OMG!!! MY COMPUTER!!!!!!

Okay, let me send out those positive vibrations because as of now: my computer is completely dead! Yes, dead. Meaning it won't turn the hell on. I'm praying and believing that a fuse must have blown in the battery charger or something and that the battery of my computer is completely dead. Thus, me having to spend the money for just a charger and not a new damn laptop. I feel crippled....that my tongue has been cut out of my mouth. I am unable to form words. How will I write? I have too many thoughts to just write them on paper. I can write poetryon paper, however, I can't write my damn book on paper!

Sigh. Breathe. Change the energy that you're emitting to the world.
Sigh
Okay, so, tomorrow I'll go to the apple store and they'll tell me that I just need to buy a new charger (my fifth apple charger by the freakin' way!). But it'll be all good. Because I've learned just how valuable my words and thoughts are.

Thank you for your prayers and I'll see you next week when I type on MY computer!

Peace out,

The positive thinker

Marriage? Let's arrange it!

There's no secret that many cultures have arranged marriages. Arranged marriages (also called pre-arranged marriage) is a marriage arranged by someone other than the person getting married, curtailing or avoiding the process of courtship. Such marriages are common in the middle East, and South Asia.

There are several variations of arranged marriages.

An introduction only arranged marriage is when the parents may only introduce their son or daughter to a potential spouse. The parents may briefly talk to the parents of the prospective spouse. From that point on , it is up to the children to manage the relationship and make a choice. there is no set time period. This is still common in the rural parts of North/South American and especially in India.

In contrast, a traditional arranged marriage may be finalized in the first meeting. The parents or matchmaker select the pair, there is no possibility of courtship, and only limited conversation between the prospective partners is permitted (while the parents are present); then the prospective partners are expected to decide whether to proceed with the marriage. The parents may exert considerable pressure to encourage the potential bride of bridegroom to agree to the match. The parents may wish the match to proceed because the son or daughter is beginning to engage in courtship, the parents believe that they know best what kind of partner will make a happy marriage, the parents seek to fulfill the desire for a parental control, or for other reasons.

A more moderate and flexible procedure known as a modern arranged marriage is gaining popularity. Parents choose several possible candidates or employ a Matrimonial Sites. The parents will then arrange a meeting with the family of the prospective mate, confining their role to responsible facilitators and well-wishers. Less pressure to agree to the match is exerted by the parents in comparison to a traditional arranged marriage. (Information taken from wikipedia.com)

Now, I say all of that to lead into my current topic of discussion. I attended church last Sunday at the Indiranagar Methodist Church. The church was similar to many church services that you would encounter in the States. It started out with the traditional hymals led by the main choir, accompanied with an organ player and violinist. Then it transition into the more modern (guitarist, keyboardist, praise team, drummer, etc.) with clapping and hands raising. The service then proceeded as church services do: more songs, prayer, father's day tribute and finally the introduction of visitors. I stood and introduced myself and was given a pamphlet, which was the monthly bulletin for the month of June. I skimmed the pamphlet I was shocked to see a section entitled: Matrimonial.

Here are a view of the postings:

1. 29yrs, 5.4", Dip in Electroncis, working in reputed convent school. Seeks well settled groom with good family background. Contact....

2. 25yrs, 158cms. BE. Workign as Production Engineer. Seeking doctors/engineers having good Christian background. Contact...

3. 32 yrs, 5.6", M.Sc, M.Ed, Ph.d, working as Senior Lecturer-Noida, (willing to move) seeks born again well educated believer. Contact....

Wanted Bride section:

1. 30 yrs, 5.10", (B.E), workign as Development Engineer. Seeks God fearing, good looking, well settled bride. Contact....

2. 26yrs, 5.7", US educated engineer, working for Intel, B'Lore, telugu speaking seeks Christian virtuous bride (must be employed), Telugu/Kannada/Hindi/Tamil. Contact....

3. 35yrs, 5.10", B. Com+Business Management,Self employed earning good salary, seeks good Christian bride, graduate, minimum ht. 5.5", fair, slim & God loving. Contact...

Now of course there were more women seeking men (24 to 7), however, this form of "networking" for a potential spouse intrigued me. I've been having this conversation with friends who could potentially have an arranged marriage. Some are okay with it, others still hope to find romance in order to have a "love" marriage.

Having spent the last fifteen years of my life dating, I gotta wonder: maybe there's something to having your parents do the work for you. I mean, who knows me more intimately than Harold and Mary? Hell, they made me. I started thinking, what would my ad for a potential mate say. I came up with the following.

27yrs, 5.5", B.S., M.F.A graduate student seeks a Barack Obama between the age of 30-35. If you really do exist: PLEASE CONTACT ME ASAP!

lol yep, that's what it would say.

In the West, we are obsessed with the romanticized version of love. The butterflies, the gooey feelings of courtship, however, are we going about this wrong? With a 52% divorce rate (with the majority of the remaining percentile feeling trapped, tricked and miserable), one has to wonder. (Yes...yes...I know there are married couples in marital bliss, however, I'm going somewhere with this...so, bear with me.) Think about it: where has courtship gotten most of us? How many emotionally battered people do you know out there? The one's who put their heart on the line, jumped off that "you and me boo" cliff and had their face CRACKED! Oh you've seen them, you may even be one of them. You swear: I ain't EVA goin' through that shit again! And you don't. You never love with that "teenage love" again. You're tainted. Spoiled goods. Yet, you're still "dating." Why?

So, maybe having mom and dad arrange it for you is the way to go. Arranged marriages seem to last. I mean, how could they not? You would shame your entire family with the "D" word. Besides way too much work and money has gone into the process. Oh, you're going to get married and married is what you'll stay!

But I sit here knowing that in my heart love would have to exist. Maybe I'm a product of watching too many Black Hollywood love films. Who doesn't want a Jason (Jason's Lyric) to steal a bus and take you to an old museum where you eat chinese food and dance slowly to the sound of each other's heartbeat. (hey...i am a poet:) Or a Keith (Set it off) who takes you out of your ghetto reality and buys you a black gown that makes you feel so beautiful, that you carry it with you when you're in exile. And let's not forget Darius Lovehall (Love Jone's) who was able to set aside "his cool" and chase after a train for your love. As he said: I don't care about all of that. All I care about is right now...this moment...and that's urgent than a mothaf#@ka! I love you Nina.

Sigh. What can I say: I travel through life with my insides, consulting my mind only as I stop for bathroom breaks.

Logic wouldn't have gotten me to Kenya, Tanzania, Nigeria, India nor hitchhiking rides throughout Jamaica. (Ash, how crazy was that?!?)

As my girl Elle would say: Are you making those memories where you'll giggle to yourself when you're 85 G-I-A-nina?

Yes, I am:)

So, although, I have much admiration for arranged marriage, I know that for me: a resume guy just won't do.

Beauty in the Slums

Every country has its ghetto. No doubt about it. I've seen it in Nairobi, Lagos, Detroit, Chicago, DC, Bangalore and I'm sure I'll continue to see it as I travel.

I observed something this past weekend that really caught my attention. I was returning from my adventurous weekend with the elephants when our driver, Ravi, turned down this back alley. The alley was aligned with a series of overcrowded metal tin shacks surrounded by trash and mud. I stared out of the window as flashbacks of Nairobi came to my mind. Suddenly, I saw something that made my head tilt as I quickly sat erect. There they were: a mother and her small daughter. The child sat between the mother's legs as she combed the young girl's hair and proceeded to form two ponytails. The mother held a gentle earnest look as the young girl's mouth slowly moved as I imagined her quietly singing to herself. This image was so powerful to me.

Memories of my childhood came flooding back to me. There I was: hot and restless sitting between my mother's leg. Wanting to touch my hair to see how much longer we had to go, yet, afraid of the brown brush that may pop my knuckles. I was tired as I laid my head on her thick thighs to rest. There in between my mother's legs, I felt safe and secure. My heart smiled as I realized that these mothers, like my own, were able to create a sense of beauty and love in a world filled with hopelessness and despair.

Internet Difficulty

Sorry for the delay in posting.  We have been without internet since Monday.  The connection is really fickle.  Sometimes it wants to work, other times, not so much.  Please be patient and continue to check back.

Some pics of Bangalore

The Royal Palace of Mysore

I had an opportunity to visit the Royal Palace of Mysore which is located in the city of Mysore, southern India.  It was quite a journey.  This palace was the official residence of the former royal family of Mysore, and also housed the durbar (ceremonial meeting hall of the royal court).  I only have pictures of the outside because cameras were not allowed in.  

We also had to take off our shoes before entering.  The architecture inside was quite beautiful.  I can't believe that people actually lived like that.  Wow...

Pics from Elephant Training Camp

The third sex

This past semester academically has proven to be quite challenging, frustrating, eye opening and invigorating.  21st Century-History of Identity Politics taken with Prof. Greg Foster-Rice was the class that made me have an ah-ha moment in terms of the direction of my work.  

My work focuses on issues of identity as it relates to the performativity of the multiple selves. I discovered Judith Butler's book: Gender Trouble and her introduction and argument for gender being something performed and constructed by society and not something innate to be quite compelling and interesting.  If gender is indeed performative, what other social implications (race, class, etc.) may also be performative.  For example, can Blackness be performative? It is important to differentiate between performance and performativity, which Butler explicitly elaborates on in her book.  (I've included a link for further elaboration.) 

Upon pondering this question, I began my own research.  Many suggest that this liminal state between male and female is coined transvetism.  Richard Totman's book: The third sex: Kathoey: ladyboys, refers to those individuals who choose not to label themselves as male or female.  Transvestism has in fact exhibited what Butler would state as the performative qualities of femininity.  Some may argue that this is not a strong argument for gender not being  a set of innate characteristics which automatically deem a person as masculine or feminine.

As I continued my research I was astonished to discover a group that Butler failed to include in her theory (I think I'll email her), which would add even more a compelling argument to her theory.  In Samoan culture there is a group called: fa'afafines. (I've included a link.)  Fa'afafines are male born children who are often chosen by their family to perform the more domestic (which of course, equates to duties for the woman) chores of the household.  Heather Croall's documentary: Paradise Ben boys will be girls in Samoa: Gender Diversity in Samoa illustrates the origins and modern day veiws of fa'afafines.  Unlike transvestism, fa'afaines are accepted in society as being third sex: neither male nor female.  The documentary illustrated that there is no gay/queer culture in Samoa.  That fa'afafines only have sex with men and that straight men are not considered gay for sleeping with a fa'afafines because they are in fact respected as women in the culture.  It's a very interesting documentary.  Check it out if you get some time.

Well, I give that lengthy background of information because I've noticed several men who dress like women (I'm not sure if the India culture considers them to be transvestites or something else.  Shalaka, what is the name in India culture that you previously told me?)  Had I not spent so much time researching the third sex, I do not believe that I would have notice them as anything other than women.  The first time that I saw a person of the third sex, they were on the streets asking for money.  Actually, everytime that I've notice them, they've been on the street asking for money.  I asked our driver Ravi, if they were men or women in an effort to try and distinguish how they're viewed in Indian culture.  He shook his head and said: no, they men.  I believe Shalaka (correct me if I'm wrong Shalaka.  FYI Shalaka is Indian) told me that they are not accepted in society, however, at times they are asked to bless children for they are believed to have special gifts.  I'm still looking into this, however, I do believe I read something of this in Totman's book. 

How much exists around us that we fail to notice or consider because we are oblivious to it?  One has to wonder...

Anyone know how to post a slide show?

I want to post some of the pics that I've taken since I've been here, however, there are way too many to include them in the daily blogs.  Does anyone know how to use the slide option?

Traveling with "Black Hair"

I'm still amazed at the wonderment that Black hair causes domestically and internationally.    My experiences have taught me that with most things culturally, people are genuinely interested and ignorant when it comes to difference.

Thus, a black woman's hair!  So, in an effort to maintain a low maintenance hair style this summer, I decided to have my hair braided with extensions.  My cousin Alexis, who'd just returned from a trip to China told me about how they were approached by Chinese people who just couldn't restrain themselves for asking the ol' infamous question: can I touch your hair? I'm sure most (if not, all) Black women have encounter this at one point in their lives.  

My first experience of having "black hair" was when I was about eight.  My church was affiliated with a group of Church of God churches who arranged for their youth to attend summer camp.  Well, my church was the only black church.  So, year and after year (before I decided and refused to go) most of the black girls from my church would have our hair braided and beaded for the week of summer camp.  My mother, being queen of braiding our hair weekly, made sure we had a head full of fresh braids before our departure.  No sooner had we unpacked our sleeping bags did we start to receive inquisitive looks from our blue, grey and green eyed counterparts.  A day or two would usually go by as they stole looks out of the corner of their eyes, before an activity of the day usually bonded us in some form in which they finally felt comfortable enough to ask: can I touch your hair?  Unaware of the enigma that our hair produced, we would usually shrug our shoulders and mumble: I don care...  We would soon be surrounded by a circle of girls who gently tugged and pulled and commented on our beads.  I can remember feeling strange, like some foreign specimen unaware of its uniqueness, although, I didn't feel angry the girls in their innocence, really seemed interested and nice.  They always told us how "cool" it was and asked if we could do theirs.  My sister often declined, but me, following in the footsteps of my braid artist mother, would usually agree.  I did my best to try and grab the fine, straight hairs and usually ended up producing a loose, unappealing braid, which I would adorn with a bead or two to try and compensate.  

Well, here I was in Bangalore, older, much wiser but still rockin' the braids.  I was waiting in the narrow aisle of the plane when an Indian man who'd been watching me closely, finally asked: your hair, you do?  I smiled and shook my head no as I said: I pay someone.  He then said: how long last?  I replied: ummm depends...I hope two months.  He replied: mmhhmmm as he continue to study my hair.  He then said: then you unbraid and braid back.  I smiled and shook my head yes.  I then turned my back to politely imply that I was finish with the conversation.  I heard him say: nice.  I gave a smile and a quick thanks.

So, this weekend Nikki was excited to visit the Jungle Lodge Elephant Training Camp.  I'm not a wood-sy kind of gal, but hey, washing an Elephant, at least it would be an experience.  After a horrifying night of dogs howling and elephants...making whatever the hell noise it is that they make, we were in the swamps to wash us some good ol' elephants.  Not wanting to take off my shoes which offered protection from the elephant manure, I opted to play the role of the photographer as Nikki lived out her dreams of an elephant washer.  After she had completed her task, we then went to the next section of the training camp, which, included feeding the elephants.  Once again, I declined to place the peanuts in the mouth of the saliva dripping elephant.  Poised with my camera to record Nikki, an Indian woman approaches Nikki and compliments her on her hair.  I had corn-rowed her head the previous week.  The woman asked Nikki, if she did it, she replied no and informed them that I had braided it. The woman who appeared to be the mother/grandmother of the clan asked me if I would show her.  She then tried to volunteer her granddaughter, who adamantly  refused and stated: no...no...I don't want to...I don't want.  Fine with me.  I returned my attention back to Nikki as she was now petting the baby elephant.  An Indian woman who appeared to be in her early thirties approached me and asked me where I'm from.  I replied: Chicago.  She stated that she was from Boston.  Her mother (I assume) had not accepted the fact that she was not going to be able to see how I created that style in Nikki's hair.  She then said: you show me on her? As she pointed to Nikki.  I started to feel a little objectified for some strange reason (perhaps, because her granddaughter had refused my hands in her hair), I said: no.  I can't take her hair down and re-braid it.  She nodded as if she understood my position, she said: you braid mine?  I thought, is this old nice Indian woman serious?  Does she really want me to corn-row her hair in the middle of this Elephant jungle?  Hell, why not?  So, I began to show her daughter how I separate and braid the hair.  Her entire family, men, included surrounded me, as the girls from the camp had done to me as a little girl, and watched me as I corn-rowed their grandmother's hair.  The grandmother then elatedly told her husband (I assume he was the husband) to look as she excitedly pointed to the side of her hair.  He then makes an exclamation and everyone's talking (of course, I understand none of what's being said) however, their body languages tells me that everyone is giddy over this braid in her hair.  The grandfather then motions for me to remove my hat so that he can see my hair. His daughter, the lady from Boston begins to translate.  He wanted to know how long it would take to braid whole head.  I tell him an hour, but only because I'm fast.  Everyone smiles, nods their head and laugh.  He then points to my hair and said: you don't wash?  The daughter from Boston, quickly intercedes as I assume she assumes that this question may be offensive to me.  She quickly states: no, they wash, you can wash them.  Her eyes look nervous as I gently smile to her and then turn to the grandfather and say: yes, I wash them.  He states: ooohhh and gives his daughter a look that said: what did i say wrong?

At times, this question, similar to the: can I touch your hair use to enrage me.  However, the more and more I learn and study culture, the more equipped I am to handle these encounters with "black hair."  Sometimes, I can act in a sharing, teaching way that I did this day at the camp or at others I can simply say: hell naw, you can't touch my hair.  It just depends on how I'm approached and what mood I'm in.  

So, black women. some things don't change.  Our hair, the thing that we most relish and despise continues to be our source of triumph and fear.

(Check out the pics)

Are you dark because you work out in the field or are you in the fields because you're dark?

Are you dark because you work outside in the fields? Or are  you in the fields because you're dark?  This is a question that I wondered as I observed the agriculturist behind my villa plant, hoe and irrigate the land.  I watched these dark complexioned Indian men and women for over a week, ho, plant and irrigate the land behind my villa which is separated by a thick wall.  

I then began to look around and noticed that all of the gardeners were darker complexioned Indians.  The maid, Ronnie, was a beautiful dark Indian woman.  The street children pointing to their mouths with their hands extended were all dark brown.  The security guards at the gate: all dark.  The drivers and hosts at the high end restaurants: middle to olive brown.  The hosts at the pizza corner, subway, pizza hut delivery man...all dark.  I began to become irritated as I thought back to the extremely beautiful, extremely fair skinned stewardess on the plane.  Could it be that not only Africans and Black Americans had a social class stratification based on how closely one is to being physically European in appearance?  Could Indians also be plagued with this insipid epidemic?  And if this holds true, does it hold true for all of the brown people over the world?

I was shocked to see how many fair lightening products there were on the shelf in the Health and Beauty shop that I stopped in.  My Fair Lady:  skin lightening creme.  Garnier: lighter skin in just 10 days.  As a media student, I'm always interested in the influences that media has on a society.  I've spent the last few days, researching and recording all of the commercials which have fair skin Indians as their lead.  The results were astonishing!  There was not one, not one (and I'm up to 37) commercials which have a middle brown to dark brown Indian in the commercials.  All of the actors/actresses are so fair that they almost appear to be white.  McDonald's, Stayfree, Ads for colleges and job recruitment sites, there are literally no brown to dark Indians to be found!  How is that when the majority of Indians (like Africans and Black Americans) are not fair skinned?  I guess it's the same way that most Black Hollywood films, videos, commercials show case lights skinned Blacks with wavy weaves.  Although, the chocolate brothers have been "in" for quite some time now, the chocolate sisters have yet to make a debut in the world of the "exoticized" beauty.  

L'Oreal, Garnier, My Fair Lady, Kava Skin clinic are the most circulated ads on tv.  Every commercial break has a segment of at least two of these ads.  It became down right depressing.  Although, I relished in the fact that hey, I'm not Indian, I'll never look like that, I'm Black.  After a few days, and several hours of these ads on heavy rotation, I start to think: gosh, what I wouldn't do to clear up these dark blemishes on my face.  Maybe the skin lightener could help with that?  

Maybe it can, maybe it can't.  The fact is: I felt pretty damn good about myself until I saw ad after ad of commercials selling me the ideal of "lightness" and clear skin (something I've always yearned for.)  Sure, my desire stemmed from wanting unblemished skin, but how would this affect darker complexioned Indian women who may think that there is a possibility for them to bleach their ski?  There must be a market because literally every skin commercial advertises and showcases the beauty of "fairness."  

I remember reading something of an anthropologist who created this ridiculous stratus.  He went to Sweden and saw the blonde hair blue eye people and thought them to be extremely beautiful, so, he placed them at the top of the stratus.  And then placed the African with the darker skin and wooly hair at the bottom.  The yellow, brown and red people feel in between.  His name eludes me now, however, if you know, post it so I'll remember.  

So, as I continue to witness the "color issue" as not just a black thang, I gotta wonder: are we dark because we're out in the fields, or are we in the fields because we're dark?

Check this article regarding color, class and class in the Americas.  I found it very interesting.

http://www.afrigeneas.com/forum-world/index.cgi?noframes;read=95

Tell em' to send our jobs back

Before coming here, I attended a dinner celebration for my best friend Stacy who'd just graduated from Medical School.  We were enjoying the festivities when another friend mentioned that I'd be leaving the following week for my summer abroad.  Her mother, a bank teller for almost thirty years, smiled and said: oh really?  Where you going?  I told her that I was going to India and...before I could finish her smile diminished as she said: oh yeah?  Well, tell em' to send our jobs back.  Like many Americans, she had just witnessed a huge downsizing at her bank, in which many of her friends and colleagues had lost their job because the bank had outsourced their jobs to India.  I gave an empathetic nod and returned to my baked chicken.

Upon arriving here, it is obvious to see one major difference between India and Africa.  India is busting at the seams with development. (Although, I'm sure several African countries are also.) Everywhere you look there is construction of some new condominium, office building or corporation being built.  My hostess is here on an assignment for General Motors.  Unfortunately, the closing of many factories in Michigan have proven to be fatal for the State.  Michigan is ranked among the highest in unemployment, crime and high school drop out.  A hard pill to swallow for those of us who love the city, were educated in the school system and whose factory jobs provided a means for our families to survive.  Sigh.

Well back to busting Bangalore.  This city is really thriving.  I believe in the next five years India, among other Asian countries will have come into their own and be a smooth oiled machine.  Nikki, who is a manager at General Motors spoke to how India is known as the IT valley and I must  say, all of the billboards for colleges speak towards getting an education in computers, engineerings, programming or something dealing with IT.  She spoke to how intelligent the people were and eager to learn, so....that's what they're doing.  

Now, I'm not a policy maker (actually, politics is one of my weaker areas of knowledge), however, can we hate on the uprising of developing countries?  Don't get me wrong, I'm an American too:  and I'll wave my flag and march with you for our right to be able to work and make a living.  However, we need to recognize and embrace the fact that we are in a time of change.  Hopefully, this November, we'll show that we're ready to take on the challenges associated with that. 

India-Africa, same thing?

I was shocked to discover the uncanny similarities between areas of India and Africa.  I've already commented on the complexion of the people.  However, I was once again surprise to see Indian as fair complexioned as some whites to as coffee as the Sudanese people.  I do not recall seeing any Africans who were as fair as some of the fair complexioned Indians, however, it is still quite interesting to see the varying degrees of brown.  I have noticed that although there's a similarity in the shades of brown, the under tones are different which alters the skin complexion and highlights it in a different way.  Beautiful, all the same.

The city seems to be bustling with people who are riding their motorbikes to works, hustling toys, candy or article of clothing in the streets, selling fruits and vegetables in stands along side the road, the poor asking for money and children on their way to schools.  It immediately took me back to Kenya, Tanzania and Nigeria.  Overall, the more you travel the more you notice how similar, we, as humans are.  We're all striving to create a life for ourselves and our families...by any means necessary.

Welcome to Bangalore

So, I made it.  20 hrs later and I finally arrived in Bangalore, India.  Please bear with me as I learn how to transition from poetry to novel writing to blogging.  I'm still trying to learn the "blogging culture."  

After clearing customs, which is always awful as foreign security tears through your belongings and marks (often times with white chalk) on your luggage before giving you a once over, then a nod saying that it's okay for you to enter into their country.

I was fortunate enough to find security that spoke English.  Enough to tell me where baggage claim was.  As I waited at baggage claim number 2, I realized that my plane was late by an hour and hoped Nikki (my hostess) would not be worried.  The gate finally opens as I hear the ramp crank up and I secretly hope that my luggage would come quickly.  After the first ten minutes, I figured okay, their must be another cart coming soon, for I still saw about 20 people waiting to collect their bags.  As more bags were deposited onto the ramp and I saw the number of people dwindle, I had a flashback to Lagos.  Where I waited until the gate that opened to deposit the luggage, closed without my luggage.  80% of my trip in Nigeria was spent without my luggage.  I sighed and realized at least that experience had taught me to pack a week's worth of underwear in my carry on and at least two changes of clothes, so, I felt a little comforted.

As I continued to wait trying to dislodge the lost luggage of Lagos out of my mind, I was approached by a woman with two men.  She stated: bag.  72.  bag.  and pointed at the men next to her.  I couldn't figure out what she was saying until I realized that she was trying to get me to pay the men to carry my bags.  Now, my first international trip abroad to Kenya I was duped into thinking that a gentleman was just trying to help a confused American girl out.  Only to find out that the luggage carts were free and that I didn't need to pay him for them.  I later told my Kenyan friends how much the guy told me to pay him and they just shook their heads and told me that he got over: big time.  I quickly looked at the lady, now frustrated that it didn't appear that my luggage was here and acutely told her: no, leave me!  She grouched her shoulders and her and the men disappeared.

I then tried to figure out where to go to report my lost luggage.  No one around me spoke English.  I went person to person trying to communicate: lost baggage.  where do i go?  Finally, an Indian man whose luggage had also not arrived, came up to me and stated that he spoke English and would help me.  I followed him to a small office where approximately ten other people (mostly women) stood/pushed trying to get into the office.  I waited patiently for about five minutes before realizing: closed mouths, don't get fed.  As one young lady tried to elbow her way in front of me, I erected my 140lbs of muscle and fat as I blocked the doorway and gave her that look from Detroit that said: try me if you think I'm playing.  I've drawn the line.  I dare you to cross it.  The woman gave me a once over, huffed then took her place behind me.  It was finally my time to fill out the form.  How much did the bags weigh? What were in them?  What were the names/labels of the bag?  Their description?  I did my best to remember as much as I could as I realized that Nikki was probably freaking out for I had landed about two hours previously.  The process took an extended amount of time for their were two agents who were simultaneously trying to handle the complaints of at least six of us at a time.  Instead of working on one customer at a time, they accepted all of the forms from people who would thrust the paper in the agent face demanding that they were finished.  At this point I gave way and decided, I'm way too tired for this.  At this point, what would be the point.  Hell, I didn't even know where to go once I left the small office of the lost baggage.  The agent finally handed me a copy of my receipt and told me that they would deliver it to me tomorrow morning.  I'm thinking: yeah, right and I must be your Indian sister.  I just hoped that the luggage would turn up within the week.  

Grudgingly, I rolled my carry on luggage looking for the way out before immediately being stopped by two security guards who pointed me back in the direction from which I came.  I sighed, surrendered my passport and said: where next?  They pointed me to a counter in which a man with a thick mustache extended his hand for my paperwork.  I handed him my lost luggage receipt and passport.  He looked through my passport, gave me the seal of approval then asked if anything else was in the suitcase that I had not listed on the receipt.  I forgot that I had not listed my books/jounals.  I told him: oh, my books.  Hooks, he replied? No, books. He gave me a look of confusion.  So, I placed my hands together with the palms open and facing upward, while moving my head left to right.  B-O-O-K-S!  He laughed and said: ooohhh vooks.  Yes. As we both smiled, I realized that non-verbal communication is still the most prevalent and communicative language there is.  I heard a loud banging on the glass doors which caused the security to jump up.  I looked only to see Nikki holding her chest and waving frantically at me.  I ran to the window as we had "A Color Purple" reunion through the glass.  The security figured that we were long lost sisters who had traveled the world to be together.  And at the moment we were.