So it's been a while since I have used this space to tell a story, well I guess it has been a while since I've used it at all. Hopefully the following story will give you a portal into my sometimes very strange life:
Every month we have to earn our coming meals by carrying up our full month's supply of food up the hill to our kitchen. Doesn't sound too bad perhaps but realize at the minimum, there are 16 people in our ashram, so times two rather large meals a day times 30 days times 16 people, it equals a very sore back. The bags of food range from 20 kilos to sixty (for reference, I weigh 75 kilos).
To add to the fun, our ashram is located on top of one of the steepest parts of the trail on our side of the month, a path cobbled by awkward jagged rocks. Once you pass this treacherous terrain, then you must walk up a series of steps that are basically flat stones built into the walls. These wall stairs look harmless, idyllic maybe, but with a hundred pound sack of rice on your back, not the case. One memorable experience, the first time around, I fell with a sixty pound bag of potatoes on my head, much to the delight of the three laughing girls behind me. Oh the other thing is nettles love to grow on these walls as well, adding another factor of fun. Many a time I have fallen off these walls carrying something to find my load spread across the field and two very itchy legs.
So I was trying to explain this to friend, Ben as we walked down the hill to gather our rations, a lesson I had planned in my head to explain how not to fall on the treacherous path. After about the time I finished explaining to him the subject of the forthcoming lecture, I found myself disoriented laying on the path, sore knees and wrists, on a pile of donkey plop. So, in probably one of the most ironic moments of my life, I had caught my foot on a stray rock, sending my body airborne on a very steep part of the hill (you could probably imagine my body being perfectly horizontal), to fall onto the rock path below...all the while, explaining to a friend how not to fall. And just to my luck, donkeys were carrying dry cement up the hill (lucky are those who have the horses do their dirty carrying work) leaving a feces trail behind them. I happened to fall atop their plop. Luckily, if one can adequately apply this word properly in regards to falling in donkey shit, it was old and dry. I guess it could have been worse, smelly and demoralized is much better than the itchiness and uncomfortableness that would have occurred if the feces were nettles, or gasp, feces on top of nettles.
Now think of what a caring friend would do if you were walking aside your bud during this horrendous event. Offer you help and support? Help him up and brush him off? Perhaps even offer to wash his sweatshirt while his swollen wrists heal. All very probably responses to a dear friend.
What do you do if you are a friend named Benjamin? Such a good friend, once perceived, that someone would lovely alter this name to Friendjamin. Well of course you would fall to the ground in hysterics. Yup. Jerk.
But it is fine, I brushed the donkey shitdust off my shirt and hobbled onwards, two swollen wrists and knees in tow. So the body is injured, but I am no sissy, and it makes no sense to give up on the task at hand with some scratches. Not to mention the fact that the women and children carry here in the mountains carrying similiar heavy loads daily, and they don't have the choice to give up. If they give up, then their families don't eat, their cattle go hungry, their family shivers through the night. I live in a much more cushy situation, so what is a little extra pain here and there, perhaps it would make me a stronger person.
Ben and I reach the rations room, the only thing left is about 120 kilos of atta, the flour we use for chapatis. The man I am, trying not to show my weakness, decided to take a probably 60 kilos sack (again I weigh 75 kilos), sling it over the old shoulder, and hobble, more cautiously, up the hill. Pretty soon, I realized my weakness as I huff, puff, waddle, waggle, drag, drudge, trudge, juggle, stagger about half way up the path, then collapse on a wall, with two very sore shoulders, two very swollen wrists, and one very broken ego. But not as broken as it could be.
Sir ji, my mentor who probably weighs 55 to 60 pounds, roughly less than the sack; a very small, ascetic, seemingly meek man, saw my situation and asked if he could assist me. I thought about it a bit, said no a couple times, but then, looking up at the rest of Treachopath, I agreed. Then I looked down from Treachopath at my very small mentor, then over to my heavy bag, and immediately regretted the decision. The offer was obviously an sympathetic gesture by an extremely nice man, with probably no idea that the recipient would allow him to share in on the torture. Upon the realization of what I had just said,I tried to grab the bag but he intercepted me, damn it, and in true Indian fashion, he sacrificed his comfort for mine, slugging the bag up the hill. I only let him take it up a quarter more of the way.
But in this process, he let me in on a little pahari secret: The middle space between the shoulder blades makes an excellent resting place for ridiculously heavy bags while navigating uphill paths, and effortlessly stabilizes the carrier's weight. Much better than the haphazard, sling it to one shoulder until the pain is unbearable, now sling it to the other, repeat, repeat, repeat, collapse. With this insight I was able to make it up the rest of the path surprisingly with ease. But the damage had been done, not just because of my body, but because I had revealed the secret; I was injured. The doctor went to work.
Now Sir ji has two treatments: stinging nettles and piss. If one shows internal symptoms, the former is to be slapped for an unnecessarily long period of time on the affected area by a conspicuously smiling Sir ji, the latter is to be discreetly rubbed on the affected area after production. If the problem is external then one is spared from the former, and the latter is to be taken orally (you read that right, one should drink their own piss). If the problem is acute or in advanced stages, replace one's self production with that of a sacred cow's, urine purified by processes way outside my cultural experience. But the substitution of animal urine for one's own raises interesting questions about the morality of methodology, or at least levels of disgustingness or of which one will induce vomit more rapidly.
Until this point Sir ji's remedies have remain merely a comical occurrence, something that I never immediately had to deal with, but could watch as other's squirmed in accordance to the above prescription. Sir ji is the resident doctor and his office hours tend to be either before or after meditation. Therefore I am privy to the ailments of my fellow ashram mates and have grown quite accustom to the Sir ji treatment:
"Hmmm... you have a gashing wound, It's become infected... Urine, it looks pretty bad, better take it from a cow. After the urine is dried, I slap you with some nettles."
"Hmmm... Sore throat, bout a week now... here stand still, nope can't get any nettles down there, better gargle some cows urine."
"Hmmm... tennis elbow, eh..."
Well I guess you probably get the point by now.
So I always secretly laugh in my head when anybody asks for remedies, telling myself, 'Is it going to be nettles or piss' then I admire my incisive wit. I duck the coming wave of piss/nettles whenever I am sick or injured by simply not complaining to anybody, something very difficult for me, given my proclivity to complain about anything to any ear available. But one must adapt in new dangerous environments.
But Sir ji knew what's up; he could see the limping, he could see the pain in my eyes, and I knew I could no longer duck it any longer. I would have to cross my fingers, pray not for piss and throw my piss/nettles dice into the piss/nettle crapshoot, hoping for the best.
'What happened Chad?'
'I fell. But it's not bad.' I added at the last minute, hoping to maybe influence the decision towards my prickly foe, over my salty one.
'Hmmm... swollen wrists. I'll slap some nettles on it.'
Pheew. Crisis averted, I could go to sleep to night without a tangy aftertaste in my mouth. After a quick meal I retired to my room and collapsed under my covers. Once my body was at rest the pain all over my body began to swell and I discovered the complexity in which I fell, unveiling areas of pain which I didn't previous think was possible. There was no way I was getting up for some time and passed out for twelve hours, missing that evening's and morning's meditation.
The next morning after our meal, I went upstairs to used the computer for some emails. The door was open to the outside and I could see Sir ji pacing back and forth outside. I knew he had one thing on this mind. Damn. I thought he had possibly forgotten. He finally peaked his head in the door, shoving a fistful of nettles into the room, with a big grin on his face.
'Time for nettles?'
'Not yet, I am typing emails and I think adding more puff to an already puffen hand might make the task very difficult.'
'Very well, let me know when you are done.'
Damn. But at least I had bought myself some time, our computer is ridiculously slow, it takes on average about an hour or hour and a half to send a email some days. Or like this day, you sit in the cold room for two hours and the phone keeps booting you off so you get nothing done.
But when the power finally went out, no more excuses, I had had to face my pending itchy hand. I summoned Sir ji and he came nettles in hand. I stuck out my arm, lifted up my sleeve, turned my head, closed my eyes and starting wincing. Sir ji slapped the nettles against my wound for about two minutes. It hurt, but surprisingly the pain subsided shortly thereafter. Some mildly itchy lumps remained on my wrists but nothing too serious.
Also, surprisingly after a couple hours, the swelling in my hand went away and my wrist was much more mobile than before. Had it worked? I think maybe so. Now don't go scouring the forest in search of nettles to slap on your chap lips just yet. I asked the resident med student in the fellowship program, Miss Vaani, about the Sir ji nettle treatment. The response I got was more or less a dubious look and a shoulder shrugged 'eeehhhh.' Maybe the power of a nettle slap is beyond the scope of western medicine. We might have to do a series of tests on this.
But in the mean time, I am going to use the nettle treatment when need be. I'll keep you posted on the efficacy of nettles on which region.
All also let you know...gulp...about the piss treatment if things get really bad.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Ben Left...
Ben left the other day.
I can already tell that he left a mark.
His departure marked several very touching scenes. His last assembly, we played the song that Ben and I had written one last time for the kids. After this the assembly was over, Sir ji asked the children if they had anything to ask or say to Ben. Everyone stood uncomfortably for a while, obviously not wanting the moment to end, having to say goodbye to their new giant blonde friend. Some awkward silence was broken by the gossipy whisper of the eighth grade girls. They asked Ben to sing him a song which made sense. Ben had song his own songs with guitar in many of our assemblies and without fail, the three gossipy 8th grade girl had been sitting at his side looking at him adoringly with those dreamboat googly eyes. Ben is one of the few singer/songwriter with a 8th grade village Indian girl fan club.
But on the fly, he played a song that he wrote about leaving when he left washington some six months ago. He prefaced the song by saying that leaving the ashram had brought about many similar emotions that he faced upon his first departure, how the ashram community had adopted him into the family and how close he became with the children made it difficult to leave, but nevertheless he had to go. The trip would be bittersweet, but to a much different tone than the departure from the states, swapping the comfort of that life for excitement of the unknown. Now he was swapping the comfort of the ashram to the comfort of his home, which apparently can overweigh a Himalayan paradise. But one can easily see why, a month of drinking nescafe and the absence of microbrew is torture for the Seattleite, or probably more likely a loving family, an excellent girlfriend, and bucketful of close friends can draw one away from social work with amazing children on a meditative spiritual path. Wait a minute, Ben is totally selfish, what a jerk.
I kid, I kid.
But after the song ended you could tell it affected the children, they didn't want him to go but couldn't think of anything to say to keep the assembly going. After a couple minutes of silence, sir ji said, 'chalo' and the kiddus sadly scampered off.
After his last meditation, Sir ji ended the session early, apparently so we could have an hour long affirmation session about how great Ben is. We went around the room saying how great Ben was, how he was the perfect fit for the ashram, how much we would miss him. Ben must have left that session pretty high, I bet.
In the morning he was presented with gifts, a shawl from the ashram and even more important, a package of pictures and fond wishes from the third and sixth grade. Highlights from the third grade was probably that everyone spelled his name wrong, calling him Ven sir and the picture that they drew of him on the back of the card which was a dead on rendition of a digital surfdude sasquatch. Those kooks.
After some hugging everyone in the ashram (which was amusing for me to watch, seeing the girls akwardly squirm through their hugs. Apparently hugging giant unshaven blonde foreign men, let alone Indian men, isn't woven into the fabric of mountain village life), we took off to wait for the bus. I decided to go down with Ben to Dehradun to run some errands and see him off.
While we were drinking some chai waiting for the bus by the side of the road, one of the KG saw Ben and immediately started dancing, doing the sprinkler. Ben taught the kids that dance in one of our dance classes with the younger kids. Way more satisfying than a mere wave, and the kid would not stop dancing, even when his father, who was walking with him was shaking his finger at him. Ohhh...precious moments.
I exited the train after making sure that Ben had found his seat. Despite it being around six in the morning, when we got on the train, the platform was bustling with activity, but when I left, I found it barren. The only things I could see is the dimly lit vendors idly looking off to the distance, and what I assumed to be a tearful lover trying to hold on to her husband before he took off to the moving train. Not the best situation to be alone for essentially the first time in a month (Ben had more or less been attached to my hip in the ashram). And then his damn song about leaving, the very one he sang at assembly, crept into my head as I walked down the dark streets to find the vikram that would take me back to the hostel. For me his departure was also bitter sweet; I loved having Ben around, our days tended to be one long joke interspersed with some creative motivation to work on our respective projects and playing with children. But I also can be a very private person who enjoys his own space, space that has been inhabited by Ben for the last month, so I looked forward to returning to that form and being a bit more productive in terms of the projects asked of me.
But as I write this during my supersecret productive time between five and seven in the morning, it is kind of sad to not to be able to share this with Ben. During this time after meditation, Ben would stay up with me and work on his personal projects. While I get a much bigger share of the terrible Nescafe coffee pot, I can no longer look over to the left of my desk, just over the space heater, to see Ben sitting upright covered completely head to toe by his sleeping bag and array of blankets stacked upon his lap, book or pen in hand, working away to the candlelight emanating from bedstand beside him.
But Ben's legacy lives on, and I don't see it fading away anytime soon. Everyday, I find a kid singing, 'and you and you and you' the chorus he wrote to the song. Mohan still makes the perfect impersonation of Ben's apparent surfer Hindi accent, 'tum kar rahe ho?' Ben's favorite phrase. The ashram girls still ask me when he is coming back, Sir ji is still slinging him compliments.
It is amazing how much a person can have an impact on the right community in such a short stay. But it isn't to surprising that Ben himself made the impact on this community. He made a great fit, his creativity, love for children, outgoing personality, communication skills. His personality, as well as his contributions to the music and input towards the documentary I am making about the ashram will long outlive his stay.
I can already tell that he left a mark.
His departure marked several very touching scenes. His last assembly, we played the song that Ben and I had written one last time for the kids. After this the assembly was over, Sir ji asked the children if they had anything to ask or say to Ben. Everyone stood uncomfortably for a while, obviously not wanting the moment to end, having to say goodbye to their new giant blonde friend. Some awkward silence was broken by the gossipy whisper of the eighth grade girls. They asked Ben to sing him a song which made sense. Ben had song his own songs with guitar in many of our assemblies and without fail, the three gossipy 8th grade girl had been sitting at his side looking at him adoringly with those dreamboat googly eyes. Ben is one of the few singer/songwriter with a 8th grade village Indian girl fan club.
But on the fly, he played a song that he wrote about leaving when he left washington some six months ago. He prefaced the song by saying that leaving the ashram had brought about many similar emotions that he faced upon his first departure, how the ashram community had adopted him into the family and how close he became with the children made it difficult to leave, but nevertheless he had to go. The trip would be bittersweet, but to a much different tone than the departure from the states, swapping the comfort of that life for excitement of the unknown. Now he was swapping the comfort of the ashram to the comfort of his home, which apparently can overweigh a Himalayan paradise. But one can easily see why, a month of drinking nescafe and the absence of microbrew is torture for the Seattleite, or probably more likely a loving family, an excellent girlfriend, and bucketful of close friends can draw one away from social work with amazing children on a meditative spiritual path. Wait a minute, Ben is totally selfish, what a jerk.
I kid, I kid.
But after the song ended you could tell it affected the children, they didn't want him to go but couldn't think of anything to say to keep the assembly going. After a couple minutes of silence, sir ji said, 'chalo' and the kiddus sadly scampered off.
After his last meditation, Sir ji ended the session early, apparently so we could have an hour long affirmation session about how great Ben is. We went around the room saying how great Ben was, how he was the perfect fit for the ashram, how much we would miss him. Ben must have left that session pretty high, I bet.
In the morning he was presented with gifts, a shawl from the ashram and even more important, a package of pictures and fond wishes from the third and sixth grade. Highlights from the third grade was probably that everyone spelled his name wrong, calling him Ven sir and the picture that they drew of him on the back of the card which was a dead on rendition of a digital surfdude sasquatch. Those kooks.
After some hugging everyone in the ashram (which was amusing for me to watch, seeing the girls akwardly squirm through their hugs. Apparently hugging giant unshaven blonde foreign men, let alone Indian men, isn't woven into the fabric of mountain village life), we took off to wait for the bus. I decided to go down with Ben to Dehradun to run some errands and see him off.
While we were drinking some chai waiting for the bus by the side of the road, one of the KG saw Ben and immediately started dancing, doing the sprinkler. Ben taught the kids that dance in one of our dance classes with the younger kids. Way more satisfying than a mere wave, and the kid would not stop dancing, even when his father, who was walking with him was shaking his finger at him. Ohhh...precious moments.
I exited the train after making sure that Ben had found his seat. Despite it being around six in the morning, when we got on the train, the platform was bustling with activity, but when I left, I found it barren. The only things I could see is the dimly lit vendors idly looking off to the distance, and what I assumed to be a tearful lover trying to hold on to her husband before he took off to the moving train. Not the best situation to be alone for essentially the first time in a month (Ben had more or less been attached to my hip in the ashram). And then his damn song about leaving, the very one he sang at assembly, crept into my head as I walked down the dark streets to find the vikram that would take me back to the hostel. For me his departure was also bitter sweet; I loved having Ben around, our days tended to be one long joke interspersed with some creative motivation to work on our respective projects and playing with children. But I also can be a very private person who enjoys his own space, space that has been inhabited by Ben for the last month, so I looked forward to returning to that form and being a bit more productive in terms of the projects asked of me.
But as I write this during my supersecret productive time between five and seven in the morning, it is kind of sad to not to be able to share this with Ben. During this time after meditation, Ben would stay up with me and work on his personal projects. While I get a much bigger share of the terrible Nescafe coffee pot, I can no longer look over to the left of my desk, just over the space heater, to see Ben sitting upright covered completely head to toe by his sleeping bag and array of blankets stacked upon his lap, book or pen in hand, working away to the candlelight emanating from bedstand beside him.
But Ben's legacy lives on, and I don't see it fading away anytime soon. Everyday, I find a kid singing, 'and you and you and you' the chorus he wrote to the song. Mohan still makes the perfect impersonation of Ben's apparent surfer Hindi accent, 'tum kar rahe ho?' Ben's favorite phrase. The ashram girls still ask me when he is coming back, Sir ji is still slinging him compliments.
It is amazing how much a person can have an impact on the right community in such a short stay. But it isn't to surprising that Ben himself made the impact on this community. He made a great fit, his creativity, love for children, outgoing personality, communication skills. His personality, as well as his contributions to the music and input towards the documentary I am making about the ashram will long outlive his stay.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
A hot ashram minute...
Here is catch up of what the last couple weeks in the ashram has been like. I am adopting a form of writing from friend Benjamin (or Friendjamin), calls memory logging, which is bulleting points that you want to remember without excessive ellaboration. Here it goes:
0. Came home to bitter cold, much more bitter than before we left. The other day it was -6 degrees. It actually snowed a little bit the other day and I joined the kids in catching snowflakes on my tongue.
0. My friends Rose and Ben, have really taken to the Ashram. I had rarely seen Rose who spent most of her time with the teachers and children. When she left she that she really wanted to come back and enjoyed her experience.
0. Two of the teachers left! Without even a goodbye. Minnie went back to Kerala, which is a shame. Also, Sanjay left for good, I think he was getting some pressure from his friends and family to leave. In an extremely patriarchal area like the Indian countryside, men are only men if they have good jobs and a family, which isn't the life one leads while teaching in an ashram school and meditating most of the day. We all loved the guy, but it was apparent that his heart wasn't completely into it.
0. But Sanjay sister, Sangeeta, who is teacher and probably the cutest thing on earth, has stayed, thank god. We taught her a call and response line from a rap song from Plastic Little: B and C: "yo sangeeta, what time you think it is.' S: 'I think it is rap o'clock.' B and C: 'rap o'clock on the dot.' Oh, the precious moments that we cherish.
0. Sanya, on of our beautiful dogs got eaten by a leopard! Actually the day I left, there was a lot of blood on the playground, but we usually lock up our dogs at night, so I thought she might of been spared. I really loved that dog and almost cried when I heard the children devoid of any emotion, say, 'oh yeah, sanya got eaten.' This is especially sad, because undoubtedly she was pregnant having gone through her first season in heat. I think we all earned playing with those puppies from having to endure all of the gross feral dogs milling around moaning hysterically for that terrible terrible month. But we miss you Sanya, rest in peace. (note: we still have her hyper happy brother Lara to keep us company)
0. To add to the danger, Shanti didi told me that five goats in the village directly under the ashram were eaten by tigers! I am pretty sure that there are no tigers in the mountains, but the is an ongoing debate in the ashram about the differences between the leopard that ate sanya and the tiger that ate the goats. In all honesty, I think tiger means bigger leopard. But lots of things are getting eaten these days, I am trying my best not to be one of them.
0. Oh and another indicator of the daily danger that I live in: I got hit by lightening the other day...I think. There was this beautiful thunder/lightening storm where these clouds descended over the mountains covering us and turning the sky this bright yellow. Then the clouds started to sour, bringing forth some of the most brilliant lightening and most powerful thunder that I have ever experienced. Ben and I were sitting in my room chatting and listening to the thunder when we saw a flash of light with a crackle of thunder simultaneously. My body seized up, leaving a nasty headache and we lost power. We immediately and inexplicably burst into hysterics, then went to the roof to watch the carnage. It was pretty neat.
0. All of the girls in the ashram are making hats, meaning ben and I will be the recipients of at least 6 hats each. There have been weird politics around the hats and who makes it. I wish I could get inside the gaggle of giggling girls heads, but it appears that if a girl has a crush on the boy than they will make them a hat. This terrifies ben and I, so we have devised a schedule where we will wear each of the hats only once a week as to not lead anybody on.
0. Ben and I have introduced basketball to the kids, there had been a hoop in the back of school that no one used, but we urged them to move it onto the concrete patch in the front of the school. There had been a basketball explosion it is all that the kids wanted to do. They played so much that within the week, the basketball hoop had fallen off the backboard. And some of these kids have such amazing textbook shooting form without any instruction it is quite amazing. As an added benefit, the basketball court provides a forum for our extreme packing of kids shots and basketball domination, which in turn makes us feel more like men.
0. One goal of mine has been that by the time I leave, I better be able to make chapatis (north indian flat bread, essentially their fork) like a 75 year old grandma. I am well on my way, I can now roll the perfect chapati. The problem now is making the chapatis puff in our wood stove, my mostly burn instead of puff, but I got five more months to hone my craft. Ben has become chapati ball rolling king.
0. I discovered that there is a baker in town! He is a really kind man and his biscuits are amazing. I wish that I couldn't say that I have eaten a whole bag of those delicious morsels in one sitting, but if I did it would be a filthy lie. We also asked him to make a chocolate cake for the other fellow megan's birthday, and the results were much more than we expected. The cake was actually much better than most of the cakes that I have had in the US. The bakery has become a necessary stop whenever I go back to town.
The mentioning of Ben transcends bulleting lists. Ben is in the middle of his month stay and it has been great. At the request of my mentor, he has brought some great recording equipment which we will be using to recording the children's songs for a cd project that we are working on. He has been at working on trying to familiarize the teachers with the equipment recently. Ben has also brought his creativity, song writing abilities, and positive attitude which has been greatly appreciated. Ben has been writing songs for the kids that are mindwarpingly catchy, and immediately are adored by the children. For a recent program that we put on for the children's parents, the kids sang his song and created a dance for it. Equally adored is ben, the man, by the children, they affectionately call him Edge ji after their favorite WWE wrestler. Also Tall boy + blonde hair+ sense of humor +musician = heart throb for Indian women. I think the girls in the ashram have internalized this formula, elevating ben to dreamboat status.
Having a good friend like ben around has been really great for me personally. His creativity is contagious and he definitely brings out a good side of me and the comfort of having a good friend around reflects on my other relationships in the ashram. Although this is not to say that there was a distance between me and the others in the ashram and the children previously, To a certain extent, I feel like I develop friendships dependent of the person I am interacting with, and from the lens of these various friendships I might appear slightly different. Obviously, in developing relationships with the Indians I have encountered a few boundaries due to language and differences of cultural experience, but nevertheless, I feel very close to them. But having Ben around, I feel like I have been able to act a bit more like good old friends know me as, more of what I perceived myself as, more relaxed and a bit more humorous, which I feel that I haven't been able to adequately convey. I feel that having ben around has definitely help to deepen my relationships with those in the ashram as well with the children.
Anyways its good to be back.
0. Came home to bitter cold, much more bitter than before we left. The other day it was -6 degrees. It actually snowed a little bit the other day and I joined the kids in catching snowflakes on my tongue.
0. My friends Rose and Ben, have really taken to the Ashram. I had rarely seen Rose who spent most of her time with the teachers and children. When she left she that she really wanted to come back and enjoyed her experience.
0. Two of the teachers left! Without even a goodbye. Minnie went back to Kerala, which is a shame. Also, Sanjay left for good, I think he was getting some pressure from his friends and family to leave. In an extremely patriarchal area like the Indian countryside, men are only men if they have good jobs and a family, which isn't the life one leads while teaching in an ashram school and meditating most of the day. We all loved the guy, but it was apparent that his heart wasn't completely into it.
0. But Sanjay sister, Sangeeta, who is teacher and probably the cutest thing on earth, has stayed, thank god. We taught her a call and response line from a rap song from Plastic Little: B and C: "yo sangeeta, what time you think it is.' S: 'I think it is rap o'clock.' B and C: 'rap o'clock on the dot.' Oh, the precious moments that we cherish.
0. Sanya, on of our beautiful dogs got eaten by a leopard! Actually the day I left, there was a lot of blood on the playground, but we usually lock up our dogs at night, so I thought she might of been spared. I really loved that dog and almost cried when I heard the children devoid of any emotion, say, 'oh yeah, sanya got eaten.' This is especially sad, because undoubtedly she was pregnant having gone through her first season in heat. I think we all earned playing with those puppies from having to endure all of the gross feral dogs milling around moaning hysterically for that terrible terrible month. But we miss you Sanya, rest in peace. (note: we still have her hyper happy brother Lara to keep us company)
0. To add to the danger, Shanti didi told me that five goats in the village directly under the ashram were eaten by tigers! I am pretty sure that there are no tigers in the mountains, but the is an ongoing debate in the ashram about the differences between the leopard that ate sanya and the tiger that ate the goats. In all honesty, I think tiger means bigger leopard. But lots of things are getting eaten these days, I am trying my best not to be one of them.
0. Oh and another indicator of the daily danger that I live in: I got hit by lightening the other day...I think. There was this beautiful thunder/lightening storm where these clouds descended over the mountains covering us and turning the sky this bright yellow. Then the clouds started to sour, bringing forth some of the most brilliant lightening and most powerful thunder that I have ever experienced. Ben and I were sitting in my room chatting and listening to the thunder when we saw a flash of light with a crackle of thunder simultaneously. My body seized up, leaving a nasty headache and we lost power. We immediately and inexplicably burst into hysterics, then went to the roof to watch the carnage. It was pretty neat.
0. All of the girls in the ashram are making hats, meaning ben and I will be the recipients of at least 6 hats each. There have been weird politics around the hats and who makes it. I wish I could get inside the gaggle of giggling girls heads, but it appears that if a girl has a crush on the boy than they will make them a hat. This terrifies ben and I, so we have devised a schedule where we will wear each of the hats only once a week as to not lead anybody on.
0. Ben and I have introduced basketball to the kids, there had been a hoop in the back of school that no one used, but we urged them to move it onto the concrete patch in the front of the school. There had been a basketball explosion it is all that the kids wanted to do. They played so much that within the week, the basketball hoop had fallen off the backboard. And some of these kids have such amazing textbook shooting form without any instruction it is quite amazing. As an added benefit, the basketball court provides a forum for our extreme packing of kids shots and basketball domination, which in turn makes us feel more like men.
0. One goal of mine has been that by the time I leave, I better be able to make chapatis (north indian flat bread, essentially their fork) like a 75 year old grandma. I am well on my way, I can now roll the perfect chapati. The problem now is making the chapatis puff in our wood stove, my mostly burn instead of puff, but I got five more months to hone my craft. Ben has become chapati ball rolling king.
0. I discovered that there is a baker in town! He is a really kind man and his biscuits are amazing. I wish that I couldn't say that I have eaten a whole bag of those delicious morsels in one sitting, but if I did it would be a filthy lie. We also asked him to make a chocolate cake for the other fellow megan's birthday, and the results were much more than we expected. The cake was actually much better than most of the cakes that I have had in the US. The bakery has become a necessary stop whenever I go back to town.
The mentioning of Ben transcends bulleting lists. Ben is in the middle of his month stay and it has been great. At the request of my mentor, he has brought some great recording equipment which we will be using to recording the children's songs for a cd project that we are working on. He has been at working on trying to familiarize the teachers with the equipment recently. Ben has also brought his creativity, song writing abilities, and positive attitude which has been greatly appreciated. Ben has been writing songs for the kids that are mindwarpingly catchy, and immediately are adored by the children. For a recent program that we put on for the children's parents, the kids sang his song and created a dance for it. Equally adored is ben, the man, by the children, they affectionately call him Edge ji after their favorite WWE wrestler. Also Tall boy + blonde hair+ sense of humor +musician = heart throb for Indian women. I think the girls in the ashram have internalized this formula, elevating ben to dreamboat status.
Having a good friend like ben around has been really great for me personally. His creativity is contagious and he definitely brings out a good side of me and the comfort of having a good friend around reflects on my other relationships in the ashram. Although this is not to say that there was a distance between me and the others in the ashram and the children previously, To a certain extent, I feel like I develop friendships dependent of the person I am interacting with, and from the lens of these various friendships I might appear slightly different. Obviously, in developing relationships with the Indians I have encountered a few boundaries due to language and differences of cultural experience, but nevertheless, I feel very close to them. But having Ben around, I feel like I have been able to act a bit more like good old friends know me as, more of what I perceived myself as, more relaxed and a bit more humorous, which I feel that I haven't been able to adequately convey. I feel that having ben around has definitely help to deepen my relationships with those in the ashram as well with the children.
Anyways its good to be back.
Tamil Nadu
Tamil Nadu:
Here I am, back in the ashram. Once again getting used to the brainsmashingly slow dial up after a month of broadband bliss while traveling (it will probably take at least an hour to post this blog, this shows not only the reason why I haven't been in contact lately and also my dedication against all adversity to blog).
So recap of remainder of my brush with the south. After Kerala, Rose, Christoph, and I headed for Pondicherry, a charming colonial town that was occupied by the French until the 1950's I believe. It was a strange place. The beachfront part of town was on a grid system, there was no traffic, the streets were clean, virtually no poverty, all of the signs were in French. The town was a tempting stop for a young man who has been living a semi ascetic life for the last five months: the french residue made for fairly cheap wine, good baguettes, espresso and cigarettes, all too widely available. We rented a beautiful room with a balcony looking over the Bay of Bengal and lived like we thought a French would (with very limited knowledge of French culture albeit), by indulging in the above four vices while listening to Serge Gainsbourg on my Ipod speakers and reading Michel Foucalt. It was splendid.
We rented some scooters to cruise around the mild streets, see some beaches, and maybe to go check out Auroville, the local wierd French/Indian Hippie fusion Ashram hotspot. We soon found out that the streets weren't so mild when you got out of the grid: we were battling huge cargo trucks, aggressive motorers, dodged cows and water buffalo, the standard Indian road fare. But we did manage to find the Auroville beach which was kind of a trip. First of all the beach was by invite only, which was kind of suspicious seeing that the white foreigners including ourselves could just simply scoot on in, while the upper middle class Indian family in a jeep behind us were shooed away. The beach also seemed to be a small cluster of homes for the aurovillians and a cafe, which was amazing. I picked up a delicious humus sandwich on organic wheat bread and drank drip o-sweet-mother-of-god coffee and watched the too cool for school Indian/French Aurovillians milling about. And what is a hippie ashram without your standard naked children running around causing trouble, products of a hands off parenting style? No ashram in my book. That is why is was validating seeing these two naked, golden locked children running around the cafe knocking down sandcastles, splashing water on everyone, and causing general mayhem. With bellies filled with good food and coffee, we strolled to the beach which was quite fantastic. I decided roast my skin a bit, seeing that basically no part of my body has seen the light of day since the cold hit the mountains three months ago. I don't think the south korean tourist to the left off us could handle the paleish glow emanating from my exposed chest, and moved onwards. This may surprise you, but I am usually not the bod flashing beachbro, but a mixture of seeing exposed skin in the form of board shot bros and girls in bikinis (which I had totally forgotten that women wear anything but salwaar kaameez and saris while living in the mountains) and that before I left, every morning I woke up with headaches from the cold and that it had only gotten colder since I left, I decided to go for it.
After a mild freakout of not hearing from friend Ben Sellon, who was suppose to be in mid flight to India after spending an unintended and presumably desparately lonely christmas and New Years by himself in Turkey, He had forgotten to get a tourist visa for India while traveling, and they Turkish authorities definitely reminded him, while punishing him pretty severely. The next two weeks were spent badgering officials, pleading, etc. until he finally got his visa after the holidays had passed as well as the fun had in Bombay and Kerala. Poor chap. But he met up with us in Pondy, which excited me greatly, although celebrations were short lived. Rose and I soonafter, probably in a matter of hours actuallyafter Ben arrived, fell ill with a bubonic respiratory infections, slapping a heavy 103 ish tempature on our poor systems for a couple of days. Soon Ben was fetching our meds and banana porridge and joining us in our day long National Geography dubbed in Hindi sick binges. It was great though, Christoph had left us to resume his Hindi program in Jaipur, and seeing that it felt like scaling a mountain to get up to go to the bathroom, Ben's help was greatly appreciated.
While still sick, I had to make a break for Chennai to see a friend from my Hindi program at UW, Rowan and some of the AIF fellows placed there for an exposure visit. The first night I was feeling a little better (my hypothesis is that after we experienced some rain in Pondy our room was converted into a cesspool of mold, reinforced by the neon space mold that we found in our bathroom, which filled our lungs accordingly) and stayed with Rowan who is doing her dissertation research currently and living in a pretty posh area of southern Chennai, right on the beach. It was very interesting catching up with Rowan hearing about her research (although my semi delirious state prevented me from comprehending anything too complex). I also got to play with her daughter, Avery, who she brought along for the year. This kid is amazing, she has fully embraced living in India and is enrolled in a English medium school where she is the only foreigner and is learning Hindi. Aahh, now that is a childhood to be jealous of! It was pretty apparent to me that Rowan is a terrific mother and that Avery is going to grow up to be an amazing person.
After my too brief of stay with Rowan I made my way in town a little further to stay with Krishna, Ja, and Gia, three AIF fellows. I came to do an exposure visit with Krishna who is also working with education. Although still feeling like a dumpster, I enjoyed talking about his curriculum projects and listening to him play music. He is a terrific Carnatic violinist and vocalist. Their neighborhood was great too. They lived in a Muslim gali, where most people speak Urdu, which is almost identical to Hindi, with persian script and a more Persian/Arabic influence on vocabulary. I was able to brush off my Hindi and chat with Krishna's shopkeeper and chai wala. After a couple days, Ben and Rose met us in Chennai and we made the couple day voyage back up to my Himalayan abode. Even at the onset of my trip and although I enjoyed traveling in the south immensely, the whole time my heart was left in the ashram, and I was ready to get back to the community and children.
Here I am, back in the ashram. Once again getting used to the brainsmashingly slow dial up after a month of broadband bliss while traveling (it will probably take at least an hour to post this blog, this shows not only the reason why I haven't been in contact lately and also my dedication against all adversity to blog).
So recap of remainder of my brush with the south. After Kerala, Rose, Christoph, and I headed for Pondicherry, a charming colonial town that was occupied by the French until the 1950's I believe. It was a strange place. The beachfront part of town was on a grid system, there was no traffic, the streets were clean, virtually no poverty, all of the signs were in French. The town was a tempting stop for a young man who has been living a semi ascetic life for the last five months: the french residue made for fairly cheap wine, good baguettes, espresso and cigarettes, all too widely available. We rented a beautiful room with a balcony looking over the Bay of Bengal and lived like we thought a French would (with very limited knowledge of French culture albeit), by indulging in the above four vices while listening to Serge Gainsbourg on my Ipod speakers and reading Michel Foucalt. It was splendid.
We rented some scooters to cruise around the mild streets, see some beaches, and maybe to go check out Auroville, the local wierd French/Indian Hippie fusion Ashram hotspot. We soon found out that the streets weren't so mild when you got out of the grid: we were battling huge cargo trucks, aggressive motorers, dodged cows and water buffalo, the standard Indian road fare. But we did manage to find the Auroville beach which was kind of a trip. First of all the beach was by invite only, which was kind of suspicious seeing that the white foreigners including ourselves could just simply scoot on in, while the upper middle class Indian family in a jeep behind us were shooed away. The beach also seemed to be a small cluster of homes for the aurovillians and a cafe, which was amazing. I picked up a delicious humus sandwich on organic wheat bread and drank drip o-sweet-mother-of-god coffee and watched the too cool for school Indian/French Aurovillians milling about. And what is a hippie ashram without your standard naked children running around causing trouble, products of a hands off parenting style? No ashram in my book. That is why is was validating seeing these two naked, golden locked children running around the cafe knocking down sandcastles, splashing water on everyone, and causing general mayhem. With bellies filled with good food and coffee, we strolled to the beach which was quite fantastic. I decided roast my skin a bit, seeing that basically no part of my body has seen the light of day since the cold hit the mountains three months ago. I don't think the south korean tourist to the left off us could handle the paleish glow emanating from my exposed chest, and moved onwards. This may surprise you, but I am usually not the bod flashing beachbro, but a mixture of seeing exposed skin in the form of board shot bros and girls in bikinis (which I had totally forgotten that women wear anything but salwaar kaameez and saris while living in the mountains) and that before I left, every morning I woke up with headaches from the cold and that it had only gotten colder since I left, I decided to go for it.
After a mild freakout of not hearing from friend Ben Sellon, who was suppose to be in mid flight to India after spending an unintended and presumably desparately lonely christmas and New Years by himself in Turkey, He had forgotten to get a tourist visa for India while traveling, and they Turkish authorities definitely reminded him, while punishing him pretty severely. The next two weeks were spent badgering officials, pleading, etc. until he finally got his visa after the holidays had passed as well as the fun had in Bombay and Kerala. Poor chap. But he met up with us in Pondy, which excited me greatly, although celebrations were short lived. Rose and I soonafter, probably in a matter of hours actuallyafter Ben arrived, fell ill with a bubonic respiratory infections, slapping a heavy 103 ish tempature on our poor systems for a couple of days. Soon Ben was fetching our meds and banana porridge and joining us in our day long National Geography dubbed in Hindi sick binges. It was great though, Christoph had left us to resume his Hindi program in Jaipur, and seeing that it felt like scaling a mountain to get up to go to the bathroom, Ben's help was greatly appreciated.
While still sick, I had to make a break for Chennai to see a friend from my Hindi program at UW, Rowan and some of the AIF fellows placed there for an exposure visit. The first night I was feeling a little better (my hypothesis is that after we experienced some rain in Pondy our room was converted into a cesspool of mold, reinforced by the neon space mold that we found in our bathroom, which filled our lungs accordingly) and stayed with Rowan who is doing her dissertation research currently and living in a pretty posh area of southern Chennai, right on the beach. It was very interesting catching up with Rowan hearing about her research (although my semi delirious state prevented me from comprehending anything too complex). I also got to play with her daughter, Avery, who she brought along for the year. This kid is amazing, she has fully embraced living in India and is enrolled in a English medium school where she is the only foreigner and is learning Hindi. Aahh, now that is a childhood to be jealous of! It was pretty apparent to me that Rowan is a terrific mother and that Avery is going to grow up to be an amazing person.
After my too brief of stay with Rowan I made my way in town a little further to stay with Krishna, Ja, and Gia, three AIF fellows. I came to do an exposure visit with Krishna who is also working with education. Although still feeling like a dumpster, I enjoyed talking about his curriculum projects and listening to him play music. He is a terrific Carnatic violinist and vocalist. Their neighborhood was great too. They lived in a Muslim gali, where most people speak Urdu, which is almost identical to Hindi, with persian script and a more Persian/Arabic influence on vocabulary. I was able to brush off my Hindi and chat with Krishna's shopkeeper and chai wala. After a couple days, Ben and Rose met us in Chennai and we made the couple day voyage back up to my Himalayan abode. Even at the onset of my trip and although I enjoyed traveling in the south immensely, the whole time my heart was left in the ashram, and I was ready to get back to the community and children.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
APV Website
I have forgotten to put up a link to a website that I made for the school, with the help of my visiting friend, Nick. On the site you should be able to get a good idea of what we are trying to do with plenty of pictures. I also included a music section where you can listen to a couple of our songs performed by our children. It turned into a hellish project requiring me to spend my evenings and mornings in front of a computer in a giant room with near freezing temperatures, but its done and you should check it out.
http://www.sbmahimalaya.org/APV/home.html
http://www.sbmahimalaya.org/APV/home.html
Monday, December 31, 2007
I Love Kerala
Okay, I just got off the boat: two days cruising the backwaters of beautiful Kerala, the southwestest corner state of India. And in the last week in Kerala I have realized that I am in love with this state. Let me count the ways:
(Disclaimer: Although I may be on land now, my body is still on that boat; everything is swaying and I am pretty nauseous. Hopefully this is coherent. This list is not in any sort of order)
(Disclaimer: Although I may be on land now, my body is still on that boat; everything is swaying and I am pretty nauseous. Hopefully this is coherent. This list is not in any sort of order)
- Lungis- All men (aged 35 +) wear lungis, a cloth rapped around to wrap around one's waist (man dress), which are quite possibly my most favorite attire (although I have kept my lungi packed as not to gain too much unwanted attention). They are very comfortable and extremely functional, when it gets hot or one needs to do some demanding work, there is a procedure of folding it up which give's one full maneuverability. My favorite sights was seeing a bus of men heading to work with dress shirts, brief cases, and their lungis. Now that is a working culture that I want to be a part of.
- Another male aesthetic note: all men have mustaches here, I know this isn't exclusive to just Kerala, but I love mustaches, and have seen some beautiful ones here that were worth a mention.
- There are dolphins here! We saw them jumping just offshore from this beach near Kochi.
- Coconuts are used in everything, including their village wine, known as Toddy, which is dangerously delicious. Much better than the village wine I have drank in Rajasthan which was made from a root.
- Staying on a fruit related topic, bananas are everywhere, even cigarette and paan stands sell bananas. And they are absolutely delicious, they are different than most of the ones you can get in the states, much smaller but oh so good.
- Kerala is noticeably more developed than the north where I have spent all of my time, and the effects are quite visable. For instance, women work everywhere, gas pumps, fruit stalls, Internet cafes and are constantly in the public sphere, which was quite shocking for me coming from the North, where it is very rare to see a woman working anywhere outside of the home. Also, girls make eye contact with me here! In all of my time in India, going on almost a year, I have not made eye contact with a single girl, and here girls actually say hello to me. This newfound attention from Indian women is a bit jarring for me, but I will take it. Oh, the literacy rate of this state is quite impressive. Our travel companion, Rose, was bedridden for a couple days with the Delhi Belly, so this freed up time for me to visit Kottayam, a city boasting a hundred percent literacy. For some reason I thought that this would be interesting to see, this utopia of India, where all, from the business man to the farmer, are engaged in meaningful debate and discussion. But I have found sightseeing for literacy doesn't yield the best experiences, and upon reflection, it was about exciting as it sounds.
- Quite diverse in terms of religion, which is interesting to see: about a third Muslim, a third Christian, and a third Hindu.
- Traveling around the countryside, seeing beautiful church after beautiful church, it is clear that at least in this region of Kerala, Christianity is most visible, a strange departure from my almost entirely Hindu experience of the North. And Although I wouldn't necessarily consider myself a christian at this point, seeing a shared set of experiences, structures, and customs (albeit in a different form. For example, those that know about Arthi, a ritual fire offering in Hinduism, in kerala, I have seen people performing a similar rite in christian temples that resemble any other Hindu temple that I have seen), especially during this festive season with decorations, costume (we have seen many santas), etc., I have found some comfort in this culture, it is not as alien as it can get up in the North I guess.
- An interesting twist in the politics of this region, given the diverse religiosity of people. This state is communist and has been for a long time (I am not exactly sure how long). And just as visible as the religions, so is the communist allegiance, despite the relative decline in popularity as of late. The Communist Party of India-Marxist or CPIM is everywhere, with posters, rallies, flags. Interestingly, I even saw a Laal Mandir as I call it, a temple drawing entirely from Hindu architecture colored red with the communist logo. I went to the communist bookstore in the bus stop and picked up a communist planner in Malayalam, the Keralan native tongue, and a cd by the People's Choir, a branch of the CPIM, which was interestedly awful. It was also interesting to see villagers painting lifesize protraits of Che Guevara by candlelight, weird.
- Attitudes are much more laid back here it seems. People are far less aggressive, even in established tourist spots.
- Rickshaw drivers give you acurate fares!!! This has never been the case in any place I have traveled in the north.
- A conscience salve for the tenative tourist: there are very few beggars here, I haven't been asked for money once. Sometimes I feel guilty of the privilege that I have to go on these travels, and admittedly, in more developed areas, like Kerala, I feel that it is a little easier to travel as bad as that may sound.
- And most important: They drink Coffee here, sweet, sweet, love of life coffee that I cannot get in any decent form in my Himalayan abode. It is also ridiculously cheap, maybe 10 cents a glass, and really delicious. While wandering through the backstreets of Ernakulam, I stumbled upon, Broadway Diner, which turned out to be a refreshing deviation from the Starbuck esque establishments that I have been frequenting in the bigger cities. This place had not experienced a single change since India gained her Independence some sixty years ago. It was like walking into a time portal. Creeky chairs, marble tables, old display cupboards with aging signs, cobwebs, dark lighting, steady hum of old fans. Most importantly, they had this warm radio from the forties that played old Hindi film tunes, and strangely enough, obscure American Psychedilic rock. The shopkeep had taken over when his father died, and sat behind this large wooden bar taking money all day. He had impeccable English, we talked about stocks for some reason. The cavernous back rooms where the kitchen bathroom living quarters had no electricity or running water and really hadn't changed since the building had been erected. I absolutely loved this place, I never wanted to leave. I spent about 6 hours there and drank about thirteen cups of coffee ,(they were small though), while conceptualizing with my friend Christoph about a non profit community based cafe/bookshop with a subcontinent focus that we want to start in the US in due time (I might elaborate about this more later). Good times.
Man, I think I studied the wrong language, I should have studied Malayalam in college (by the way my Hindi does absolutely nothing down here, Hindi is within the Aryan language family, while Malayalam is in the Dravidian family, so there are very few similarities in vocabulary, pronunciation and script. I am completely helpless here which has been a huge source of frustration, although my Hindi isn't great, I can get by and am much more comfortable in this regard, traveling in the North).
Alright my head feels like it is about to fall off, I still feel like I am on a boat. But hope that your New Year's was merry!
Monday, December 24, 2007
Christmas Eve
Hello y'all,
I have swapped the posh Juhu life to move in with my friend Cheryl who lives in the slums of Jogeshwari, a former dairytown transformed into a giant slum, more or less, by the urban sprawl of Bombay megacity. Luckily the process occurred about thirty years ago, giving it immunity to government landgrabs, meaning sweet, sweet housing security for Cheryl, who has been having trouble finding a place. Her room is warm and cozy, but quite tiny with no running water, upstairs (which means unbearably hot) and with an asbestos covered tin roof (which makes it even hotter). For toilet accommodations there is a drain in the corner for urine and a bring-your-own-water shared toilet further down the slums for other business. Although it has been tight staying with her and my friend Rose, and my back is a little sore from sleeping on the concrete, I actually have preferred staying at her place over the Shreedar's bollywood beachside flat.
I really commend her for the bare bones lifestyle in which she lives and how she never complains about it. Although I do realize how difficult it is for any foreigner, especially a women, to live in India, it is refreshing to hear Cheryl lack of complaint about her living situation, especially after the group vent at the midpoint retreat last week.
The experience for me has broken many of my conceptions of the slum. For one, all slums are not utterly impoverished, there are varying levels of and within slums in terms of economic status. People get by, they work hard and don't have much materially, but few people go hungry. Compared to my experience in Juhu, with wealthy individual living in these castles cordoned off by barbwired walls and security guards, it is a nice change to live for a few days in a completely open and close knit community where everyone knows and for the most part, cares for each other, shares food. We have been able to meet so many warm hearted people in her neighborhood and all of her social activist neighbors (I actually got to spend Eid, a Muslim holiday eating delicious mutton and chicken, so long Ashram lifestyle).
Tonight should be fun, Cheryl's friends have started a library and student group in their slum and tonight we will sing some social activist songs that they have written and do some program with some kids I guess. Then Rose, Cheryl, some of her friends, and myself will have a gift swap. We are out Benjamin who is sadly stuck in Istanbul with visa troubles preventing his flight here this morning. Hopefully he can get it all sorted out soon and meet up with us in Kerala.
Hope everyone has a merry Christmas, and perhaps hope you all will open a present for you Bombay buddy.
All of you are in my thoughts.
I have swapped the posh Juhu life to move in with my friend Cheryl who lives in the slums of Jogeshwari, a former dairytown transformed into a giant slum, more or less, by the urban sprawl of Bombay megacity. Luckily the process occurred about thirty years ago, giving it immunity to government landgrabs, meaning sweet, sweet housing security for Cheryl, who has been having trouble finding a place. Her room is warm and cozy, but quite tiny with no running water, upstairs (which means unbearably hot) and with an asbestos covered tin roof (which makes it even hotter). For toilet accommodations there is a drain in the corner for urine and a bring-your-own-water shared toilet further down the slums for other business. Although it has been tight staying with her and my friend Rose, and my back is a little sore from sleeping on the concrete, I actually have preferred staying at her place over the Shreedar's bollywood beachside flat.
I really commend her for the bare bones lifestyle in which she lives and how she never complains about it. Although I do realize how difficult it is for any foreigner, especially a women, to live in India, it is refreshing to hear Cheryl lack of complaint about her living situation, especially after the group vent at the midpoint retreat last week.
The experience for me has broken many of my conceptions of the slum. For one, all slums are not utterly impoverished, there are varying levels of and within slums in terms of economic status. People get by, they work hard and don't have much materially, but few people go hungry. Compared to my experience in Juhu, with wealthy individual living in these castles cordoned off by barbwired walls and security guards, it is a nice change to live for a few days in a completely open and close knit community where everyone knows and for the most part, cares for each other, shares food. We have been able to meet so many warm hearted people in her neighborhood and all of her social activist neighbors (I actually got to spend Eid, a Muslim holiday eating delicious mutton and chicken, so long Ashram lifestyle).
Tonight should be fun, Cheryl's friends have started a library and student group in their slum and tonight we will sing some social activist songs that they have written and do some program with some kids I guess. Then Rose, Cheryl, some of her friends, and myself will have a gift swap. We are out Benjamin who is sadly stuck in Istanbul with visa troubles preventing his flight here this morning. Hopefully he can get it all sorted out soon and meet up with us in Kerala.
Hope everyone has a merry Christmas, and perhaps hope you all will open a present for you Bombay buddy.
All of you are in my thoughts.
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