It's The Nighttime: A Gap Year Blog

Diggar La

2007-10-12T01:47:00.000-04:00

Day 3 of the trek, we wake to an unexpected morning frost and water dripping through our tents onto our sleeping bags. The frost is an indication of an oncoming snowstorm and after breakfast in the dining tent - delicious as always and something that will be sorely missed - the leaders, our Himalayan coordinator Namgial, and our guides and pony men meet as the sun rises to discuss whether we should mount the highest ascent of our trek during the snowfall or to delay. After some deliberation we decide to proceed with the climb. Camp is packed up and we begin our ascent of the Diggar La which stands at 17,230 feet. The day started out easy enough but it soon became excruciatingly painful and slow. We ran into a terrible snow storm and high winds the whole way up, and our hands start to lose circulation, so the guides tell us to roll our shoulders and spin our hands to get blood flowing to them. Several students begin to have headaches from the altitude and Kat, one of the girls, falls ill enough that she is placed on a pony and led so that she does not overexert herself. I am fine except for a natural shortness of breath at such a high altitude and I carry the items of several other students who are suffering from the altitude. We climb for what seems like five hours in the snow, finally making it to the top. I scream out "Kiki Soso Largalo," the Ladakhi phrase of accomplishment on ascents which roughly translates cheesily to "The gods have made me victorious." We take pictures at the summit, take a bit of a rest, and enjoy the most incredible view. We reach camp fairly easily on the descent, running down the mountain. Dinner is quick and we all fall asleep easily. The next morning we enjoy a more leisurely walk but on the way hear several rumbles. The sun is out and I ask one of the leaders, Erin, about the sound. She suggests that the snow is melting has started rolling down the mountainside we climbed the day before. An avalanche has perhaps occurred, wrath of the gods, but Diggar La has blessed us with its passage.

Sabu Oracle

2007-10-11T06:59:00.000-04:00

Before the trek, we drive through a desert and past dozens of squatters' houses - in Ladakh, a squatter isnt someone who is living in a home that isn't theirs, but a person who builds a part of a house on a piece of land to claim that property on the off chance that development comes to it. The leaders have told us that we are going to visit the Sabu Oracle - essentially a woman who the Buddhists and local villagers believe has the ability to be possessed by spirits and then channel their supernatural powers to give advice to those who seek it.

We walk into a house that we've stopped at, remove our shoes, and enter a room with dozens of pots and pans hanging, mats laid on the floor facing incense burners and cups filled with salt, water, and candles, and a shaft of sunlight dropping through a hole in the ceiling directly onto where I choose to sit. A woman enters the room looking haggard and with her hair wet, and kneels in front of the incense. She lights the incense and starts to chant, and the room fills with the scent of cinnamon. She begins to chant, quietly at first and then building to shrieks interspersed with singing. She throws salt behind her to the left, water behind her to the right. She sways back and forth. The incense seems stronger now, the sunlight more obviously on my face - I'm engaged in the process of her possession. The oracle begins to sweat, her hair even wetter than it was. Suddenly she stops swaying and lets out what seems to me to be one tremendous shriek as she turns toward the group - her eyes seem to roll back into her head. All is quiet, and the incense much less strong than before. Our translator and coordinator Namgial tells us that she is ready for questions.

She gestures to the first of us and they go up - I wait my turn as I hear some people ask intensely personal questions and I wonder what i should be asking - I dont have any deep seeded issues with myself or others and I dont want to ask about the future...I want knowledge about myself. Eventually I just decide to come up with the question when I get there. The oracle gestures to me, and I scoot in front of her, careful not to rudely let the soles of my feet face her.

"What is your question?" asks Namgial.
Then it hits me, something simple but that I've been wondering about myself for a long time.
"I want to know why it was so hard for me to come up with a question for you, Oracle, why I had such difficulty thinking of something that was important for me to have answered or affirmed. how do I come up with the questions I should be asking myself?"

The oracle rocks back and forth, throws some salt behind her shoulder, and slowly speaks in Ladakhi. I listen to the syllables and try to find hidden meaning before Namgial translates. The Oracle and Namgial share a conversation before I hear my answer.
"She says that you have a curious and active mind," Namgial turns to me and says, "but that you have a flickering consciousness. For you to know the questions you must ask, you must be in touch with your inner consciousness before your mind. She says that you must meditate."

I lean back disappointed at my answer. I was expecting something specific, something deeply personal, an insight into myself that I hadn't already been told by another Ladakhi. But meditation is a standard buddhist practice here, and I had heard it. My skepticism in the oracle is confirmed in that moment.

I move into an empty space and allow the next student in after I am gestured away by the oracle, and I sit within my mind for a while. and then I notice that the sunlight from the oracle's ceiling is shining directly on me again, but I'm sitting in a completely different spot and not much time has passed since when I left. I dont know what I feel about spirituality but I did feel power sitting in the shaft of sunlight, the sort of thing I sometimes get when i look at a flower in the wind and my body tingles for no reason. Someone else is crying next to me, and I put my arm around them and pull them into my shoulder. I decide to meditate every day as long as I see fit. Maybe things at the Oracle's arent so bad after all.

Dhomkhar and Leh, Ladakh

2007-10-01T03:58:00.000-04:00

This post is pretty much copied and pasted from an email because the internet is especially bad today so excuse me for it not being as put together as usual.

I just got back from a homestay in dhomkar village, which is in ladakh, the himalayan section of india and also the province containing kashmir and jammu, the border of pakistan and a pretty dangerous place. but no worries, i was in the very very friendly part of kashmir, where people don't even notice the conflict between india and pakistan. the only reminders were being woken up by the sound of an Indian Army caravan driving past the house, fifty trucks filled with soldiers standing rigid in military exercise. and then right next to that would be my family and i, milking the cows, harvesting potatoes, cleaning clothes in the stream of glacial meltwater and dancing to the sounds of yaks in the field. i guess it was kind of like the mountain school if you spoke a nonsense language and i could hardly communicate with you, and we were in the himalayas, and the indian army had a base nearby. almost like the mountain school...

that was kind of a spaced out paragraph and i dont really know why because i am having such an amazing time here and couldnt be feeling better. so maybe i'll just write list of all the crazy things that have happened
- i ate spaghetti and yak meatballs at a restaurant
- toilets in ladakh and in india are...well they're matters of patience at best. basically they dig a hole in the ground, a kind of compost toilet, but there's no toilet seat and there's no toilet paper, so you squat and do your business and then the indian method is to use the left hand and a bottle of water to wipe, rinse, repeat. so far i've been able to avoid that thanks to my packing toilet paper in my backpack but indians are understandably disgusted when you touch your face with your left hand or grab food with it.
- i just visited this amazing school called secmol right outside of ladakh's main city, leh. essentially for a long time kids here had to learn everything in urdu, which is used mainly in pakistan and is a kind of really artful written arabic script thats incredibly difficult to learn. and then all of a sudden in 10th grade they would have to learn all their classes in english, without the preparation of english beforehand. the 10th class exams are a huge deal here, kind of like the SATs, and determine whether kids can go on to higher secondary school and then college, and basically everyone failed, but secmol is this alternative school where they take kids who fail the 10th class exam and actually teach them english so that they can retake it. there's a semester program based here called the vermont intercultural semester and there are a bunch of kids tms -aged going to school along with the ladakhi kids. i love how there are so many connections to my life in a foreign country.
- my homestay mom had one tooth.
- ladakhi dance is amazing and you need to learn it.
- the differences between different sections of india are amazing. delhi was so wild, so up in the air all the time and then everything in ladakh is so relaxed. i was never stared at here, or only because in india, everyone makes noise for a white man's business. but the competition for it here is much more subtle, a friendly smile rather than an arm pulling you inside a store.
- schedule wise, im about to go on a 10 day trek through the himalayas. i have my camera ready. please send me emails while i'm gone so i can come back and have something waiting from you.

LOVE LOVE LOVE
zach

First Impressions

2007-09-22T06:57:00.000-04:00

Life is good. I’m sitting in a lawn chair right now at the Saumrolee Guest House in Leh, Ladakh, listening to the sound of chanting in the distance, and watching the sunrise lift the nighttime darkness and put me in the gentler shade of the Himalayas. So yeah, I could never write a sentence like that back in New York without it being utter fiction.

That’s the thing that has struck me the most about India – it’s exactly like fiction, like a dream that I would want to tell my friends about because it was just that crazy. Our 14-hour plane trip to Delhi started it off when they served us a dinner of mostly unidentifiable airline food, but included a lovely topping named “lemon pickle.” Natalie, Sean and I were sitting together and while Sean avoided even touching it – an amazing choice in retrospect – Natalie took the plunge and then I followed. It’s a good thing that most Indian food is so delicious because that was the least delicious thing that has ever been in my mouth, and I spent the next 15 minutes trying to wash out the flavor.

We got into the airport and experienced our first real taste of Indian culture – having to push your way wherever you go. The baggage claim was surrounded by a crowd six-deep and we finally maneuvered our way to the front, grabbed our bags, and pushed some more until we were met by the Delhi coordinator, Peter, at the airport, who wrapped us in garlands and scarves as is the tradition. Driving back to the hotel was another introduction to India, which is to say that highway safety is very much up to the driver rather than being a built in part of the infrastructure, and there really weren’t any defined lanes on a lot of streets. Much of what I saw on the first night was overwhelming – trash in the streets, people sleeping on highway medians, the smell of chai – and I went to sleep trying to process everything. Delhi is not New York.

The next two days in Delhi were a lesson in the extremes of living there. The girls had to worry about being modest, covering up enough so that they wouldn’t be constantly heckled; meanwhile, there were women working in the airport that were wearing belly-baring t-shirts. We were told not to look directly at people of the opposite gender, but for most places in Delhi that we stayed at for an extended period of time, crowds of dozens gathered around us and stared, mainly just curious about white people. Feet are considered disgusting and as the most unclean part of the body by most Indians, yet I was always asked to remove my shoes and socks at temples and tread on their holy sites with my bare feet. I saw beggars missing feet, poverty stricken kids with their ribs sticking out, and then I stepped off that street into an Indian clothing store with near-American prices.

A cow just wandered into the garden where I am writing this blog post, and breakfast is on its way. This is my fifth day in India, and yet it feels as if I’ve been here for a month. I’m sitting in the Himalayas, and the experience so far has been as intense as a really crazy dream. And it's one of those dreams I have to tell you about - but this time, it’s no fiction. Life is good.

P.S. I wish I could post photos but the reality of internet in Leh is that it is a no go. As soon as I can find a way, I'll put some up. Check out http://www.flickr.com/photos/79387285@N00/sets/72157602110971522/ for some small versions of a few.

Here It Is

2007-09-13T16:08:00.000-04:00

So here it is. I'm at the end of the wait and I couldn't be more thrilled. Tomorrow at 2 PM, I'll be gone until April 10th, 2008 - how ridiculous and amazing. As a girl on my program, Sarah, described it, "I want to be an emotional wreck and have fun doing it. I want to learn about how most of the world live. I'm just looking over the edge and it's so alluring."

I'll talk to you all when I get there.

आ न्यू एअर (A Good Year)

2007-09-12T22:54:00.000-04:00

L'shana tova to all you bubbalas. I hope you all are having a good Rosh Hashanah and are happy and healthy! Fittingly, I've spent the last few days enjoying Jewish food before I head off to a land with not so many of them. Bagels, nova, and cream cheese from Zabar's and H&H, latkes from Barney Greengrass, and a pastrami sandwich from Carnegie Deli (oh, how I wished it was from Katz's). I know I'll regret making that list after three months in India and I'm craving Jewish food.

I'm halfway packed and am making the final preparations for the trip. I bought a plane ticket to and from New Zealand so I'm unofficially back on April 10th (I may extend my stay in New Zealand, depending on cost and whether it's amazing or not), and I've been considering what I'll do in India after Global LAB is over. There's a 10-day course in a type of meditation called Vipassana that is offered for free - supported by donations - to all people in India because they view enlightment as a public service and one of the sessions starts pretty conveniently after the program ends, so I may try that. It'd definitely be an experience. I'm also considering touring the south of India because I'll have mainly been in the North up to that point. There are so many options - if you have any suggestions please leave a comment and let me know!

I'm going to get back to packing, but I just thought it was fitting that my trip would fall so close to a holiday which represents a new beginning, and in which people say, "Shana Tova Umetukah," which translates to"A Good and Sweet Year." I have a good feeling about this one.

P.S.: If you were wondering, the script in the title is Hindi. I'll probably be using that a little more often soon!

Finally I'd like to thank all those people who helped make this possible. I am so grateful to you all and I send you my love. Let me know if you want anything at all from India and I will get it to you.

September Days

2007-09-10T16:35:00.000-04:00

This blog post is unrelated to the gap year but I feel as if this is as good a place to catalog my thoughts as any. For the last five years I've spent part of September 11th reflecting on my memories of the day, but I've never put them down onto paper. In a weird way, I want to remember what happened, and so I wrote an essay today. If you do choose to read it, please take this in mind: while much of my memory is sad, not all of it is. So please don't be discouraged as you read through.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _

It's the nightttime and yet it is never fully night in the city. The star-pockmarked sky has its dirty, smoky glow and the temperature is at that point where the paint is peeling, dusty window flowers turn the color of pale tea leaves, and the heat would be more becoming to high noon than dusk. Ivy weaves through the red-brick brownstone across the courtyard and even it seems as if it has exerted itself to the limit today, as if it might catch in a breeze and limply slip to the sidewalk. On nights such as this, pitch-black is a vapor, a whisper lost in the breeze.

There was an Indian summer with heat like this six years ago. I woke up covered with a light sheen of sweat to my mother's voice.

"It's 7:00, Zach, time to wake up."

I pretended to be asleep and shut my eyes tightly.

"You don't go to Ethical anymore, Zach. You have to make the bus."

"Mraaaagh," I answered.

My mother frustratedly poked me in the stomach.

"OK, I'm up!" I snapped back at her.

I washed up, dressed, ate breakfast, and went downstairs with Chris to wait for the schoolbus. It was my second day at Fieldston, and I was still uncomfortable going to school with my brother, with seniors three times my size, navigating unfamiliar hallways and new classmates. But I was wide eyed and it was hard to feel badly that day - the trees were green, the flowers blooming, and the wind spoke with the sounds of rustling leaves and trickling water. The world was barefoot and beautiful.

I got on the bus, put on my best fake smile, scanned the seats for my friends, and put my feet forward. If I had timed my footsteps with my heartbeat, I would have been sprinting down the aisle. But I walked past the driver, past the pretty senior girl whose name I'd never learn and whose returned glance I'd always avoid, past Chris and his friends, so comfortable in their routine, and into a seat with my friends Johnny and Max. I sat down surprised that nothing awkward or embarrassing had happened. The bus pulled away and headed towards Riverdale, and I inhaled a lungful of clean river-scented air. Maybe this wouldn't be such a bad day after all.

Arriving at Fieldston, I didn't bother to go to my locker in the middle school corridor. I had all my books in my backpack, and besides, I had already lost and forgotten the combination to my lock. I headed straight to Mr. Rosenholtz' classroom and stood at the windows looking out on the quad. It was a comfortable moment of solitude, an observational solitude that reminded me of my place on campus. I wasn't yet a part of it, but a kid watching and waiting for his chance to run on the senior grass and get chased. Then I'd be part of the group.

The classroom filled and we waited for Mr. Rosenholtz. 8:40 passed and he still wasn't in the room. Unsure of school rules, we didn't dare leave until 9:00, and just before we were about to pick up our backpacks and head out, the door opened and he appeared.

"Have you heard?" he said as he sat down. "Two planes flew into the World Trade Center. One into each tower."

I heard laughter in the room. I've since learned that people often laugh when they are uncomfortable and don't know how to process information that they are given, but I've never been angrier than that moment. I looked around the room searching for the source, my fists clenched, thinking why the fuck are you laughing, don't you know that my dad works there, don't you know that I think he might be dead, don't you realize that the last thing I need to hear is someone laughing at this incredible sadness that's come over me, where all I feel is that tingle before you cry and you can't move any of your muscles, can't even blink your eyelids to let the tears out, so your eyes just well up until the tears fall out onto your shiny new seventh grade English notebook, and yet more than anything I want to beat the shit out of the one of you that laughed to make it go away? I sat still and wept looking at Mr. Rosenholtz, the other kids whispering around me, and he looked back at me, his eyes reciprocating and full of sorrow.

Class ended and word had gotten around. I was one of those kids, and there was no shortage of furtive glances to make it clear that people knew. A special assembly was called and nothing new was said, but I was asked to meet up with my brother and head to the principal's office. Chris found me and I cried into his shoulder.

We walked to Principal Stettler's office and entered into what I can only describe as a makeshift emotional triage. Kids filled with heartache sprawled on the floor and couches listening to a radio broadcast. Chris and I found a spot and cried with the rest of them until our ribs were sore and we were gasping for breath. There were moments when everything in the room was quiet except for the constant of Stettler breathlessly picking up the phone, thank God you are safe...have you heard any news of your husband...Yes, we've been overwhelmed with phone calls, I'm sorry it's taken so long, answering calls from parents and relaying them to kids. And then one kid would start crying, and we were all so emotionally worn down that that's all it would take for the rest of us to start going again. And then the radio reported that the towers fell. I think I must have cried for four hours straight. At some point I went to the bathroom and vomited. School was dismissed and I watched students leave for home as I waited for news. Finally, with half the room empty after hearing the news of their parents' safety, we got the call from my mom. Dad was OK.

One crisis averted, but the tunnels and bridges and subways were closed so I couldn't get home to give my dad a hug. Chris quickly found a friend who offered to put us up for the night, but after such an emotionally exhausting day I needed to fall asleep in my own bed with the knowledge that my dad was asleep in the next room. My friend Alex's dad happened to be at Fieldston with his car, and he loaded me and four of my friends who lived in my neighborhood inside and took off towards Manhattan. We reached a bridge and Dan, Alex's father, took his key out of the ignition, left the car where it was standing, and escorted us into our native borough. We miraculously found a cab so far from everything and drove off, Dan's car still in view across the bridge. I never found out if it was impounded or stolen or if it was just left standing there, abandoned like so many other cars that day. I didn't bother to think about the car for long as we came back to the Upper West Side. Dan paid the 80-something cab fare and I got out.

A group of musicians had assembled on Broadway and a crowd had gathered around them. It was dusk and they started to play Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper. A cheesy choice, but nobody cares at a moment like that as long as the music can serve as the vessel for their emotion. I realized a while ago thinking about that song that I associate music with memory. The guitarist's plucking of the guitar string my heavy breath in, that keyboard solo when a smile crept over my face for the first time in a long time that day and I thought about my dad with so much love in my heart, that wistful bridge representing the strange prettiness in what should have been an empty moment. The song is sad but also makes me feel so right, so comfortable. A perfect kind of melancholy.

I walked home in the dark to say hello to my parents and let the day be over. The star-pockmarked sky had its dirty, smoky glow and the temperature was at that point where the paint is peeling, dusty window flowers turn the color of pale tea leaves, and the heat would be more becoming to high noon than dusk. It was the nighttime, and yet it wasn't fully night in the city. And I love it for that reason.

Tuesday Tunes #2

2007-07-17T13:07:00.000-04:00

The second round of music is here! I have much less music available to me right now because I'm in Princeton and didn't bring my laptop with me, but I managed to find a few good songs on the internet.

Boy With A Coin - Iron and Wine

Tonight I Have To Leave It - Shout Out Louds

Answering Machine - Rupert Holmes

Tonight - Clare Burson

The Financial Reality of Travel

2007-07-13T09:46:00.000-04:00

I was watching the news the other night and a story about passport delays came on. "The only good thing to come out of this bureaucratic nightmare," the reporter said, "is that more than half of Americans will finally have passports and become global citizens."

And that got me wondering. Does having a passport mean anything more than the possibility of traveling to Canada and Mexico? Does it really make a globally aware person?

I went to an infectious disease doctor last week on the advice of my pediatrician to get travel health information as well as immunizations. Rabies, Typhoid, Hepatitis, Tetanus, and Japanese Encephalitis. The conversation with the doctor was valuable and the vaccinations a good insurance policy towards my not dying on the trip. But they were expensive - over $800. It turns out that while health insurance covers travel prescriptions - my non-generic malarial pills, the ones that won't cause psychosis, cost $5 total - they don't cover any travel-related visits to the doctor.

Clearly there are hidden costs involved with traveling to a country that has not Westernized. And there are the obvious costs of airfare, room, and board. Strangely, if someone had a fixed income coming in while they were traveling, either from a parent or from a rental property or from investments, chances are that they would be saving money by going overseas. But the financial barriers to getting over in the first place mean that heading beyond North America is sadly something that can't be had by many people who would really benefit from it.

But pushing that all aside, how can someone save money on these things?

Shop Around For A Travel Clinic

Google "New York Travel Clinic" and you'll come up with more results than you know how to deal with. This is good, just like having a lot of stores selling the same thing in your neighborhood is good, because they are competing for the lowest prices. Vaccination prices are not standardized, so first go to the CDC website to find out what travel vaccinations you need, and then call around to see what they're going for at the different locations.

Buy Airfare from a Comparison Site that Includes Foreign Airlines

This may seem like an obvious choice but many of the price comparison sites only list American carriers and their European partners. Branch beyond that and visit a site like Kayak.com to see what all of the flights are like. If you are travelling from one country to the next, buy tickets within the countries rather than back in America. You never know whether your preferences for where to go next might change, and also you're very likely to get a substantially discounted ticket in, say India, compared to the U.S.

These two tips won't make your gap year free. But they will make it easier to support.

Tuesday Mix

2007-07-10T14:11:00.000-04:00

I'm going to post some songs I like here every Tuesday so that I can remember / access songs that I liked in India and also just so I can share them with you. Enjoy the free music (but if you like the song a lot, support the artist and buy the album. Links will be removed before every new mix).

Dance
Silversun Pickups - Melatonin
The Midway State - Change For You
Shinichi Osawa - September / The Joker

Relax
Soko - I'll Kill Her
Chris Garneau - Relief
Chris Garneau - We Don't Try
Cary Brothers - If You Were Here
Boom Bip - The Matter Of Our Discussion
Beth Waters - Blue and White
Sufjan Stevens - Niagara Falls

Hope you're all doing well!

Plans Materialize

2007-07-09T03:19:00.001-04:00

The First Semester
The month of June is gone and with it, the first stages of planning the gap year. I've now decided on a gap year program for the first half of the year (the second half of the year is what I am financing) and I could not be any more excited about my choice.
The website for the program: Global LAB

The itinerary:

In United States:

Sept. 14-16: Group orientation at Hudson River Valley retreat center

In India:

Sep 18-19: Flight to India

Sep 20-22: Arrival, orientation, introductory language lessons, and visits to key cultural and religious sites in Delhi

Sep 23-25: Arrival in Leh and introduction to Ladakh; Ladakhi language lessons and walking tours of Leh Old Town and Shanti Stupa; day excursions to Tikse Gompa and an audience with the Tikse Oracle; visit to Siddhartha School and student exchange; visit to Hemis Gompa and nearby hermitages; visit and possible overnight at SECMOL; guest speakers to include local political figures, intellectuals, religious leaders from both Buddhist and Muslim communities, and youth activists.

Sep 26-Oct 2: Homestays and service work in Phey village with excursions.

Oct 2-11: Trek to nomadic region of Tso Moriri or other spectacular mountain locations.

Oct 12-17: Return to homestays in Phey along with overnight excursion to Dha-Hanu villages with a visit to Lamayuru.

October 18: Visit to the Blind School in the morning; Bollywood dance lesson or cinema experience in the afternoon.

October 19: Amity School visit then the train to Agra.

October 20: Taj Mahal and Fatehpur Sikri

October 21: Return to Delhi in AM and celebrate Diwali with Amit and family in the evening.

October 22: Continue with Diwali celebrations and other activities in Delhi (museums, Bahai Temple, Pahar Ganj, etc).

October 23: Train to Amritsar, site of the Sikh pilgrimmage center the Golden Temple, experience nightly ritual flag-lowering ceremony at the Wagah Border, Jallianwalabagh

Oct 24: Train to Pathankot/bus to Dharamsala, Tibetan language lessons and orientation

Oct 25-Nov 1: Dharamsala homestays, ISPs, guest lecture series, school/museum visits

Nov 2-11: Introduction to Buddhism retreat at Tushita Centre

Nov 12-16: Dharamsala homestays, ISPs, visits to Tso Padma/Bir/Tashijong (2 days-possibly en route to Rishikesh)

Nov 17-19: Rishikesh, introduction to Ganges River, Hindustan, Hindi language, etc

Nov 20: Train or boat to Varanasi via Hardiwar. (note--if travel is by boat from Hardiwar then arrival in Varansi will be Nov 23-24)

Nov 21-Dec 8: Varanasi homestays, ISPs, language study, and Sarnath, Bodhgaya, Rajgir

Dec 9-13: Train to Jaipur and Rajastan tour (to be determined)

Dec 14-15: Return to Delhi

From here, I plan to stay at the houses of family friends, hopefully meet up with Kate Lund and her friends, and then depart to my next destination (likely Nepal or Thailand) in the beginning of January, with the goal of being there until May.

This is me thinking about the trip:

That's a really happy face right there!

Catching Up

2007-07-09T02:40:00.000-04:00

It's been far too long since I made my last post. I've been caught up in work and fundraising, and I'd be lying if I said that regular life hasn't creeped in there at all too. I saw Transformers on Saturday, and it was surprisingly the best movie I've seen this summer. You probably don't believe me -- this is coming from the guy who liked The Country Bears -- but it was actually really funny and, of course, action packed. Chris would have been lucky to see a premiere at the Transformers event in Korea.

It was really, really hot today, the kind of heat where you want to jump the gate of a playground in Central Park and run in a sprinkler with the seven year olds, the kind of heat where you want to burst all the fire hydrants in your neighborhood, the kind of heat where you really could cook an egg on the ground if you wanted to. There's really no good word for the warm that comes up at you from the ground, emanating from curbs and porches and tree trunks and river stones. It's the not-sun, and when I went out to the park with my friends today, the blades of grass and discarded cans were saturated with it, almost scalding my bare feet when I tried to sit out of the shade. It's not-sun like winter oil heaters, when the temperature is turned up a couple degrees and you can watch the warm ripples and refractions along skin and floorboards. Like the water in the reservoir nearby, we soon evaporated , heading back into the air conditioning of my apartment.

It's very late at night as I write this post (3:09 at the moment), but I couldn't neglect the blog any longer. I want to get into the habit of posting regularly and so I'll be doing my best from now on to post every two days, if only to leave a poem I've written recently or a short update on the gap year plans. The gap year really is nearing and it's best to have that habit set up beforehand. On a related note, Live Earth happened recently and it was a great reminder of how, in this incomprehensibly vast world, even the most remote and distant seeming places can be ultimately connected. Going overseas will really allow me to see beyond America.

Finally, thanks to Alden and Dean for their support. You have reminded me of how lucky I am to have to have so many people to love in my life. I wish you both the best.

Why A Gap Year?

2007-06-23T17:57:00.000-04:00

I spent much of my high-school life working late into the night, caffeinated beverage in one hand, pen in the other, textbook in my lap. Days were eaten up sitting in school for the length of a workday, then coming home to write a work plan for my foundation, an article for my humor magazine, a college application...you get the point. On the best of these days, I was tired; on the worst of these days, I didn't feel like learning. And even The Mountain School had its flaws, as I worked late into the night without knowing why. The process of exhausting myself was simply ingrained in me.

So imagine my reaction when, even though I am told that college will be very different from high school, I was expected to spend four more years of my life in the same situation.

"More?" I thought.

As Tim Ellis writes in an article I have linked to at the end of this post, "simply being handed a ticket to college doesn't mean that one should board the train" yet.

So I heard about the gap year from my college counselor. A popular option in Britain, it is advocated for by nearly all colleges (Upon admittance to Harvard, one receives a card with three options: I will attend, I will not attend, or I will attend after a gap year). The idea of it is as follows: if one does not fully understand what their goals and interests are, and will not take full advantage of their first year in college, then why pay $50,000 for the same process that one will undergo in the gap year for much less? That's a year of college, of focused learning, that you'll never be able to recover. In this light the choice for the gap year becomes obvious.

For more information:

http://www.gquest.org/files/TheNextThingToDo.pdf
http://www.admissions.college.harvard.edu/prospective/applying/time_off/timeoff.html

And for a funnier take on the reasoning:

Fundraising For A Gap Year

2007-06-21T00:18:00.001-04:00

I have made a few posts on my plans for the gap year but I have so far neglected to discuss the second, equally important half of organizing a year off: coming up with the finances to afford it. The gap year is in many ways as much of a lesson in independent living (and the money issues that come along with it) as it is an expansion of horizons and introduction to international culture.

So, above and beyond the help that parents may generously provide you with, as mine have, how does one finance an airplane ticket, travel insurance, program fees, incidental expenses, and the cost of living for a gap year? It's not as hard as it might seem:

A Job

The easiest and best way to raise money for anything is by getting a job. And when you're 17, let me say - there is no job beneath you. Working for minimum wage, while not fun, can add up to a lot of money over time. Think about it - let's say you get paid $6.50 an hour and you work 12 hours a week during the school year, then 40 a week during the summer. That's somewhere around 6.50 x ((12 x 35) + (40 x 12)), or $5850! Not bad at all, especially when in a country overseas where the dollar goes a lot further. Personally, I'm lucky to be being paid $10 an hour at a company I've worked at for the past two summers, so I'm expecting to make about $3000 this summer.

Individual Grants.

In the United Kingdom, a large portion of students on gap years are able to take advantage of government trusts which actually give grants to help finance the gap years of students. With the exception of City Year and Americorps, there is no similar program in the U.S. However, the Foundation Center, an organization based in several cities including New York and also with a website, publishes a directory entitled "Foundation Grants to Individuals." I personally plan on going to the Foundation Center library in New York to access this for free. I'll look through the very large list of organizations and if I find one supporting international travel, I will apply to it. If not, I will probably go down the list of organizations supporting students and write "cold call" letters. The Rotary Club and Lions Club and other community based organizations are also consistent resources for students in Britain.

Fundraising.

Write a letter to the people that love you and will want to support you. Tell them about your plans. You might be surprised with the help they offer. Run a marathon and find a sponsor. Sell chocolate for a profit. Hold a raffle.

You'll be able to afford it.

Personally, I'd like to thank my aunt Judy, my aunt Lynn and uncle Steve, Lavi and Arshad, Jeff Tibbetts, Aunt Jean, and Max Stock for their support in my fundraising, and I wish the best of luck to anyone undertaking a similar effort.

Polly Paulusma

2007-06-17T18:28:00.000-04:00

I found this musician on iTunes recently. She's amazing. Listen.

The Gap Year

2007-06-17T17:29:00.001-04:00

The past few weeks have been all about planning the gap year. I decided to use the help of one of my college counselor's friends. Her name is Gail Reardon and she runs a gap year planning company named Taking Off.

In essence, Taking Off and companies like it maintain databases of different gap year programs that cover anything you could possibly be interested in. In exchange for contracting with them, you get access to the database (they help you sort through), advice on applying to all the programs (and a leg up because they have relationships with most of the programs), and the comfort of safety and support in the countries that you visit (in case there is a coup or tsunami or an earthquake in the country you're in, it helps to have connections to get out of harm's way).

I've found myself looking back at the origins of my interest in deferring admission as I've moved forward with my plans. I started to want to take a gap year at a semester program called The Mountain School. In the fall of 2005, I packed up my clothing, school supplies, and said my see-you-laters to New York so that I could live, work, and study on an organic farm in Vermont with 44 other juniors. We would eat breakfast together and then wash the dishes, go to classes and then spend part of the afternoon harvesting and planting the crops that would be our meals later on, traveling out into the woods with an axe and saw and managing the forests while learning about environmental science.

I had originally made the choice to go to The Mountain School because I wanted to branch out socially beyond my very insular school, but I soon found out that an even greater asset to The Mountain School was its commitment to education that inspires. As the director of The Mountain School, Alden Smith, says in a letter on the TMS website, "the Mountain School is a place of intellectual energy, stunning beauty, spontaneous play, and unrelenting honesty. If you are looking for an authentic education among friends who truly want to learn, this program is for you...We want to inspire you, to listen to you, and to learn from you. At the same time, we will help you hone your intellect, discover your gifts, and identify what is closest to your heart."

Alden and the rest of the faculty lived up to that promise. Instead of constantly teaching us English in a classroom with a chalkboard, my teacher Susie frequently took my class out into the Vermont woods, to read "Mending Wall" and "Birches" while sitting on the ruins of an old stone farm wall or under a grove of curved birches. Pat Barnes, my environmental science teacher, told me to go out into the forest, find a spot that struck me, and to tell its story. I was dumbstruck at first, as if I were five and Pat were my father, trying to explain "the birds and the bees." I just didn't understand. I walked into the forest, crossing an open stretch of pasture so cold that it was nicknamed "Siberia," and I saw pine trees, glacial erratics, and shallow tree roots all separately. But gradually, I understood that everything in the forest is connected. The presence of a tree suggests a history. Barbed wire and smooth ground meant that my site had been used as pasture for cows; coppiced birches that the site had been logged. Trees, lichen, deer tracks, and Back Brook were individual parts that made up a much larger whole called the forest. I learned to think of my life in the same way best friends, first kisses, buses, clouds, trees, and insects hid within them bits of self-knowledge that revealed those things to be part of the whole of my life. And I knew that these lessons Pat and Susie had given me were not just lecture but experience, and my eyes were opened to what education can be.

It was not long before I had left TMS when Where There Be Dragons came to present their Himalayan program. A rugged, blond haired man stood up and began to speak, and I immediately noticed an air about him that I also noticed about Susie and Pat, an air of joy in what he did and also a little bit of pride in being in on the secret of experiential and truly progressive education. The program would travel to India, Nepal, and Tibet, he said, and would be centered around the deeply spiritual Himalayan culture - one would learn about it as they lived there. I was amazed and overjoyed. Sitting next to 44 other kids in a program that was the perfect fit for me, a man had just informed me that this thing, this wonderful, intangible learning, it didn't have to be over in the second semester of high school.

But don't get me wrong. I know that as I write about India and Tibet and spirituality, several people are thinking, "this sounds just like a long-winded reasoning for a yearlong vacation." But it isn't just about having fun and traveling around the world at a time when it's convenient. I genuinely feel that having a year to explore my interests will bring a focus and perspective to my college experience that I would not otherwise have.

So I am exploring options in Asia (specifically India, Nepal, Tibet, and Thailand) that will allow me to participate in one (or maybe all) of the following areas of interest: environmental issues including the maintenance of clean water supply, sustainable agriculture, and reforestation; spiritual explorations in Buddhism, Hinduism, and Islam; and microfinance. Being able to develop my skills in these areas while I have hands on experience will without a doubt add to what I can bring to the classroom as well as clarify whether these are serious pursuits for the future.

The programs I am looking at:
http://www.global-lab.org/
www.globalroutes.org
www.raleighinternational.org
www.iracambi.com/english
www.passageproject.org

I am excited beyond belief. And besides, something like this might be one of my pictures.

Stokes' Senior Dinner Speech

2007-06-11T20:30:00.000-04:00

Below is the text of my favorite teacher's speech to the Fieldston Class of 2007 at our senior dinner:

Consider this story to be a love letter and a valediction, both fiction and truth, a blueprint, one version of a narrative that will be told in the years to come. You will, like me, search for the proper invocation, the proper introduction: a smile, a tree blossoming with stars. Through each recitation, the teller will shape the story, tending to its curled edges, filling in the empty spaces.

This story must begin with the pilgrimage. When the pilgrims arrived, they were strangers. They all had different reasons for having undertaken the journey. For some it was destined, a genetic impulse encoded in the bones, as established as the names of their ancestors who had, many centuries ago, left their legacies in this place. A number of pilgrims initiated the journey because they were the chosen ones of their communities, recognized by a council of elders who realized they possessed the seeds of leadership. Yet others knew not why they felt compelled to make their exodus: Early in the morning, a stirring in the blood awakened them from their beds and they, too, put on their shoes and set out.

When the trees began to turn orange and yellow, they came, shuffling and strolling, their footprints crossing and entwining like loving garlands on the road. The destination was located on a knee-shaped hill, interstice of a land bounded by water at one end and a vista of trees and sky at the other. Long ago, the founders of this place believed in the sanctity of aesthetic contemplation and, thus situated, a pilgrim in residence only needed to look to the east or the west if he ever doubted his urge to dream.

Though a holy place, the grounds were not encircled by walls, or hedges, or palings of wood. But there was a fence. However, the fence did not represent what one typically understood a fence to represent. It was not a barricade or a marker of ownership because it was not always visible to the naked eye. In this way, the fence betrayed its name and classification—a curious thing since the fence was, in fact, a layering of past experiences, a palimpsest of memories belonging to all the inhabitants who ever walked there. At times, in the twilight of evenings, as the pilgrims made their way to Vespers, a rind of moon illuminated the weft of the fence, which lay like a glowing braid on a heavenly shuttle.

No one knew when the fantastical properties of the fence began to manifest themselves or how the place developed this strategy of insuring that the memories of those who entered and exited the grounds would be recorded. But it happened. The fence became a barrier against forgetfulness. However mysterious was this fact to the newest pilgrims, the truth of it ultimately dawned on anyone who sojourned there: This was a magical, charmed place. Over time, the fence even insinuated itself into the daily lives of the pilgrims, an active phantom in their collective psyche, consistently showing them what had come to pass and what was possible.

The many frequencies of this consciousness permeated structures and objects everywhere and fed on the youth and idealism of the pilgrims, inspiring them to astonishing pinnacles of creativity: Carpenters found themselves dancing; cobblers discovered they could sculpt. While the pilgrims arrived expecting to find their gods, they were more surprised by how their gods found them. The fence inspired such a fusion of vocation and ability in this place that it wasn’t unusual for it to preside over a bricklayer pilgrim interpreting the building of a house through song. And so it went down the ages, the fence humming at higher and higher frequencies while the pilgrims studied and played and made their discoveries.

In the end, the place itself seemed to know when the pilgrims were meant to depart. Mournful echoes could be heard at night. Clusters of dark, hooded figures were seen gathering, then disappearing, in the woods, preparing for the pilgrims' absence. And the pilgrims, too, prepared for their leave-taking. At night, they painted their faces and pantomimed by the light of a fire. Scenes from a former life. Scenes from a future life. Through their gestures, they attempted to mold recognizable forms out of the air—for each other and for themselves. This was how they reconciled their sadness over their time in this place being so limited. This was how they came to terms with their fear of what lay beyond.

Meanwhile, an elder lived in their midst. She often walked the grounds silently, observing the pilgrims at work, at play, at rest. The pilgrims sometimes watched her, apprehensive of what she knew about them and about the world beyond the place where they currently resided. Near the end of their sojourn, she was sitting in the garden when a group of pilgrims approached her with trepidation. She nodded, and they seated themselves in a circle, their eyes turned expectantly towards her. She regarded their gazes steadily. They did not know what to ask, what to say.

She closed her eyes before speaking to them: Have you ever seen a bird perched on a branch in the very moment before flight?

The young pilgrims nodded wordlessly.

I have always wanted to slow that moment down and understand it, the elder said. She opened her eyes and continued: I hope this place has allowed you to learn the rhythm of patience, the grace of reflection. I have been watching you. I have watched you shape a future life with gestures in the air, with the tools of your sojourn. And I understand this impulse. Sometimes we cannot know whom we will become and it troubles us.

She shifted her position on the ground and looked beyond their faces into the middle distance. She said, Do not be afraid of the ghosts you’ve seen here, the ones who haunt the grounds, the ones who visit you in your dreams. She looked toward the perimeter as she continued. You, too, will be ghostly here. Your memories will hang in the air like invisible lanterns. They will guide the sojourns of future pilgrims. You are now embedded in the soil, the rocks, the trees.

Remember all the selves you have brought to this place and those you have found and nurtured here. Remember all of the people who have loved and supported you in this endeavor of discovery. When you leave, the grounds will impart a gift to you, to every pilgrim. Before you retrace the footprints you created when you arrived, stand at the perimeter. Feel the boundary between here and there, between yourself and the self who has not yet come into being. She paused before speaking again. The question is not about whom you see on the other side. The question is about whom you see standing next to you, behind you. Memorize this and what it feels like to be that bird, in the moment before flight. And with that, the elder smiled at the pilgrims before wending her way back through the grounds.

The next morning, the young pilgrims did what the elder had told them to do. As they approached the perimeter, the fence began to sigh—a sigh of preparedness and resignation and calm. When their feet moved among the footprints they had made in coming to this place, each pilgrim imagined someone firmly grasping their shoulder with the haste of one who has something important to reveal.

Suddenly, they felt as if they were encased in an enormous glass box, even though they were surrounded by nothing but air. Right before their eyes, a ticker tape of images scrolled across the sky and it took them a few minutes to realize that the images were of themselves. The images seemed tangible, as if a private personal movie had come to life just for them. Sometimes the images stood nearby. One pilgrim saw a little girl with pigtails and her own smile. She waved at the image as it metamorphosed into an earlier version of herself in that very instant when she had discovered her love of the visual arts. Another pilgrim saw himself being instructed by an elder how to look through a microscope at a cluster of cells, and he marveled at that inquisitive self.

It made perfect sense that the fence had triggered all these versions of their selves at various stages of becoming, amidst all the people who had led them to this place. As the images slowly faded away, the pilgrims contemplated the garland of footprints, still lovingly entwined on the road. They would retrace their steps as they returned home. But everything had changed. They were no longer strangers—to one another or to themselves. But the questions remained: How would they tell the story of their sojourn to their respective communities? What would be their proper invocation, their proper introduction? Through each recitation, would the teller shape the story, tending to its curled edges, filling in the empty spaces? And would the telling be a love letter, a love letter and a valediction?

Thoughts on Adulthood

2007-06-10T20:46:00.000-04:00

It’s been a long time since I went to the playground. A long time ago, I could recall in an instant the feeling of air blowing my hair across my face as I sped down a slide; I knew what the fake sand in the sandbox, almost like dirt, felt like when I rolled it between my fingers. I could take a handful of the sand and it would stick together, then crumble, and I would lift my hand to my face and imagine that the musty smell was from the ocean. What was familiar to me sitting in Central Park at the age of four seems foreign to me now.

I am only just 17 and childhood seems like such a distant memory, a moment in my mind. When I fall, there is no soft black rubber on the ground to keep my knees from getting skinned. When it is hot outside, there are no sprinklers for me to dance through and soak my clothing in. How could I not want to go back to when those things weren’t true?

Childhood was so innocent and joyful. Adulthood, or at least being a teenager, is so different. As a kid I could do whatever I felt like – skip from one side of New York City to the other – and nobody would give me a second glance. I can only imagine the looks I would get now, skipping through Times Square by myself. Those looks would be humiliating. Since when did I become so self-conscious?

If only I were more like I was long ago. If only I could play with Ninja Turtles for eight hours and not feel silly about it; if only I could get up in the morning and not care about how I look; if only I could skip those 11 miles up and down Manhattan. Life would be so much different if I acted how I felt.

I live up to that occasionally. A month ago, I went up to the top of a hill by myself and lay down in the grass to watch the stars. I stared up into the sky and I knew why those stars were there, and as a shooting star shot by and disappeared I knew that it had burned into a million little pieces. I knew so many things and had so many thoughts in my mind. But I lay and lay and I closed my eyes and eventually, I stopped thinking. In that moment, I opened my eyes and looked back up at the sky. It was completely different. With everything so big around me and the wind blowing across my face, I felt like I was floating. Moonlight streaked across my face. In that moment, I knew what I wanted for myself. I knew what made me happy. In that moment, I could have fallen and skinned my knees, and I wouldn’t have cared.

Graduation

2007-06-07T18:05:00.000-04:00

I'm starting this blog so that I can post from it when I go away on my gap year. My brother Chris is doing the same thing for his summer teaching job in Korea and it has worked really well.

I graduated today. I'm not sure exactly how I feel about it yet, but the article I wrote for the Fieldston News pretty much sums up my thoughts:

Keeping Things

I am an expert at losing things. When I was five years old, I won a giant stuffed elephant at a state fair and lost it five minutes later. In my six years on the Fieldston campus, I have lost three student IDs, several umbrellas, one of my socks, and two of my mother’s Tupperware containers. I lost all will to work in second semester. And I will be venturing into much more loss when I leave Fieldston.

So I am left wondering what I will keep when I leave. It is cut day detention as I write this, and at the moment I am watching Monica Albu try to shove a Warhead into the mouths of every single person in our grade. I will keep this memory. Spencer Gerber is on stage singing to himself and swiveling his hips. I will keep that one too. At least I think I will. If I knew ahead of time on a rainy day that I was going to lose an umbrella at school, I would bring two and then I wouldn’t get soaked on my walk down to the subway. But I never know. Loss is unpredictable.

Even though I may not get many answers in the end, I go through my memories, differentiating the keeps from the losses. I figured out early that there’s no methodical way to go through four years of your life. Try it. You can’t do it alphabetically, by category, or era, or even by your favorite memories. They come like hailstones. That’s the best way I can explain it. Randomly, erratically, like an act of God, falling out of the sky. Sometimes I won’t remember the people or the situation right away; it’ll start out with a distant action, or an object, or an article of clothing. A face, if I’m lucky. After I’ve thought of those memories, it takes me hours to decide on their importance. But I have thought of enough to assure myself that I won’t be empty when I leave.

I will remember a late night spent seeing a movie and then talking over dinner at Ollie’s with two friends who I have come to love over these past four years. I will remember New York City awnings dripping after rain. I will remember the row of flowers in Brust Park. I will remember the sound of Nick Singer’s laugh. I will remember the distinct way in which every person hugs. I will remember the Yellow Team. I will remember those annoying tiny rubber balls from the field. I will remember Sam Lewis’ math poetry. I will remember that it is always best to leave work for the night before it is due.

Let me be realistic for a moment. In the end, I know that all of this work I’ve done remembering will probably also be lost. I will get old, I will forget, bits and pieces of the images will fall away until only ghosts of memories are left. But I am just as sure that I will be left with the intangibles, the things that I never measured because I never dreamt that I would be leaving them. Sixty years from now, provided that I don’t have serious dietary issues, I will still love bacon, egg, and cheeses, though I may not remember why. I will always be critical and sarcastic. I’ll be dead before I’m not liberal. I will want to change the world.

Of course I can never be sure that I will remember everyone and everything I want to. But I’ve gone through enough memories and spanned so many different levels of acquaintance and friendship and rivalry over these four years that if I forget anyone in this very full life of mine, I’m sure they would understand. And I know that this wasn’t all a waste when I look at the memories I’ve written down, think of the ones that I haven’t, and I see hands shaking and people smiling and voices asking. Asking when you leave, will you think about us?

I will think about every one.

(credit to Phil Primason from a Columbia Creative Writing Course for idea + passages)