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.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
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.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
O Holy Night
O Holy Night
The stars are brightly shining
Orange, blue, pink, lime
Mariam and Yeshu
With all the angels adoring,
Radiant beams from thy holy face
The cattle are lowing
The poor baby wakes
What Child is this, who, laid to rest
Outside our gate is screaming
Plastic roasting on an open fire—and glass and paper and more plastic
Mosquitoes nipping at your nose
What grandmother is this, who, dropped and left
Inside our walls is seeking
The hopes and fears of all her years
To be met in someone
Anyone
O come, o come Emmanuel!
O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree
How wide and green your branches
How tall and bare your trunk is
You never change the whole year round
With coconuts you hit the ground
Nature’s purest water
Wassail!
What grandfather is this
Who mourns in lonely exile here
Until a son or daughter or wife or grandchild or friend or acquaintance or stranger or human
Appear
God rest ye, merry gentlemen
Sleep in heavenly peace
On a hot winter’s night that is so deep
A night not silent, a night not calm
No cribs for beds
The children can’t sleep
No cribs for beds
The aged, they weep
Yet in these dark streets shineth the everlasting light
They come and behold him
Joyful
And triumphant
O come all ye faithful!
For on the first noel
It was to those certain poor that the angels did say
Born is the king
Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel has come to thee
This, this is Christ the king
Who runs around joyfully with his brothers, barefoot on the hard dirt and cow dung
Who talks to herself and to God and is shunned for it
Who is rejected from his hometown
Who has no father but her God above
Who smiles with crooked teeth for the sake of others even amidst great suffering
Who has no possessions but a walking stick
Who loves the children
Who welcomes the foreigner
Who is persecuted by unjust economic systems
Who lights up the world with her infant smile who grabs you by the hand and leads you to the unknown who calls you a member of his family when there is no blood relation who trusts and accepts you no matter what your race gender class or creed who weeps at the death of a friend who is hungry and needs food who is thirsty and needs drink who is naked and needs clothing
The babe, the son of Mary
O Night Divine!
Saturday, November 28, 2009
On A Lighter Note...Musings
-In Kerala, we drink hot water and shower in cold.
-There is a skeleton in my closet. No, really, in my classroom at the nursing school there is a full human skeleton in a cabinet.
-If I said “There is a skeleton in my closet” here, people would think there was a skeleton in the toilet, their use of the word “closet.”
-For Dad, the word “film” here is truly thought to be “filim,” so you have many millions backing you up.
-We are entering into the winter season here, and people are gearing up for it with sweatshirts and sweaters. For 70-75 degrees Fahrenheit.
-I am pretty sure I was proposed to the other day by one of the ammachees.
-I know my posterior was pinched by another ammachee.
-The Malayalam for “crow” is kaka. The other day a crow pooped on my hand. So, I had kaka kaka on me. To take it further, the word for “hand” is kai. I had kaka kaka on my kai.
-When water runs out here, it is a major problem. Wiping is fully a bidet system.
-I teach conversational English to the first year nursing students here. The only handout I have given them so far is the lyrics for What A Friend We Have In Jesus. Unfortunately, I entitled the song What a FRIED we have in Jesus on the handout. That is great for the supposed master of English. I will use it as a segue into talking about fried chicken and bananas.
-You know the roll the hoop with a stick game that you would think of for pioneer times or while visiting Conner Prairie? I played the other day at a boys’ home here with old, flat bicycle tires. Those boys were masters, going up and down hills without the tires collapsing in on themselves. This guy was not a master. I think I only managed to get 4 or 5 revolutions in before it toppled to the ground. Still, I never thought the hoop roll could be so much fun!
-We just completed a retreat at Thomas John’s house. We wake up and begin our evening relaxation to the sound of Muslim prayer being amplified throughout the surrounding neighborhood. It is hauntingly beautiful music.
-Sometimes before the evening prayer, there is wildly rhythmic percussion emanating out of a nearby Hindu temple. When it happens to coincide with the Muslim prayer, we get a veritable concert of true religious devotion.
-There is a pickled item at each meal, which has become my favorite part of dining here. Variations include: lemon pickle, lime pickle, garlic pickle, mango pickle, gooseberry pickle, puli pickle (a vegetable grown at Mandiram), and a new one as of today—banana pickle. Now these pickles don’t taste like our vinegar based cucumber pickles at home, but they follow the same concept of sourness with a mix of spices. They sound horrible, but I have grown to love them.
-We just got to try out the local fishing method, which consists of giant nets tied to an impressive wooden structure controlled by a pulley system of ropes and rock weights. We didn’t catch anything but the smiles of the onlookers as we yanked on the ropes. I’m okay with that.
-I live with over a hundred grandparents and 13 younger sisters.
-I am in
We YAVs joke around that sometimes we have to remind ourselves how novel and exciting our lives are here. Our way of putting it is, “Hey, remember that time we were in
I mean, holy cow! I am in
Wait a minute, I actually saw many holy cows today…
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Dalit Church
Every once in a while you have one of those experiences that simultaneously manages to knock you off of your feet with awe for God’s transcendent and ever-present love and to crush you with the realization of the vast brokenness in this world. This past weekend happened to be one.
After about two months of discovering and getting settled into our respective communities, the four YAVs—Cameron, Cynthia, Sarah, and myself—gathered for a retreat with Achen (Reverend) Thomas John and his wife Betty. It was great to get together and share stories, laughter, struggles, hugs, and Halloween candy in a language that we all understand (not just English, but a shared language of having taken a leap and embarked on this journey together). The purpose of the retreat, though, was much more intentional than that. Through discussions and direct interaction, we were there to learn about dalit realities in Kerala. I will not describe the caste system in India at length because I am by no means qualified, and that would take several libraries’ worth of writing. The important thing to know for this post is that dalits are those who are without caste altogether. In other words, they are so low in the social order that they are excluded from it altogether. In traditional Indian society, the dalits were basically agricultural slaves to those who had caste. In modern times, those who are able to find work period are usually very poor day laborers.
To continue the history lesson, in the 19th century dalits started to turn to Christianity, as it offered liberation from a religion entrenched in casteism that dictated their oppression. And truly Christianity should be such a liberating force. Jesus offered salvation and the perfect example of his life to all, but it was the poor and the outcast of society with whom he chose to spend his time. He bucked the social system radically and explicitly empowered the oppressed of his time. For some reason the church has drifted from this radical empowering stance, though, if indeed it ever had it right in the first place. Thus, the churches that were already in place, called Syrian churches (claiming connection to the Syrian church supposedly started by St. Thomas in the 50s AD and that were what we would see in most mainline protestant churches in the U.S.—ethnically homogeneous congregations of the upper middle class), rather than welcoming dalits into their congregations as fellow members of a family of Christians, set up separate churches with separate congregations. So, welcome to ‘Christianity,’ but not our family.
Now, I have seen many churches in Kerala that are quite the impressive structures. Money and time have been poured into these buildings in attempts to make houses of praise fitting for the greatness of the God being worshipped. I had not encountered the likes of the church we ambled up to on Friday, though. There was a humble building with old benches, a pulpit, and an altar for Sunday worship. I would describe the ‘church,’ however, more as the community outside of this building. Surrounding it were winding paths leading to the small homes of the congregants. I think they called it a church or mission compound, for the entire neighborhood around the building is part of the church. We walked these paths into one of the most beautiful communities I have ever encountered. We were welcomed into homes where we prayed and tried to chat with our limited language skills. We were followed around by an excited and fast-growing group of children. We were offered tea, snacks, and smiles. We would see many of the same people pop up in different houses, because they were all welcomed as family in each others’ homes. We were welcomed as family into their homes.
Then on Sunday came the true highlight of the retreat, worshipping as part of this community. We went to the church building mentioned above with only the knowledge that we were to sing a few songs and give a little speech about who we were and why we were in Kerala. We got special chairs in the front of the church since we were honored guests. To my great delight, my seat was right next to a group of kids ranging from 2 or 3 years old to 12 or 13. Rather than paying attention to the sermon given by Thomas John, which was surely great but in Malayalam, I paid attention to this group of kids, and they paid even more attention to me. We held a whispered conference throughout the service about my name, why I was white, who my favorite actor was, what car I wanted, etc. in mixed English-Malayalam-Manglish. Really, though, they just wanted to talk with somebody who represents a world reality so different from their own, to get my attention and be noticed. Let me tell you, they got far more than my attention, they got my fullest love. I needed their attention, their smiles, their innocence and candor surely much more than they needed me. They gave me so much, some knowingly—one gave me candy from a hidden stash, for it was his birthday, and another gave me an amazing portrait drawing of yours truly (my cheeks are not that big these days, though!)—but unknowingly they gave me the realization that the very act of paying attention to somebody can be an unfathom
ably huge ministry of love and empowerment. Needless to say, I have never felt so welcomed by a new community in my entire life as I did with this one. It truly felt like being welcomed by Jesus himself into his people. After a rousing rendition of Siyahamba and a short talk followed by loud applause from my new friends in the front pew, we had communion and walked out. It was very difficult to leave this place, firstly because we truly felt like part of the family now, and secondly because the kids would not let go of our hands.
These kids and their families have so little in this world, little money, little social status, little notice by others, but they have one of the most vivacious Christian communities I have ever seen, they have each other, and now they have us. I have always thought that Jesus sought after the oppressed because they needed him most, that he did so as a supreme act of charity. In truth, though, I would not be surprised if his real reason was that in such communities lay the true heart of the Kingdom. Of course they needed him, but perhaps he needed them just as much to be his church.
After about two months of discovering and getting settled into our respective communities, the four YAVs—Cameron, Cynthia, Sarah, and myself—gathered for a retreat with Achen (Reverend) Thomas John and his wife Betty. It was great to get together and share stories, laughter, struggles, hugs, and Halloween candy in a language that we all understand (not just English, but a shared language of having taken a leap and embarked on this journey together). The purpose of the retreat, though, was much more intentional than that. Through discussions and direct interaction, we were there to learn about dalit realities in Kerala. I will not describe the caste system in India at length because I am by no means qualified, and that would take several libraries’ worth of writing. The important thing to know for this post is that dalits are those who are without caste altogether. In other words, they are so low in the social order that they are excluded from it altogether. In traditional Indian society, the dalits were basically agricultural slaves to those who had caste. In modern times, those who are able to find work period are usually very poor day laborers.
To continue the history lesson, in the 19th century dalits started to turn to Christianity, as it offered liberation from a religion entrenched in casteism that dictated their oppression. And truly Christianity should be such a liberating force. Jesus offered salvation and the perfect example of his life to all, but it was the poor and the outcast of society with whom he chose to spend his time. He bucked the social system radically and explicitly empowered the oppressed of his time. For some reason the church has drifted from this radical empowering stance, though, if indeed it ever had it right in the first place. Thus, the churches that were already in place, called Syrian churches (claiming connection to the Syrian church supposedly started by St. Thomas in the 50s AD and that were what we would see in most mainline protestant churches in the U.S.—ethnically homogeneous congregations of the upper middle class), rather than welcoming dalits into their congregations as fellow members of a family of Christians, set up separate churches with separate congregations. So, welcome to ‘Christianity,’ but not our family.
Now, I have seen many churches in Kerala that are quite the impressive structures. Money and time have been poured into these buildings in attempts to make houses of praise fitting for the greatness of the God being worshipped. I had not encountered the likes of the church we ambled up to on Friday, though. There was a humble building with old benches, a pulpit, and an altar for Sunday worship. I would describe the ‘church,’ however, more as the community outside of this building. Surrounding it were winding paths leading to the small homes of the congregants. I think they called it a church or mission compound, for the entire neighborhood around the building is part of the church. We walked these paths into one of the most beautiful communities I have ever encountered. We were welcomed into homes where we prayed and tried to chat with our limited language skills. We were followed around by an excited and fast-growing group of children. We were offered tea, snacks, and smiles. We would see many of the same people pop up in different houses, because they were all welcomed as family in each others’ homes. We were welcomed as family into their homes.
Then on Sunday came the true highlight of the retreat, worshipping as part of this community. We went to the church building mentioned above with only the knowledge that we were to sing a few songs and give a little speech about who we were and why we were in Kerala. We got special chairs in the front of the church since we were honored guests. To my great delight, my seat was right next to a group of kids ranging from 2 or 3 years old to 12 or 13. Rather than paying attention to the sermon given by Thomas John, which was surely great but in Malayalam, I paid attention to this group of kids, and they paid even more attention to me. We held a whispered conference throughout the service about my name, why I was white, who my favorite actor was, what car I wanted, etc. in mixed English-Malayalam-Manglish. Really, though, they just wanted to talk with somebody who represents a world reality so different from their own, to get my attention and be noticed. Let me tell you, they got far more than my attention, they got my fullest love. I needed their attention, their smiles, their innocence and candor surely much more than they needed me. They gave me so much, some knowingly—one gave me candy from a hidden stash, for it was his birthday, and another gave me an amazing portrait drawing of yours truly (my cheeks are not that big these days, though!)—but unknowingly they gave me the realization that the very act of paying attention to somebody can be an unfathom
ably huge ministry of love and empowerment. Needless to say, I have never felt so welcomed by a new community in my entire life as I did with this one. It truly felt like being welcomed by Jesus himself into his people. After a rousing rendition of Siyahamba and a short talk followed by loud applause from my new friends in the front pew, we had communion and walked out. It was very difficult to leave this place, firstly because we truly felt like part of the family now, and secondly because the kids would not let go of our hands.These kids and their families have so little in this world, little money, little social status, little notice by others, but they have one of the most vivacious Christian communities I have ever seen, they have each other, and now they have us. I have always thought that Jesus sought after the oppressed because they needed him most, that he did so as a supreme act of charity. In truth, though, I would not be surprised if his real reason was that in such communities lay the true heart of the Kingdom. Of course they needed him, but perhaps he needed them just as much to be his church.
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