Author: laurenne

  • Flog & Fold




    If you send out your laundry in Mumbai, it comes here to mingle with the other pants and sheets in hot sudsy water before it is beaten on a flogging stone, dipped in hot starch, and hung out to dry.

    Over 200 Dhobi (washermen) families run this particular facility. It’s a hereditary position and one of the lowest in the caste system (not as low as a toilet cleaner, but pretty low) . If your dad’s an Indian laundry man, you will be an Indian laundry man too. It also means you are not supposed to touch anyone of a higher caste. But at least you’ll have some muscles.

    Makes you wonder if we really need Downy balls, dryer sheets, Tide pens, Woolite, Purex sheets, or non-chlorine bleach to make colors brighter and whites whiter. I mean, I don’t think anyone’s ever said, “I like India but, man, the clothes people wear sure are stained and dull.”

  • I forgot my memory


    Sometimes in Mumbai you swear you’re in England.


    But then a man in a skirt walks by and you say, ‘Phew! I’m in India.’


    But for a second you think you flew to London on accident. And you review the previous few nights to jog your memory. Then you wonder if you packed your contact lenses.

  • Oh dread!

    I finally submitted to a hair trimming after eight months of stuffing it into a rubber band. Way in the back of my head, the poor unassuming stylist found a big fat old dread lock. Just sitting there. Mocking me and my rubber band. I had a dread lock, and I didn’t even know it.

    I am a real backpacker! I thought the constant indulgent dinners denied me that claim. But the dread lock absolutely cancels those out. Cool.

  • Turbans & Goats


    I feel like I am painting all Indians a bad color, and this has surely not been my objective. Just like it’s an impossibility to describe the ‘average American,’ an average Indian there isn’t. But in India, the classes are so separated that the tourists unfortunately have more of a chance of coming in contact with a pickpocket than an office worker. So when I complain about the guys who ask me for sex or talk about cocaine, it’s because those are the types who ride the cheap buses with me or are looking me in the eyes while unzipping my backpack.

    Just as the country is divided, so are most tourists’ feelings about India: India is hard. Everything is an inconvenience. In the West, if you realize you need deodorant, you can run to the store and be back in 10 minutes. In India, you must fight the taxi driver for a fair price; then you must fight the store owner. And then the store owner might not even have what you want since he didn’t feel like ordering that week, or he might just be closed for no reason. And then when you’re in a cycle rickshaw on the way back, a boy grabs your boob as you speed by. Two hours later you might have deodorant, but you also have three new friends and a bunch of dirt piled under your nails.

    But there’s something about India that makes a heart swell and a tourist stay for years. It’s so strange. I often felt like a victim of domestic violence. India would beat me down, but I would continue to love it and come back for more.

    Here’s what I love:

    1. The Un-Self-Conscious Curiosity. In the West, when we see a man with an extra head growing from his neck, we nudge our friends and try to talk without making our lips move. ‘Hey guys,’ we’d mumble. ‘That dude’s got an extra head growing out of his neck. Holy shit.’ In India, they love asking questions, and I appreciate the openness. They’d say, ‘So why the extra head? Oh, you were born like that? Wow. Where were you born? Oh, LA! Wow, that’s really cool. How much money do make over there? Oh you don’t have a job? And you’re not married? And you’re just traveling alone? Wow, you are in sad shape.’

    2. The Food. It’s more than the chicken tikka masala we have in the US. The chutneys, the samosas, the jaleebis, the dosas, the puri and channa! Plus, they pickle anything. Who knew pickled limes and mangoes could taste like magic? Indians knew.

    This is a thali that gives you a bit of everything. You eat it with only the tortilla-like bread (roti) and no silverware. It’s about a dollar. And it’s often served in traditional restaurants by waiters who don’t wear shoes.

    3. Bollywood – I could watch Bollywood movies on a loop all day. The dancing. The singing. The “acting.” Plus, I love the way the entire country supports the actors. You can find stickers of Bollywood couples on the rearview mirrors of the most unsuspecting drivers. And, depending on the movie, the theater audience jumps up, claps, and screams at the good parts. Going to a Bollywood movie is like watching a film with 300 of your closest friends.

    A theater lobby in Jaipur. And you can eat samosas instead of popcorn. Genius.

    4. Pride – Indians love their country. They’ll tell you with a puffed up chest where to go. And they’ll brag about how amazing it is. They also celebrate their own successes. If they or their cousin or their son has a PhD, they will make sure you know about it. It’s cute. Americans need some of that self-esteem.

    5. Culture – Such rich history and tradition. There are so many rituals that take place at every wedding that Arvind couldn’t even name them all. When the groom arrived on his horse, a group of boisterous women measured him with a string. The guy balked when I handed him something blue. Plus there’s the stopping for tea every hour, the saris, the women who never cut their hair. It’s all so deep-rooted; the Indians are not about to lose their culture no matter how many Western influences come their way.

    6. Generosity – I can’t ride a train without a family sharing their feast with me. Or buying me treats from vendors poking their wares through the windows when the train stops. Or giving me advice or phone numbers in case I need anything. I am traveling alone, but I am honestly never alone.

    7. Religion – Everywhere you look, you see a devotee. Whether it’s a Sikh in his turban, a Muslim in her burka, or a Hindu praying at one of the thousands of temples set up on the side of the road. Faith is everywhere. It’s beautiful. And it seems to blend like a smoothie in India. The few very devoted in my country blend with the rest like oil and water. Have you ever put oil and water on the stove? Don’t. It starts a fire. Ask my ceiling.

    Something about a turban really makes me want to see what is underneath.

    8. English – The British influence mixed with an Indian accent is adorable. I want Indians to read me bedtime stories every night.

    9. The Media – I devour magazines in India. They are all about 40 cents and keep everyone in the country well-informed about culture, politics, etc. Surely not everyone reads them, but they are cheap and accessible. And in English!

    10. Animals – Indians live with animals. Cows, goats, pigs, camels, elephants, oxen… they are everywhere. All the time. Even in the bigger cities. When you are close enough to watch goats communicate, it’s easy to see that a few pairs of socks and a couple words are all that distinguish the humans. It sort of makes you feel too indulgent. Why do we need toilets and soft beds when the animals do just fine without?

    11. Love – Love in India is different. Of course I met the creepies who wanted to cheat on their wives with a Whitey. But for the most part, Indians have arranged marriages and they stick with them. They marry the right one based on the alignment of the stars, education, and societal status. And then they trust that person to be ‘the one.’ No looking back. No getting divorced like the wamby-pambies we are who give up as if we’re playing a boring game of pinochle.

    You must see this movie. The soundtrack will make you cut the most stubborn of rugs.

    Goats whose love has surpassed their arranged marriage.
  • WARNING: This post says ‘fuck’ and ‘pussies’


    Udaipur is beautiful. And full of color and tradition. It’s the India you imagine.
    You can have spiritual conversations with any store owner. You can watch handicrafts being crafted on every corner. You can see elephants gossiping and donkeys working.
    But there’s something sexual I can’t put my finger on.

    Again, I was accosted by several men on motorcycles who wanted to “show me around.” Of course I took it upon myself to dispel rumors, and I made them stop and listen to a tirade about how not every woman from the West wants to jump into bed with them and how many women like me are waiting for love and bla bla bla.

    Then I met Harmony. She’s a Swedish teacher who comes to India each summer to have sexual relations with men half her age.
    Oh.
    Maybe Western women are sluts! Or maybe India is this big sex tourism capital and nobody told me about it. This could explain why every man thinks that my smile means I want to see his penis.
    Hmmm….

    I was thinking about it all one day as I walked into my hotel lobby to find the owner waiting for me. He was maybe 70. Grey hair. I earlier dubbed him ‘the cutest old man.’ When I said hello, he told me I looked sexy this evening.

    “You mean I look Indian,” I corrected. I was wearing a full Punjabi suit.

    He grabbed my wrist and tried to pull me into him. When I resisted he pulled and pulled. And I pulled and pulled back. Then he said, “Please, just kiss me.”
    I just kept repeating ‘this is very weird’ over and over and pulling and pulling away from him until I freed myself and bolted to my room.

    REALLY? I mean, really? Come on, really?
    What ever happened to buying a girl a drink?

    In the spirit of my newfound realization that women should not travel alone in India (especially really hot ones like myself), I present to you this poem:

    I am Western, yes it’s true.
    I’ve had sex maybe one time or two.
    You are Indian, and sex is taboo
    But still sir, no. I won’t have sex with you.

    I know you think that for me sex is free.
    But, sir, I’m in my twenties and you are 83.
    Even if you say you’ll make me scream woo-eeee.
    Not a modicum of me wants to test and see.

    And you, sir, please, stop speaking to me French.
    And inching to me closer on the white garden bench.
    And telling me I’m sexy and that I look so good in red.
    Is this really the way you think you’ll get me into bed?

    Maybe you fucked a French chick last tourist season.
    And maybe that Russian lady blew you without a stinkin reason.
    Maybe the Swedish blonde took her clothes off in the lake.
    And maybe the American girl let you fondle both her fakes.

    So I see why you think we’re promiscuous and bold.
    Especially since Indian women guard their pussies like they’re gold.
    But this Western woman is not as easy as the next.
    So, please sirs, please… stop asking me for sex