Our goal on Sunday was to reach one of Batticaloa’s famed, and empty, beaches. This was quickly stymied by the realization via Lonely Planet that to reach the beach the long way you have to pass a “well-defined minefield” to reach the beach. MINEFIELD!?!?! Well defined my ass. I’ve been in South Asia long enough to know that’s never the case. One wonders what could have happened if we had decided to try our shortcut…

Instead we decided on the much tamer option of watching a movie in Tamil, the language of most Batticaloans, and the language of the regional film powerhouse from Tamil Nadu, India Kollywood. Don’t ask me why it’s called Kollywood. Ask Sheela. Perhaps Telugu already got Tollywood?

Something strange, and makes absolutely no sense to me is that the movie was dubbed. Yes, it as a Tamil movie, and the audience (with the exception of us) was all Tamil. It’s like watching Harry Potter only to find that Harry, Rob and Hermoine’s voices have all been dubbed by other people speaking English. What the fuck?

I, still determined to see the ocean by any means possible, took a detour and walked to a beach. Absolutely gorgeous, and desolate, with fishermen’s boat sitting upside down on the beach. (This is the same beach the suffered tremendous damage during the 2004 tsunami) I sat down under a large tree for some quiet contemplation and reading. Next to me was a large Sri Lankan family. Faintly I heard the words “Where are you from?” Looks like I was about to become the center of attention, so I decided to ignore the question.

A few moments later I glanced up and noticed a girl walking in front of me, then around behind my bench. She asked, “Can I see your book?” So I show her, but she takes it from me! And with it, she runs back to her family, all giggling.

Great, guys. You took my book. Thanks.

Like a tempest, the family then rushed over to me, and crowded close around me. perhaps 20-30 in all, but only the girl could speak some English. The rest just asked me my name. All in all, lots of giggling and a genuinely heart warming experience.

They did give me my book back, and I enjoyed the beach in peace.

Now, I just went out to buy Sri Lankan ice cream. Sri Lankan ice cream is probably the most delicious store bought ice cream that I know of in the world—try the mango flavor. It’s time to consume a liter or two…Signing off.

This weekend we went to Batticaloa in the east, leaving Friday night and returning on Sunday. Batticaloa has a frontier feel, untrammeled by outsiders.A lazy city of 100,000 people, it sits on the Indian Ocean, and hosts a vibrantly diverse community of Tamils, Muslims and Burghers.  

We took the bus overnight there and found the journey to be incredibly crowded. The government bus—these are all painted red. Private buses are painted white. Every inch of isle space taken up and every seat occupied. There’s only so much sweaty arm pit in my face that I can stand. It’s also important to defend one’s leg space, as your knee can look like valuable real estate for someone else to rest their arm on if they are sitting in the isle. Thank god this isn’t India. More disturbing was the fight between a drunk father who two girls were visibly upset and crying and the ticket master. This weekend was a “poya” weekend and also Eid, so the entire country is essentially on vacation. Poya is a holiday that occurs with every full moon.

Arriving in the early morning, we set out immediately to find a guest house to find the first few all full. No matter, we started walking past the UN building, among other post 2004 tsunami development work buildings and encountered some wild dogs. Wild pack of family dogs?

That afternoon we did some exploration around the town and went to visit an old Dutch fort that had been built at first by the Portuguese (the Dutch took it over and expanded it). Lord knows how they got anything done in the heat. 10 minutes out in the 6deg north of the equator and I’m already sunburnt enough that I have to spend the rest of my trip hidden under an umbrella for shade—life here for my pale skin is like living like a vampire, I can only come out at night, or I’ll melt.

In the afternoon we set out to a lighthouse built by the British and a public park/beach north of town. It’s absolutely gorgeous and we get to climb to the top of the lighthouse for a great view at dusk. Thereafter we went to the riviera lodge for some sri lankan curry before heading in for the night.

Being Poya, we arrived at our hotel confronted by a Sri Lankan family who invited us to dance with them. An hour of bad dancing later, we, especially Sheela, had become the stars of the show. Of course, they asked the “baendela” question. That means, “are you married?” to which we replied disjointedly. A bit of singing and dancing. Girlfriend and boyfriend often don’t go here. You’ll get some strange looks if you say that so in so is your significant other. (I think that this is generally not always the case/is changing. May people will understand you if you say boyfriend or girlfriend) I got the rather awkward question, “Oh, so married but virgin?” Time to sort out that mess…

In case you were curious about the state of malaria in Sri Lanka (Link):

More here, from a recent University of San Francisco Study. We’re planning on going to Batticaloa next weekend during Poya (it’s going to be hectic). In preparation for that, I intend to start Doxycycline.

Today I decided to head out to the nearby “magical American library”. Indeed magical because it resides in the second story of someone’s house. But, that’s only if you find the correct library. My housemates and I have been looking for a library to haunt, in our search for a good study space. Rumor had it there was an “american library a short walk away.

What should have been a five minute walk to Sulieman ave to find the “American Library” turned out to be quite the adventure. Sulieman ave is a curly cue shaped street with a bad case of erectile dysfunction. It also has four or five unnamed little side streets that branch off of it. I walked on down to the tip of street, passed all the little side streets and found nothing, except some rather aggressive feral dogs. Trudging back to the beginning of the street I began the usual game of asking the locals where this said “American Library” was. A couple of tries later, I was directed to a “Social Science” Library, whatever that means, disguised quite well as someone’s house. After visiting the 1^st floor bookstore, I Found the library, which I discovered was not in fact the American library.

So, I wandered out with a vague sense of where I needed to go next, and lo-and behold I see a white man! Very academic looking, too. Now, I’m on to something. I walk up to the house he came from and ring the bell, and am invited upstairs to the “American Library” office, where I’m told to go next door for the actual library. Unfortunately, the next house turns out to be just that: someone’s house (a duplex), and an irate old man in a lungi comes out to inform me that I need to go exactly back where I came. Bleh.

In the end, I do find the library. It’s the second floor of the duplex next door, above a small sign that reads: “American library upstairs. Ring the bell.”

In other news, I have been participating in Sinhala class with the Fulbrighters. Great fun as the teacher is a brit expat named Michael. It’s located in the south of the city in a neighborhood called Pepilyana, near Mt. Lavinia. We have classes in the guesthouse where the English Teaching Assistants stay (ETA’s), called Shangri-La. Very nice.

The policeman walks up to the car, rips out the keys with an angry huff and strides back to the police station at the airport. My illegal taxi driver smiles and shakes his head, in an effort to calm the situation down and assure his nervous passengers, a muslim family and myself. Our driver then runs out, chasing the policeman, in an effort to retrieve his keys. So much for trafficking myself into Colombo, Sri Lanka’s largest city and former capital.

I had arrived into Bandranaike Int’l Airport on Six pm on Sunday amidst an atmosphere of rain, wind, rain, rain, sweat, heat, and more rain. My flight was 36 hours, including a 12 hour layover in London visiting Peter N. and the British Library, as well as seeing the eminently queer Bahrain Int’l airport—with its throngs of, well, men. Everywhere. Bengali, Arab, South Indian etc. In hordes.

Stepping out of the airport, I turned left as my hurried self written instructions indicated, and walked through the throngs of people hailing taxis and waiting for relatives down to the end of the airport where I expected a shuttle bus to the main bus station, where I would catch Bus 187 to Colombo. 

A Sri Lankan approached me on the bus as I expected to settle into an unpleasent three hour public transit sojourn to my house in Colombo.

“Going to Colombo or Negombo?” he asked.

“Colombo. I’m taking the bus.”

“My friend has a car. AC. Very nice. 1000 rupees—he will drive you”

I say no and hesitate. 1000 rupees, about eight dollars, is cheap for the two hour ride, and certainly beats the bus. “Yes” I change my mind.  

He escorts me off the bus and we walk in the shadows past an airport policeman to his friend’s car. This is not a sanctioned taxi ride. After a few nods with his friend, who turns out to be an airport travel services employee operating an illegal taxi service on the side, I hop in the passenger seat.

On our way out, we pick up the muslim family. I then see the policeman stride up to the car.

In ten minutes our driver returns, visibly cowed. “Sorry, sorry,” he says. I ask him, “Baksheesh?” Indeed, there’s nothing a good bit of bribery can’t fix.

So the ride in was a bit stressful, but the reward was good conversation with the muslim father, who worked in Saudi Arabia for a few American families. Most of all, I get to see Sheela and my future housemates!

And, holy hell, I think. Will it ever stop raining?

Hi all,

A couple days ago, I moved into my apartment here in North East D.C. at 4 and V. It’s a nice place, a row house with a few roommates. Marc, who works nights at Dominoes, Roland, GW grad student and Trey, a research assistant at the Federal Reserve.

Now: NPR! All Things Considered, (well, mostly opinions!) Orientation was Tuesday. I shall start Monday at 7am sharp. That’s 27 minutes before sunrise,and means I’ll wake earlier than I’ve ever consistently woke up in my life. Ideally, I’ll bike to work–if I can ever get my bike out of the shop.

A few days before I was to leave the country, I got sick with the flu. I called in to work (actually, I realized I didn’t even have the school’s number, but eventually I found it) saying I would be sick. The assistant answered my call, told me to feel better, and insisted I take medicine or go to the hospital. Medicine, hospital? That’s a bit strange.

My supervisor called me an hour later. She asked if I had taken medicine or had gone to hospital. What’s with this hospital business? She made it a point to say that they desperately needed me and expected me in later that day.

Reading online, I found that it’s quite uncommon for a Korean to miss a day of work or school on account of being ill. So be it. I’ll go into school and I’ll infect the entire classroom.

A few days before I was to leave the country, I got sick with the flu. I called in to work (actually, I realized I didn’t even have the school’s number, but eventually I found it) saying I would be sick. The assistant answered my call, told me to feel better, and insisted I take medicine or go to the hospital. Medicine, hospital? That’s a bit strange.

My supervisor called me an hour later. She asked if I had taken medicine or had gone to hospital. What’s with this hospital business? She made it a point to say that they desperately needed me and expected me in later that day.

Reading online, I found that it’s quite uncommon for a Korean to miss a day of work or school on account of being ill. So be it. I’ll go into school and I’ll infect the entire classroom.


Why do all Korean women wear heels? And yes, even on planes or when they know they’re going to be walking on dirt all day?

Koreans have funny ways of walking across streets. You will see people calmly walking and then, suddenly, they spot that the crosswalk is green! They sprint! Kids old ladies, doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter that the crosswalk may have just turned green either. The run looks more like an incredibly fast paced shuffle, usually because they’re carrying bags. Anyways, it’s not weird that they run to/across crosswalks. There’s just something odd for me about the manner in which they do it.


Seoul’s subway is a fascinating aspect of the city. For one, it’s huge. Two, it’s so big, with 10 subway lines, it even covers other cities, like Suwon, with a population of 1 million. Many of the cars have lcd televisions built into them which display advertisements and the like. Most stations, as well, have some type of lcd technology whereby they accurately depict the location of previous trains. It’s pretty cool and efficient as hell.


Cereal and Beer

Cereal is a problem here in Seoul. Why does it cost $5 a box? And why is it all sugary and tasteless? If you like knock off frosted flakes, though, you might be in heaven.

Not to mention milk. It’s more than double the price of the U.S.

And beer. There’s nothing exciting on this front, with the possible exception that larger grocery chains are carrying more exotic foreign labels—especially in the foreigner districts! Generally, you’re likely to find Hite, Hite D (Dry Finish), Cass, Cass Red, OB Golden, OB Max, and Hite Stout. With the exception of Hite Stout, they’re all pretty much interchangable. None are particularly bad, it’s just that they’re all American lager type clones. Hite Stout, is a halfway decent stout, not offensive on the palate.

These will all cost about $1 a bottle.

In the average grocery store, for foreign beers, you’re almost guaranteed to find Hoegaarden and Budweiser. I’m not sure why, but these beers are universal. Foreign beers will usually cost at least double the local stuff.

I’m looking at the Secret Council of Fort William’s very secret notes from 1780. All hand written, almost indecipherable. Big loopy letters like the declaration of independence.

They come in giant bound volumes, each surrounded by a grey box, which is knotted closed.

Although I’m now in London, I feel as if I should write a bit about life in Seoul. I arrived in South Korea on the 27 of August and departed three weeks later on September 17. For me it was three great weeks to live in Seoul, three bad weeks to work in Seoul. But, more on that later.

Now that I’m out of the country, I feel that I can talk more freely. And I have the energy and will to do so.

Seoul is a city that still shows signs of its recent and ongoing industrialization. Called the miracle on the han river, it’s truly and incredible city, massive yet densely populated with. It does a good job of holding all these people and tall apartment buildings dot the often hazy sky—which I’m not sure is pollution or fog, though I suspect it is a mix. The subway runs frequently and quickly, following a neurotic timetable. Indeed, timeliness is godliness in this country. And this neuroticism knows little bounds.

I remember my first week at Evan English School. I had 20 minute classes. 15 of them. Yes, I counted, 15 classes a day. It was utterly exhausting, darting from room to room with a little basket full of a boatload of books, my only instructions being to do “review” with the kids with books they had already finished that I had no time to look over.

Suffice to say, I got very adept at introducing myself to a bunch of kids. Who am I, What’s my name, where do I come from. That, and playing games with them. Until, of course, I was instructed by my supervisor that I was no longer permitted to play games with them. Which left me with…. a whole bunch of finished textbooks I had never seen before.

Point of this description is to say that once every 20 minutes were over, if I did not stop my instruction at exactly 20 minutes past once I entered, my supervisor would hurriedly march down the hall, enter the room, and inform me that I was late to the next class! I was late! It was more of an oddity than anything; timeliness taken to a rigid and stressful extreme.

I will tell the tale of how I went from London to Korea in a few hours but, for now, I pour over old books at the British Library. I am amazed at the wealth of material here. (I’ll also tell more about my scholarship in a bit).

It’s incredible how the Cape of Good Hope (Modern South Africa) and British India were so interconnected. The correspondence from Fort William (Modern Calcutta/Kolkata) to London is replete with references to the British Cape of Good Hope. In 1799, the British had just conquered South Africa. So that year marks the first year of their colonial rule there. That’s when my study of South African newspapers for my thesis commenced. The Governor of General of Fort William wrote to London of his reception from the governor of the Cape of Good Hope a letter that the new colony “was in great want of proper timber.”

The Governor-General of India sent timber as well as rice, which was “very scare and very dear” and other goods to the fledgling colony with his own initiative, separate from London.

Since every boat that went to British India made a stopover in Cape Town, these colonies were intimately connected. South Africa was an eminently strategic acquistion as it straddled all shipping lanes to and from the spice rich East Indies.

A happy and prosperous British India required a happy and prosperous British South Africa.

Hello all!

This is my first post from the bustling, busy-busy city of Seoul. I’ll just start off with a quick layout of the first few days here.

I left early in the morning on Friday, the 26th from Bradley Int’l. The school pays the cost of the flight, which is a standard feature of the contract and quite a nice perk. I arrived here in Korea on the 27th at about 3:30 pm Korean Standard Time. I’m thirteen hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time. So, if it is 1pm on the east coast, it’s 2am here in Korea. Likewise, if it is 5pm here in Korea, it would be 3am in Missouri.

The flight was uneventful, though I met an American couple who were traveling to the southern Korean city of Cheongju to teach English. The flight over from Chicago O’Hare to Seoul was pretty much composed of entirely Koreans or young Americans, of whom I presume were all going to teach English in Seoul.

My recruiter’s—the contractor who helped match me up with an English school here—driver drove me to the hagwon (Hagwon means private English school in Korea). There, I met the director of the school, who doesn’t speak English, which is a bit ironic. He showed me the school and then drove me to my apartment. All the directions are in Korean, including addresses. Moreover, street numbers are assigned based on the order in which buildings on the street were built, not one where they are on the road. Even further, this numbering system is often irrelevant since most building don’t actually have their building number on them. Imagine the confusion if I were to get lost!

I spent Sunday wandering around the Mok-Dong district of the city, the district where I live and work. I found a few grocery stores, so I know where I’ll be doing my shopping.

Monday I began work. The director picked me up at 11:30 and we arrived at work 10 minutes later. I was there until 9. A long day! At the end of the day, I walked home. A short walk, perhaps 15 minutes.

So, I’m just getting settled here and I don’t know anyone yet, but hopefully that will change.

Look forward to more blog posts! I’ll make them more interesting about adjusting to life here and culture in Seoul. I’ll certainly talk more the hagwon (school), too—of which I have a lot to say but want to hold off on because of some rather interesting occurrences that have taken place there.

That’s all for now folks!

We entered the 1000 Pillared Temple and were blessed. The monk applied the red mark on our foreheads, the KumKum. Us. Grimy, dirty, ignorant, shorts wearing Americans.

We entered temples were photographed. We were given more than the usual stares. The next day we appeared in photos and articles for at least two local papers. We were the tourist attraction.

Three hours outside of the city of Hyderabad lies the small city of Warangal. It has little tourist influence. The city lies at the heart of the Telangana region of the Andhra Pradesh Province, a hotbed of separatist politics for the Telangana minority in the province.

We arrived in the city, assaulted by child beggars and the scent of piss and cow dung, and moved from the train station to our hotel. Rooms booked at R130 per night per person, or 2.5 dollars. No AC, no Western Toilets and the usual myriad of scents wafting up from the alley behind.

There were eight of us that went, a good crowd of Americans, a Thai and a Mexican.

We made an early start to the town of Melugu, a further 75km from Warangal. It is a small town of maybe 5000 people, whose existence is solely reliant on the main road that bisects it. Cows, like elsewhere idle in the streets. Nearby, however, is the Ramappa Temple and the lake that sits 2km away.

Isolated and desolate, the temple sits in a green field with evidence of restoration. Like everywhere in India, we did have some odd company. A insane man, whose name sounded roughly like “Byah,” was our “security guard” until we convinced him that we were going to call the police.

Other Indians we more helpful. A bunch of guys transported us on their motorbikes. It’s a treat fitting 4 people on to one small bike. Since we were such a big deal, we had cheers with “thums up” (a drink like coke) at his small cellphone shop. We ate food with our hands a restaurant so spicy that I could not open my eyes.

A flood of students scurry into your classroom, hurried and shushed. It’s 11:20, twenty minutes after class’s scheduled beginning.

The professor has just walked in.

The students stand up and address the professor as Sir or Madam.

Every day I lose more faith in India’s higher education system. The University of Hyderabad is ranked number 1 in India as a postgraduate institution. But contrast this ranking to actual University academics and you get a much different image. In class, Some students have a maturity level similar to high school students. Male and female students frequently sit separate. Students pass notes in class and do not engage the professor. There is little real discussion in class, and this is a graduate level University. Students are receiving their Ph. D and their masters degrees, but often do not seem ready for such critical thinking. I must emphasize that many students are mature and competent and these issues are not the fault of the students, but rather a result of the structure of Higher Education here.

Professors do not help much for education. Here is a line for line quote from my Dalit Politics Professor in a 500 level second year masters course.

“it’s a fragmenting, it’s a fragmenting, fragmenting, fragmenting if you talk of inequality you can talk of inequality within the dominant class, but a graded graded inequality it’s a political social that graded inequality. That graded inequality is the one, secondly. It is not the division of labor. Division of labor is a universal. Division of labor, division of laborers is different, division of laborers is different my friends, it’s a very theoretical. So that division of labor. Graded inequality. …it’s a labor that is continues laborers, it is a ‘laterlite’ situation. It’s a compartments, it’s a vertical, not a horizontal. It’s a very interesting that ambedkar formulation. To get a the caste system annihilation, of caste theory it is a very two thing, the two things are simplistic.“

Not entirely sure what he was getting at with this thought.

In Women’s History in India we have started presenting seminar papers. On our first day, three students presented their papers. Each went up to the podium, opened their papers and read. Monotone, droning thick accent. They did not look up once. They did not make eye contact. Atrocious English. After each reading our Professor berated the class for not discussing the paper. I’d be surprised if any of the students would respond, either they were passing notes in class (which happens) or did not undertsand a word, like us.

Critical thinking among the majority of Indian students is lacking. Here Education is frequently based on wrote memorization so students can repeat information and dates back but cannot analyze information and readings. This difference of focus from the western system reflects itself in grading exams and emphasis in class.

Students Protested yesterday Today about the University not giving out Fellowships that were promised–essentially Scholarships for studying here and for the lack of transport to South Campus, a 2km walk to Main Campus.

The Pro-Vice Chancellor came out to meet them, The bald guy, dressed as a Brahman. He acceded to all their demands. The Vice Chancellor convientely left the University that day.

The Protest was led by a cooperation of political bodies on Campus and the Students’ Union. They marched through campus attracting students. Consequently, most classes were cancelled.

You can tell when the monsoon is coming in. The sky darkens, the air changes its smell. What was once a sunny day is covered with a deep gray overcast as imposing clouds roll in across the horizon.

This is monsoon season, where Hyderabad receives about seven or eight inches of rain, deposited often in the humid, languid afternoons.

The monsoon is a rain that drenches and is unlike any rain in the states. Sweeping bursts of rain, a torrential downpour. Lightening follows, striking the land around you. Sharp bolts pierce the clouds. Their glow flares in the gloomy sky. Reverberations of thunder rocket afterward.

Running out in the monsoon is a wetter experience than anything I’ve ever been in before. The roads turn into rivers. Feral dogs cross the street in front of you, scampering for shelter. Monkeys hide in tree canopies. All wildlife other than the dogs is out of sight.

The monsoon washes away the filth on the street. Effluent and waste travel to lower elevations.

With the monsoon, like clockwork, the power goes out. Usually for less than thirty minutes, though unusually for hours. Sometimes the newly installed generator kicks in, sometimes not. Usually when the generator does we work, we either have the fan, the internet or the AC working.

Grey rock domes pierce the low skyline, held up by massive square foundations. Minarets flank each aging tan dome. They are decrepit. Trees grow on their sides as time and weather as stripped all adornment from the buildings.

Shoes from those who enter adorn the ground outside the each building. These are the tombs of the Muslim rulers of Hyderabad in the 15th to the 17th centuries.

Hyderabad has a long history of muslim rule. Prior to the Mughals there existed the Delhi Sultanate in the north of the country. From it spawned the Qutb Shahi rulers of Hyderabad. The remains of their kingdom can be seen today in their splendid tombs. Seven in total on the site, with the last one unfinished—that king was overthrown by the Mughals. Nearby is Golconda Fort, situated on a hilltop, that protected the Hyderbadi state until the Mughals. I plan to go their soon.

The tombs were made to be a heaven on earth. Inside each tomb is a certain eery quiet, and a tomb with Arabic script sheathed in colorful cloth. But each tomb is empty. The true burial place lies below in the substructure of the tomb, designed to keep the king free from disturbance.

You can enter the actual tombs below, hewn from the rock underground, where light does not enter. Even with a candle, you cannot see more than a few feet. It is quite a sight.

They are the largest film studios in the world, here in Hyderabad. Ramoji film studios are sprawling and tacky. A certain unreality permeates. Buildings are entirely plaster and fiberglass. Houses are only facades and a set that combines a hospital with an airport as well as a school indicate the extent to which one structure can be used for multiple purposes. There is even a fake hollywood sign to complete the scene. If there is one thing that ties Indians together and is cultural stable, it is a love of film, Bollywood, Tollywood and more.

But this fakeness and tackiness devolves the studios into a cheap trick. It’s entertainment, such as a circus with a juggler and two midgets, resembles a park designed for 6 year olds and feels like America at its worst. There’s a wild west, a “fundustan” Anyways, a couple of photos I’ll post here.

From the Red Fort in Agra you can see the Taj Mahal. It stands alone over a green shrubby distance, shimmering white as heat waves flicker through the sky.

The building grows more impressive as you approach it. Looming, imposing and engulfing you as you approach it.

In July my tour group with AIFS toured through Agra in our hermetically sealed air condition van which provided the perfect excuse for Indians to stare at us through the windows. It is an odd stare that you receive as a foreigner. It is a stare that is not fleeting and is not ashamed. It is a stare out of intense curiosity and little knowledge of Western norms. They do not retract the stare when you stare back.

At one traffic jam a group of monkey handlers brought their monkeys up to our van and demanded payment for the photos we took. My window, which could not lock, was forced open. With cameras it is important to make sure you do not have to pay for what you capture. Many tourists sights, along with having prices for foreigners often 10 times that of Indians charge extra for cameras. Usually, though, you can get away with lying that you do not have a camera.

The fort is almost equally impressive building, used by Mughals to safeguard their empire. Like some things in India the entrance over the moat is marred by the putrid smell of sewage and garbage. As a city, Agra is nothing special. It’s only attraction for tourists are its sights. Because this was a planned tour, we felt like real tourists, guided around with little context about the places we visited.

From Agra we traveled to Jaipur, a fascinating city.

Ghandi’s tomb stands alone in the Rajhat city park aligning the old city. A strip of green in a city of full humanity. An eternal flame flickers above his black monument where visitors are not allowed to retain their shoes. The flame only contributes to the sense of a palpable sauna in the Delhi midday heat.

From Ghandi’s tomb we went to Old Delhi and took a ride on a bike-rickshaw. These two seaters are staples of Indian transport and are dirt cheap. They benefit from being small enough to navigate hair raising traffic and back alleys. Delhi’s old city follows the path of the old river bed and is a byzantine maze of streets.

We saw the Mecca Masjid, the largest Mosque in India, designed with a capacity of 25,000. There we had the interesting experience of making fast Indian friends who loved to take photos of us, and with us.

Three feral dogs approached us in the midnight gloom. Scruffy and ragged but not menacing. As we exited the Delhi airport with our tour guide for the next week, a Mr. Surhinder Singh, we were told to expect many more of these dogs. I immediately thought of the rabies shots I could have gotten in the states.

Our hostel, a decrepit YMCA, was our first experience in India. As a plus though, it had AC. (Never underestimate this invention).

The next day, July 13, was full of sightseeing and experience.

Smell assaults you. Shit, piss, and garbage. There are other smells also, the smell of spice and street vendors’ ware, mouthwatering yet swarmed by interminable masses of flies. The air here is thick, buttery with myriad scents. The heat, oppressive and, in some places, in the 100s with high humidity.

Rickshaws buzz down the streets. Tuk-tuks (autorickshaws), cars, bicycles, people all together form a chaotic and terrifying mess on the roads. There are no street signs and traffic lights are a suggestion, sometimes.

As a foreigner you cannot drink the water. It is inevitable that most of us Americans will get sick from the food/water eventually. Multiple bottled waters is a must.

The brief intro into this sojourn in India is that I am a student at the University of Hyderabad goings with AIFS, a program that brings American students to India. There are six people on our program. Five girls and I, so an interesting dynamic. Amazing and fun loving people all. We spent the first week traveling the cities of Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, which comprise a tourist hotspot known as the “Golden Triangle.” Other Americans combined (along with token internationals) are maybe 60 people. A great bunch of fascinating individuals, I am deeply in debt to their company.

PASSOP has been rather interesting lately. Negotiations have been ongoing with the Western Cape Provincial Government (WCPG) about the lawful/unlawful proposed eviction of residents of the De Doorns Refugee Camp, mediated by the South Africa Human Rights Commission. Being in government meetings and playing a role as an intern where you actually are important and have to think on your toes rather than make coffee is quite hectic!

Government wanted to close the camp by May 31st and give the residents the options of:

1.Assisted Repatriation
2.Assisted Reintegration
3.Assisted Resettlement
4.Or, Lawful Eviction

There are between 361-430 residents remaining in the camp depending on who counts. At its inception there were 2,500+

The bone of contention is whether each Camp resident would be given R1000 to assist in options 1,2 or 3. PASSOP is fighting for that money, WCPG refuses to give it. There may be some precedent for the cash payment: members of the Bluewaters camp were ordered to be given the money by a judicial ruling. However, the status of De Doorns refugees is somewhat different so this ruling might not apply. WCPG also contends that a cash payment may inflame residents of the impoverished local townships (If they see sums of money being given to foreigners: Zimbabweans…)

There are other issues. Allegations are that from PASSOP and the De Doorns camp committee (consisting of elected residents of the Camp (Government suspects that they may not be fairly elected–PASSOP asserts they were) that residents have had their belongings thrown out of tents and their tents removed unlawfully. WCPG contends that some of these resident may have unrightfully claimed tents after their original occupants left. Further complications are over a headcount. WCPG claims 361 residents are there based on a night headcount (when the workers return) and has forbidden entry to all those not on that list. PASSOP contends that this is still incomplete as many workers spend overnight at the farms for work. PASSOP claims that intimidation has been used by municipal officials (different from provincial government) to get the refugees to leave. The logistics of returning the refugees back to Zim or to local townships is mind bogglingly complex. WCPG, frustrated with PASSOP, wants to bypass PASSOP and negotiate with the refugees on an individual level.

Personal tensions have flared up between lead actors on either side (no names), and antagonism only makes these issues more intractable. I cannot say that I endorse either view and cannot attest to the veracity of claims on either side, nor write what I really think of the negotiations because of possible implications.

The issue may well go to court in a long and protracted legal battle. The true losers are the refugees, whose farm contracts have ended and who must now wait as their field of dirt turns to mud in the winter rains. As their money runs out for food. And as they remain at the camp with few options and little hope.