely the roughest environment I’ve been in.

The feces, garbage, dirt, oppressive smells, constant beggars and vendors were inescapable. Women and kids holding babies, old ladies—you name it. These vendors were extra persistent, with a touch of seediness that hadn’t been in other places.

I qualitatively refused one guy. He came back a few minutes later asking for a kiss instead of money. Wait. Huh? Not happening. One guy walked along beside me for a while. I could tell he was staring, but I ignored him. He then told me that every Indian man was staring at my chest. I felt like yelling, “Excuse me? This top comes up to my freaking collar bone and I’m wearing a skirt past my ankles. You want an eyeful? Go look at some of the statues around here.”

I had been asked to look after one of the professor’s daughters and was busy keeping her away from the feces, monkeys jumping overhead, the cow/rickshaw, and shield her from the maimed beggar reaching toward us with bandaged stubs. Then a body wrapped in gold fabric floated by overhead and wiped my mind completely blank. It was being carried overhead by some men and came within inches of my head. The little girl asked me what it was. “Ummm….that’s a body.” Of a person?” “Yes.”

Then it was back to the women begging me for money for their babies (some kids saw women carrying dead babies) and boys telling me I had money to spare and was breaking their heart. I was tired and felt upset—angry, sad, selfish, spoiled, violated—I don’t even know. I was incredibly overwhelmed.

Back at the hotel, we had about an hour to clean up before departure. I took forever tying my sari. I’m getting pretty good. We flew to Delhi, then had a 3-hour layover. We ate at a local restaurant and danced in the airport entertaining the staff and talked with other SASers we saw. At this point we were so exhausted we were slap happy. I made a rather panicked exit from an escalator because I was so afraid of the sari getting stuck and being pulled off. After our flight to Chennai, we still had a bus ride to the ship, 30 minute passport check, bag check, and SAS customs. It was like I was in one of Dante’s levels of hell designed to torture the people who live on a boat. Days that start at 4 a.m. should not end at 1 a.m.

This morning we got to “sleep in” until 6:30. We had a pleasant breakfast, then headed to the airport for our fight to Varanasi. Upon arrival we went right to the hotel. I learned that my makeup had exploded in-flight. Grande. After some free time, we headed out to a silk trade shop. Varanasi is known for its weaving. We got to watch them do work in the traditional way maintained by about only 9 local families. The process involves two people.

One sits above and holds the threads to make a carefully memorized pattern. The other weaves thread by thread. They only progress about 3 centimeters a day and a slightly more modern method gives about 23 centimeters a day. I asked about their vision, and the guy shook his head a bit sadly. We then went into a warehouse-style room with a pile of the most stunning iridescent thread creations that I have ever seen.

We were delayed because evidently the president of Bhutan was visiting our next site. We went anyway and navigated through a blockade of police. They don’t mess around here. Police carry shotguns and canes. We cause a great stir wherever we go—even among law enforcement. The site we visited was called Sarnath. The president left soon after we arrived and the cops let us in. There is a giant stupa with relics inside, a Buddhist temple and the ruins of about 11 monasteries that were abandoned in the 12th century.

The temple was super laid back and didn’t feel like a very revered place to me, though I’m sure it was. The museum was a long stop for a ton of Buddhas, and I made myself really look at each one and try to appreciate the workmanship. The monastery ruins had a crowd of people meditating, lighting incense, burning candles, and listening to a teacher as well as a lot of people in saffron robes, so it felt a bit more religious.

After quite a bit of wandering, we headed back to the hotel. I wish we could go to the Ganges at night! Instead, I ate a chocolate delivered to my room and swam in the glorious infinity pool. There was a power outage, which was strange, and several more throughout the evening—-one when I was mid-stride up these strange floating stairs with no railings. At any rate, we had more Indian food for dinner; then I went shopping without really intending to buy anything with a group of girls. In one shop, the owner made a beeline for me and started wrapping me in a gorgeous silk sari. More on that later.

Saris are 6 meters of rectangular fabric. They must be folded a certain way that involves turning yourself into a sort of attractive mummy. I was afraid to splurge for it even though I loved it. I practiced sari tying for an hour, though, and realized I could actually replicate it. I went back down right before closing and bought it. The man threw in a necklace his mom made. I should have haggled. He asked me for chocolate for his daughter, which I didn’t have (I ate it, remember? Oops. ). Instead, I went up to the room and got some of the bathroom samples. He was nice. He asked permission before touching me at all when he was tying on the sari. The respect with which good men approach touching women here is really nice. I practiced more tying before bed, because tomorrow we get up at 4:15 and I didn’t have the brain for anything else!

Some days are years coming. Today was one of those days. This morning I was ridiculously excited despite the 4:14 a.m. wake-up call. We grabbed gross breakfasts (I was too excited to eat anyway), consisting of curry cakes and cokes and loaded onto the train. I wrapped myself in my pashmina and fell asleep, waking up occasionally to see the rising sun over farmland since the train was so crazy bumpy. We arrived a little after 10 am in Agra and took our bus to the Taj gates(!). From there, we had about a quarter mile walk to the queue and walled entrance to the Taj. We passed a maze of hawkers, camel drawn carts and big monkeys—-monkeys that were NOT afraid of people, so I was afraid of them. The ship medical center recently used one of its only two rabies kits in South Africa, and I WILL drop kick a monkey if I need to.

There were separate lines for men and women to get into the Taj. My line was a vibrant spectrum of saris. Then I walked through a gate; I caught my breath and tried to hold back the tears that flooded in and the feeling of complete rapture that swept over me. It was the most beautiful man-made thing I have ever seen. It is so difficult to describe why it’s lovely. It’s not because of that story they tell about it being a king’s labor of love for his dear wife. Quite frankly, I never bought it. A woman dying at 40 from having her 14th child by a man with many other wives is more sad to me than beautifully romantic. But the Taj is perfect. It’s white and symmetrical and somehow looks like it’s floating. I immediately thought of my mom and how much I wished she could see it and love it with me, an I think that’s why I teared up.

Immediately after seeing the most beautiful thing ever, I went to the bathroom and saw one of the roughest things ever. The toilets in India are rough in general, but this time I managed pretty well with the Western model before a door opened showing a courtyard and a lot of saris/exposed rears. They were just peeing in this courtyard and using a hose. That explains why it smelled so incredibly bad in there.

After that lovely experience, we had a good while to walk around and enjoy the Taj. And enjoy it we did. You have to wear these funny foot covers to walk around the Taj, because if you take off your shoes, someone will probably steal them. It was hot and sweaty, but still fun.

Next, we headed to Agra Fort. It’s a big complex with some awesome architecture. The builder of the Taj was imprisoned there by his son until his death and could see the Taj from his room. We were super hot by the time we left. To make things much more interesting, there was the worst, most oppressive smell I have ever experienced coming from the moat, which was full of rotting algae, garbage and human matter. After that appetizing experience, we headed to lunch. I tried to eat with Lifelong Learner Man who told me the mango ice cream I was eating would go right to my hips. Great.

It’s worth noting that until this point in India, I had no money. I had yet to hit up an ATM, despite pestering the guide about it (50 rupees=1 dollar). We stopped at one after lunch, and I ended up at the very back of the sizable line with a bunch of Indian local guys my age. They kept snickering and talking, inserting random words I could recognize as I ignored the pushy vendors waving things in my face. I’m very good now at shutting vendors down. But one touched my backside to get my attention then tried to sell me some strange Indian erotic book “for my boyfriend.” I’m super patient with the ubiquitous vendors, but something snapped and the KY girl in me flew up. I felt like saying “Look dude, a boyfriend I would have wouldn’t want that book and he would kick your uncouth butt for touching mine,” but that took too much English. Instead, he got a swift hand signal and a clear “Enough. No.”

Our next stop was the awesome ruins of the abandoned city of Fatepur Sikri. Emporer Akbar had this capital built after the birth of his son. It took 12 years to carve the city out of red sandstone, but it was only populated for 12 years before they ran out of water and moved on. We loved walking around in the waning light. Some Indians were there, too, and asked for pictures with us, just like they had at the Taj. It’s funny to me that we are at these awesome sites and they want pictures with us.

After hiking back to the buses with the hawkers (they are extra “snakey” here, the guide said. He warned us not to go with any strangers saying “The plans have changed” and that we need to follow them. I laughed at this until some strange guy came up and said my guide was calling and I need to go meet him immediately), we went to a tourist commission stop where they make rugs—-aka purgatory.

When we were finally released from commercial captivity, we ate Pizza Hut pizzas on our bus looking out the window at the full moon. We couldn’t figure out why we were taking so long until the guides told us we were waiting on a delayed train. At that point, I went to a souvenir shop and got Virginia a sari. She is going to look so cute in it!

When we finally got to the station, we were waiting with the rats, cows, and Indians sleeping everywhere and pooping and peeing on the tracks. Our train ride was delayed, so we didn’t make it back to Delhi until after midnight. On the train most people slept, but I was stuck between two guys and ended up playing cards. They taught me 3 new games. I won. Success.

It’s a rough place at night when the gnats come out and all the homeless people just stretch out where they can. The ones with babies are so heartrending to me.

I took a very long shower and collapsed into bed. Processing the highs and lows of today will take a very long time.

This morning I loaded onto the wrong bus because there is one other person on the ship named Martha, and she is on this trip. That was a strange new experience for me. What do you pack for a 4 day trip in India? No idea.

After our drive to the airport, we made it through security with no issues. Security is similar to that in the U.S., except there is a separate line (called a “frisking” line) for females—and they do touch you all over. Upon arrival in Delhi, we went on a driving tour past all the embassy buildings–the UK, Pakistan, the massive USA one–and then we drove by the beautiful presidential compound. Next, we drove by something that only I saw. At an underpass there were some policemen gathered around a tarp. It was covering a man. That wasn’t odd since people here frequently stretch out on the side of the road to sleep, but the man had his feet drawn up into a hideous position and wasn’t moving. I’m pretty sure he was dead.

We passed a famous arch and an empty dome that used to house a statue of George V. When the Indians bucked imperialism, I’m not getting the impression they looked back. Next, we visited a Sikh temple. The Sikhs are sort of like Hindus—at least during the partition they went to India instead of Pakistan. Interesting note, though: our Indian guide said the Muslims didn’t really leave and go to Pakistan like they were supposed to, which explains India’s massive Muslim population. This is definitely not what I was told in class, so now I’m wondering which theory on partition is correct.

I had never been in an active temple of any kind and was excited. The Sikh faith has five requirements. They are to keep long hair, wrap it in a turban/cover their hair, carry a comb (hair is pretty important to them…looks like I’m not cut out to be a Sikh), wear special drawers and carry a dagger. So if you see a man with a dagger and a turban, he is probably a Sikh. We went into a room where we took off our shoes and put on orange bandannas. They let me wear the scarf I had with me instead. The temple is named the Bungla Saheb Guru Temple.

On the way there, we passed lots of people begging and a woman who looked like she had had acid poured on her face. If I fail to lead into some of these sights or comment on them, it’s because they are pretty shocking, even once you’ve been prepped for weeks, and I don’t know what to say. It’s a little like a tiny piece of my heart goes away and I feel cold and like I’m on fire at the same time. Mainly I feel sick and overwhelmed, and sometimes I feel a little scared. I don’t know what you are supposed to feel, but that’s my honest assessment.

Once we took off our shoes, we had to walk a little way to the temple. So there I was, walking barefooted through India after weeks of lectures on parasites and infectious diseases. Then we had to walk through this communal puddle to “purify” our feet. Our guide didn’t really explain things up front. We just walked into the temple and sat down. People were gathered around what looked like a fabric-draped coffin chanting, listening to music and putting their foreheads to the floor. Signs about “the guru” were hanging around. On the way out, we passed an empty bed. I was thoroughly confused and watched intently. I’m so fascinated by religions since mine has made me so happy and sustained me thorough so much. I can’t imagine why I would bother to journey through life without it because nothing would make sense. It’s like wherever I go, I’m never alone—ever. So I watch people in different religious settings and wonder how their beliefs help them.

When we left and stood outside, our guide explained that the bed belonged to the 10th guru, whom they weren’t exactly worshiping, though they were doing something similar in their homage to him. He explained that there is holy water here, and people from many different faiths come to this temple for healing of skin problems. Woah. Come again? Unpleasant images from Dr. Phil’s last medical presentation flashed through my mind as I stood there. So basically I just walked around barefoot and participated in a foot bath party at a temple known for people with skin issues? Huh.

On the way back to our shoes, we passed the spot where they give everyone blessed food. You always bring something to the temple, big or small, so they give you a small amount of blessed food as you leave. We went through the huge communal kitchen barefoot, too. Apparently all Sikh temples have a huge kitchen where people bring food and volunteer to cook for communal free meals. All are expected to serve in some way. So you might see a top CEO sweeping the floor—you never know. India’s Prime Minister is a Sikh and volunteers just like everyone else. I think that’s pretty cool. I also like the respect with which the Hindu guide described the Sikh customs. Their religion must have some good qualities to demand that level of respect. They provide free meals for poor community members, for one thing, and that’ something I think religious groups should do.

After the Sikh temple, we visited my first Hindu temple. It was quite a first. This one was inaugurated by Ghandi himself in 1939 and is called the Birla Temple—-named for one of India’s wealthy families that paid for it. The Hindu Temple had signs up saying it is your responsibility to enter physically and mentally pure. You take off your shoes for Hindu temples, too. I kind of like the barefoot church idea. It makes you automatically approach feeling humble if you have feet torn up from pointe shoes like mine. The strange thing about Hindu temples is watching people come in and bow and give offerings to porcelain or plastic gods. I’ll never forget the sweet Indian family offering for their pregnant wife and the little boy watching his dad bow to a many-armed goddess. It was a surreal experience as we padded through the temple with music playing and an almost full moon rising in the sky. I felt a little like I was at a Disney Epcot display on India, but it was very real. One thing didn’t remind me of Disney. There were swastikas all over the place as decoration. It’s easy for us to forget in America that swastikas are an Aryan Hindu symbol that have nothing to do with Nazism in the East.

We all bunched in front of a room with an idol for a ceremony with a lot of bells and chanting and clapping before leaving for the hotel. We pulled up to our hotel at 7:30 pm in the dark. The hotel is HUGE! I felt like Jasmine arriving at a palace. On top of that, it is wedding season here and there was a gorgeous sari-clad wedding party waiting for the groom. We were greeted with marigold garlands and drinks. After a huge Indian meal, I enjoyed some internet access. It broke in the middle of chatting my sister, though. My bed is comfy, which is a good thing, because tomorrow we have a 4 a.m. wake-up call and I need to get to sleep!

We’ve been prepped for India since the day we boarded the ship. We’ve been lectured about rabies, malaria, dengue, diarrhea, vomiting and worms. The crew has been covering the floors with plastic and cardboard to protect the carpet for days. Well this morning, like magic, I woke up and was finally in Chennai (Madras) India.

I was one of the first off of the ship, ready for our trip. Our group drove along the coast and passed a bunch of houses purchased by the World Bank when the coast was nailed by a tsunami in 2004. I could already tell that poverty was going to be different than what I have seen previously.

It was SO HOT. Much, much hotter than anything we’ve experienced yet. You get the idea. Imagine wearing jeans with a money belt around your waist on a 90+++ degree day in India. Add to this torture the fact that the guys in your group were told, “The girls need to really cover up, but you can wear whatever you want.” So not right.

Our first stop was at an artists’ cooperative near Chennai. It was pretty cool to go into the homes of all of the artists and see where they both work and live. The port authority examined each passport and checked it off of a list; then we had to drive through a maze of Indian traffic.

It was time for Mamallapuram, where we basically spent the rest of the day walking around awesome carved temples from the 7th century.

Mamallapuram has long been known for its stone carvers. The temples (models of temples, actually, since people never really worshiped in them, according to my understanding) were really pretty awe inspiring. We went to a pretty temple by the water called the Shore Temple. We had our first street hecklers hounding us the entire time. They take on a new twinge of desperation here. A bit more persistent—a bit more willing to block your way, touch you, etc. We didn’t see much begging at all in South Africa or Ghana, but it seems an accepted way of life in this city. I’m still trying to process how I felt when seeing a normally-clad girl I had smiled at from the moving bus make a motion for me to give her some money for food. I obviously had no way of getting her money—she looked like she was just out and about shopping–I’d like to understand why she did that.