A few days ago I found myself sitting on a local commuter train, chugging our way down the tracks at 7 a.m. on the way to one of the many villages surrounding the 20 million strong city of Kolkata.
Shoulder to shoulder, chocolate and brown skins glistening as the heat rose and sweat beaded our brows, bags and babies tossed onto laps at random, we made the slow journey from the madness of urban India to the calm openness of the village life.
A stop for a much needed chai at a shop outside the train station ended with half the village in attendance, as everyone ogled the gora with the sun-bleached blond hair. An hour long jeep ride down bumpy roads as the buildings changed from brick to mud and bicycles and rickshaws replaced buses and cars ended with me bruised and exhausted. Slowly we dragged our weary bodies out of the car and trudged down the street to our destination: Ridigai, West Bengal, India.
I had been informed that we would spend a few hours participating in an "English conversation class" for primary school teachers.
Whatever that means.
-------
Up until now, the biggest lesson I've learned as a 'freelance development worker' (for lack of a more concrete and appropriate term) is to never, ever have expectations. It's not gonna turn out the way you thought it would, so don't bother. Just go with it.
This was one of those 'go with it' situations.
We arrived in a...school?...farmhouse?...home?.....let's just call it a building. In this building, we had our fourth chai of the day. Post-tea, we were told that the teachers were waiting to talk to us. We entered the room.
A large rectangular room greeted us, its walls painted green and white, the paint faded and peeling in spots. The bare concrete floor was invisible beneath the bodies of 70 teachers sitting cross legged and facing the front. Not a stick of furniture filled the room, with the exception of two wooden chairs placed at the front.
"Oh god, please tell me they don't want us to sit on 'thrones' in front of everyone" I thought.
Yup. They sure did.
So there I perched, younger than everyone in the room by about 10 years, little white girl in her AliBaba pants and scarf, cross-legged and totally lost and hoping things would get a bit less weird pretttttty fast.
First question: "yes hello ma'am (ma'am?!?!...you're 45! call me kid, please!!). What is your name?" Camille "Ah yes. Your country?" Canada.
Second question: "yes hello ma'am. Your country?" "your name"
Third question: "Hello thank you. Where are you from?"
Fourth question" yes hello thank you ma'am..."
You get the idea.
We got fed up pretty fast, so decided to stir things up and start asking THEM questions.
Within half an hour I knew that most of the men in the room thought that the education system's problems were unsolvable and that parents needed to care more about their children's education. I knew that most had M.As, and nearly all were married.
I didn't know a single thing about the 15 women sitting in front of me.
Gently probing, I managed to discover that they were all married, all had children, and most had had their first child between 19 and 22 years of age.
And they, like the men, all had at minimum a bachelors degree. Most had M.As.
These strong, proud women, these educated women from the forgotten lands of India (for the government truly has forgotten these people - the island they live on has never even been properly mapped), these women who are struggling to forge an independence in the villages, were the same women who got married off as teenagers and spent their lives perpetually pregnant. They were the same women who sat before me petrified to speak in front of the men. They sat there trapped by the culture and traditions of this country which privilege men, babies and food before a woman's freedom.
Incidentally a lot of them spoke better English than the men. But fear and tradition can silence even the strongest of voices.
------
....this experience was all well and enlightening for the little girl sitting like a princess at the front of the room.
But the kicker was yet to come.
As we got up to leave, a gangly, bespectacled young gentleman held up his hand.
"Please one more question for you ma'am."
Here we go again "I'm from Canada, my name is Camille...." I thought.
"Please, can you tell us a bit about family planning in Canada?"
uhhhhh........come again?!?!
you want me, the youngest person in the room, the only single person in the room, to tell you about contraception. You, a group of married adults, most of whom are parents.
You...want ME....to explain....family planning.
So I did.
I talked about how as a young woman in Canada, my parents explained to me that when you are in love with someone, you have a choice to express that love physically. You also have a choice to have children or not. If you chose not to, there are options to pick from.
I explained condoms (awkward).
I explained birth control (a little less embarrassing, obviously).
"Ah yes, for women we have the same thing, only it is more like for the men..." one eager pupil spoke up. He then went on to describe a female condom.
Right.
In sum, what can we conclude from this little adventure in rural India? Surrounded by beautiful lush paddy fields, the sun strong on my face, the dust of a five hour journey still clinging to my skin, breathing fresh air for the first time in weeks, my conclusion was this:
These are the educated ones. These are the ones that pass on knowledge to the next generation, these are the people who want to learn and grow and progress.
And their women sit stifled.
And none of them know about the pill.
That's my conclusion.
...is that even a conclusion?
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
up and down, round and round
Yesterday I took a friend to the orphanage with me.
She wanted to see what the handicapped children's floor was like, to understand the world that I talk about daily and incessantly.
She left in tears.
Traumatized by what she had witnessed, the way the children are treated, the noise and the heat, the screaming and the crying, wet diapers and force feeds, she turned to me and asked one simple question.
"Why?"
Why are things here the way they are? Why can't it be different?
And now, after a few weeks here, I'm starting to ask another one. Why do I feel a need to change it.
A colleague recently wrote me an email about change. She said
People don’t need to be “changed”
they just may hear another opinion
and it is up to them what they will do with it....
people hear and learn what they need to hear and learn
at that moment in their lives
Which I understand, but leaves me feeling like here, in this place, what I am doing is completely futile. Because it really doesn't seem like people want to hear and learn much.
When the feeding workshop ended, it felt like we were making progress. Like people were listening and prepared to integrate new thoughts and ideas into their work here.
But after Alexandra left the orphanage in tears, I wondered to myself if in fact it wasn't the people here who were changing, but me.
Have I just gotten so used to the way these children are treated that it seems to me like things are getting better? Maybe nothing is improving, it's just me that's becoming...blase? desensitized? blind?
Why do I feel the need to change something that I understand so little that I can't even maintain a concrete perspective (opinion?) for a week?!?
Why am I here?
She wanted to see what the handicapped children's floor was like, to understand the world that I talk about daily and incessantly.
She left in tears.
Traumatized by what she had witnessed, the way the children are treated, the noise and the heat, the screaming and the crying, wet diapers and force feeds, she turned to me and asked one simple question.
"Why?"
Why are things here the way they are? Why can't it be different?
And now, after a few weeks here, I'm starting to ask another one. Why do I feel a need to change it.
A colleague recently wrote me an email about change. She said
People don’t need to be “changed”
they just may hear another opinion
and it is up to them what they will do with it....
people hear and learn what they need to hear and learn
at that moment in their lives
Which I understand, but leaves me feeling like here, in this place, what I am doing is completely futile. Because it really doesn't seem like people want to hear and learn much.
When the feeding workshop ended, it felt like we were making progress. Like people were listening and prepared to integrate new thoughts and ideas into their work here.
But after Alexandra left the orphanage in tears, I wondered to myself if in fact it wasn't the people here who were changing, but me.
Have I just gotten so used to the way these children are treated that it seems to me like things are getting better? Maybe nothing is improving, it's just me that's becoming...blase? desensitized? blind?
Why do I feel the need to change something that I understand so little that I can't even maintain a concrete perspective (opinion?) for a week?!?
Why am I here?
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Eating my words
I have to thank a lot of people for getting me to the point in my life where I am today.
You meet a thousand people on the road, every day brings new encounters by the truckload, and sometimes you forget how important those encounters are. How much they change you.
Nine months ago, I met a girl when I was rock climbing in Thailand. A woman who I shared a moment with - literally a moment - before scrambling up a rock face and losing myself to the majesty of the climb.
That chance encounter led me to Kolkata and into the life of Deepa, a blind girl living in chaos.
That chance encounter led me to the beginning of the most frustrating experience of my life, as I joined the fight for Deepa's right to therapy, her right to add her words to our world.
Every evening I would return to my guesthouse exhausted and emotional. There, I would vent endlessly to yet another inspiring woman in my life about the dead-ends and disappointments of the last 12 hours. This wonderful person would listen calmly, offering advice when needed and silence when necessary. My work with Deepa was being resisted at every turn, my presence at the Orphanage greeted with hostility each morning. Without the constant support of my friend, I would have abandoned all hope.
In fact, I almost did abandon hope. I almost quit.
Until one day, a relative 'breakthrough'. An invitation (or should I say an acceptance of my proposal) to provide a workshop on safe feeding techniques for children with disabilities. Aka, an opportunity to explain that force feeding a handicapped child Is. Not. Acceptable.
Change.
When they said yes, I thought maybe this was it. This was the opportunity we had been waiting for to get everyone on the same side. They were accepting me, showing an interest in learning from me.
One would have thought it would be smooth sailing from then on in.
Guess again.
The sister in charge of this particular floor of this particular institution was certainly not what you would call 'forthcoming' with information. When I asked about the educational background of the women I was training, or when I tried to determine what the expectations of this workshop would be, the responses were always
"Don't worry."
" You don't need to know. "
"I will take care of these things. "
"Stop asking questions, you need to learn patience."
..... I need to learn patience?!?!?!
Imagine my anger and overwhelming desire to hit something when I returned to my friend's guesthouse balcony after THAT particular conversation.
And then, gradually, as my companion's kind silence soothed away the rough edges of my rage, we started to discuss the best way to go about making this workshop a productive one.
"You have to make these women feel important" she said.
"Value them first, let them know that their role is a necessary one in the orphanage. No one gives these women the time of day, so of course they don't want to listen to you."
She was right, of course. I later discovered that the Indian women working here have little-to-no education. They come from small villages around Kolkata, most are illiterate, and they earn less than 50 dollars a month. Nobody sees them as important, nobody gives them any credit.
Of course my friend was right. But I wouldn't have thought to take the empowerment angle on my own. Knowing how little time we had together, frustrated by the lack of support from those in positions of authority, I was prepared to slam down a bunch of information and walk out. And I would have said it was their fault if nothing changed, because these Indian women 'weren't ready to learn". Because they 'don't want to change'. Because I was so caught up in my own prior experiences that I wasn't willing to change either.
Instead, thanks to the wisdom of my amazing friend, I took a different route. Hours were spent fostering relationships and valuing the caregivers. Instead of giving information, I asked questions. Instead of talking I listened. And slowly, over the course of a few days, they started to listen too.
Not just listen, but learn.
Yesterday, I watched three women speak in gentle soothing voices, feed children with small spoonfuls, wait till each mouthful was finished before offering another one. Yesterday I watched people change.
And I heard a change too.
Deepa said her first word.
"Up up up" as we climbed the stairs together.
Filled with joy and excitement, I went to tell the woman in charge about this amazing milestone in Deepa's life.
And here, again, a change.
Instead of chastising me for going against her wishes and working with Deepa behind her back, instead of getting angry with me as she had on so many other occasions, she smiled.
"There is another girl here who is also blind. Maybe you can work with her too."
--------
....together we make changes happen. Those who advise us, those who cajole us, those who confront us are all essential to keeping things growing and moving forward.
So this is my shout out to the people who have made this journey possible. Who have helped to get me, and Deepa, and all the women at the orphanage, and so many others, to get to this point where we are today. The battle has only just begun, but it never would have even started without all of you.
Thanks team.
You meet a thousand people on the road, every day brings new encounters by the truckload, and sometimes you forget how important those encounters are. How much they change you.
Nine months ago, I met a girl when I was rock climbing in Thailand. A woman who I shared a moment with - literally a moment - before scrambling up a rock face and losing myself to the majesty of the climb.
That chance encounter led me to Kolkata and into the life of Deepa, a blind girl living in chaos.
That chance encounter led me to the beginning of the most frustrating experience of my life, as I joined the fight for Deepa's right to therapy, her right to add her words to our world.
Every evening I would return to my guesthouse exhausted and emotional. There, I would vent endlessly to yet another inspiring woman in my life about the dead-ends and disappointments of the last 12 hours. This wonderful person would listen calmly, offering advice when needed and silence when necessary. My work with Deepa was being resisted at every turn, my presence at the Orphanage greeted with hostility each morning. Without the constant support of my friend, I would have abandoned all hope.
In fact, I almost did abandon hope. I almost quit.
Until one day, a relative 'breakthrough'. An invitation (or should I say an acceptance of my proposal) to provide a workshop on safe feeding techniques for children with disabilities. Aka, an opportunity to explain that force feeding a handicapped child Is. Not. Acceptable.
Change.
When they said yes, I thought maybe this was it. This was the opportunity we had been waiting for to get everyone on the same side. They were accepting me, showing an interest in learning from me.
One would have thought it would be smooth sailing from then on in.
Guess again.
The sister in charge of this particular floor of this particular institution was certainly not what you would call 'forthcoming' with information. When I asked about the educational background of the women I was training, or when I tried to determine what the expectations of this workshop would be, the responses were always
"Don't worry."
" You don't need to know. "
"I will take care of these things. "
"Stop asking questions, you need to learn patience."
..... I need to learn patience?!?!?!
Imagine my anger and overwhelming desire to hit something when I returned to my friend's guesthouse balcony after THAT particular conversation.
And then, gradually, as my companion's kind silence soothed away the rough edges of my rage, we started to discuss the best way to go about making this workshop a productive one.
"You have to make these women feel important" she said.
"Value them first, let them know that their role is a necessary one in the orphanage. No one gives these women the time of day, so of course they don't want to listen to you."
She was right, of course. I later discovered that the Indian women working here have little-to-no education. They come from small villages around Kolkata, most are illiterate, and they earn less than 50 dollars a month. Nobody sees them as important, nobody gives them any credit.
Of course my friend was right. But I wouldn't have thought to take the empowerment angle on my own. Knowing how little time we had together, frustrated by the lack of support from those in positions of authority, I was prepared to slam down a bunch of information and walk out. And I would have said it was their fault if nothing changed, because these Indian women 'weren't ready to learn". Because they 'don't want to change'. Because I was so caught up in my own prior experiences that I wasn't willing to change either.
Instead, thanks to the wisdom of my amazing friend, I took a different route. Hours were spent fostering relationships and valuing the caregivers. Instead of giving information, I asked questions. Instead of talking I listened. And slowly, over the course of a few days, they started to listen too.
Not just listen, but learn.
Yesterday, I watched three women speak in gentle soothing voices, feed children with small spoonfuls, wait till each mouthful was finished before offering another one. Yesterday I watched people change.
And I heard a change too.
Deepa said her first word.
"Up up up" as we climbed the stairs together.
Filled with joy and excitement, I went to tell the woman in charge about this amazing milestone in Deepa's life.
And here, again, a change.
Instead of chastising me for going against her wishes and working with Deepa behind her back, instead of getting angry with me as she had on so many other occasions, she smiled.
"There is another girl here who is also blind. Maybe you can work with her too."
--------
....together we make changes happen. Those who advise us, those who cajole us, those who confront us are all essential to keeping things growing and moving forward.
So this is my shout out to the people who have made this journey possible. Who have helped to get me, and Deepa, and all the women at the orphanage, and so many others, to get to this point where we are today. The battle has only just begun, but it never would have even started without all of you.
Thanks team.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
...paved with good intentions
A few weeks ago, I met an Israeli couple in a train station. After a few moments of conversation, the guy turned to me and said "You know, I don't think anything in India will shock you."
In some ways, he was right.
After a certain amount of time on the road, I realize I can get used to almost anything.
I can get used to squat toilets and sharing a shower with fifteen people and seventy five cockroaches. I can get used to 50 hour train rides, overnight sleeps in bus stations and on park benches, surviving on dry biscuits and shot glasses of tea for days on end. I can get used to bed bugs and 30 degree heat in cities thick with pollution. I can get used to being stared at all the time, to constantly being treated like I'm either an ATM or a 'free woman' just because of the colour of my skin. I can get used to abject poverty: to people sleeping in the streets and squatting to relieve themselves in the middle of the road, to children running naked through the cities and sharing living spaces with cows and chickens and goats.
I can get used to all of these things, because I sought them out and they are part of what makes travelling an adventure.
And it's true that these things no longer surprise or shock me.
But there are some things that I will NEVER get used to.
Like the defeatist attitude that seems to pervade this part of the world.
I came to Kolkata with the intention to do some development work, much like what I had been doing in Nepal. I came with the naive belief that people would see the benefit of gaining new knowledge and skills, that people would have a desire to improve themselves and the lives of those around them.
However, I have realized that many of the people here, not just those that live on the streets (who you can forgive for being closed-minded, as they never had the opportunity to know anything else) but also the people running charities here, have no long term vision.
It seems as though running a 'charity' (I use the term very loosely) should be enough. Maybe we aren't really improving the quality of life for these children, maybe we are force feeding them and physically and verbally abusing them, but heck, today they've got a bed and food and that's better than what they get on the streets so who are YOU, with your western views and biases, to come in and tell me what I'm doing is wrong.
Who are YOU to suggest ways in which our system might be improved. We are giving these children love, and that should be enough. We 'want to help' (at least that's what we say we want), we are doing something 'good' and that frees us from any responsibility to answer to criticism or attempt to improve our system.
A suggestion like taking ten extra minutes to feed a child so they don't choke or develop pneumonia is scoffed at. The concept of working with a single child to teach them a few words instead of spending a month flitting from child to child playing and carrying them around with no distinct purpose is scorned.
...and I quote: "You could be a doctor or a teacher or a therapist. I don't care. You are here to love all the children, all the same. That is all that you are here for. And I don't want to talk about it any more".
Never mind that this 'love' won't get a handicapped child very far in life. Never mind that a specific skill set is being offered to improve a child's long-term outcomes. Never mind what could be in the future. What matters here is that at this exact moment the child is receiving love and shelter. Why would anyone ever need to think beyond that?
These are not uneducated people saying this. These are not people who have never travelled, never lived in western culture, never had the opportunity to see what can be in this world.
And the fact that these 'educated', 'cultured', 'responsible' people cannot see beyond their own noses, the fact that there is no long term vision and no open-mindedness in their system of functioning...these are things that continue shock and appall me every day.
These are things I will NEVER get used to.
And you might say that this is not my culture, that I shouldn't judge a system that I don't understand, that maybe these children ARE better off in this cramped, overheated room than on the streets.
And since I'm better at quoting others than coming up with my own answers, I'd offer you this response:
"One of the benefits of education is that it teaches us to think for ourselves....If, as sometimes happens, our education leads us to question some of the value systems by which we live, that is not to say that we are destroying tradition. The tradition that refuses to entertain doubt, or remains impervious to new thoughts and ideas, becomes a prison rather than a sustaining life force.
Even the smallest one of us has a social function, but that function is not to follow blindly beliefs that may not be valid" - Marju Kapur
And one more...
"We must be the change we wish to see in the world." - Mahatma Ghandi
Sorry for the rant folks.
But it can't all be sunshine and flowers all the time, can it?
In some ways, he was right.
After a certain amount of time on the road, I realize I can get used to almost anything.
I can get used to squat toilets and sharing a shower with fifteen people and seventy five cockroaches. I can get used to 50 hour train rides, overnight sleeps in bus stations and on park benches, surviving on dry biscuits and shot glasses of tea for days on end. I can get used to bed bugs and 30 degree heat in cities thick with pollution. I can get used to being stared at all the time, to constantly being treated like I'm either an ATM or a 'free woman' just because of the colour of my skin. I can get used to abject poverty: to people sleeping in the streets and squatting to relieve themselves in the middle of the road, to children running naked through the cities and sharing living spaces with cows and chickens and goats.
I can get used to all of these things, because I sought them out and they are part of what makes travelling an adventure.
And it's true that these things no longer surprise or shock me.
But there are some things that I will NEVER get used to.
Like the defeatist attitude that seems to pervade this part of the world.
I came to Kolkata with the intention to do some development work, much like what I had been doing in Nepal. I came with the naive belief that people would see the benefit of gaining new knowledge and skills, that people would have a desire to improve themselves and the lives of those around them.
However, I have realized that many of the people here, not just those that live on the streets (who you can forgive for being closed-minded, as they never had the opportunity to know anything else) but also the people running charities here, have no long term vision.
It seems as though running a 'charity' (I use the term very loosely) should be enough. Maybe we aren't really improving the quality of life for these children, maybe we are force feeding them and physically and verbally abusing them, but heck, today they've got a bed and food and that's better than what they get on the streets so who are YOU, with your western views and biases, to come in and tell me what I'm doing is wrong.
Who are YOU to suggest ways in which our system might be improved. We are giving these children love, and that should be enough. We 'want to help' (at least that's what we say we want), we are doing something 'good' and that frees us from any responsibility to answer to criticism or attempt to improve our system.
A suggestion like taking ten extra minutes to feed a child so they don't choke or develop pneumonia is scoffed at. The concept of working with a single child to teach them a few words instead of spending a month flitting from child to child playing and carrying them around with no distinct purpose is scorned.
...and I quote: "You could be a doctor or a teacher or a therapist. I don't care. You are here to love all the children, all the same. That is all that you are here for. And I don't want to talk about it any more".
Never mind that this 'love' won't get a handicapped child very far in life. Never mind that a specific skill set is being offered to improve a child's long-term outcomes. Never mind what could be in the future. What matters here is that at this exact moment the child is receiving love and shelter. Why would anyone ever need to think beyond that?
These are not uneducated people saying this. These are not people who have never travelled, never lived in western culture, never had the opportunity to see what can be in this world.
And the fact that these 'educated', 'cultured', 'responsible' people cannot see beyond their own noses, the fact that there is no long term vision and no open-mindedness in their system of functioning...these are things that continue shock and appall me every day.
These are things I will NEVER get used to.
And you might say that this is not my culture, that I shouldn't judge a system that I don't understand, that maybe these children ARE better off in this cramped, overheated room than on the streets.
And since I'm better at quoting others than coming up with my own answers, I'd offer you this response:
"One of the benefits of education is that it teaches us to think for ourselves....If, as sometimes happens, our education leads us to question some of the value systems by which we live, that is not to say that we are destroying tradition. The tradition that refuses to entertain doubt, or remains impervious to new thoughts and ideas, becomes a prison rather than a sustaining life force.
Even the smallest one of us has a social function, but that function is not to follow blindly beliefs that may not be valid" - Marju Kapur
And one more...
"We must be the change we wish to see in the world." - Mahatma Ghandi
Sorry for the rant folks.
But it can't all be sunshine and flowers all the time, can it?
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
goggles off.
Here's what I've decided:
The things that make India beautiful are not the locations. You can visit a temple or palace, spend days in an ashram meditating or climb the boulders in Hampi to view the sunset. These things are beautiful, yes, but they are not the reasons why this country is breathtaking.
India's beauty is in the briefest of moments. In these quick snippets of time, when the dust and the dirt and the garbage, the horns honking and touts screaming, the smells of urine and sewage all fade away, and Incredible India appears.
Minutes before sitting down to this computer screen, I stood outside waiting to cross the street. To my right, a brown cow grazed on discarded coconut shells in front of a yellow and black rickshaw, the owner in tattered rags sleeping on the back seat as he awaited potential customers. In front of me rickshaws and motorbikes competed with rainbow-clad women and barefoot children for space on the dirt path they called a road.
A waft of sandalwood incense, a smell native to this colonial town, drifted over me, followed immediately after by the sticky sweet scent of mid-afternoon heat in Mysore.
A hundred pairs of big black eyes peered at me from the faces of India: cinnamon browns, chocolate, licorice black and golden yellows glowing in the sun.
Beauty amidst chaos. It makes you smile.
And then, just as quickly as the magic appeared, it was gone again.
"Your country? Yes hello, bananas? You from? What your name? Miss, one school pen? Yes yes try one watch please. Yes hello one rickshaw for you." Calls and stares and aggression infiltrated once more.
The trick in India, it seems like, is to notice those minutes of magic, and hold on to them for dear life. Because this country is exhausting, it's everything that Canada is not (in all the best and the worst of ways), it wears you down and you can't help but think "Why, oh why, did I ever feel the need to come here?"
...so even though sometimes all you want to do is close your eyes and run away from it all, you have to keep those suckers wiiiiide open at all times.
cause otherwise you might miss those seconds of beauty.
otherwise you might miss India.
The things that make India beautiful are not the locations. You can visit a temple or palace, spend days in an ashram meditating or climb the boulders in Hampi to view the sunset. These things are beautiful, yes, but they are not the reasons why this country is breathtaking.
India's beauty is in the briefest of moments. In these quick snippets of time, when the dust and the dirt and the garbage, the horns honking and touts screaming, the smells of urine and sewage all fade away, and Incredible India appears.
Minutes before sitting down to this computer screen, I stood outside waiting to cross the street. To my right, a brown cow grazed on discarded coconut shells in front of a yellow and black rickshaw, the owner in tattered rags sleeping on the back seat as he awaited potential customers. In front of me rickshaws and motorbikes competed with rainbow-clad women and barefoot children for space on the dirt path they called a road.
A waft of sandalwood incense, a smell native to this colonial town, drifted over me, followed immediately after by the sticky sweet scent of mid-afternoon heat in Mysore.
A hundred pairs of big black eyes peered at me from the faces of India: cinnamon browns, chocolate, licorice black and golden yellows glowing in the sun.
Beauty amidst chaos. It makes you smile.
And then, just as quickly as the magic appeared, it was gone again.
"Your country? Yes hello, bananas? You from? What your name? Miss, one school pen? Yes yes try one watch please. Yes hello one rickshaw for you." Calls and stares and aggression infiltrated once more.
The trick in India, it seems like, is to notice those minutes of magic, and hold on to them for dear life. Because this country is exhausting, it's everything that Canada is not (in all the best and the worst of ways), it wears you down and you can't help but think "Why, oh why, did I ever feel the need to come here?"
...so even though sometimes all you want to do is close your eyes and run away from it all, you have to keep those suckers wiiiiide open at all times.
cause otherwise you might miss those seconds of beauty.
otherwise you might miss India.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Commuter Chaos
Another one for the books my friends.
On Tuesday morning at 9 am, we left Hikkaduwa after a tearful goodbye with our friends who we had spent the last two months hanging out with. Boarded an (airconditioned!) bus for Colombo for three hours (which seems like six in Sri Lanka...public transit could still use some work there), then another one hour bus to the airport before catching an hour and a half flight to Chennai.
No problems.
Arrival in Chennai in the scorching heat and humidity, the dust coming up in clouds around our feet, the air full of incense and smoke and the smells of chai and chappati.
A ten hour layover in Chennai during which we decided that our top priority was to SLEEP. 12:30 Wednesday morning-slash-afternoon, after a delicious sleep on an almost clean mattress in an almost respectable guesthouse, we headed to the train station. Destination: Hampi.
Now those of you who have been to India will know that when you take a train or bus here, generally the departure time is reliable. The arrival time, we were to discover, is not.
The plan was thus: 6 hour train to Bangalore, three hour layover, 12 hour train to Hospet (E.T.A. 10:30 in Hospet) and then a 30 minute rickshaw ride to Hampi to round it all out.
Totally reasonable.
Except as you can imagine, that's not quite how things turned out. After all, this is India.
The train to Bangalore was uneventful - as we headed north the landscape moved from desert browns and greys to monsoon greens, and the earth changed from dusty beige to fertile red. Hundreds of Indians wearing every colour of the rainbow swirled around us, young boys selling tea and toys weaved down the aisles calling out their wares.
The layover in Bangalore was equally calm and collected: paneer butter masala and roti for dinner, a quick toothbrushing at the sink in the back of the train station restaurant, and then we headed down the tracks to look for our spots on the overnight sleeper that was to take us twelve hours north to Hospet.
We boarded a typical sleeper train wagon, wading through a sea of peanut shells, plastic wrappers, mud and unidentified liquid to get to the thin blue plastic 'mattresses' which would be our home for the next 12 hours (allegedly).
16 hours, zero food, one bottle of water and eighteen thousand million kilometers in the pouring rain (yes it rained all the way from Bangalore) later, we finally pulled into Hospet train station in the middle of what appeared to be a moonsoon storm.
Pushing our way through a sea of ruby reds and pinapple yellows, children screaming, rain pouring down and wind howling, Sandy managed to barter our tuk tuk down to a reasonable rate to take us the final 30 minute stretch to our new home on Hampi Island.
Or so we thought.
Arrival in Hampi Bazaar, the rain soaking our tropical travel outfits (we were SO unprepared for foul weather, my toes were prunes by this point), our rickshaw driver had some bad news.
"Full river. Closed. No going possible to island tonight. Better you stay here."
Hells no. We came this far, we're not giving up cause of a stupid river. Duncan was on the other side of that km wide stretch of water and we were DETERMINED to get to him.
So we hopped back in the rickshaw to drive 50 km around to the other side of the island. Supposedly it could be done.
"But must take care. Cyclone."
Cool.
Driving through a cyclone in a three wheeler, wearing a tank top and flip flops.
2 freezing cold, rain soaked hours later, we arrived at the bridge across the river. And by bridge I mean washed out road that now blends into the river completely.
Panic at the disco. What on earth were we supposed to do now?
Suddenly out of a nowhere a jeep came screaming by.
"STOP!" we screamed, as I hurtled myself out of the tuk tuk and into the cyclone, chasing after the vehicle.
"Please please please can you try to take us across?" I asked, the rain plastering my already soaking wet hair to my cheeks. "We'll pay, we'll pay!"
So Sandy, myself, our two backpacks and two small daypacks clambered into the trunk of the jeep, trying to wrap our bodies around spare tires and empty crates, and crossing our fingers that the crossing would work.
Nope.
Two meters in, the jeep reversed.
"Not possible. Must go back Hampi"
So we got out of the trunk and back into the rickshaw, and drove another two and a half hours back to where we first started in Hampi Bazaar.
+24 hours of trains, 5 hours in a three wheeler, cyclones, landslides, washed out roads and a (hot!) shower later we were finally at a destination....even if it wasn't our intended one.
Welcome to India.
On Tuesday morning at 9 am, we left Hikkaduwa after a tearful goodbye with our friends who we had spent the last two months hanging out with. Boarded an (airconditioned!) bus for Colombo for three hours (which seems like six in Sri Lanka...public transit could still use some work there), then another one hour bus to the airport before catching an hour and a half flight to Chennai.
No problems.
Arrival in Chennai in the scorching heat and humidity, the dust coming up in clouds around our feet, the air full of incense and smoke and the smells of chai and chappati.
A ten hour layover in Chennai during which we decided that our top priority was to SLEEP. 12:30 Wednesday morning-slash-afternoon, after a delicious sleep on an almost clean mattress in an almost respectable guesthouse, we headed to the train station. Destination: Hampi.
Now those of you who have been to India will know that when you take a train or bus here, generally the departure time is reliable. The arrival time, we were to discover, is not.
The plan was thus: 6 hour train to Bangalore, three hour layover, 12 hour train to Hospet (E.T.A. 10:30 in Hospet) and then a 30 minute rickshaw ride to Hampi to round it all out.
Totally reasonable.
Except as you can imagine, that's not quite how things turned out. After all, this is India.
The train to Bangalore was uneventful - as we headed north the landscape moved from desert browns and greys to monsoon greens, and the earth changed from dusty beige to fertile red. Hundreds of Indians wearing every colour of the rainbow swirled around us, young boys selling tea and toys weaved down the aisles calling out their wares.
The layover in Bangalore was equally calm and collected: paneer butter masala and roti for dinner, a quick toothbrushing at the sink in the back of the train station restaurant, and then we headed down the tracks to look for our spots on the overnight sleeper that was to take us twelve hours north to Hospet.
We boarded a typical sleeper train wagon, wading through a sea of peanut shells, plastic wrappers, mud and unidentified liquid to get to the thin blue plastic 'mattresses' which would be our home for the next 12 hours (allegedly).
16 hours, zero food, one bottle of water and eighteen thousand million kilometers in the pouring rain (yes it rained all the way from Bangalore) later, we finally pulled into Hospet train station in the middle of what appeared to be a moonsoon storm.
Pushing our way through a sea of ruby reds and pinapple yellows, children screaming, rain pouring down and wind howling, Sandy managed to barter our tuk tuk down to a reasonable rate to take us the final 30 minute stretch to our new home on Hampi Island.
Or so we thought.
Arrival in Hampi Bazaar, the rain soaking our tropical travel outfits (we were SO unprepared for foul weather, my toes were prunes by this point), our rickshaw driver had some bad news.
"Full river. Closed. No going possible to island tonight. Better you stay here."
Hells no. We came this far, we're not giving up cause of a stupid river. Duncan was on the other side of that km wide stretch of water and we were DETERMINED to get to him.
So we hopped back in the rickshaw to drive 50 km around to the other side of the island. Supposedly it could be done.
"But must take care. Cyclone."
Cool.
Driving through a cyclone in a three wheeler, wearing a tank top and flip flops.
2 freezing cold, rain soaked hours later, we arrived at the bridge across the river. And by bridge I mean washed out road that now blends into the river completely.
Panic at the disco. What on earth were we supposed to do now?
Suddenly out of a nowhere a jeep came screaming by.
"STOP!" we screamed, as I hurtled myself out of the tuk tuk and into the cyclone, chasing after the vehicle.
"Please please please can you try to take us across?" I asked, the rain plastering my already soaking wet hair to my cheeks. "We'll pay, we'll pay!"
So Sandy, myself, our two backpacks and two small daypacks clambered into the trunk of the jeep, trying to wrap our bodies around spare tires and empty crates, and crossing our fingers that the crossing would work.
Nope.
Two meters in, the jeep reversed.
"Not possible. Must go back Hampi"
So we got out of the trunk and back into the rickshaw, and drove another two and a half hours back to where we first started in Hampi Bazaar.
+24 hours of trains, 5 hours in a three wheeler, cyclones, landslides, washed out roads and a (hot!) shower later we were finally at a destination....even if it wasn't our intended one.
Welcome to India.
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