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.

Am I Going to Make It? (June 7th)

After a two hour delay at Detroit's Metro airport, due to inclement weather in Chicago, I was filled with fatigue and anxiety.  Exhausted from the week's leading up to this trip and anxious that I wasn't going to make my connecting flight which would start my journey to Germany, then Mumbai, finally arriving in Bangalore.  

I had awoke that morning with a red watery eye, outlined with yellow crust.  Conjunctivitis.  I had struggled throughout the earlier part of the year with consistent bouts of the "Pink Eye."  I only hoped that this was brought on by stress and would not have me arriving contagious and irritable.  I arrived at O'Haire International Airport with twenty-five minutes until my departure.  As I hurried, making sure to bump and growl at anyone in my way, I boarded the train which would take me to my terminal.  As I arrived at terminal 5, I was dismayed to find that the check-in counter for Air India was closed.  However, Expedia had mailed my paper ticket and I assumed security would let me through.  As I impatiently looked at the clock, 12 minutes to departure, I tried to smile in an effort to win over the TSA agent.  She quickly informed me that I needed a boarding pass to get through security.  I huffed and informed her that I had already gone to the counter and no one was there to issue me my boarding pass.  She gave me a flat "sorry" and told me that I should knock on the door.  Before she could finish distributing her profound advise, I was already rolling over the foot of the young boy who dared to stand in my way.  I felt the sweat roll between my breast as my braids clung to my neck.  Thinking of the law of attraction, I tried to tell myself that I have the power to change my future events.  You'll make it G, you'll make it.  I arrived back at the counter for Air India prepared to jump over the ticketing counter and bang on the door, when an Indian woman with a walkie-talkie and Air India shirt asked if she could help me.  I nervously explained to her that my flight from Detroit was delayed for two hours and that I was desperately hoping to make my connecting flight to Bangalore.  She looked at me and stated: you're lucky come with me.  As we crossed over the scales for the luggage and entered the room behind the ticket counter, I felt my eyes burn as the water oozed from my infected right eye.  I reached into my red Ralph Lauren duffle bag at pulled out the Kleenex and eye drops.  The lady informed me that the flight to Bangalore was delayed until 9pm. She radioed her supervisor to ensure that it was okay to book me on this flight.   The supervisor approved, just as I dropped the medicine in my eye.   As she printed my boarding pass, I looked at the clock and realized I had 50 minutes to catch my flight.  She informed me that she was going to book me straight through to India so that I would no longer have the six hour lay over in Mumbai.  Instead I would connect through Frankfurt, with a two hour lay over before going to Mumbai for a two hour lay over.  I would not need to collect my baggage in Mumbai, she would have it go straight to Bangalore.  Wonderful!  Thank you Lord, I'm going to make it.  As I graciously shook the woman's hand I began to slow my steps as I realized how badly I needed to go to the rest room.  

As I cleared security, I secretly hoped that all of my media equipment packed in my carry on would pass through smoothly.  As I removed my slip on shoes and placed my two bags on the security belt, I noticed that there was a family of eight trying to get through security and apparently they didn't understand English.  The grandfather kept setting off the metal detector and looked confused as to why.  By the third time he went through, the TSA agent decided to take him into the holding chambers.  You know the place where you have to spread em' and lift your arms and legs.  As the minutes passed, I began to become nervous that I was going to waste my bathroom time in the line and have to use the airplane toilet.  As we all waited with our boarding passes in our hands, the TSA agent eventually was able to get all of the family members through.  As my Canon Rebel digital camera, Sony HD handycam, Lacy transportable hard drive, Mac powerbook and cellular phone went through the x-ray, I received questionable looks from the TSA screen agent before being given the nod to continue.  I quickly relieved myself in the bathroom and then headed towards the counter with 23 minutes to spare.  However, as I approached the counter I was shocked to see that there were no passengers waiting as the counter clerk looked up at me and ruffly told me that they had been waiting for me.  I stammered as I tried to tell him that I didn't think that the flight left until 9 and that....before I could finish he had ripped my boarding pass and instructed the agent at the door that she was here, send her down.  Who was she?  Was she me?  I entered the plane and was greeted by some of the most beautiful stewardess that I had every seen.  The women were dressed in traditional Indian sarees and their hair and makeup was impeccable.  I smiled as the woman bowed with her hands clasped in front of her.  I looked down at my boarding pass to discover that I was sitting in row 78h.  78?  How many rows were on this plane.  As I tried to count and mathematically calculate how many seats were on the plane, I looked up and was shock to see: excuse my ignorance, so many Indians!  Yes, I was flying Air India to India, however, I had never seen so many Indians gathered in one place.  As I  squeezed down the narrow aisle my eyes quickly scanned the faces of these brown people.  No, they were not Black or African, however, they too encompassed every color of the brown rainbow.  From vanilla to coffee, they were as varied as my people.  I found my seat, which thankfully was an aisle seat next to an Indian boy who appeared to be about 13.  I gave a weak smile as I took my seat and felt the exhaustion pass through my body.  One more thing to do.  I needed to call my mother for she had wrung my phone incessantly to see if I made my connecting flight.  I informed her I had and to call my hostess and let her know that I would be arriving two hours earlier than previously scheduled.  I inconspicuously sniffed my body to see how painful this ride would be for my neighbors.  It was okay, the Secret deodorant wasn't telling on me:) I wanted a drink, a shot of vodka that could put me out for the the next 8.5hrs.  However, I had noticed earlier as I scanned the faces of the passengers that I was, as I usually am on international flights, the only Black...well, I guess I wasn't the only Black person, but I was the only Black American on the plane.  Which made me wonder why that was?  Why did I never see Black Americans as I switched planes in Switzerland, Frankfurt, Spain, etc.?  Anyhow, true to the stigma's that I'd been taught as a child, don't be actin' like a fool round dese' white folks.  They weren't white but the notion still remained the same:  when you're the only Black American you always have to be conscious that you represent more than yourself.  As such, I decided to pass on asking the stewardess for some liqka' and instead I popped 3 benadryls.  Hopefully, this would stop the eye from running and knock me out for the flight.  Let's just say, I didn't make it to: could you please turn off all electronics...before I was knocked out.