No matter how ridiculous it seems in light of how much we have learned and grown over this past year, all of us at one point or another have at least briefly pondered the question, “What will be our legacy, or how will we be remembered at our sites?” This question was especially potent when we first came, as we were continually plagued with nostalgic reminiscences of the previous volunteers. Oh, he was a master Malayalam speaker. Or, she learned Indian dance. Do you want to see a picture? He was just head and shoulders above other volunteers, he was made for this place. She started a library for the local children…what will you do? Naturally, these stories were slightly intimidating those first few months. It is something all YAVs go through, and I am sure all of us, whether we admit it or not, feel a little competitiveness. We want to do it better.
Then we have the expectations of those back home. Most people probably think we are spending a year doing some great service for the poor people of the world. Some think we are bringing our education and training to improve physical and societal infrastructure. Others assume we are filling positions that require exactly our background and expertise. There may even be some with an archaic and horrifying understanding of us as missionaries out to save and civilize the ‘heathens’. Hopefully all realize that we gain some from the experience as well. By and large, though, the accepted formula is that we the privileged are filling some need that the people themselves could not handle. Let’s face it, westerners have a bit of a savior complex. We think other people need our help, indeed that they cannot survive without us. And the volunteers are not exempt from this mindset. When we started, I am sure each one of us deep down felt that we were off to do our part to save the world. We wanted to be effective ‘doers’. We wanted to leave our mark wherever it was that we were going.
But then we lived here for a year. In previous posts, I have reflected on all of the humbling lessons we have learned. Our communication skills are not nearly as good as we thought they were. We struggle to make community life work. We are not very skilled English teachers. We are not immune to loneliness and homesickness. Our patience wears thin all too easily. Heck, we can’t even always hold our own when it comes to eating. I never thought I would have a problem with that! This education in humility has indeed been transformative. The far more important lesson, though, is that the people we thought we were coming to help are resilient, creative, and dedicated. They are people with the skills, knowledge, and devotion needed for positive self determination. In other words, they are not some backwards, needy population as portrayed and idealized by western media.
We have come upon some major issues during our time here. We have seen and experienced giant problems against which we are truly helpless. Helpless in the sense that we have nothing to offer; we cannot help. We are not, however, hopeless. For we have also seen and experienced the power of the people. Here are just a few examples:
-One cannot go anywhere in Kerala without noticing the oppression of women. In general, women are expected to serve. They are to bear children, raise children, cook food, clean houses, and often find ways to provide the familial income drained by husbands’ alcoholism. They usually don’t have the freedom to choose the husband who turns out to be a louse; their fathers and uncles and brothers choose for them. Even their dress code is a product of male attempts at control. And the church is not innocent—women and men don’t sit together, and women have to cover their heads for prayer and communion. In short, it is patriarchy at its ugliest. But one also cannot go anywhere in Kerala without encountering strong women who will eventually buck the system. My hope lies in my dear friend Anitha, who must respect the intricacies of her culture in having an arranged marriage but will use her education, strength of will, and compassion to improve the lives and freedom of other women around her.
-India is notorious for hunger problems. I believe the country has more malnourished children than any other region in the world. But Kerala has shown that effectively run public distribution systems can feed the people. Leftist governments in the state have recognized that food distribution rather than shortage is the problem. So the people provide for each other.
-Even more than hunger, India is known for its street children and orphans. Oftentimes the global economic system forces families into such poverty that they can no longer be functioning families. So the children end up having to live on their own—homeless, begging, stealing, fighting to survive. This tragedy affects me deeply. But then I see our girls’ home Balika Mandiram and the boys’ home down the street Kerala Balagram. I see organizations who realize the need to help the young who are abandoned, orphaned, uncared for, or delinquent. More importantly, though, I see the children themselves who band together as sisters and brothers, giving each other back their childhood and the love and support they need to make it.
-Likewise, elderly are often abandoned or tossed out by their families. And likewise this Mandiram Society functions to provide food, housing, and healthcare. And likewise the elderly themselves make community and support each other.
-As I have said before, this Mandiram also serves the larger population through affordable, community-based healthcare. Basically, the many people who cannot pay for expensive treatment are cared for anyways. There aren’t many specialists or state of the art machines, but there is a committed staff that serves with dedication and does it well.
-On a smaller scale, there are definite problems within the church here. Patriarchy reigns supreme, and there are the usual problems associated with episcopacy—simony, nepotism, and general corruption. Also, the church often forgets its identity and purpose, ignoring the poor and dalit communities. Yet, I have gotten to know many young people like my friends Nibu and Alex who hope to be leaders in the church someday. I know that they have the ability address these problems.
-There are countless other examples, including communal (religious) violence, environmental crises, water shortage, disappearance of tribal cultures, caste and class discrimination, and sex trade. For every major issue, though, there is a strong and creative response from strong and creative people.
I do not mean to make light of these problems, because they are enormous and multifaceted. I mean only to say that there is nothing I or any other westerner can do that the people here can’t do better. It will be a slow process, and they will do it differently than we would, but they will do it. It is high time that we stopped treating people of less ‘developed’ regions with condescension and pity. Surely these places would be flourishing today if not for the colonial legacy of Europe and the neoliberal global capitalism of the U.S. We forget that we are directly responsible for the majority of their problems. Rather, we see ourselves as the only solution. We ignore the local movements that decry devastation caused by multinational corporations. We fight against community based ideologies because, heaven forbid, that might mean socialism, or even communism. We overlook the fact that the people who are here, who belong to this land, climate, culture, and tradition, know each other, know the ground realities, and know what can actually be effective. And with this fallacy of perspective we deny these vibrant people their right to positive self determination. Perhaps that is the biggest problem of all. So, what can we do? We can recognize the issues and our role in perpetuating them. We can fight against a global economic system dominated by the west that thrives on exploitation of these regions. We can join these people in solidarity, as friends, as equals, as fellow people trying to make it in this world.
So, I am not saying that I should have stayed home. This place has transformed my life and perspective in absolutely necessary ways. That’s just it, though. I needed to come. They did not need me to come. Returning to this idea of legacy, I hope they say, “Oh that was the sayip who did nothing. We are doing it ourselves. But he is our friend, our brother, our son in the process.”
Monday, July 12, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Lessons From a Hospital Bed
After months of visiting the patients at Mandiram Hospital, the time came for me to fully experience their travails. A couple of weeks of sharp abdominal pain (probably not too uncommon for westerner in India) got me a few antacids. One day of yellow eyes, though, and I was admitted to the M Ward room 403…my new home for 7 days. Apparently jaundice is no laughing matter here. The usual suspects were rolled out for consideration. Surely I ate some bacteria at an outside restaurant. Or maybe I had some bad water on the trip to north India. Or, horror of horrors, maybe there is some parasite, read ‘worms’, living inside me all the way back from my imbibing lake water in Sri Lanka. Diagnosis number 1: Hepatitis. Problem number 1: Got those vaccinations. Diagnosis number 2: We don’t know, go to a gastroenterologist. Diagnosis number 3: after an extensive ultrasound…gall stones! The good news is that it is none of the other options considered. The bad news is that I have to be on a low fat diet the rest of my time here (meaning no more banana fry, ok maybe just one more), and I might have to get the gall bladder removed upon coming back to the U S of A. Really, though, still better than those other options. And on the upside, I learned some valuable life lessons:
-No matter what their actual professions, all visitors become doctors for their time spent with the patient. A conversation is not to be had that does not involve some medical advice, usually dietary, and often conflicting with that of the person before.
-Ayn Rand does not make for good hospital reading.
-Scratch that. Ayn Rand does not make for good reading, period.
-There are many home remedies for jaundice, the most common of which involves eating an herbal paste and then avoiding meat and fatty foods for a year afterwards. Thank goodness my yellow tinge was from a loose stone rather than the infection for which this remedy is meant.
-Of the films represented on my bootleg Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio romance DVD collection, The Beach is by far the worst.
-Watching The Chronicles of Narnia while sitting under sheets in an air conditioned room feels a little bit like Christmas.
-IVs are not enjoyable.
-Rice porridge (kanji) for every meal gets old after a few days.
-Chess and cribbage are great sick games if you have willing competitors.
-Nurses do a lot of thankless work and deserve a lot of thanks for it.
-It is a strange thing to have your bed made and temperature taken by your own students.
-Nothing quite beats fresh fruit for hospital eating.
-Ultra sounds are not only for pregnant women, and the jelly is actually quite a nice sensation on the belly.
-A birthday spent in the hospital can still feel like a birthday if the ladoo (a Kerala treat) ever make it to your room.
-People really care about other people a lot. Some even care enough to hold my IV tube while I pee. Or come up with a system of peeing in a bucket by my bed and then washing it out for me.
That is the main lesson. People really do care. I find myself halfway across the world for my first overnight hospital stay, and I really have no problem because I am so well loved here. Not only do close friends visit, but random passersby who see an open door and even the post office lady. They offer medical advice. They offer fruits. They offer conversation to get over the doldrums. They pray. They gawk at seeing a white man wearing shorts and laid up in a hospital. They smile. They spend the night. And all of this because they love. How lucky am I to be amongst the people whom I get to be around?
Thankfully I have been released with only a few pills and a low fat diet, because tomorrow morning Mom, Dad, and Brady arrive! Maybe I will tell you about it next time.
-No matter what their actual professions, all visitors become doctors for their time spent with the patient. A conversation is not to be had that does not involve some medical advice, usually dietary, and often conflicting with that of the person before.
-Ayn Rand does not make for good hospital reading.
-Scratch that. Ayn Rand does not make for good reading, period.
-There are many home remedies for jaundice, the most common of which involves eating an herbal paste and then avoiding meat and fatty foods for a year afterwards. Thank goodness my yellow tinge was from a loose stone rather than the infection for which this remedy is meant.
-Of the films represented on my bootleg Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio romance DVD collection, The Beach is by far the worst.
-Watching The Chronicles of Narnia while sitting under sheets in an air conditioned room feels a little bit like Christmas.
-IVs are not enjoyable.
-Rice porridge (kanji) for every meal gets old after a few days.
-Chess and cribbage are great sick games if you have willing competitors.
-Nurses do a lot of thankless work and deserve a lot of thanks for it.
-It is a strange thing to have your bed made and temperature taken by your own students.
-Nothing quite beats fresh fruit for hospital eating.
-Ultra sounds are not only for pregnant women, and the jelly is actually quite a nice sensation on the belly.
-A birthday spent in the hospital can still feel like a birthday if the ladoo (a Kerala treat) ever make it to your room.
-People really care about other people a lot. Some even care enough to hold my IV tube while I pee. Or come up with a system of peeing in a bucket by my bed and then washing it out for me.
That is the main lesson. People really do care. I find myself halfway across the world for my first overnight hospital stay, and I really have no problem because I am so well loved here. Not only do close friends visit, but random passersby who see an open door and even the post office lady. They offer medical advice. They offer fruits. They offer conversation to get over the doldrums. They pray. They gawk at seeing a white man wearing shorts and laid up in a hospital. They smile. They spend the night. And all of this because they love. How lucky am I to be amongst the people whom I get to be around?
Thankfully I have been released with only a few pills and a low fat diet, because tomorrow morning Mom, Dad, and Brady arrive! Maybe I will tell you about it next time.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
And Then There Was The Rest Of India
The Ganges—holy river, mother, goddess. Dharamshala—mountain sanctuary, refuge for the Tibetan people and His Holiness the Dalai Lama. The Taj Mahal—greatest tribute to love ever built. The Golden Temple—most sacred site for Sikhism. Jaipur—the pink city. The Thar Desert. The Himalayas. The streets of Delhi. The storied beaches of Goa.
I do not think you can experience any single part of this vast country without being changed in some way. You reach immensely heightened understandings of holiness and devotion through the witness of their innumerable incarnations. You be still and listen for that incarnation which is in your very self. You marvel in awe at soaring Moghul architecture. Then you cringe because you are forced to reflect upon how it was possible to build such structures. You feel the power of nature as warm waves crash into your body, as high altitudes steal your breath, as the desert claims the fluids of your body. And all too often you feel the sharpened and insistent call of nature in the face of new foods or bacteria or parasites. You feel your heart break and little parts of the self die as emaciated children and people with unfathomable deformities crowd you in already crowded streets, pleading for rupees, for chapattis, for plastic bottles, for acknowledgement that they are human too. You ask why. You realize that you are in fact systemically responsible. Sometimes you weep. Above all, you talk to people in whatever broken language can be mustered. For, it is their place that you are barging into in your travels. It is their holiness, their history, their landscapes, their culture, their joy, their brokenness. It is their India. You hear the cries in the street. You hear shouts of intense pride and joy at the Pakistani border (invigorating regardless of the inherent problems thereof). You hear the all-pervasive and important question asked over and over again: “Is WWE wrestling real or fake?” You see the smiles of kids getting to actually use the English they have to learn in school. You feel hands pulling you and hear shouts calling you to buy this merchandise or ride this rickshaw or just see this reality that is somebody’s life. And the whole time you are waking up to the reality that all of this really is reality, and it is full of so many individual realities for so many people, all contributing to the giant reality that is all of us. So, to make a really long story short, a journey into India is simultaneously a journey into the self, one of discovery, confirmation or obliteration, and expansion. And then you come home.
Kerala—land of coconuts, umbrellas, bishops, and constant sweat. Mandiram—home for the most wonderful old people and little ones, the best fish curry and pickles around.
I do not think you can experience any single part of this vast country without being changed in some way. You reach immensely heightened understandings of holiness and devotion through the witness of their innumerable incarnations. You be still and listen for that incarnation which is in your very self. You marvel in awe at soaring Moghul architecture. Then you cringe because you are forced to reflect upon how it was possible to build such structures. You feel the power of nature as warm waves crash into your body, as high altitudes steal your breath, as the desert claims the fluids of your body. And all too often you feel the sharpened and insistent call of nature in the face of new foods or bacteria or parasites. You feel your heart break and little parts of the self die as emaciated children and people with unfathomable deformities crowd you in already crowded streets, pleading for rupees, for chapattis, for plastic bottles, for acknowledgement that they are human too. You ask why. You realize that you are in fact systemically responsible. Sometimes you weep. Above all, you talk to people in whatever broken language can be mustered. For, it is their place that you are barging into in your travels. It is their holiness, their history, their landscapes, their culture, their joy, their brokenness. It is their India. You hear the cries in the street. You hear shouts of intense pride and joy at the Pakistani border (invigorating regardless of the inherent problems thereof). You hear the all-pervasive and important question asked over and over again: “Is WWE wrestling real or fake?” You see the smiles of kids getting to actually use the English they have to learn in school. You feel hands pulling you and hear shouts calling you to buy this merchandise or ride this rickshaw or just see this reality that is somebody’s life. And the whole time you are waking up to the reality that all of this really is reality, and it is full of so many individual realities for so many people, all contributing to the giant reality that is all of us. So, to make a really long story short, a journey into India is simultaneously a journey into the self, one of discovery, confirmation or obliteration, and expansion. And then you come home.
Kerala—land of coconuts, umbrellas, bishops, and constant sweat. Mandiram—home for the most wonderful old people and little ones, the best fish curry and pickles around.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Lanka!
"The island of Sri Lanka has been a favorite haunt of aliens, extra terrestrials, gods, devas, angels, sky dwellers, demons, deities whichever way you describe them. Our chronicles, traditions, folklore, prehistoric cave drawings, archaeological evidence and ancient traveler's' records testify that there have been strange beings living in this island from time immemorial." There were and there are Mountains, Hills, buildings and even plants with full of mysteries, power and wisdom which are beyond human understanding. 200 million years ago, geologically Sri Lanka was linked with India, Madagascar, Australia and Antarctica, in a land mass known as Gondwana. Sri Lanka separated into a land mass known as Lanka Dvipa (Island of Lanka), and part of the land submerged into the sea. According to the Ramayana epic this took place because of the misdeeds of Ravana, but this seismic happening is confirmed by modern science." lankalibrary.com
The India YAV crew recently returned from a trip to Sri Lanka. As some of you know, this was a journey fraught with fearful anticipation, for we did not know our chances of returning to India in a timely fashion (Long story short, the involvement of an American in the 2008 attacks on Mumbai prompted the Indian government to put ostensible restrictions on multiple-entry tourist visas, our visa of choice. They made a rule that upon leaving the country, which you are obligated to do after every six month period, you have to stay outside for at least two months. In my opinion, this is just a ploy to make it look like they are cracking down for security when in actuality it will just hurt the tourist industry.). So, we had to face the possibility of starting over in Sri Lanka and staying there for two months. Of course we would have embraced it, but we did not want to be away from our communities here for so long! Anyways, our first order of business after our 30 minute or so flight to this little island nation was to head to the Indian high commission the next morning and try to become exceptions to the new rule. Thankfully, because we had legitimate travel documents and proof of an eventual return flight to the U.S., and perhaps more than anything because we were very understanding and well behaved in a room full of angry white people, we got the exception and are back in India.
Even with this possibility of being stuck, our Sri Lankan expedition was great. Although it is so close to India, this island has a life completely its own. The most obvious cultural factor is the ubiquity of Buddhism. Pretty much everywhere you go you can see monks dressed in orange or maroon, ranging from very young children to very old men, sometimes carrying umbrellas and sometimes mobile phones, on pilgrimage. Also, you can look up to the hills to see giant statues of Buddha standing or sitting sentry over the people. Besides Buddhism, there is a substantial Tamil Hindu minority whose agitation for independence resulted in a long and bloody civil war that has just ended…hopefully. Beyond religion, the life of the island is defined by the reality of its being a very small nation in a very big world and by the fact that it is a tropical island driven by fishing and tourism. But you can read up on the rich culture and history on your own. Go ahead, get on wikipedia.
Here is the Sri Lanka that we got to know on our little two week 10-11 day stint:
- Riding the waves in the Indian Ocean—This ocean has surpassed the Atlantic and Pacific for enjoyment value as far as I am concerned. Really, this ocean is beautiful, warm, and powerful. I will have to head to the Arctic and the Southern next to find the ultimate winner.
- Swimming with and getting to know some big sea turtles. This may be the highlight of the entire trip. I might have to rummage in the closet when I get home to see if I still have my old Save Our Sea turtles t-shirt.
- Taking several trips in tuk-tuks (pronounced took-took, the same as an Indian autorickshaw) and being able to say we took a tuk-tuk. One such tuk-tuk ride, though we were taken for a ride figuratively, being royally ripped off for being tourists in Galle, a southern port and fort. Later the drivers publicly accosted us for even more rupees. Thanks to Sarah’s yelling power, we got away.
- Roaming the local market streets of Colombo—surely neglected by most tourists, as we were really in the thick of the back alleys. Love the smells, love the people to whom the city actually belongs.
- Visiting the Temple of the Tooth, a big and very important temple in the town of Kandy that claims to possess one of the Buddha’s left teeth. We didn’t actually see the sacred tooth, but we did see the inspiring faith of many devotees.
- Being followed by friendly shopkeepers and hashish keepers who know that the money flows where the white person goes.
- Climbing to the painted caves of Dambulla and the jutting fortress rock of Sigiriya . Wow.
- Experiencing the Golden Temple, a very costly, very big, and very tacky temple made possible by donations from people in Japan. Really, it is great.
- Swimming in a picturesque lake near to our little inn, ingesting some of the water, and then getting the worst stomach pain I have ever experienced in my life.
- Riding on buses with hundreds of people, standing fully in the legroom of a full seat, my rear in someone’s face, my bag in someone else’s arms, my sandal off somewhere in the aisle, my feet barely touching the ground, my head grazing the roof.
- Having a plastic bag with souvenirs attacked and smacked by monkeys expecting to find food.
- Being visited by a giant snail who would sneak up the drain in our bathroom at night, whose girth is surely second only to Dr. Dolittle’s great sea snail.
- Realizing what it means to be a tourist again. After living in a different culture for so long, you really do feel like you are part of the culture, not the ‘other’. It gets to the point where you are disgusted when you see actual tourists, with their seeming arrogance and ignorance, traipsing around. Well, we were those people, and it was strange. It was a good reminder that we are who we are and cannot escape where we come from, our skin color.
So that is our Sri Lankan trip in a nutshell. If you are ever in this neck of the woods of the world, I strongly recommend that you hop on over to the island and see it for yourselves.
Up next: April tour of north India
The India YAV crew recently returned from a trip to Sri Lanka. As some of you know, this was a journey fraught with fearful anticipation, for we did not know our chances of returning to India in a timely fashion (Long story short, the involvement of an American in the 2008 attacks on Mumbai prompted the Indian government to put ostensible restrictions on multiple-entry tourist visas, our visa of choice. They made a rule that upon leaving the country, which you are obligated to do after every six month period, you have to stay outside for at least two months. In my opinion, this is just a ploy to make it look like they are cracking down for security when in actuality it will just hurt the tourist industry.). So, we had to face the possibility of starting over in Sri Lanka and staying there for two months. Of course we would have embraced it, but we did not want to be away from our communities here for so long! Anyways, our first order of business after our 30 minute or so flight to this little island nation was to head to the Indian high commission the next morning and try to become exceptions to the new rule. Thankfully, because we had legitimate travel documents and proof of an eventual return flight to the U.S., and perhaps more than anything because we were very understanding and well behaved in a room full of angry white people, we got the exception and are back in India.
Even with this possibility of being stuck, our Sri Lankan expedition was great. Although it is so close to India, this island has a life completely its own. The most obvious cultural factor is the ubiquity of Buddhism. Pretty much everywhere you go you can see monks dressed in orange or maroon, ranging from very young children to very old men, sometimes carrying umbrellas and sometimes mobile phones, on pilgrimage. Also, you can look up to the hills to see giant statues of Buddha standing or sitting sentry over the people. Besides Buddhism, there is a substantial Tamil Hindu minority whose agitation for independence resulted in a long and bloody civil war that has just ended…hopefully. Beyond religion, the life of the island is defined by the reality of its being a very small nation in a very big world and by the fact that it is a tropical island driven by fishing and tourism. But you can read up on the rich culture and history on your own. Go ahead, get on wikipedia.
Here is the Sri Lanka that we got to know on our little two week 10-11 day stint:
- Riding the waves in the Indian Ocean—This ocean has surpassed the Atlantic and Pacific for enjoyment value as far as I am concerned. Really, this ocean is beautiful, warm, and powerful. I will have to head to the Arctic and the Southern next to find the ultimate winner.
- Swimming with and getting to know some big sea turtles. This may be the highlight of the entire trip. I might have to rummage in the closet when I get home to see if I still have my old Save Our Sea turtles t-shirt.
- Taking several trips in tuk-tuks (pronounced took-took, the same as an Indian autorickshaw) and being able to say we took a tuk-tuk. One such tuk-tuk ride, though we were taken for a ride figuratively, being royally ripped off for being tourists in Galle, a southern port and fort. Later the drivers publicly accosted us for even more rupees. Thanks to Sarah’s yelling power, we got away.
- Roaming the local market streets of Colombo—surely neglected by most tourists, as we were really in the thick of the back alleys. Love the smells, love the people to whom the city actually belongs.
- Visiting the Temple of the Tooth, a big and very important temple in the town of Kandy that claims to possess one of the Buddha’s left teeth. We didn’t actually see the sacred tooth, but we did see the inspiring faith of many devotees.
- Being followed by friendly shopkeepers and hashish keepers who know that the money flows where the white person goes.
- Climbing to the painted caves of Dambulla and the jutting fortress rock of Sigiriya . Wow.
- Experiencing the Golden Temple, a very costly, very big, and very tacky temple made possible by donations from people in Japan. Really, it is great.
- Swimming in a picturesque lake near to our little inn, ingesting some of the water, and then getting the worst stomach pain I have ever experienced in my life.
- Riding on buses with hundreds of people, standing fully in the legroom of a full seat, my rear in someone’s face, my bag in someone else’s arms, my sandal off somewhere in the aisle, my feet barely touching the ground, my head grazing the roof.
- Having a plastic bag with souvenirs attacked and smacked by monkeys expecting to find food.
- Being visited by a giant snail who would sneak up the drain in our bathroom at night, whose girth is surely second only to Dr. Dolittle’s great sea snail.
- Realizing what it means to be a tourist again. After living in a different culture for so long, you really do feel like you are part of the culture, not the ‘other’. It gets to the point where you are disgusted when you see actual tourists, with their seeming arrogance and ignorance, traipsing around. Well, we were those people, and it was strange. It was a good reminder that we are who we are and cannot escape where we come from, our skin color.
So that is our Sri Lankan trip in a nutshell. If you are ever in this neck of the woods of the world, I strongly recommend that you hop on over to the island and see it for yourselves.
Up next: April tour of north India
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
I'm like the ringleader, I call the shots…or do I?
What is the first thing that comes to mind when you think of India?
Circus, anyone?
Within the past couple of weeks I have gone to the circus not once, not twice, but thrice. Picture any circus you have seen in the movies with the big-top tent, acrobats, jugglers, unicyclists, sharpshooters, trapeze artists, clowns, trick dogs, trick birds, contortionists, camels, balancing acts, and of course, the cricket-playing elephant who can squeeze all four feet onto a small round platform and then sit back on its haunches. Instead of performers from the Dust Bowl region in the thirties, though, these were from India, Nepal, Bangladesh, and Africa today. Add to it covers of Boom Boom Boom Boom, NSYNC’s Promise, The Baby Elephant Walk, and some Aqua, and you have the spectacle that chose to grace Kottayam with its presence for a month—a month in which by chance and circumstance I went three times. First, we had a visitor from Germany, and my supervisors wanted another white person to accompany her (why they wanted her to see the circus in the first place, who knows). Then we decided to take the girls from Balika Mandiram, our girls’ home. For this very hot 1pm showing I had a three year old Sairah lodged between my legs so she would not fall through the gallery bleachers (different sizes and shapes of wood pieced and tied together with no flooring). Finally, my good friends on staff here wanted to go as a group to a night showing. Let me tell you, the circus is made for the night. The glittering costumes come out to dazzle in the spotlight, and much more people attend, making for a more lively audience. Still, three of the exact same two and a half hour show was a bit much. Now I could go off on a metaphorical tangent about how life here is just like a circus about how we constantly are juggling work time, play time, community time, self time, spiritual time, home communication time (though as evidenced by the scarcity of blogs, that one is lagging), and reflection time; about how we have to be as flexible as contortionists—sometimes physically when trying to sit in Indian sized cars or autorickshaws, and always mentally and emotionally as we encounter new things to do, learn, and deal with daily; about how we are continually the clowns, the buffoons whose eating, language skills, and other attempts to fit into the culture are a constant source of amusement and joy for all those around; about how our lives are indeed a balancing act between these concepts of being and doing; about how we have acrobatic emotions, flying from one high to the other and sometimes falling to the bottom of the net; about how we are elephants, the most obvious and exciting creature for others to look at and talk about for pretty much any situation in which we find ourselves—all eyes on me in the center of the ring; but I have inundated you with life metaphors in blogs past, so I will not hassle you with that this time.
I feel the adrenaline moving through my veins
Life has been quite exciting since last we met. As always, most of my days have been spent in community activity. Leading a blind appachen to the person and building he actually wanted after several minutes of his standing outside a building across the way hollering for the person not there. Giving flying lessons to Manna (1) and Sairah (3). Learning Malayalam from my supervising achen, my peers, and every single person I encounter anywhere. Teaching nursing students English based on My Heart Will Go On. Half carrying an appachen to the toilet and setting him down on the closet (excuse my Manglish—malayalamenglish). Coming to understand the emotional highs and lows of a billion plus population associated with a 5-day test match of cricket. Having a spirited Bible study that starts with the question of how to find personal peace, progresses to the ultimate tangible effects of Gandhian nonviolence, and ends with debate on the role of Providence in our daily lives (thus the title). Playing football, singing Malayalam and Tamil film songs, cracking nuts, arm wrestling, and playing with little squirrels at the boys’ home down the street. Taking Hindi lessons from an ammachee who wants to teach. Debating the benefits and detriments of episcopacy with the wardens. Attending the one year deathiversary of my nearest neighbor’s mother, who was a freedom fighter with Gandhi. Singing They Will Know We Are Christians By Our Love at chapel. Learning the basics of making fish curry. Sleeping outside under countless stars and countless mosquitoes. Living. Being.
Outside of the community, we volunteers with Thomas John took a trip to the northern part of Kerala, Wayanad, where we focused on the beauty and the struggles of local tribal communities. Highlights of the trip included wearing sweatshirts for the first time because of our location in high ranges, seeing a gigantic parade put on by the local Catholic church, visiting Eddakal cave, one of three sites in the world with ancient paleoglyphs, and taking a jeep safari in a wildlife preserve with elephants, peacocks, leopard footprints, wild chickens, and giant squirrels. By far the best part of the trip, though, was a visit to Kanava, an experimental educational community for adivasis (tribals). Children grow up in the community learning the history, artforms, and traditions of their own and each others’ tribes alongside the mainstream curricula from the state. They cultivate the land themselves and self sustain by selling handmade jewelry and putting on musical shows. We had the great privilege of attending one such show. We were in awe of the performance, especially a showcase of kaledi, what Kerala claims to be the oldest form of martial arts in the world. The pinnacle of the visit, however, and indeed the height of the entire retreat (and up there for the whole time in India), was an all inclusive tribal dance for performers and attendees alike. We started prancing around in a circle and then just let go. We jumped, spun, clapped, shook, flailed, and laughed. I recommend it. Stop whatever you are doing right now, get up, and get into it.
Don't stand there watching me,
Follow me, show me what you can do
Everybody let go, We can make a dance floor
Just like a circus.
Circus, anyone?
Within the past couple of weeks I have gone to the circus not once, not twice, but thrice. Picture any circus you have seen in the movies with the big-top tent, acrobats, jugglers, unicyclists, sharpshooters, trapeze artists, clowns, trick dogs, trick birds, contortionists, camels, balancing acts, and of course, the cricket-playing elephant who can squeeze all four feet onto a small round platform and then sit back on its haunches. Instead of performers from the Dust Bowl region in the thirties, though, these were from India, Nepal, Bangladesh, and Africa today. Add to it covers of Boom Boom Boom Boom, NSYNC’s Promise, The Baby Elephant Walk, and some Aqua, and you have the spectacle that chose to grace Kottayam with its presence for a month—a month in which by chance and circumstance I went three times. First, we had a visitor from Germany, and my supervisors wanted another white person to accompany her (why they wanted her to see the circus in the first place, who knows). Then we decided to take the girls from Balika Mandiram, our girls’ home. For this very hot 1pm showing I had a three year old Sairah lodged between my legs so she would not fall through the gallery bleachers (different sizes and shapes of wood pieced and tied together with no flooring). Finally, my good friends on staff here wanted to go as a group to a night showing. Let me tell you, the circus is made for the night. The glittering costumes come out to dazzle in the spotlight, and much more people attend, making for a more lively audience. Still, three of the exact same two and a half hour show was a bit much. Now I could go off on a metaphorical tangent about how life here is just like a circus about how we constantly are juggling work time, play time, community time, self time, spiritual time, home communication time (though as evidenced by the scarcity of blogs, that one is lagging), and reflection time; about how we have to be as flexible as contortionists—sometimes physically when trying to sit in Indian sized cars or autorickshaws, and always mentally and emotionally as we encounter new things to do, learn, and deal with daily; about how we are continually the clowns, the buffoons whose eating, language skills, and other attempts to fit into the culture are a constant source of amusement and joy for all those around; about how our lives are indeed a balancing act between these concepts of being and doing; about how we have acrobatic emotions, flying from one high to the other and sometimes falling to the bottom of the net; about how we are elephants, the most obvious and exciting creature for others to look at and talk about for pretty much any situation in which we find ourselves—all eyes on me in the center of the ring; but I have inundated you with life metaphors in blogs past, so I will not hassle you with that this time.
I feel the adrenaline moving through my veins
Life has been quite exciting since last we met. As always, most of my days have been spent in community activity. Leading a blind appachen to the person and building he actually wanted after several minutes of his standing outside a building across the way hollering for the person not there. Giving flying lessons to Manna (1) and Sairah (3). Learning Malayalam from my supervising achen, my peers, and every single person I encounter anywhere. Teaching nursing students English based on My Heart Will Go On. Half carrying an appachen to the toilet and setting him down on the closet (excuse my Manglish—malayalamenglish). Coming to understand the emotional highs and lows of a billion plus population associated with a 5-day test match of cricket. Having a spirited Bible study that starts with the question of how to find personal peace, progresses to the ultimate tangible effects of Gandhian nonviolence, and ends with debate on the role of Providence in our daily lives (thus the title). Playing football, singing Malayalam and Tamil film songs, cracking nuts, arm wrestling, and playing with little squirrels at the boys’ home down the street. Taking Hindi lessons from an ammachee who wants to teach. Debating the benefits and detriments of episcopacy with the wardens. Attending the one year deathiversary of my nearest neighbor’s mother, who was a freedom fighter with Gandhi. Singing They Will Know We Are Christians By Our Love at chapel. Learning the basics of making fish curry. Sleeping outside under countless stars and countless mosquitoes. Living. Being.
Outside of the community, we volunteers with Thomas John took a trip to the northern part of Kerala, Wayanad, where we focused on the beauty and the struggles of local tribal communities. Highlights of the trip included wearing sweatshirts for the first time because of our location in high ranges, seeing a gigantic parade put on by the local Catholic church, visiting Eddakal cave, one of three sites in the world with ancient paleoglyphs, and taking a jeep safari in a wildlife preserve with elephants, peacocks, leopard footprints, wild chickens, and giant squirrels. By far the best part of the trip, though, was a visit to Kanava, an experimental educational community for adivasis (tribals). Children grow up in the community learning the history, artforms, and traditions of their own and each others’ tribes alongside the mainstream curricula from the state. They cultivate the land themselves and self sustain by selling handmade jewelry and putting on musical shows. We had the great privilege of attending one such show. We were in awe of the performance, especially a showcase of kaledi, what Kerala claims to be the oldest form of martial arts in the world. The pinnacle of the visit, however, and indeed the height of the entire retreat (and up there for the whole time in India), was an all inclusive tribal dance for performers and attendees alike. We started prancing around in a circle and then just let go. We jumped, spun, clapped, shook, flailed, and laughed. I recommend it. Stop whatever you are doing right now, get up, and get into it.
Don't stand there watching me,
Follow me, show me what you can do
Everybody let go, We can make a dance floor
Just like a circus.
Friday, January 15, 2010
The Foot Callus Scrubber Rock
A while back I was taken on a night journey to behind the laundry room. My job was to hold the ‘torch’ (flashlight) for whatever the mystery activity was going to be. The wardens, other people my age who live and work in this community, slipped off their shoes—not a difficult feat, for feet (Yes! Feet feat) must always be bare when inside, and thus sandals are always worn. They directed me to shine the light on a water spigot near to the ground, where they started soaping up their feet. Then they just started rubbing their soles all over a big rock that was hanging out in the area. Then it dawned on me why there was just such a rock hanging out in my ‘toilet’ (bathroom, which includes my shower, ‘closet,’ and sink with no separation). This was the foot callus scrubber rock. Obviously after witnessing the wardens scrubbing, I had to give it a try. You sure do get some nice calluses when you are always either barefoot or in sandals, and man did it feel good scouring those repositories of dead skin! Only afterward was I reminded of why it might be a good thing to keep that buildup around. Please allow a digression.
-A couple of months ago, at our second volunteer retreat, we visited a Hindu temple around noontime. Now, as the temple grounds are sacred spaces, footwear must be removed. We slipped off our sandals and had to suppress a collective howl. Walking through fire and walking across burning coals are rites of passage for the strong and fearless in some cultures. I challenge anybody who has passed these tests to try out the temple grounds at noontime. Ok, I challenge any foreigners to try out the temple grounds at noontime, because the locals seemed to have no problems whatsoever. Anyways, we hugged the buildings once inside, the only shade available, and speed-pranced from point A to point B when there were no buildings to be had. (I will digress within this digression. Coupled with the spectacle of our pain for all the devotees present, Cameron and I ended up giving them another show. Our guide suggested that we check out the inner sanctuary, for which men must go shirtless. All gung ho, we stripped off our upper garments only to hear a bell ring signaling the closing of the sanctuary. So, to the onlookers we were bare for no reason. And were there ever onlookers. We happened to be right in front of a large group of women congregated for a wedding. We were more interesting than the wedding. I think foul play was involved on the part of our guide!) Long story short, our feet burned for weeks afterwards, and I cannot imagine what would have happened if we had no calluses at the time.
*End digression*
Now, for the life lesson about the foot callus scrubber rock. After I have been in one place for some time, the original splendor seems to dull. The problem, though, is that nothing really changes about the place. Instead, it is I who is changing. I might start viewing things that were previously absolutely novel and awe-inspiring as commonplace, and therefore unexciting. I might finally understand why many think living in community is difficult, being with the same people all the time without pause or separation. I might notice problems in social and organizational structure that did not strike me as so before. I might realize that the longer I am at a place, the more implicit responsibility I have as an integral part of the community—no more guilt-free passes to just do nothing some days. I might tend to focus on how much time we have to go rather than how much wonderful time we have already spent here. As I said before, these are all instances of the changing self rather than the changing place. Indeed, it is as though I build up these—to use a phrase again that I rather enjoy—repositories of dead skin around myself that shield me from the heat. Only, in this case the heat is good, the heat is life-giving. I do not want to be impervious to this heat, the reality of the place and experience as it has always been, but maybe viewed through more mature and reflective eyes.
The first several days after our Christmas holiday, my calluses reached their thickest point. Upon returning to the community after being away for some time, all of the aforementioned experiences walloped me at once. My immediate response was to delve deeper into myself and hide behind the shield of hard skin. Mercifully and wonderfully, though, that foot callus scrubber rock just appears out of nowhere, as it did that fateful night behind the laundry room. This time it is necessary for a soul scrubbing rather than a sole scrubbing, though. The rock comes to me in the form of a mental patient who does incredible artwork in his hospital cell with cheap pastels and gives me several prints and a hug just for bothering to talk to him. The rock comes as a group of kids who start yelling “Sayip! Sayip! (“White man! White man!)” and following me around as I walk through a part of the neighborhood that I had never ventured into before. The rock shows up as the wardens who invite me over for sleepovers every night of the week. The rock is an Ammachee who offers to teach me Hindi even though I am still very much struggling through Malayalam.
The layers start to fall.
I feel the heat.
Still, I cannot caution you enough. Use caution if you ever find yourself at a temple near the town of Maroman, Kerala, at noon.
-A couple of months ago, at our second volunteer retreat, we visited a Hindu temple around noontime. Now, as the temple grounds are sacred spaces, footwear must be removed. We slipped off our sandals and had to suppress a collective howl. Walking through fire and walking across burning coals are rites of passage for the strong and fearless in some cultures. I challenge anybody who has passed these tests to try out the temple grounds at noontime. Ok, I challenge any foreigners to try out the temple grounds at noontime, because the locals seemed to have no problems whatsoever. Anyways, we hugged the buildings once inside, the only shade available, and speed-pranced from point A to point B when there were no buildings to be had. (I will digress within this digression. Coupled with the spectacle of our pain for all the devotees present, Cameron and I ended up giving them another show. Our guide suggested that we check out the inner sanctuary, for which men must go shirtless. All gung ho, we stripped off our upper garments only to hear a bell ring signaling the closing of the sanctuary. So, to the onlookers we were bare for no reason. And were there ever onlookers. We happened to be right in front of a large group of women congregated for a wedding. We were more interesting than the wedding. I think foul play was involved on the part of our guide!) Long story short, our feet burned for weeks afterwards, and I cannot imagine what would have happened if we had no calluses at the time.
*End digression*
Now, for the life lesson about the foot callus scrubber rock. After I have been in one place for some time, the original splendor seems to dull. The problem, though, is that nothing really changes about the place. Instead, it is I who is changing. I might start viewing things that were previously absolutely novel and awe-inspiring as commonplace, and therefore unexciting. I might finally understand why many think living in community is difficult, being with the same people all the time without pause or separation. I might notice problems in social and organizational structure that did not strike me as so before. I might realize that the longer I am at a place, the more implicit responsibility I have as an integral part of the community—no more guilt-free passes to just do nothing some days. I might tend to focus on how much time we have to go rather than how much wonderful time we have already spent here. As I said before, these are all instances of the changing self rather than the changing place. Indeed, it is as though I build up these—to use a phrase again that I rather enjoy—repositories of dead skin around myself that shield me from the heat. Only, in this case the heat is good, the heat is life-giving. I do not want to be impervious to this heat, the reality of the place and experience as it has always been, but maybe viewed through more mature and reflective eyes.
The first several days after our Christmas holiday, my calluses reached their thickest point. Upon returning to the community after being away for some time, all of the aforementioned experiences walloped me at once. My immediate response was to delve deeper into myself and hide behind the shield of hard skin. Mercifully and wonderfully, though, that foot callus scrubber rock just appears out of nowhere, as it did that fateful night behind the laundry room. This time it is necessary for a soul scrubbing rather than a sole scrubbing, though. The rock comes to me in the form of a mental patient who does incredible artwork in his hospital cell with cheap pastels and gives me several prints and a hug just for bothering to talk to him. The rock comes as a group of kids who start yelling “Sayip! Sayip! (“White man! White man!)” and following me around as I walk through a part of the neighborhood that I had never ventured into before. The rock shows up as the wardens who invite me over for sleepovers every night of the week. The rock is an Ammachee who offers to teach me Hindi even though I am still very much struggling through Malayalam.
The layers start to fall.
I feel the heat.
Still, I cannot caution you enough. Use caution if you ever find yourself at a temple near the town of Maroman, Kerala, at noon.
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