Mother Teresa Charities
During my week visit in Kolkata at the suggestion of a friend I volunteered at the Mother Teresa Charities and Ministries for a few days. The ministry is comprised of several locations, which care for either handicapped or abandoned children, or elderly people on the verge of dying. My friend and I signed up to help at Premdon, a large facility that cares for dying men and women. Our day started by hand-washing clothes in an assembly line with about ten other volunteers from all over the world, where we took turns scrubbing, soaking, rinsing, or hanging the clothes and sheets (It’s an awesome experience in itself to work with people from every part of the globe who have a desire to serve the poor and destitute). Clearly, any sort of washing machine would cut the time of this task by more than half but apparently the Mother Teresa way is to keep things simple and simulate the way the people you are taking care of live their lives. However, her outreach started quite some time ago and if she were here now I’m thinking she would not disapprove of a refrigerator so meat wouldn’t spoil or a few washing technique upgrades. Nonetheless, the experience bonded us with the other volunteers and I feel so blessed to have been even a very small part in the Mother Teresa ministries.
One morning while ringing out clothes a sister called me over to help her change bandages for the patients. I was supposed to lift them on and off the table and keep them in a position suitable for the sister to clean their wounds and bed sores. I tried to keep my face flinches to a minimal as the sister peeled back the white tissue covering ghastly scares so deep you could see their bones, black and rotting from exposure to the open air. One women was so skinny she could have posed as a holocaust survivor, her shoulder blades protruding out and her stomach so sunken in it was difficult to define her actual figure. She had bed wounds so deep it was as if someone has gouged out a one-inch deep chunk of her skin all around the area surrounding her tailbone. Cleaning her wounds was obviously painful as she flinched and audibly moaned while the sisters squeezed out yellow goup revealing her inner flesh (which literally looked like a piece of raw meat) and then squirted several ointments and re-wrapped the wounds. I reached for her hand and stroked her cheek, I thought she was crying but I wasn’t sure if her face was simply stained with tears or if these were fresh tears. Each time she moaned and squeezed my hand tighter I drew my face closer to hers and whispered ‘it’s ok, you’re almost done’ but I think I said this more for me than her. I knew she couldn’t understand me but I had to say something. Our eyes met and I never felt so close to death, I wanted to cry but as I glanced at the sisters working diligently I knew this was no time to break down. I had never held someone so close to the end, we locked eyes again and I could almost feel the pain riveting through her limbs in her lifeless expression and contorted body, I held her hand more tightly and hummed gently still not knowing if this was to sooth her or me. Death is not something for any us to dread or consume our minds with, and if anything I feel more comfortable with death after working with these women, but it also made me want to believe that death is just one more stop along each person’s journey and not the final destination. Perhaps it will be my final destination but for these men and women I hope they have a second chance or opportunity to live a decent life. I guess that is the intent of Mother Teresa’s mission to give the poorest and lowest people in society a little respect and love before they died, which everyone deserves. Of course no one can say what will happens after death, but it can’t hurt to hold someone’s hand as they exit their time on earth.
One morning while ringing out clothes a sister called me over to help her change bandages for the patients. I was supposed to lift them on and off the table and keep them in a position suitable for the sister to clean their wounds and bed sores. I tried to keep my face flinches to a minimal as the sister peeled back the white tissue covering ghastly scares so deep you could see their bones, black and rotting from exposure to the open air. One women was so skinny she could have posed as a holocaust survivor, her shoulder blades protruding out and her stomach so sunken in it was difficult to define her actual figure. She had bed wounds so deep it was as if someone has gouged out a one-inch deep chunk of her skin all around the area surrounding her tailbone. Cleaning her wounds was obviously painful as she flinched and audibly moaned while the sisters squeezed out yellow goup revealing her inner flesh (which literally looked like a piece of raw meat) and then squirted several ointments and re-wrapped the wounds. I reached for her hand and stroked her cheek, I thought she was crying but I wasn’t sure if her face was simply stained with tears or if these were fresh tears. Each time she moaned and squeezed my hand tighter I drew my face closer to hers and whispered ‘it’s ok, you’re almost done’ but I think I said this more for me than her. I knew she couldn’t understand me but I had to say something. Our eyes met and I never felt so close to death, I wanted to cry but as I glanced at the sisters working diligently I knew this was no time to break down. I had never held someone so close to the end, we locked eyes again and I could almost feel the pain riveting through her limbs in her lifeless expression and contorted body, I held her hand more tightly and hummed gently still not knowing if this was to sooth her or me. Death is not something for any us to dread or consume our minds with, and if anything I feel more comfortable with death after working with these women, but it also made me want to believe that death is just one more stop along each person’s journey and not the final destination. Perhaps it will be my final destination but for these men and women I hope they have a second chance or opportunity to live a decent life. I guess that is the intent of Mother Teresa’s mission to give the poorest and lowest people in society a little respect and love before they died, which everyone deserves. Of course no one can say what will happens after death, but it can’t hurt to hold someone’s hand as they exit their time on earth.
Kolkata!
Visiting Kolkata is like taking a time-machine back to the mid 1900s with the countless large yellow 1940’s taxis and soot that covers the city making it appear as if you are stepping into a black and white photograph. The heavy British influence is still visible in the architecture, street layout, taxis, street trolleys, and larger central park, but Kolkata is by no means stagnate, and what makes Kolkata interesting is this mix of British and Indian culture. There are certainly signs of modern western influence, posh hotels, coffee shops, restaurants, and book stores that cater towards the English reader, but in Kolkata a street beggar, cycle-rickshaw, or cheap street food vendor is never far off. The city appears a jumbled mess, there is constant honking and traffic jams, piles of garbage, towering and tangled banyan trees lining the street, crumbled sidewalks, street fires used to serve deliciously cheap Bengali food, shanty towns squeezed next to five star hotels, and buildings that probably haven’t been touched since the British built them a hundred or more years ago, however, if you have time to get past the soot and noise, there are layers of culture and complexities that make this city a must visit in India.
Varanasi
Twenty-four hours in regular sleeper class just might be too much time on an Indian train with stomach problems. I couldn’t have been happier to arrive in Varanasi (really just to get off the train) but before I could relax I had to find a guest house before my friends arrived that evening. By the time I had made it to the back-packers part of the city, with guest-houses near the river, I was delirious with exhaustion and relieved to find a cheap guest-house with a hot bucket shower. After regaining my strength and meeting my friends, I was relieved to find Varanasi not too crowded and not filled with local Indians trying to scam you. The old part of the city is like a life-size maze for humans, where you have to dodge street sludge, dogs, beggars, street vendors, other tourists, and most difficult enormous cows and bulls meandering the stone pathways not larger than the width of their torso. The river had receded quite low since monsoon season was over a couple months ago but we were told it would get even lower, which would be hard to imagine.
The most spectacular part of the river was our sunrise boat cruise on a wooden boat, which we realized only after starting that water was slowly seeping hence the reason the man rowing the boat tried to stay close to shore. Needless to say we made it back safe but we got a quite a few worried stares from other tourists as our boat driver stopped half way to bail out a few buckets of water.
The most spectacular part of the river was our sunrise boat cruise on a wooden boat, which we realized only after starting that water was slowly seeping hence the reason the man rowing the boat tried to stay close to shore. Needless to say we made it back safe but we got a quite a few worried stares from other tourists as our boat driver stopped half way to bail out a few buckets of water.
My family goodbye
For all the times I grumbled about my hard bed, cold bucket shower, and squirmed when cock-roaches crawled in the corners of the house, I started to have second thoughts about leaving Jodhpur when it was time to say good-bye to my host family. On my last morning they cooked me a huge breakfast and sat with me as we both shared our last thoughts, trying not to make the moment awkward. My host sister assured me we would meet again, and even though she was not engaged yet I was already invited to her wedding. I had to leave early in the morning to board my twenty-four hour train ride to Varanasi so my host mom called a special taxi for me, and before we knew it the driver was honking outside the front door. They helped me carry my bags downstairs and then before launching my last bag in the taxi I embraced each of them one last time. Once inside the taxi my host my reached for my hand and I could see she was shaking and her eyes were beginning to swell. The taxi driver looked back at us, but my host my didn’t let go, instead to patted my cheek, brushing the tears from my cheek as her eyes simultaneously brimmed over with sadness. I spouted out my latest Hindi phrase ‘I will miss you’ then she wiped her face with her sari and we waved good-bye as the taxi engine roared obnoxiously loud towards the main street.
One last week in the field
After a rough bout of meetings with our boss and adviser (the first who hasn’t talked to us since the second week of the internship and the second who advised us to quit because one man in the slum questioned us) I have to admit my internship had a happy ending.
On Thursday I was antsy with anticipation. The weather was pleasant as the sun had not risen to its peak position yet, and I walked briskly passed the smells and garbage that did not phase me anymore. Three women’s group had told us they would assemble at 2:00 pm with the money required to open a savings account, plus they promised that all members had understood and signed their respective constitutions. I should have known better after two months of women telling me the would meet tomorrow, they would fill out the form tomorrow, they would come to sewing class tomorrow, everything was tomorrow, that when tomorrow came around the reply was the same: tomorrow. I realize, however, these women’s lives are not structured to suit my eight to five job (actually in India it’s like ten to six, with a couple hours for lunch). I wanted so badly to scream at them on Friday, when two groups told us a couple members couldn’t come because of shopping or something. We told you yesterday to come at 2:00, couldn’t you have planned your shopping trip for another time! But I know I am simplifying their lives. Women in this slum still have to ‘clean’ their rice (I don’t know the correct term) meaning they spend hours filtering rice and grains just to make the simple chapattis (of which I could wolf down five in seconds not thinking twice how long each one takes to make). The last group was all Muslim women so although they had collected all the money and signatures, not all three leaders were willing to go to the bank on the Friday Muslim holiday. This was understandable but still frustrating.
On Saturday, we met with our gracious translator, Jyoti, for the third day, a law student and friend of JoEun’s. Joti was immensely helpful and spend so much time with us the last days of my internship, there is no way I will be able to properly pay her back for her patience and translation services. We were now down to two groups promising to meet us around 10:00 am since the bank closes early on Saturday. JoEun went to Chokya’s group and Jyoti and I went to Annu’s. My mind was in mixed emotions this day, realizing it was the last day I would stroll down these dirt roads, carefully stepping around garbage, sewage puddles, and cows, all the while smiling profusely as little children ran to shake my hand (this apparently never gets old for anyone under the age of ten here) and placing my hands at heart center to give a calm namaste to the shop owner who had grown familiar to my presence and our four line repetitive conversations asking each other ‘good afternoon’ and ‘how are you’. I was hopeful that these women would come through, but I also knew their lives were unpredictable, so I prepared myself for a final day and tried not to get emotional.
Jyoti and I did not have luck with Annu’s group because one of the essential group leaders had to clean houses until 2:00. This time I wasn’t frustrated at all, instead I was swallowing back tears as I tried to ignore the realization that when the women promised me Tuesday they would all have to time to go to the bank, I would not be there. It was no use, a single tear slipped out and the few women and children looked at me quizzically. I didn’t know if I was crying because of guilt that I was abandoning these families or sadness because I was loosing these women I had become friends with over the course of my internship. When one women called me over and took my face into her hands, and began wiping my tears, cooing softly ‘no cry, no cry’ I knew it was because I was saying bye to my good friends for a long time or potentially forever. There was no time to morn, however, since Chokya’s group was ready to open an account today, Jyoti and I got a call from JuEun that she was already headed to the bank with the three group leaders.
I cleared my mind and got back to business as Jyoti and I trotted down the street for five minutes towards the local bank. When we arrived the three group leaders were perched on a green plastic sofa and JoEun was kneeling in front of them organizing papers. You would not believe the amount of documentation and signatures required for these women to open a group account. We got a few stares but for the most part no one flinched an eye as JoEun, Jyoti, and I kneeled in front of the women explaining and asking them to sign countless documents and scurrying around confirming the next step from various bank employees. Just under three hours of this confusion and pleading for the bank to stay open a few minutes longer, the bank manager handed us a slip with the group’s account number and registration confirmation. We handed it to the group secretary who promptly placed the slip of paper in her sari top. As ridiculous as this would have appeared to me my first week in Jodhpur, by then I knew this was a good sign and that these women would take the account seriously. Upon exiting the bank we all hugged each other and took photos. I’m not sure that the women were as excited as I was, they were all a little anxious to return home since the outing had taken much longer than expected.
It was time to say our last good-byes, which were much harder and longer than I expected. I finally had to pull myself away after an hour of kisses and tears from the women caressing my face and hands. The women asked me for my address and phone number in America, I knew we would probably never be in contact in the future but it was a nice thought that there was some way we could contact each other. Hopping on the crowded bus for the last time in Jodhpur I pretended just this, that someday we would embrace, laugh, and share chai together again.
On Thursday I was antsy with anticipation. The weather was pleasant as the sun had not risen to its peak position yet, and I walked briskly passed the smells and garbage that did not phase me anymore. Three women’s group had told us they would assemble at 2:00 pm with the money required to open a savings account, plus they promised that all members had understood and signed their respective constitutions. I should have known better after two months of women telling me the would meet tomorrow, they would fill out the form tomorrow, they would come to sewing class tomorrow, everything was tomorrow, that when tomorrow came around the reply was the same: tomorrow. I realize, however, these women’s lives are not structured to suit my eight to five job (actually in India it’s like ten to six, with a couple hours for lunch). I wanted so badly to scream at them on Friday, when two groups told us a couple members couldn’t come because of shopping or something. We told you yesterday to come at 2:00, couldn’t you have planned your shopping trip for another time! But I know I am simplifying their lives. Women in this slum still have to ‘clean’ their rice (I don’t know the correct term) meaning they spend hours filtering rice and grains just to make the simple chapattis (of which I could wolf down five in seconds not thinking twice how long each one takes to make). The last group was all Muslim women so although they had collected all the money and signatures, not all three leaders were willing to go to the bank on the Friday Muslim holiday. This was understandable but still frustrating.
On Saturday, we met with our gracious translator, Jyoti, for the third day, a law student and friend of JoEun’s. Joti was immensely helpful and spend so much time with us the last days of my internship, there is no way I will be able to properly pay her back for her patience and translation services. We were now down to two groups promising to meet us around 10:00 am since the bank closes early on Saturday. JoEun went to Chokya’s group and Jyoti and I went to Annu’s. My mind was in mixed emotions this day, realizing it was the last day I would stroll down these dirt roads, carefully stepping around garbage, sewage puddles, and cows, all the while smiling profusely as little children ran to shake my hand (this apparently never gets old for anyone under the age of ten here) and placing my hands at heart center to give a calm namaste to the shop owner who had grown familiar to my presence and our four line repetitive conversations asking each other ‘good afternoon’ and ‘how are you’. I was hopeful that these women would come through, but I also knew their lives were unpredictable, so I prepared myself for a final day and tried not to get emotional.
Jyoti and I did not have luck with Annu’s group because one of the essential group leaders had to clean houses until 2:00. This time I wasn’t frustrated at all, instead I was swallowing back tears as I tried to ignore the realization that when the women promised me Tuesday they would all have to time to go to the bank, I would not be there. It was no use, a single tear slipped out and the few women and children looked at me quizzically. I didn’t know if I was crying because of guilt that I was abandoning these families or sadness because I was loosing these women I had become friends with over the course of my internship. When one women called me over and took my face into her hands, and began wiping my tears, cooing softly ‘no cry, no cry’ I knew it was because I was saying bye to my good friends for a long time or potentially forever. There was no time to morn, however, since Chokya’s group was ready to open an account today, Jyoti and I got a call from JuEun that she was already headed to the bank with the three group leaders.
I cleared my mind and got back to business as Jyoti and I trotted down the street for five minutes towards the local bank. When we arrived the three group leaders were perched on a green plastic sofa and JoEun was kneeling in front of them organizing papers. You would not believe the amount of documentation and signatures required for these women to open a group account. We got a few stares but for the most part no one flinched an eye as JoEun, Jyoti, and I kneeled in front of the women explaining and asking them to sign countless documents and scurrying around confirming the next step from various bank employees. Just under three hours of this confusion and pleading for the bank to stay open a few minutes longer, the bank manager handed us a slip with the group’s account number and registration confirmation. We handed it to the group secretary who promptly placed the slip of paper in her sari top. As ridiculous as this would have appeared to me my first week in Jodhpur, by then I knew this was a good sign and that these women would take the account seriously. Upon exiting the bank we all hugged each other and took photos. I’m not sure that the women were as excited as I was, they were all a little anxious to return home since the outing had taken much longer than expected.
It was time to say our last good-byes, which were much harder and longer than I expected. I finally had to pull myself away after an hour of kisses and tears from the women caressing my face and hands. The women asked me for my address and phone number in America, I knew we would probably never be in contact in the future but it was a nice thought that there was some way we could contact each other. Hopping on the crowded bus for the last time in Jodhpur I pretended just this, that someday we would embrace, laugh, and share chai together again.
Learning from Field Work
Sometimes life is too ridiculous to explain here. At the end of work day I have to pretend it’s all normal just so I don’t stay up all night thinking what I might have done wrong or spend too much time criticizing the work process among NGO’s in India. I have been working to form Self Help Groups among women in a local slum area, basically groups of women who have a common objective such as opening a shop or simply improving their livelihood and so they generally save money together and have regular meetings. The NGO I was paired with ended up being completely useless and non-supportive so one other intern and I have spent the last two month going independently to this community with another field worker (who does not speak English but wants to help women) and educating the women about Self Help Groups, along with teaching English and a few public health classes. Of course we also spend a lot of time just chatting, drinking chai, dancing, and taking photos, but this was also part of the process of gaining the trust of this community. With lots of luck and some persistence, it seemed we would have the chance to actually take these women to the bank to open a group savings account. But as I am frequently reminded of while working here, it is never a good idea to get your hopes too high. Perhaps this is true of any project in life, you need to keep your emotions and expectations on balance, but after daily committing to this community for just over two months (despite our lack of translation skills) I was sincerely hopeful we would help them open a savings account (I have one more week so you never know what will happen but..). The trouble started when my co-worker and I were given an advisor. He’s a smart man, speaks Hindi and English, and was a former government employee in the agricultural department. The only issue was that he didn’t respect the work my co-worker and I have done, and for that matter he only wants to listen to himself talk and our meetings consisted of him lecturing us on what we have done wrong. On his second day to the field with us he got in a dispute with some older men who were questioning our presence in the community, and this one incident was enough for him to turn to JoEun and I in the field and tell us right there and then to quit. Well that was the last thing on our minds after over two months with this group of women, but I was reminded of previous experiences I had had with ‘respected’ members of society, such as government officials, and it is not a good idea to disagree with them particularly if you are a women. So I swallowed every nasty comment I wanted to hurl his way and sat in silence on the rickshaw ride home while he told me how under-qualified I was to set up a microfinance institute, despite the fact that I had mentioned every chance he stopped talking that we were not setting up a microfinance institute. The next day we had another lecture (which I guess was suppose to be a meeting). Luckily, the FSD director (the main US organization I am working for) agreed this man is preposterous and has terminated our partnership with him. Tomorrow JoEun and I will go back into the community to restore any damage and maybe we will be at the bank by the end of the week!
Monkey Park
On the outskirts of Jodhpur there are some ancient Hindu and Jain temples that have I guess been usurped by or designated as the place for monkeys to hang out. It is a hilarious experience to watch hundreds of monkey interacting, snacking, and swinging from the tree branches. If you are lucky you can hand feed them, but don't get near the babies because the momma monkeys are not afraid to show their teeth!
Bollywood or Hollywood
Every night at 9:00 my host family and I eat dinner (don’t ask me why Indians eat so late but that seems to be when most people eat here in Jodhpur or later). We sit in front of the TV watching this ridiculous reality TV serious called Big Boss. In the show a bunch of Bollywood celebrities have to live in a big house together where there are secret cameras so their every move can be monitored by the Big Boss (another famous movie star who hosts the show, and my host family told me he is from Pakistan). Every week on the show the audience votes for one celebrity to be kicked off. It sounds simple but there also seem to be some other rules I haven’t figured out because occasionally celebrities will come back after they were kicked off or random people will join the house (I guess it would help if I could understand Hindi but I’d rather not ask for a translation because most of the drama is quite petty and I can guess as well as they could translate what happened in one argument or another). Last week there was a wedding on the show between two of the celebrities. It’s pretty random but then again US reality TV is pretty bad and full of awful drama, so at least they are just living in a house together and not all sleeping with each other, which some American TV shows promote (and I know they are not sleeping with each other on this show because there are camera’s in every room and besides this their beds are in a communal room so it would be huge drama if something did happen). I have to say I prefer Hollywood over Bollywood, but as far as reality TV both are pretty dismal.
Teaching tennis in Jodhpur, maybe?
“I can teach tennis,” I told my the FSD program coordinator, who was trying to get interns to teach anything they were skilled at to a local school. “Yes, anything is possible” she responded. While I highly doubted this local Jodhpur school had tennis courts, this is the common response to any question or inquiry in India: anything is possible. Sure I thought, from my experience it’s anything that is illegal, crazy, or preposterous, but I decided to go along with the idea that I was actually going to teach tennis to some Indian school kids. I was told to wait at 7:00 am on the corner of a street near my house and a man would pick me up. As I waited for thirty minutes on this random curb, I kept thinking how ridiculous this is, I don’t even know the name of the school or have any contact information. Before my mind could wander any longer, a small red auto (more like a motor bike with a wagon connected) pulled up next to me and the driver started speaking to me in Hindi. Since neither of us had any idea what the other person was trying to ask, I figured not many autos with a bundle of school children in the back would be stopping to pick up a white girl, so I hopped in the front seat.
We drove into the more posh neighborhoods, all comprised of peach stone houses, down ally ways and roads that are behind crowded store fronts, tea stalls, and hotels, houses you otherwise would never noticed if you didn’t know the small road to turn down. For most of the ride I sat in silence, glancing back a few times to the girls and boys behind me, too young to be embarrassed by the pink uniforms required by their school. After about thirty minutes of picking up kids (it might be faster if the driver didn’t drive to the front of each house and instead had two or three universal stops, we definitely could have cut the time in half). Eventually, the one kid who spoke English was shuffled to the front seat next to me as we drove outside the city limits and finally towards the school. No sooner had I started my conversation with this nine-year boy when the bus got a flat tire. “Don’t worry ma’am, this happens every week,” my seat buddy assured me. I peered out the widow as the slim bus driver efficiently switched out the flat tire, I tried to picture school bus driver’s in America fixing a flat tire as quickly as this man did. Recalling my own elementary school bus driver I’m sure she never changed a flat tire in her life. She was probably over fifty, over-weights permed and died brown hair, wearing velcro shoes and a flowery designed blouse, and smoke still lingered in her breath from the last cigarette she had before starting her shift.
We arrived at the school and of course there were no tennis facilities, just a huge dirt field. So I was directed by the principle to just play with the children since apparently next week was sports testing week and they didn’t want to teach the kids anything new or purchase any new equipment. Actually this school’s resources and class-rooms impressed me, the kids were very well behaved, and most of the teachers could speak English.
I joined a group of young boys kicking around a soccer ball, there were no teams or goals, the game seemed to just be keep the ball yourself as long as possible (I was suddenly thankful for my summer soccer leagues and also lucky these boys weren’t too impressive themselves). After exhausting my interest in soccer I joined a younger group of girls and boys practicing yoga. This could be India’s advantage in the future, that their eight year olds already have the patience to meditate and chant ‘om’. While the rest of the world cannot sit still and stresses themselves out with our high-paced society, maybe Indian workers in the future will use their meditation skills to calmly conduct meetings and persevere. I hope this will happen in the NGO field particularly because so far I have been unimpressed with the NGO workers here. Many are corrupt and simply start an NGO to get tax breaks, money, or social recognition.
No city buses directly came to the school, so after a cup of chai, I was taken on a motorbike to the nearest bus stand about three miles away. There is nothing like an early morning ride on a motorbike in Rajasthan, the dessert cliffs with the sun emanating behind them and a gentle breeze to quell the rising temperatures. My mind was totally at peace as we whizzed down the gravel road, dodging tundra and pot-holes, there were no other vehicles in site and no one to stare at my white skin. I couldn’t help but smile and hope that I would be back, if nothing more than for this short, early morning motorbike ride.
We drove into the more posh neighborhoods, all comprised of peach stone houses, down ally ways and roads that are behind crowded store fronts, tea stalls, and hotels, houses you otherwise would never noticed if you didn’t know the small road to turn down. For most of the ride I sat in silence, glancing back a few times to the girls and boys behind me, too young to be embarrassed by the pink uniforms required by their school. After about thirty minutes of picking up kids (it might be faster if the driver didn’t drive to the front of each house and instead had two or three universal stops, we definitely could have cut the time in half). Eventually, the one kid who spoke English was shuffled to the front seat next to me as we drove outside the city limits and finally towards the school. No sooner had I started my conversation with this nine-year boy when the bus got a flat tire. “Don’t worry ma’am, this happens every week,” my seat buddy assured me. I peered out the widow as the slim bus driver efficiently switched out the flat tire, I tried to picture school bus driver’s in America fixing a flat tire as quickly as this man did. Recalling my own elementary school bus driver I’m sure she never changed a flat tire in her life. She was probably over fifty, over-weights permed and died brown hair, wearing velcro shoes and a flowery designed blouse, and smoke still lingered in her breath from the last cigarette she had before starting her shift.
We arrived at the school and of course there were no tennis facilities, just a huge dirt field. So I was directed by the principle to just play with the children since apparently next week was sports testing week and they didn’t want to teach the kids anything new or purchase any new equipment. Actually this school’s resources and class-rooms impressed me, the kids were very well behaved, and most of the teachers could speak English.
I joined a group of young boys kicking around a soccer ball, there were no teams or goals, the game seemed to just be keep the ball yourself as long as possible (I was suddenly thankful for my summer soccer leagues and also lucky these boys weren’t too impressive themselves). After exhausting my interest in soccer I joined a younger group of girls and boys practicing yoga. This could be India’s advantage in the future, that their eight year olds already have the patience to meditate and chant ‘om’. While the rest of the world cannot sit still and stresses themselves out with our high-paced society, maybe Indian workers in the future will use their meditation skills to calmly conduct meetings and persevere. I hope this will happen in the NGO field particularly because so far I have been unimpressed with the NGO workers here. Many are corrupt and simply start an NGO to get tax breaks, money, or social recognition.
No city buses directly came to the school, so after a cup of chai, I was taken on a motorbike to the nearest bus stand about three miles away. There is nothing like an early morning ride on a motorbike in Rajasthan, the dessert cliffs with the sun emanating behind them and a gentle breeze to quell the rising temperatures. My mind was totally at peace as we whizzed down the gravel road, dodging tundra and pot-holes, there were no other vehicles in site and no one to stare at my white skin. I couldn’t help but smile and hope that I would be back, if nothing more than for this short, early morning motorbike ride.
Pushpa
The only aspect of my job that is stable is the smile on Pushpa-ji’s face when Jo Eun and I get off the bus near the slum colony. She wears a colorful sari everyday and without fail launches a giant hug towards both of us, squeezes our cheeks and hands, all the while her face is beaming, she’s grinning and giggling with excitement. It is as if we were old friends finally re-uniting, about to embark on a great journey, in reality though we only met in October and we travel to the same place everyday. I would never crush her childlike enthusiasm though, and frankly her joyful spirit is a must for NGO work.
Pushpa is the sole employee at our NGO since Jo Eun and I are volunteers. While she has no formal training, did not make it past the 9th class, and can hardly speak a word of English, her caring nature by far makes up for her lack of these skills. She stumbled upon NGO work when after years of an abusive marriage the site manager at Foundation for Sustainable Development (the organization based in the U.S. that I am associated with) helped her separate from her husband and provided her a job as a stitching teacher. Now she has been thrown into the position of field worker for a micro-finance organization, and don’t get me wrong she learns fast, but there are times when I feel like the whole community we are working in is going to turn against us because she misinterpreted something or makes a rash decision that a certain caste shouldn’t be included in the finance groups. I’m at a double disadvantage because I can’t speak Hindi, and she and the community only speak Hindi. So often they are arguing over something I have absolutely no control over and I can only conjure up the worst as I try to pick out the scattered words of Hindi I know. It’s in these moments I am imagining the community banishing me, only to realize they were arguing over the price of someone’s sari or simply having a conversation about where they went for Diwali holiday. I guess it’s a lesson for me to have more faith in people, even if they don’t speak your language. And it’s amazing how much you can communicate and hold a friendship based solely on body language (and laughing in Pushpa’s case)! I sometimes forget that as frustrated as I get at Pushpa because I can’t understand her, she must be thinking the same thing too. After all I am in India, and most people in Jodhpur speak Hindi, so she’s probably wondering what is this white girl doing here who can’t speak a lick of Hindi and she wants to help a community of people who only speak Hindi! If anything like this every crossed her mind though I would never know. Even when I try to act stern and communicate as best as possible that it is not ok to be late or that we need to stay in the field longer, she just chuckles, caresses my arm and leans her head against my shoulder, asking ‘why’? In other words, ‘Stef didi why do you worry about these trivial details, what you want to accomplish takes time, be patient and continue to smile and gain people’s trust in the mean time’.
I can only imagine her as a young girl, the same endearing grin present, only thinner and lankier. Her thick black hair in a knot behind her, her body language giddy and loose, she probably played in the streets with the other children, skipping over garbage piles and around cows loitering on the dirt roads, her laugh all the while echoing down the narrow streets and pathways that wind around Jodhpur. She probably looked forward to each Diwali, drawing henna designs on the palms and feet of her friends, while anticipating the numerous amounts of sweets to be consumed at the family gatherings. I’m sure she gossiped with her friends and talked about the cute boy across the lunch room. However, she also knew she would have an arranged marriage (as do most girls and boys still in Jodhpur). At age fourteen she was wed and a year later she had her first child. Her youthful spirit has not been crushed whatsoever despite her early and difficult marriage. Perhaps she is more appreciative of life now and that is why she cannot stop smiling. Whatever the reason for her pleasant nature, this women is the definition of hospitality and love. She is constantly inviting JoEun and I to her house, and the few times we’ve gone she serves an inordinate amount of food (which is why I can’t handle going all the time) and regardless of the weather, my mood, or what’s happening with the NGO you can count on her to be smiling and laughing through any situation.
Pushpa is the sole employee at our NGO since Jo Eun and I are volunteers. While she has no formal training, did not make it past the 9th class, and can hardly speak a word of English, her caring nature by far makes up for her lack of these skills. She stumbled upon NGO work when after years of an abusive marriage the site manager at Foundation for Sustainable Development (the organization based in the U.S. that I am associated with) helped her separate from her husband and provided her a job as a stitching teacher. Now she has been thrown into the position of field worker for a micro-finance organization, and don’t get me wrong she learns fast, but there are times when I feel like the whole community we are working in is going to turn against us because she misinterpreted something or makes a rash decision that a certain caste shouldn’t be included in the finance groups. I’m at a double disadvantage because I can’t speak Hindi, and she and the community only speak Hindi. So often they are arguing over something I have absolutely no control over and I can only conjure up the worst as I try to pick out the scattered words of Hindi I know. It’s in these moments I am imagining the community banishing me, only to realize they were arguing over the price of someone’s sari or simply having a conversation about where they went for Diwali holiday. I guess it’s a lesson for me to have more faith in people, even if they don’t speak your language. And it’s amazing how much you can communicate and hold a friendship based solely on body language (and laughing in Pushpa’s case)! I sometimes forget that as frustrated as I get at Pushpa because I can’t understand her, she must be thinking the same thing too. After all I am in India, and most people in Jodhpur speak Hindi, so she’s probably wondering what is this white girl doing here who can’t speak a lick of Hindi and she wants to help a community of people who only speak Hindi! If anything like this every crossed her mind though I would never know. Even when I try to act stern and communicate as best as possible that it is not ok to be late or that we need to stay in the field longer, she just chuckles, caresses my arm and leans her head against my shoulder, asking ‘why’? In other words, ‘Stef didi why do you worry about these trivial details, what you want to accomplish takes time, be patient and continue to smile and gain people’s trust in the mean time’.
I can only imagine her as a young girl, the same endearing grin present, only thinner and lankier. Her thick black hair in a knot behind her, her body language giddy and loose, she probably played in the streets with the other children, skipping over garbage piles and around cows loitering on the dirt roads, her laugh all the while echoing down the narrow streets and pathways that wind around Jodhpur. She probably looked forward to each Diwali, drawing henna designs on the palms and feet of her friends, while anticipating the numerous amounts of sweets to be consumed at the family gatherings. I’m sure she gossiped with her friends and talked about the cute boy across the lunch room. However, she also knew she would have an arranged marriage (as do most girls and boys still in Jodhpur). At age fourteen she was wed and a year later she had her first child. Her youthful spirit has not been crushed whatsoever despite her early and difficult marriage. Perhaps she is more appreciative of life now and that is why she cannot stop smiling. Whatever the reason for her pleasant nature, this women is the definition of hospitality and love. She is constantly inviting JoEun and I to her house, and the few times we’ve gone she serves an inordinate amount of food (which is why I can’t handle going all the time) and regardless of the weather, my mood, or what’s happening with the NGO you can count on her to be smiling and laughing through any situation.
The Taj Mahal is everything everyone has ever told you. It’s stunning, it’s the most beautiful piece of architecture created, it’s timeless, flawless, serene, unforgettable, and yet at the same time it’s beauty perhaps is exaggerated, over-stated, it’s crowded, expensive, and not worth the extra train ride. At first my expectations were let down as I waited in line anticipating my sunrise Taj Mahal experience, but instead I watched the sky lighten to a misty morning blue from outside the main gates (despite catching a rickshaw at 5:30am after only arriving in Agra at 1:00 am on a bumpy evening bus right from Dehli). When at last my friends and I were granted entrance, this is after we got to the security check point and they told us we were not allowed two bags and we had to carry everything with us since we were heading back to Jodhpur that night, and so we had to walk back a quarter mile to the locker rooms, maybe the Indian tourist bureau should consider a sign or two about that policy, any ways… I slowly realized why this palace is world renown.
When I first saw the Taj from a distance, I noticed the clear water pool lined by immaculately kept green grass, just as the pictures always portray it. But I guess because of all the hype around the building I was picturing some immense structure and overpowering body of water, with streams of light emanating from the building bursting into the sky. Of course it’s nothing like this, and if it was anything this dramatic or ‘Disneyesque’ I would have no desire to return.
Walking down the promenade towards the building’s entrance, I began to come under its spell. The large, mystical dome cuts into the pale blue sky, its perfect curves are an indescribable site, only made more beautiful the closer you get and the longer you wander around the palace grounds. The building is much smaller than I imagined, its salient feature being the large dome on top but otherwise the details are kept to a minimum. When you get close enough there are dark blue Arabic inscriptions latticed around the door-way, leading to the very dark and small interior of the building, with nothing more than a room commemorating the famous Mumtaz’s tomb.
It was hard to believe that a few Indian tourists actually wanted to take pictures with my friend and I (a common occurrence in Jodhpur – and usually they don’t ask, they just stuff their cell phone camera in your face) I would have thought the Taj Mahal would have been a bigger attraction than tired white girls but I guess for a few visitors the white people are just as picture worthy as this beautiful white building. I think the Taj Mahal deserves the attention it receives, it might not be memorable for the reasons you expected! While you have to put yourself in the mood and ignore the other tourists, if you allow yourself to slip into the past and imagine you are there when only servants and princes glided around the grounds, I think you will find it a magical experience, but don’t let me tell you, I suggest you make the trip to Agra to judge for yourself.
When I first saw the Taj from a distance, I noticed the clear water pool lined by immaculately kept green grass, just as the pictures always portray it. But I guess because of all the hype around the building I was picturing some immense structure and overpowering body of water, with streams of light emanating from the building bursting into the sky. Of course it’s nothing like this, and if it was anything this dramatic or ‘Disneyesque’ I would have no desire to return.
Walking down the promenade towards the building’s entrance, I began to come under its spell. The large, mystical dome cuts into the pale blue sky, its perfect curves are an indescribable site, only made more beautiful the closer you get and the longer you wander around the palace grounds. The building is much smaller than I imagined, its salient feature being the large dome on top but otherwise the details are kept to a minimum. When you get close enough there are dark blue Arabic inscriptions latticed around the door-way, leading to the very dark and small interior of the building, with nothing more than a room commemorating the famous Mumtaz’s tomb.
It was hard to believe that a few Indian tourists actually wanted to take pictures with my friend and I (a common occurrence in Jodhpur – and usually they don’t ask, they just stuff their cell phone camera in your face) I would have thought the Taj Mahal would have been a bigger attraction than tired white girls but I guess for a few visitors the white people are just as picture worthy as this beautiful white building. I think the Taj Mahal deserves the attention it receives, it might not be memorable for the reasons you expected! While you have to put yourself in the mood and ignore the other tourists, if you allow yourself to slip into the past and imagine you are there when only servants and princes glided around the grounds, I think you will find it a magical experience, but don’t let me tell you, I suggest you make the trip to Agra to judge for yourself.
On the road to recovery...
I'm finally feeling better after a short bout of the flu (and I have a lot to write on after my visit to the Taj Mahal and Micro-finance Conference in Dehli but I don't have time at the moment). Despite the fact that I am used to cold weather, I also fell susceptible to the sudden and abnormal change in weather here. It is actually raining and gray (like Seattle!) and my host family told me it hasn't rained this time of year in Jodhpur in fifty years! The weather has made many people ill, but after watching a few of the other interns get worse from the Indian medicine, which were basically sedatives, I decided torough it and beat my illness the natural way. Some cultural medications I couldn't escape, however, such as it's bad to take a shower at night. After I had been on a seven hour bus ride and walked through muddy streets, it was hard for me to accept that a shower was not a good idea, but I guess the definition of good and bad is culturally dependent! Pictures and more comments coming soon...
Work Progress
My favorite part about interviewing the women is that no one seems to know how old they are. It’s usually about the second or third question on the list and sometimes takes the longest to answer. The women will first tell us a number that is obviously too young and then a lengthy discussion begins between the crowd that has gathered, with the women giggling among themselves, lovelingly slapping each other and after a few minutes come to a conclusion on the particular women’s age, and still there are dissenters in the crowd who are not satisfied with the final answer. Since I cannot speak Hindi, I spend my time holding the children and smiling at the women who are continually laughing at me and patting me on the back. They have gradually accepted me, and despite my lack of language skills we actually have conversations, which always end in laughter and utter confusion, but the translator tells me they appreciate my smile and say “Stef always laughs no matter what”.
They would probably be shocked to hear my frustrations and complaints of India. How tired I feel and overwhelmed by the poverty that surrounds every move I make. In India, like nowhere else I’ve lived before (or maybe I have just ignored it) the poverty chills your skin like a bucket of ice water every time you pull out your wallet or chump down a samosa from a street vendor. Either it’s a tattered beggar child with their tiny outstretched hand and green eyes gazing up at you, while they touch your hand or motion their hand to their mouth, whispering “kana” softly (meaning food), or it’s a stick thin bicycle rickshaw driver, blackened by the sun and emaciated from pulling plump tourists like myself, who shamelessly barter for a cheap price. The guilt of bartering weighs on me as I simultaneously put my own weight in the carriage, and now I try to avoid the eyes of these skinny men whose jobs are laterally on par with that of an animal. In fact the cows in India are treated better than these men! People give their left over food to the cows and all traffic gives way to a cow wandering the street, which is everywhere you look, but I’ve never seen anyone offer left-overs to a cycle-rickshaw driver!
After sometime it is too taxing to think about the poverty. I can walk by hungry children, a man with no legs, stacks of garbage, men urinating on the street, limping dogs, and beady stares from tired workers without blinking an eye. It’s too exhausting for me to think about how fortunate I am and how poor these people I pass everyday are, so instead I try to put it out of my mind, and usually end up complaining how different life is here in India, how hard the beds are or how loud the dogs were last night so I couldn’t sleep.
I came to India to volunteer, to make a difference, and experience a different culture but those thoughts now seem absurd. Sometimes I don’t know whether to give up and simply admit life is unfair. In my mind I want to justify the poverty I see, to think that what I am doing is actually making a difference, or that the situation is slowly getting better and it will just take a very long time. Occasionally I even want to blame their culture. (If they didn’t have so many holidays or show up to work late we could get something accomplished, or can people here learn what customer service is, the other day I waited an hour with my friends to get a simple cup of coffee! All these I realize are just reflections of a different style of life, different priorities, and who’s to say one is better than the other? Is it better that you can get a latte in two minutes in the U.S. or that in India you chat with your neighbor more frequently and share meals rather than feeling the need to “go out” for coffee or dinner?) It becomes so easy to judge as an outsider in another country, and I think some of the judgments are necessary and simply interesting. Certainly, an Indian citizen visiting the U.S. would make judgments and find certain customs in the U.S. interesting, entertaining, enjoyable, or repulsive. As an individual living in a foreign place, not as a tourist, but with goals, expectations, and different priorities than relaxing, I have found there is another level of frustration and judgments that I am constantly struggling to overcome. I feel I deserve breaks at the one air conditioned, western style coffee shop in town, but why? I came to sit with impoverished women and hold their naked children, yet at the end of the day, this work has made me utterly exhausted, and I want nothing more than to complain to someone, listen to music on my iPod, go to a gym, or sip a latte. My emotions are on a roller-coaster, ranging from tears of compassion, believing I could sit in the slum area with these poor little girls and their ratty-hair all day and night, allowing everyone and their neighbor to touch my cheeks, hands, and clothes, and then when I am back with my host family, my body on their couch eating chapata with my hands while my mind is still in the slum area thinking about the women and children I sat with earlier in the day, I realize how little I am contributing. I try to wrestle with my mind with ways that I could help in the future. I ponder what would be the most valuable degree, the best career path that would actually make a difference or bring some equality to the world. I suppose this is a question to wrestle with the rest of my life. As I have come to the conclusion before in life, the answers are usually never simple, and if you think you found the definite answer you will probably realize you are ‘wrong’ in a couple years. Life truly is about the process (as I learned through my years as a tennis player and student of Jody Rush), about living consciously in the present and not worrying about the final destination. You will end up missing everything along the way if you only focus on the end. Perhaps all this is to console myself, and the reason I struggle with these thoughts is because I am seeking the easy and comfortable solution. For the time being I am attempting to struggle in the present rather than come to any rash conclusion on how to “cure” poverty or shape my life. These are my thoughts for the moment but perhaps they will change tomorrow, so I don’t want to bore my readers any longer!
They would probably be shocked to hear my frustrations and complaints of India. How tired I feel and overwhelmed by the poverty that surrounds every move I make. In India, like nowhere else I’ve lived before (or maybe I have just ignored it) the poverty chills your skin like a bucket of ice water every time you pull out your wallet or chump down a samosa from a street vendor. Either it’s a tattered beggar child with their tiny outstretched hand and green eyes gazing up at you, while they touch your hand or motion their hand to their mouth, whispering “kana” softly (meaning food), or it’s a stick thin bicycle rickshaw driver, blackened by the sun and emaciated from pulling plump tourists like myself, who shamelessly barter for a cheap price. The guilt of bartering weighs on me as I simultaneously put my own weight in the carriage, and now I try to avoid the eyes of these skinny men whose jobs are laterally on par with that of an animal. In fact the cows in India are treated better than these men! People give their left over food to the cows and all traffic gives way to a cow wandering the street, which is everywhere you look, but I’ve never seen anyone offer left-overs to a cycle-rickshaw driver!
After sometime it is too taxing to think about the poverty. I can walk by hungry children, a man with no legs, stacks of garbage, men urinating on the street, limping dogs, and beady stares from tired workers without blinking an eye. It’s too exhausting for me to think about how fortunate I am and how poor these people I pass everyday are, so instead I try to put it out of my mind, and usually end up complaining how different life is here in India, how hard the beds are or how loud the dogs were last night so I couldn’t sleep.
I came to India to volunteer, to make a difference, and experience a different culture but those thoughts now seem absurd. Sometimes I don’t know whether to give up and simply admit life is unfair. In my mind I want to justify the poverty I see, to think that what I am doing is actually making a difference, or that the situation is slowly getting better and it will just take a very long time. Occasionally I even want to blame their culture. (If they didn’t have so many holidays or show up to work late we could get something accomplished, or can people here learn what customer service is, the other day I waited an hour with my friends to get a simple cup of coffee! All these I realize are just reflections of a different style of life, different priorities, and who’s to say one is better than the other? Is it better that you can get a latte in two minutes in the U.S. or that in India you chat with your neighbor more frequently and share meals rather than feeling the need to “go out” for coffee or dinner?) It becomes so easy to judge as an outsider in another country, and I think some of the judgments are necessary and simply interesting. Certainly, an Indian citizen visiting the U.S. would make judgments and find certain customs in the U.S. interesting, entertaining, enjoyable, or repulsive. As an individual living in a foreign place, not as a tourist, but with goals, expectations, and different priorities than relaxing, I have found there is another level of frustration and judgments that I am constantly struggling to overcome. I feel I deserve breaks at the one air conditioned, western style coffee shop in town, but why? I came to sit with impoverished women and hold their naked children, yet at the end of the day, this work has made me utterly exhausted, and I want nothing more than to complain to someone, listen to music on my iPod, go to a gym, or sip a latte. My emotions are on a roller-coaster, ranging from tears of compassion, believing I could sit in the slum area with these poor little girls and their ratty-hair all day and night, allowing everyone and their neighbor to touch my cheeks, hands, and clothes, and then when I am back with my host family, my body on their couch eating chapata with my hands while my mind is still in the slum area thinking about the women and children I sat with earlier in the day, I realize how little I am contributing. I try to wrestle with my mind with ways that I could help in the future. I ponder what would be the most valuable degree, the best career path that would actually make a difference or bring some equality to the world. I suppose this is a question to wrestle with the rest of my life. As I have come to the conclusion before in life, the answers are usually never simple, and if you think you found the definite answer you will probably realize you are ‘wrong’ in a couple years. Life truly is about the process (as I learned through my years as a tennis player and student of Jody Rush), about living consciously in the present and not worrying about the final destination. You will end up missing everything along the way if you only focus on the end. Perhaps all this is to console myself, and the reason I struggle with these thoughts is because I am seeking the easy and comfortable solution. For the time being I am attempting to struggle in the present rather than come to any rash conclusion on how to “cure” poverty or shape my life. These are my thoughts for the moment but perhaps they will change tomorrow, so I don’t want to bore my readers any longer!
There can never be enough stories about transportation in India!
The buses in Jodhpur are generally a dirty white color about half the size of an American school bus, with seats that line the inside and bars on the top for the majority of the passengers who have to stand. There are no clear marked bus stops, so you just kind of wait at any corner and hail down your bus number when you see it rumbling down the road. Often it hardly stops, the man who collects the bus fees, shouts in Hindi while hanging outside the continually open door at potential passengers running alongside the bus in order to leap inside. I’m assuming he’s saying hurry up and get on because we’re not stopping! I grab the vertical rail on the side of the door and slip into the bus, greeted immediately by inquisitive and shocked eyes, flirtatious grins, and shy women staring behind their colorful veils draped lightly over their faces, curious why a tall white girl in traditional Indian dress is taking public transportation.
I used to take a tempo to work (basically a larger version of a taxi motor rickshaw) while generally the tempo’s are no less crowded than the bus, they are slightly more expensive but take a more direct route. However, whether in a bus or tempo, you have to have a lot of patience as neither is really that efficient or takes a direct route. While the bus number always gets me to the right destination, I have this feeling we take a different route every time, and since the bus driver’s first concern appears to be speeding, there is often congestion of the same number bus stopping at the same place. This issue is addressed by one of the buses simply waiting for any amount of time ranging from five to twenty minutes, while the bus drivers gets out and has a cup of chai. There is no regular bus schedule, so you could wait a half hour for a bus or see two buses with the same number whizzing by one right after the other.
I try not to dwell on the inefficiency of the system but instead enjoy the adventure and sights along the way. There is at least one person per ride who tries to test out their English skills or at least pretends to speak English so they can ask which stop is yours and get off with you. Luckily I have become an expert at acting confused by these requests, pretending English is not my first language. Most people are just curious though what an American is doing in Jodhpur or genuinely want to help, often standing up to give me a prized seat on the perpetually over crowded bus. The seat order seems to be elderly people, then mothers with young children, and next confused white people.
The best seat is one by a window where you can escape the smell of sweat, dirt, and smoke for a brief moment as the breeze crushes against your cheek. The bus whizzes by countless small shops selling any array of products and snacks in seemingly undefined shops. The only clearly marked stores are cell phone shops, banks, and gas stations, everything else is a blur of dust covered cement cut outs, where shop keepers could spend eternity sweeping the dirt and sand off their storefront steps.
The bus flies by a camel pulling a cart of sticks and numerous rusty bicyclist, as dusty cars and motorbikes spit out black smoke, honking and passing on the right and left. Somehow this all appears normal to me now, I even recognize the jumble of shops, and can pick out my favorite cloth store and samosa stand. I know when I’m five minutes from home (unless we have to randomly stop in order to ease congestion of the fifteen number bus) and if I ever forgot my stop the change collector on the bus recognizes me now and calls out my stop loud and clear in his best English, and makes sure the bus slows to an actual halt to let me off. There are chuckles as I find my way through the passenger standing packed as tight as pickles in a jar as I’m plucked off the bus when it lurches to a brief stop. I’m smiling when I get off the bust too, trying to picture that many people squeezing onto a bus in the U.S.. The definition of comfort is definitely culturally dependent! As I readjust my shoulder bag and glance at the bus picking up speed again, my heart skips a beat in anticipating of the stories I’ll have tomorrow when I board the bus all over again.
I used to take a tempo to work (basically a larger version of a taxi motor rickshaw) while generally the tempo’s are no less crowded than the bus, they are slightly more expensive but take a more direct route. However, whether in a bus or tempo, you have to have a lot of patience as neither is really that efficient or takes a direct route. While the bus number always gets me to the right destination, I have this feeling we take a different route every time, and since the bus driver’s first concern appears to be speeding, there is often congestion of the same number bus stopping at the same place. This issue is addressed by one of the buses simply waiting for any amount of time ranging from five to twenty minutes, while the bus drivers gets out and has a cup of chai. There is no regular bus schedule, so you could wait a half hour for a bus or see two buses with the same number whizzing by one right after the other.
I try not to dwell on the inefficiency of the system but instead enjoy the adventure and sights along the way. There is at least one person per ride who tries to test out their English skills or at least pretends to speak English so they can ask which stop is yours and get off with you. Luckily I have become an expert at acting confused by these requests, pretending English is not my first language. Most people are just curious though what an American is doing in Jodhpur or genuinely want to help, often standing up to give me a prized seat on the perpetually over crowded bus. The seat order seems to be elderly people, then mothers with young children, and next confused white people.
The best seat is one by a window where you can escape the smell of sweat, dirt, and smoke for a brief moment as the breeze crushes against your cheek. The bus whizzes by countless small shops selling any array of products and snacks in seemingly undefined shops. The only clearly marked stores are cell phone shops, banks, and gas stations, everything else is a blur of dust covered cement cut outs, where shop keepers could spend eternity sweeping the dirt and sand off their storefront steps.
The bus flies by a camel pulling a cart of sticks and numerous rusty bicyclist, as dusty cars and motorbikes spit out black smoke, honking and passing on the right and left. Somehow this all appears normal to me now, I even recognize the jumble of shops, and can pick out my favorite cloth store and samosa stand. I know when I’m five minutes from home (unless we have to randomly stop in order to ease congestion of the fifteen number bus) and if I ever forgot my stop the change collector on the bus recognizes me now and calls out my stop loud and clear in his best English, and makes sure the bus slows to an actual halt to let me off. There are chuckles as I find my way through the passenger standing packed as tight as pickles in a jar as I’m plucked off the bus when it lurches to a brief stop. I’m smiling when I get off the bust too, trying to picture that many people squeezing onto a bus in the U.S.. The definition of comfort is definitely culturally dependent! As I readjust my shoulder bag and glance at the bus picking up speed again, my heart skips a beat in anticipating of the stories I’ll have tomorrow when I board the bus all over again.
Diwali Break
Last week I had off of work for the Diwali holiday, which is like Christmas and Fourth of July combined. Basically, the city puts up a gaudy amount of tinfoil and lights and young boys light off firecrackers for a week before and a week after, covering the streets in paper wrappings and matches. During the break I traveled by bus to Udaipur, a very relaxing, small city for India, set on a calm albeit polluted lake. During the actual night of Diwali, I was in Jaipur, the capitol of Rajasthan. My friend and I took an overnight bus from Udaipur to Jiapur, in the sitting class, meaning we didn’t sleep all night, but I think a few people fell asleep on my feet and shoulder. I don’t think white people ride the sitting class overnight often, so we seemed to be the highlight of everyone’s ride. Every time I glanced up from my book countless sets of eyes were staring my direction. They were probably eyeing my biscuits and fresh water more than my pale skin, so we ended up sharing our biscuits over a cup of chai served through the train windows during the frequent stops. Our hospitality was taken advantage of by the middle of the ride but one man who ended up just grabbing our water without asking and even went so far as to take my friend sweater and put it on. I could tell we were not the only passengers annoyed at three am in the morning. There always seems to be one idiot who has to ruin the experience for everyone. After arriving in Jaipur and sleeping for a few hours I was able to forget about this obnoxious man and remember how generous and helpful most Indians have been to us. In Jiapur we ran into a mix of very kind and honest people and then the moment you started to trust everyone you would get scammed. I guess that’s what I get for being a white tourist, but it also can get quite exhausting and if you don’t keep the right attitude it can make you bitter towards the Indian culture. Despite my grumblings, I would recommend India to anyone seeking adventure, fabulous spices, colorful bazaars, awkward conversations in Hinglish, and chai!
Keeping clean
It’s impossible to keep clean in India, particularly your feet. While this is no doubt because I wear flimsy flip flops everywhere to fit in with the traditional dress (instead of wearing bulky sneakers or sandals as most tourists do in order to avoid this plight of dirty toes, I on the other hand have sacrificed my cleanliness for the culture or perhaps just not to look goofy). Each night I try to scrub the dirt off my feet but they only seem to be dirtier the next night I wash them. Last night my host mom took me to temple, barefoot! I shouldn’t have been shocked, taking your shoes off is a big deal here (as it is in most places except the U.S. or in my house it really isn’t) but since my host mom thought the temple was close enough we decided to walk a quarter mile down the street barefoot to the temple. I decided right then to give up on having clean feet the rest of my time here.
Guilty Reflections
I kept my promise and came back the next day for an eventful afternoon, where two other interns and I washed the children’s hair. Despite this, I still feel a tinge of guilt knowing that at the end of December my internship will expire and I will return to the U.S. regardless of how many cups of chai they serve me or however long little girls hold my hand and cling to the pants of my salwar suit. I justified my emotions and short stay by the fact that I need further education and training to adequately help the poor, and also for my current position where I am supposedly responsible for laying the foundations of a micro-credit organization. along with only one other intern who just graduated as well, with a degree in economics and speaks a little Hindi. We are both learning so much and are eager to take on the responsibilities required, but there is a part of me that so badly wants to help these people, and the realization that my three months will amount to so little, I’m nervous I will let this neighborhood down and have caused more problems by entering their lives in the first place. In the end they will have changed me more than I have helped them, and the most I can really do to say thank you is smile. If nothing more these people have found the soft part of my heart, warmed me with their kindness, tickled me with their enthusiasm and dancing, helped me question my values, cracked my stereotypes, quenched my thirst with chai, and showed me the meaning of hospitality, and for all this and more the least I can do is share my emotions and gratitude with all of you, in hope that we all begin to live life more consciously, wherever we live and in whatever we do.
Notes from 'The Field'
Just when I am ready to 'quit' on India it always surprises me with a hot cup of chai, a friendly embrace, or someone actually showing up on time. After two weeks on interviews, dancing, singing, chai and embracing the children and women of Rajeev Gandhi Colony, a slum on the outskirts of Jodhpur, I taught my first English class to a group of eager young women, and my fellow South Korean intern gave a workshop about basic cleanliness to the children. Perhaps it is the color of my skin and my foreign gestures that attract the women and children to the small center where we hold the classes, curious what this tall white girl has to say as she awkwardly adjusts her shawl around her kurti, and her baggy salwar suit pants scuff the dust on the floor. They probably can't understand half of what I'm saying but I tell myself to just keep smiling and laugh whenever it gets awkward. My class is over before I know it since most of the women show up late. I'm slightly relieved but already worried because we spent half the class learning names and I'm afraid I'm not going to remember them for tomorrow's class. Simply learning the names seems like a foreign language to me!
My NGO partner, Jo Eun, who speaks a little Hindi, is a big hit with the little kids. She tells them to wash their hands often, shower with soap, and brush their teeth while I act out these motions. I stepped aside for a moment to video the class, noticing how all the little boys crowded the front and responded to Jo Euns questions loudly while the girls sat in the back, straining to hear or quietly chatting since the prospect of moving to the front appeared too daunting a task. I took the opportunity to pick up some of the smallest girls and hoist them high on my shoulders so they could see what Jo Eun was doing up front. With my support and nudging more of the little girls start to inch forward and reproach the boys for hogging the stage. It was to little avail in the end, as the little girls and I were stuck in the back till Jo Eun finished, but I promised myself I would not let this happen again. In this short moment, you could see how women in this neighborhood have grown up believing they are inferior to men, and are suppose to melt into the background rather than take the lead or be at the forefront of any event.
I was now an instant companion to many of the little girls, who were all fighting to grab my hand, show me the henna on their hands, and crawl into my lap, talking softly to me in Hindi. It did not matter that I had no idea what the were saying, they continued to smile and ask me questions in Hindi, while continuing to play with my hand and making it impossible for me to stand up. Eventually Jo Eun and I made eye contact, signally it was time to go. This became a monumental task in itself, as the girls refused to let go of my hand. So with a crowd of children, Jo Eun and I walked to the edge of the slum. The boys were showing off, flipping and kart-wheeling in front of us, as the girls calmly circled around Jo Eun and I through a chain of hand holding. Just as we came to the road where we were to catch the bus, a little girl in a green dress, who I recognized from my last visits because she had worn the same dress, stared at me and spoke softly in Hindi. I looked to the village helper who worked with us and spoke only a few words of English. “She say, you tomorrow come back?” I glanced again at the small girl staring at me with anticipation in her green eyes, feeling her hand wrapped loosely in mine. Definitely I thought and then nodded my head vigorously towards the little girl and the village helper. I had to rely on body language, which didn’t seem sufficient but it was all I could do. I knew at that moment it was enough and that it was as if for a short period of time this girl and I spoke the same language.
Reflections on my homestay
While my Indian home is sweltering hot and we only have flimsy fans (so I often wake up sweating in the middle of the night) and there are rats roaming in the kitchen, lizards and spiders creeping on the walls, besides this I sometimes feel I could be in any typical American home as we eat dinner every evening in front of the TV, watching Indian reality TV or Bollywood movies. My host sister plays on her phone (the only way she can access facebook at home since there is not computer or internet access). She talks about the places she’d like to visit, shows me her latest shopping purchases, and hums the catchy commercial jingles for Blackberries and Fructius Garnier shampoo (the add campaigns for American companies change drastically from country to country, in India they always incorporate a song and dance, with vibrant colors splashing across the tv screen).
She wonders why I don’t use facebook that often. Almost shocked that a young American is not eager to discuss popular culture, past boyfriends, or go shopping every evening. She lingers on this thought for a brief moment before she receives another text message and the thought doesn’t bother her any longer as she quickly becomes absorbed in her ‘texting world’, while her mom and I dip chapta in dal and spicy yellow and maroon tinted sauces. She banters with her mom like any twenty year old daughter and spends most of her time in her room or out with friends. If her mom is gone for the day she might sleep in and skip class because she is too tired, reminding me of college in the U.S. where students would complain about getting up for any class earlier than noon.
Despite her affinity to modern culture, when I asked her about the prospect of her mom arranging her marriage, the question almost sounded silly to her. Of course she would have an arranged marriage was her response. How could she know at such a young age who was best for her? Her mom would interview families and young men for her when she was finished with her computer degree, and she would be married. It sounded just like applying for college or a job. When the time was right, the family would decide who she would be married off to and then that would be settled. No second guessing or wondering when she would get married, it was not a mystery or surprise when she would meet her future husband, it would happen systematically and in an organized fashion. The good part is that she will avoid the awkward first meeting with the parents, since the parents approve the fiancé before the kid!
She wonders why I don’t use facebook that often. Almost shocked that a young American is not eager to discuss popular culture, past boyfriends, or go shopping every evening. She lingers on this thought for a brief moment before she receives another text message and the thought doesn’t bother her any longer as she quickly becomes absorbed in her ‘texting world’, while her mom and I dip chapta in dal and spicy yellow and maroon tinted sauces. She banters with her mom like any twenty year old daughter and spends most of her time in her room or out with friends. If her mom is gone for the day she might sleep in and skip class because she is too tired, reminding me of college in the U.S. where students would complain about getting up for any class earlier than noon.
Despite her affinity to modern culture, when I asked her about the prospect of her mom arranging her marriage, the question almost sounded silly to her. Of course she would have an arranged marriage was her response. How could she know at such a young age who was best for her? Her mom would interview families and young men for her when she was finished with her computer degree, and she would be married. It sounded just like applying for college or a job. When the time was right, the family would decide who she would be married off to and then that would be settled. No second guessing or wondering when she would get married, it was not a mystery or surprise when she would meet her future husband, it would happen systematically and in an organized fashion. The good part is that she will avoid the awkward first meeting with the parents, since the parents approve the fiancé before the kid!
This weekend I went on an overnight camel safari (a much needed break from the chaos and confusion of my work). We first took an hour jeep ride down a bumpy road, traveling so fast I was holding on for dear life in case we hit a bump and I slipped out the open back. There were no speed limits, so I guess we weren't breaking any laws. It took about two hours then by camel to reach the dunes, where the camel drivers set up camp for us, basically just blankets, but they cooked us an amazing meal, made a 'camel beer run' in the middle of the night for us, and woke us with fresh chai at sunrise, so I have no complaints. I was the lucky one on the fast camel, so my driver took me on a special route and we ended up splitting a watermelon that grows in the desert, a luscious surprise and wonderful thirst quencher while trekking on a camel in the desert heat.
Everyday I ride a ‘tempo’ to and from work. The best way to describe these vehicles is an oversized rickshaw (or motorized small cart with two benches in the back), that can comfortably (in American terms of comfort) fit four people but usually jams about ten to fifteen people (plus maybe a baby or small kid). Today was one of those extra-crowded days where a women simply laid her baby across my lap, while I sat snug against a larger Indian women who kept thinking I could understand Hindi and wouldn’t top talking to me. There’s always a few awkward conversations in these crowded excursions to and from work. People are always testing their English (or testing my possible friendship) with questions such as ‘can I follow you’ or ‘can I take you with me’. To all a simply ‘nehi’ or no usually suffices to end the debate.
Early Impressions
It would be easy to judge Jodhpur as a conservative stronghold in India, stubbornly holding onto traditional values, dress, marriage codes, and eating habits, however, there are cracks visible through the dusty streets and market places opening directly to the modern world. The city, while clearly behind the progress of India’s booming metropolises, is a case study in India’s growing economy and changing society. The desire of young people to learn English and move to the city is of course a phenomenon in Jodhpur, but even more impressive are the changes the city is trying to make itself, improving colleges and roads in order to make Jodhpur itself more attractive to young Indians. The desire for change and growth is evident, and most of these changes probably should be welcomed.
As any developing country or city, there is trash everywhere and barely any garbage cans. People just throw their trash out the window or wherever is convenient. I think it would be a brilliant idea for a garbage company to start-up here (foreign or local) and it might give the people some more respect for their city! Plus it would cut down on smells, bugs, disease, and dogs that run rampant chewing and rolling in the garbage. I guess human rights should come first, but it certainly would be a change that would give the city a more positive reputation from tourists (though still quite few in number.
Women’s rights are still far from the liberal world’s standards. However, the teenage girls influenced by outside media and the allure of a modern lifestyle could quickly change traditional dress customs and roles of the women as only a housewife. Beyond dress though, women are still treated as second class citizens. They often eat before or after the rest of the family has eaten and often do not work outside the home. This too is changing rapidly among more affluent families, and many non-profits focusing on women’s rights are trying to increase employment opportunities for women. Women still face more dangers at night and it is absolutely taboo for a women to be seen drinking at a bar. You still get the frequent ‘rape stares’ as I call them, meaning a creepy man walks or drives past you looking like it would be bad news if you met him in a dark ally (don't’ worry mom and dad I’m not hanging out in dark allies), but perhaps these stares could also be attributed simply to my foreign appearance, despite the fact that I wear the traditional India kurti everyday.
Interestingly, my host mom had a love marriage herself. She told me it was very uncommon when she got married, and since she was breaking tradition she had to wait until she was thirty to get married, but eventually her family accepted her decision, and she could visit her parents house with her husband, who was actually two years younger than her (also a very rare match-up for traditional Indian marriage customs).
Visiting Jodhpur desert outskirts
Today we were lucky enough to witness the first town meeting where women could participate in this small village about two hours outside Jodhpur. There was a powerful speech made by one woman leadership figure, highlighting matters of excessive male alcoholism, and even mentioning that women should not be forced to cover their faces completely with veils (at which point a male delegate was so furious he left the room). You could feel the passion emitting from the woman addressing the group, even though I couldn't understand her hindi.
Arriving in Jodhpur
After around 40 hours of traveling I finally arrived in Jodhpur. The people are very friendly but most people here speak only Hindi or the local language, and their English can be difficult to understand, so communication is a mix of body language and english words. The weather feels very hot to me (no air conditioning either), I couldn't imagine being here in summer! The food and chai has been great so far, quite spicy but delicious.
"When you travel you experience, in a very practical way, the act of rebirth. You confront completely new situations, the day passes more slowly, and on most journeys you don't even understand the language the people speak...You begin to be more accessible to other, because they may be able to help you in difficult situations." -Paulo Coelho
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