I thought my first experience with the train was bad…HAH! I left Jaisalmer (after arguing with the owner about owing me money from the camel trek and lying about amenities, never stay in Hotel Henna!!!) on a seven hour bus ride, bringing me to Bikiner at nine PM. We arrive in the middle of a crazy sand storm; a rickshaw driver brought me to the train station to help me find a ticket to Amritsar in order to see the Golden Temple, as well as hang out on the boarder of Pakistan. The train doesn’t leave until 2:30am, um, ok, at least there’s a ladies waiting room. Oh, but wait, there aren’t any tickets left; that might be a problem. The driver and another man that owns a local guesthouse helped me out. We go to the main ticket office where the guest house guy (GHG from now on) can pull some strings because “anything is possible in India.” After maybe a half hour, they decide that there is a sleeper seat I can have—ok! First, though, I can only buy a general seat ticket (which is always oversold and is one coach where people just pack themselves in like sardines, no seat assignement or even enough available) and then I’ll pay the difference later. I thank Mr. Body (the ticket man) and shake his hand; he pulls me in for a hug and give me a kiss on the cheek—ok, so this is kinda like what the French do then, right? He even has a little office in the room for me to rest in until the train comes, with a blanket and pillow—how nice? I go with the rickshaw driver to get my bag and he tells me to be careful because they are all drunk—oh, ok, things are coming together. I don’t know if both Mr Body and GHG suddenly were more intoxicated, or if I was finally keen to the game, but their speech was so slurred it was difficult to understand. I take a seat in my office with my book and GHG sits next to me, not saying anything, just staring. Then he grabs my calf and tells me I have nice muscles—um thanks, I run a lot…back to book.
I tell him that I'm tired and go to shake his hand and he tries to get me to kiss him. No, um, I’m married I say as I hold up the ring on my left hand, thanks for your help though.
What? Why not? I’m just here wasting my time.
Hey! I never asked you to do this!
He finally leaves. Then, Mr. Body comes in . His English is barely comprehensible and the intoxicated slurring doesn’t help. He kept asking for my name and contact number—silly me, I think this is for the ticket. I write my name but say I don’t have a number, I had to do this maybe seven times until he gave up.
Ok, I’m going to sleep, thanks.
He stares and points to his lips.
NO! Um, I’m married.
Then he keeps doing the Indian head bobble and hand action. Ok, so, in India, they don’t shake their heads up and down to signify "yes," nor do they understand left to right is "no," no mater their answer, they do this left to right arching motion, similar to an “I don’t know” and the hand does this over turning flip flop along with a little shake—these motions could not be more indecisive if they tried. What? What does this mean? I don’t understand. Um, whatever, goodnight. He goes to shake my hand; I’m a damn sucker for that because I feel the need to try and be polite (plus, I still don’t have my ticket so I have to play nicey). He tries to pull me in—NO! Let go! I ripped my hand away just as he tried to do the ole palm finger prick I love so dearly—gross. I lock the door at the same time as he locks me in from the outside. Uh oh, this could be a problem. I decide I have a while before I need to get desperate and break some windows, so I just laid down and did a little mobile texting to calm myself.
After an hour, I hear Mr. Body start yelling, Madam! Over and over, so I go out and he tells me to bring my luggage.
Why aren’t you sleeping?
Um, I was? I lied (how about, you yelled for me to come out here? Genius, pure genius)
I give you blankets and you don’t sleep.
I was, I...Sure, ok.
The he starts to tell me there aren’t any tickets. What? we JUST went through this. I start getting angry after twenty minutes telling him I can’t understand him. His English sucks, so I start talking back to him
No, you’re a liar, maybe you shouldn’t be drunk on the job. I think that you just wont give me a ticket because you tried to make out with me because you thought I was an easy Western woman and I wouldn’t.
Liar
I took my ticket and left. Two other men came after me, speaking perfect English and told me where my seat was. Mr. Body came out again, trying one more time and grabbing my hand and going in for the kill, yet shot down, bang bang, again. ICKKKKKK. The other guy was so sweet; he got all the men out of the women’s waiting room so I could be comfortable, made sure I was awake for the train and got my seat, which was actually the on-board ticket officer’s seat; he was willing to let me sleep there, aw. I was on that train until two pm. I had one more to go to Amristar and FINALLY successful arrival at 5 pm!!!
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Dunes of Hazard
India’s sleeper buses are different than I’ve ever seen; usually you just get a wider cushion and more space to recline, but here they have seats as well as beds above the seats. My reservation was one of these beds, just enough space for me to lie down stretched out on my back alongside windows; kinda like a coffin but with a good view, a bit nerve racking when the bus takes tight corners, which is often. In the morning, after arriving in Jaisalmer "The Golden City," I signed up for a desert camel trek for two days and one night through my guesthouse and then wondered around the small desert town for the day. There is a big sone golden fort on a hill that is the main draw; there are a few Jain temples and havelis (decorative houses for important people, basically) but the majority of the complex is sadly overrun with shops, guesthouses, and restaurants. I was hit by an intense cold on the bus, so my energy level was pretty low; I headed in early to rest for the next days trek.
I was in a group with four Canadians; Christi and Dave (a couple) and Joanne and Brett. We all got along very well. First, a jeep drove us to a few villages, which was odd because all the kids kept yelling for rupees; not so much of a cultural experience but more of an aggressive, uneccessary coin drive.. After that, we each got our own camel, mine was the leader, Papu,. At first, it’s not too bad, like riding a horse, but it lies down for you to mount it. We had lunch cooked for us over a campfire in the middle of the desert under some trees. I should add here that most of this desert consists of small bushes and tress, dirt and sand, not so much the rolling dunes that you’d see in pictures. We rode a few more hours after a lunch of chapatti, curry and chai to get to some real sand dunes where we would be sleeping. The view of the stars was stunning; we slept on blankets right in the sand where we should see constellations down to the horizon; you forget just how many stars there are when you live in a city or rather anywhere with any type of light pollution. It was hard to get on the camels the next day first, because the dunes were so peaceful yet entertaining and also because my thighs and bum were incredibaly sore. We rode a couple of hours in the scorching dry heat and then sat under some trees, napping and playing cards along with sing-a-longs until the jeep came to bring us back to our rooms. I wandered around the city seeing market stalls, the fort’s Jain temples, and basically getting lost in the city streets for the next day and a half, then off to Amritsar.
I was in a group with four Canadians; Christi and Dave (a couple) and Joanne and Brett. We all got along very well. First, a jeep drove us to a few villages, which was odd because all the kids kept yelling for rupees; not so much of a cultural experience but more of an aggressive, uneccessary coin drive.. After that, we each got our own camel, mine was the leader, Papu,. At first, it’s not too bad, like riding a horse, but it lies down for you to mount it. We had lunch cooked for us over a campfire in the middle of the desert under some trees. I should add here that most of this desert consists of small bushes and tress, dirt and sand, not so much the rolling dunes that you’d see in pictures. We rode a few more hours after a lunch of chapatti, curry and chai to get to some real sand dunes where we would be sleeping. The view of the stars was stunning; we slept on blankets right in the sand where we should see constellations down to the horizon; you forget just how many stars there are when you live in a city or rather anywhere with any type of light pollution. It was hard to get on the camels the next day first, because the dunes were so peaceful yet entertaining and also because my thighs and bum were incredibaly sore. We rode a couple of hours in the scorching dry heat and then sat under some trees, napping and playing cards along with sing-a-longs until the jeep came to bring us back to our rooms. I wandered around the city seeing market stalls, the fort’s Jain temples, and basically getting lost in the city streets for the next day and a half, then off to Amritsar.
Pushkar, Push cow
We left the day after Holi for Pushkar, which has a very important lake for Indian culture (the Pushkar Lake) and supposedly the only Brahama temple (this is the only place where he is worshiped, though is part of the Holi Trinity in the Hindu religion) as well as a market; that’s about it. The town is very small and windy. The first night, we decided to try Bhang lassis; Pushkar is a no meat, no alcohol zone, so everyone has “special” food and drink items on their menus. This was and awful idea. Sam and Jay are potheads, so they loved it; I, on the other hand, like to stay in control and when I could hardly move because I was so, um, effected, well, I wasn’t pleased. This body high takes forever to go away, as well. Boo. I hate drugs. Just because it is legal and accepted in a city or country doesn’t mean I should try it; I think I’ve finally learned this lesson. The next day I was a mess because I ate something that disagreed with my tummy and so I hung out in the room all day (thank God for a TV w/ English channels in our room!). Finally, day three, I got to see the lake, temple, and market. Nothing was too awe inspiring, to say the least. There were masses of flies in the temple surrounding the offerings of flowers and sugary beads (sugar, attracting FLIES...who knew?) and the lake is at a very low level due to maintenance.
I met a girl from the UK, Becky, who I was chatting to in the market when a cow (they roam everywhere) sauntered over behind me and rammed into my bum, nearly knocking me to the ground! Everyone stared, per usual; what happened to them being holy, docile creatures? We decided to rent bikes the next morning to try and go to the Shiva temples. When we left, some kids surrounded us and splattered her in paint yelling “Happy Holi!” We thought they were being brats because Holi had passed; apparently not. We were almost to the temples when a moped with two tourists drove by, hot pink from head to toe and yelled good luck to us. We looked past to see a bunch of kids running towards us; we turned around and ran out of there. The ride was beautiful and peaceful, except when bratty kids grabbed our bikes yelling at us for rupees and their vicious dogs chased us; it didn’t help that we may have had the worst bikes on the planet. That night it was time to say goodbye to the little windy town and head to Jaisalmer to play in the desert!
I met a girl from the UK, Becky, who I was chatting to in the market when a cow (they roam everywhere) sauntered over behind me and rammed into my bum, nearly knocking me to the ground! Everyone stared, per usual; what happened to them being holy, docile creatures? We decided to rent bikes the next morning to try and go to the Shiva temples. When we left, some kids surrounded us and splattered her in paint yelling “Happy Holi!” We thought they were being brats because Holi had passed; apparently not. We were almost to the temples when a moped with two tourists drove by, hot pink from head to toe and yelled good luck to us. We looked past to see a bunch of kids running towards us; we turned around and ran out of there. The ride was beautiful and peaceful, except when bratty kids grabbed our bikes yelling at us for rupees and their vicious dogs chased us; it didn’t help that we may have had the worst bikes on the planet. That night it was time to say goodbye to the little windy town and head to Jaisalmer to play in the desert!
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Holi Moley
I left Goa to make moves to Jaipur for Holi! I took an overnight train 12 hours to Mumbai where I had a much better experience than the first time. I talked to a Japanese girl for a while while waiting for the train and I met an Indian family that was sitting near me. The father gave me his e mail address incase I had any questions and if I made it up to Kashmir, I could stay with his family. He also helped me catch a cab to the other train station. One man was trying to charge me 350 rupees but Javid got a cop involved and I only had to pay 160 (this is a little over 3 dollars). I had to wait for another six hours in a small dirty station. There was one eatery, so I sat there to read my book, Shantaram (every tourist in India either had or has this book, a good solid 1000 page read). I ordered food, just plain rice, and it came out with a bunch of sauces; I said that wasn’t what I ordered and then man KNEW it, because he repeated my order back to me twice and most people speak usable English. I sent the sauces back and at the end he kept making up prices that I owed. I pointed to the sign and he was like no you ate this…blah. I kept arguing and basically made a scene in front of the full restaurant. I just got up and left- guh. It’s not about the money! It’s maybe 30 cents, it’s the principle; I don’t care where I am, I don’t care if “that’s India,” that’s not how people should treat one another, by stabbing them in the back to make a few cents—karma, buddy, karma.
My next train was to Jaipur—18 hours in an air-conditioned sleeper train. It was nice and clean (respectively) and only twenty rupees for sheets, a blanket, and a pillow—nice! I got to Jaipur at seven am where a rickshaw driver brought me to a guesthouse called Evergreen. I met a guy from the UK, Sam, in the lobby and we decided to share the room since all the rooms were doubles, therefore paying three dollars instead of six. I think the guest house owner thought i was a whore when I told him we were sharing because he suddenly got very excited and started hugging me and putting his arm around my shoulder; hands off, buddy.
We ended up sight seeing all day, getting a rickshaw driver, Ikbad, to drive us around for hours for only five dollars (his price, not ours). We saw an observatory with massive, beautiful structures that measure the sun; we went up to the top of a tower for a view of the city and then to Hawa Mahal which is like a palace, beautiful structure, pink and stucco, stained glass, and small windy staircases that lead to a stunning view of the crowded city. We then met up with his friend, Jeremy from Canada, who shared the room, as well. We all went out to dinner nearby and ended up chatting with an Indian man named Sam. When we were leaving I asked if he knew of anywhere good to run and he said there was a nice park nearby and that he would pick me up. At 7:30 he arrived on his motorcycle and we went to Central Park; it has about a four-kilometer circumference filled with lush grass and colorful flowers. We walked for a bit and then he brought me to a local chai shop—a little stand on the side of the street with a few plastic chairs. After, he showed me this amazing lassi shop by his work where they serve the sweet curd in clay pots.
Earlier, he had told me he was an energy healer. This is where I’m not sure if I had a really interesting experience or if I’m incredibly naive. I sat down in a chair and he worked on my energy by pressing into my head and the upper part of my chest. At first, I was open to the experience—I understood what was going on, or at least pretended that I did, but started to get uncomfortable as he “moved energy through my heart chakra” because apparently my mind and head are very open but my heart chakra is blocked. At the beginning, he did say to not think of myself as a tourist or a woman but just as a person and energy, but still, he was basically coping a little feel and I wasn’t ready or willing for that. Finally, I stopped him just when I realized there was no way I was going to relax into the experience (or I wised up, pick your battle) and told him I was uncomfortable. He was very kind and said I needed to relax and think about the experience, he didn’t press to continue, just gave me a hug and brought me back to the hostel. I took a shower and cried. What does a blocked heart chakra mean? I didn’t like the sound of that, so I looked it up; basically, someone who has a bad experience with love and now has a warped sense of it, they may be controlling in relationships and get into them for the wrong reasons such as control and manipulation…what? Maybe I read a bad definition, but if this is the case I’m sorry but that is NOT me. Maybe I’ve had my heart broken, who hasn’t? Sure there are scars but that hasn’t caused me to treat others maliciously. Maybe Im not fully understanding what a blockage means (so if anyone else does, please help me clarify) or maybe he was full of bull? Who knows. I’m planning on going to a known healer in the city of Rishakesh to see what he or she says. I’ll pay to be professionally felt up, thank you very much.
That afternoon Sam, Jeremy, and I went to the Elephant festival; turns out this is basically a show for tourists so all the white people in town flock to the same open stadium to see a parade of decorated elephants, camels, and bands. The elephants are painted, truck to toe, with bright colors with scenes of tigers, dancers, birds and gods. The female elephants wear bells around their feet and each has someone dressed as a Maharaja riding on a silk saddle. Dancing women with long dresses twirled to make a sea of swirling colors and reflecting mirrors, dancing to the sounds of what looked like a marching band from the fifty’s. We ran around taking photos for a while and then took off to the “Monkey Temple.” This is a hill with a road/path leading up to the Sun Temple; the area is overrun with monkeys running and eating. It had a beautiful view of the sunset overlooking Jaipur.
The next day was what I had been waiting for, Holi. I was so excited; apparently, it was going to be a color festival where everyone throws powders of every bright hue on eachother celebrating the end of Winter—not as fun as imagined. Sam and I got in a rickshaw to see the fun. The city was incredibly eerie; all the shops were closed and few people were on the streets, an odd sight when you’re usually pushed and stepped on continuously. On our way out, a few older Indian men stopped to warn us that this wasn’t a good day for women to be out and that we should stay in the hotel. So, since I’m such a stubborn mule, we went out. We told the driver to bring us to see Holi but he didn’t know of an exact location. We had him bring us to the market area, but apparently there really is no center for festivities because it was has turned into a day for young boys and men to get drunk and cause trouble, getting into fights, covering eachother in paint, and harassing women. I had a reach around bum grab later that day and was less than impressive. I grabbed the man’s hand and yelled at him but he just laughed at me; it was so frustrating and disempowering to have no effect.
Holi moley, that was a bust ☹ We watched movies the rest of the day and lounged by the pool.
My next train was to Jaipur—18 hours in an air-conditioned sleeper train. It was nice and clean (respectively) and only twenty rupees for sheets, a blanket, and a pillow—nice! I got to Jaipur at seven am where a rickshaw driver brought me to a guesthouse called Evergreen. I met a guy from the UK, Sam, in the lobby and we decided to share the room since all the rooms were doubles, therefore paying three dollars instead of six. I think the guest house owner thought i was a whore when I told him we were sharing because he suddenly got very excited and started hugging me and putting his arm around my shoulder; hands off, buddy.
We ended up sight seeing all day, getting a rickshaw driver, Ikbad, to drive us around for hours for only five dollars (his price, not ours). We saw an observatory with massive, beautiful structures that measure the sun; we went up to the top of a tower for a view of the city and then to Hawa Mahal which is like a palace, beautiful structure, pink and stucco, stained glass, and small windy staircases that lead to a stunning view of the crowded city. We then met up with his friend, Jeremy from Canada, who shared the room, as well. We all went out to dinner nearby and ended up chatting with an Indian man named Sam. When we were leaving I asked if he knew of anywhere good to run and he said there was a nice park nearby and that he would pick me up. At 7:30 he arrived on his motorcycle and we went to Central Park; it has about a four-kilometer circumference filled with lush grass and colorful flowers. We walked for a bit and then he brought me to a local chai shop—a little stand on the side of the street with a few plastic chairs. After, he showed me this amazing lassi shop by his work where they serve the sweet curd in clay pots.
Earlier, he had told me he was an energy healer. This is where I’m not sure if I had a really interesting experience or if I’m incredibly naive. I sat down in a chair and he worked on my energy by pressing into my head and the upper part of my chest. At first, I was open to the experience—I understood what was going on, or at least pretended that I did, but started to get uncomfortable as he “moved energy through my heart chakra” because apparently my mind and head are very open but my heart chakra is blocked. At the beginning, he did say to not think of myself as a tourist or a woman but just as a person and energy, but still, he was basically coping a little feel and I wasn’t ready or willing for that. Finally, I stopped him just when I realized there was no way I was going to relax into the experience (or I wised up, pick your battle) and told him I was uncomfortable. He was very kind and said I needed to relax and think about the experience, he didn’t press to continue, just gave me a hug and brought me back to the hostel. I took a shower and cried. What does a blocked heart chakra mean? I didn’t like the sound of that, so I looked it up; basically, someone who has a bad experience with love and now has a warped sense of it, they may be controlling in relationships and get into them for the wrong reasons such as control and manipulation…what? Maybe I read a bad definition, but if this is the case I’m sorry but that is NOT me. Maybe I’ve had my heart broken, who hasn’t? Sure there are scars but that hasn’t caused me to treat others maliciously. Maybe Im not fully understanding what a blockage means (so if anyone else does, please help me clarify) or maybe he was full of bull? Who knows. I’m planning on going to a known healer in the city of Rishakesh to see what he or she says. I’ll pay to be professionally felt up, thank you very much.
That afternoon Sam, Jeremy, and I went to the Elephant festival; turns out this is basically a show for tourists so all the white people in town flock to the same open stadium to see a parade of decorated elephants, camels, and bands. The elephants are painted, truck to toe, with bright colors with scenes of tigers, dancers, birds and gods. The female elephants wear bells around their feet and each has someone dressed as a Maharaja riding on a silk saddle. Dancing women with long dresses twirled to make a sea of swirling colors and reflecting mirrors, dancing to the sounds of what looked like a marching band from the fifty’s. We ran around taking photos for a while and then took off to the “Monkey Temple.” This is a hill with a road/path leading up to the Sun Temple; the area is overrun with monkeys running and eating. It had a beautiful view of the sunset overlooking Jaipur.
The next day was what I had been waiting for, Holi. I was so excited; apparently, it was going to be a color festival where everyone throws powders of every bright hue on eachother celebrating the end of Winter—not as fun as imagined. Sam and I got in a rickshaw to see the fun. The city was incredibly eerie; all the shops were closed and few people were on the streets, an odd sight when you’re usually pushed and stepped on continuously. On our way out, a few older Indian men stopped to warn us that this wasn’t a good day for women to be out and that we should stay in the hotel. So, since I’m such a stubborn mule, we went out. We told the driver to bring us to see Holi but he didn’t know of an exact location. We had him bring us to the market area, but apparently there really is no center for festivities because it was has turned into a day for young boys and men to get drunk and cause trouble, getting into fights, covering eachother in paint, and harassing women. I had a reach around bum grab later that day and was less than impressive. I grabbed the man’s hand and yelled at him but he just laughed at me; it was so frustrating and disempowering to have no effect.
Holi moley, that was a bust ☹ We watched movies the rest of the day and lounged by the pool.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Slum Dog Square Pants
I spent a lot of my time Goa working for Yoga Magic, either helping with the party, working on my green thumb in the garden, looking thoroughly confused at the front desk but mostly shooting footage for the real reason why I was there--to make a video for their website. Unfortunately, the day I left Thailand, my computer decided to stop working so I had to take it into the Apple Dr, only to receive prognosis of my baby's untimely death :(. The post-production of the video was put on hold and, after breifly mourning my loss, I went out into the real world, away from the infinity pool and buffet meals I had had a few stressful days, a lot of which would be inappropriate for me to go into, but other small mishaps, besides my computer, include my camera randomly dying (I purchased this camera in Japan right after Christmas, hardly two months earlier), and an email stating that I owe $4100 dollars for the Kenya marathon. I had a minor melt down when I saw this, however, I realized that they have some sort of mix up because I know I only owe about 200, not including what I need to fundraise (everyone can help me out with that soon, details to follow☺ ). I stressed out about all of this for a little bit and then let it go (my new mantra); festering in the anger and stress isn’t going to make the problems go away. I removed myself from Yoga Magic and my privileged White girl problems and took my moped for a little ride to Mapusa to the Mango House. This is part of the project “Children Walking Tall” that Lilly told me about in Thailand because she had lived and worked there for a few months as a full time volunteer. This program started a few years ago in order to help children in the slums receive an education. The Mango House is somewhat like a day care center. The kids come in the morning from the nearby slums, or are picked up, and they get changed and go to school until the afternoon; then, they come back and have activities, free time, more class, and snacks. The foundation has 50 kids enrolled (their maximum capacity for now). Each child receives a pair of shoes and three sets of clothes to wear. There is a play area in the front yard with swings, tree forts, and soccer nets. The kids are anywhere between 3 and 15 years old. These children are so happy! The other part of the program is to help out in the slums by handing out fruit, shoes, and multivitamins, amongst other things when they are available, as well as teaching English to the children that cannot go into the program for one reason or another—maybe the program is at capacity or the parents would rather their children be working than learning. A lot of the parents actually have to be bribed into letting their children go into the program; many get a ration of rice per week to feed themselves as well as their families.
The first day I went, I just looked around the house and they told me how everything works. I came back the next day and went with them to the slums to hand out fruit and multivitamins to the children. On the way, Rob, one of the founders, told me to look to the left;
You see that field over there? (There is an abandoned dirt square, sparsely covered with grass and puddles, trash everywhere and surrounded on three sides with low, crumbling brick walls) That left corner is where one of the girls lives.
That’s it. We keep driving through narrow windy roads, over puddles of who knows what (rarely is there rain unless it’s monsoon season which is a few months away, yet) and alongside piles of trash and communities consisting of corrugated iron, pieces of cardboard and signage until we get to Crossroads, the name of one of the slums they help. When we arrived there was a line of kids waiting for us; they know that around five in the afternoon these volunteers will come to hand out bananas, oranges, and or multivitamins. Maybe shoes? Maybe toothbrushes? Whatever is available. We handed out the food until it was gone and then said goodbye, leaving some without their piece of fruit because they were too late. I went back a few more times in order to help teach English to the kids with a few other volunteers. They go into an open spot inside the slum and lay down mats for everyone to sit on—maybe 15-20 kids. We used books, games, and flashcards to teach basic letters and numbers. Everyday I left, I was in tears. Half of these kids whether aren’t full clothes or their rags are in awful condition. This is not to say that everyone looks like this, but they are obviously wearing whatever they can get their hands on and don’t have a closet to chose the best outfit for the day. When I walked in the first day, they were skinning a goad in the middle of the walkway while two little girls were rolling around and playing on their “bed” out in the open, not five feet away. Clothes were hung to dry all through the alleys between the corrugated iron boxes where they live. The stories I heard about just a handful of the kids are heartbreaking. One girl, who is now 12, was pulled out of the program a year ago because her mother was marrying her off so she wouldn’t have to take care of her anymore (making her a wife at age 11). A few months ago Rob got a phone call from the girls mother saying that the girl’s husband was beating the girl in the village; they went in, with the police, and got the girl back while also reenrolling her into the CWT program. Another girls dress caught on fire while she was cooking and burned about 70% of per body. She was left to die on the floor. CWT got a hold of her and she’s now fully recovered (thought her body is scarred significantly) and she is going to school. Many of these children have some sort of traumatizing story; burns, abuse, alcoholic families. It’s unbelievable. When we were teaching, one little boy was doing very well with his letters; one of the girls asked how old he was and he shrugged his shoulders—he had no idea. Another boy said that the other was probably four or five. I found this absolutely heartbreaking—he had no clue. At the same time, I immediately wondered why such a minute detail made me so upset. I was talking to Liz, a very sweet woman that was staying at Yoga magic and is a yoga teacher (she played the roll of mommy for me when I needed it), and she found it interesting that I was so upset; we put such an emphasis on age because it’s a means of categorizing people. At age five you should be starting to read, at 16 driving a car, 21 graduating college and getting a job, this is the age you drink, and that is the age you fight for your country, etc. It breaks up our lives and gives goals; I never really concentrated on how concerned we are about age, the emphasis and importance it plays in each and every one of our achievements—and there it was, staring me in the face.
I also spent a week helping Fareda, one of the Indian staff members, learn to read. Her speaking English is pretty good, not quite correct, but she understands and can get her thoughts and feelings to be understood. She’s 24 years old, the face of Yoga Magic, she’s extremely happy and personable, everyone loves her. She’s been married 11 years and has four children. The oldest of which is 10—she had her first child at 14 and was married at 13 (here I go, concentrating on age, but it needs to be done sometimes). She is happy and in love, it’s not a sob story, but it’s obviously that she wants more, that she’s being forced to grow up but is still young in her heart and mind. She tells me she wants to travel and is working on getting her passport and papers in order (without the kids and Husband, haha). She dreams of seeing more, but not too much, because she says that “Indian women don’t have time for dreams. They only think about their earnings, otherwise, trouble.” She lives in a room with the rest of her family, that’s it, that’s their home. I went to her place for her son’s second birthday party. Her whole family was there to celebrate. Like all second birthday parties, it’s more a celebration for the parents than the kid. Their family and friends gathered to eat an Indian buffet of rice, dahls, curries, breads, and fruit (and obviously, CAKE). After, it was time to dance. I had to run away because fareda’s cousins thought I was a good dancer…what? For those of you who have seen me on the dance floor, you know that it’s a whole lot of hips and bum and not a lot of finesse, to say the least (watch Bry Riggs if you want to see smooth☺ ).
It was so hard to say goodbye to all of these happy, beautiful people. But, such is the downside of traveling, you make meaningful relationships and then have to say goodbye.
The first day I went, I just looked around the house and they told me how everything works. I came back the next day and went with them to the slums to hand out fruit and multivitamins to the children. On the way, Rob, one of the founders, told me to look to the left;
You see that field over there? (There is an abandoned dirt square, sparsely covered with grass and puddles, trash everywhere and surrounded on three sides with low, crumbling brick walls) That left corner is where one of the girls lives.
That’s it. We keep driving through narrow windy roads, over puddles of who knows what (rarely is there rain unless it’s monsoon season which is a few months away, yet) and alongside piles of trash and communities consisting of corrugated iron, pieces of cardboard and signage until we get to Crossroads, the name of one of the slums they help. When we arrived there was a line of kids waiting for us; they know that around five in the afternoon these volunteers will come to hand out bananas, oranges, and or multivitamins. Maybe shoes? Maybe toothbrushes? Whatever is available. We handed out the food until it was gone and then said goodbye, leaving some without their piece of fruit because they were too late. I went back a few more times in order to help teach English to the kids with a few other volunteers. They go into an open spot inside the slum and lay down mats for everyone to sit on—maybe 15-20 kids. We used books, games, and flashcards to teach basic letters and numbers. Everyday I left, I was in tears. Half of these kids whether aren’t full clothes or their rags are in awful condition. This is not to say that everyone looks like this, but they are obviously wearing whatever they can get their hands on and don’t have a closet to chose the best outfit for the day. When I walked in the first day, they were skinning a goad in the middle of the walkway while two little girls were rolling around and playing on their “bed” out in the open, not five feet away. Clothes were hung to dry all through the alleys between the corrugated iron boxes where they live. The stories I heard about just a handful of the kids are heartbreaking. One girl, who is now 12, was pulled out of the program a year ago because her mother was marrying her off so she wouldn’t have to take care of her anymore (making her a wife at age 11). A few months ago Rob got a phone call from the girls mother saying that the girl’s husband was beating the girl in the village; they went in, with the police, and got the girl back while also reenrolling her into the CWT program. Another girls dress caught on fire while she was cooking and burned about 70% of per body. She was left to die on the floor. CWT got a hold of her and she’s now fully recovered (thought her body is scarred significantly) and she is going to school. Many of these children have some sort of traumatizing story; burns, abuse, alcoholic families. It’s unbelievable. When we were teaching, one little boy was doing very well with his letters; one of the girls asked how old he was and he shrugged his shoulders—he had no idea. Another boy said that the other was probably four or five. I found this absolutely heartbreaking—he had no clue. At the same time, I immediately wondered why such a minute detail made me so upset. I was talking to Liz, a very sweet woman that was staying at Yoga magic and is a yoga teacher (she played the roll of mommy for me when I needed it), and she found it interesting that I was so upset; we put such an emphasis on age because it’s a means of categorizing people. At age five you should be starting to read, at 16 driving a car, 21 graduating college and getting a job, this is the age you drink, and that is the age you fight for your country, etc. It breaks up our lives and gives goals; I never really concentrated on how concerned we are about age, the emphasis and importance it plays in each and every one of our achievements—and there it was, staring me in the face.
I also spent a week helping Fareda, one of the Indian staff members, learn to read. Her speaking English is pretty good, not quite correct, but she understands and can get her thoughts and feelings to be understood. She’s 24 years old, the face of Yoga Magic, she’s extremely happy and personable, everyone loves her. She’s been married 11 years and has four children. The oldest of which is 10—she had her first child at 14 and was married at 13 (here I go, concentrating on age, but it needs to be done sometimes). She is happy and in love, it’s not a sob story, but it’s obviously that she wants more, that she’s being forced to grow up but is still young in her heart and mind. She tells me she wants to travel and is working on getting her passport and papers in order (without the kids and Husband, haha). She dreams of seeing more, but not too much, because she says that “Indian women don’t have time for dreams. They only think about their earnings, otherwise, trouble.” She lives in a room with the rest of her family, that’s it, that’s their home. I went to her place for her son’s second birthday party. Her whole family was there to celebrate. Like all second birthday parties, it’s more a celebration for the parents than the kid. Their family and friends gathered to eat an Indian buffet of rice, dahls, curries, breads, and fruit (and obviously, CAKE). After, it was time to dance. I had to run away because fareda’s cousins thought I was a good dancer…what? For those of you who have seen me on the dance floor, you know that it’s a whole lot of hips and bum and not a lot of finesse, to say the least (watch Bry Riggs if you want to see smooth☺ ).
It was so hard to say goodbye to all of these happy, beautiful people. But, such is the downside of traveling, you make meaningful relationships and then have to say goodbye.
Sounds That I Sleep To
In my bamboo and grass hut in the middle of the rice fields in Goa, India I hear...
Wind rustling
Water buffalo and cows mooing
dogs barking
dogs howling in packs (out of tune)
dogs chasing each other around my hut
dogs wrestling under my bed
dogs hitting their legs and heads under my bum
Hindi chanting through loud speakers
distant trance base
Konkane shouting
rumbling moped motors
crows wings flapping
parrots squawking
Christian church bells
Good night, Moon.
Water buffalo and cows mooing
dogs barking
dogs howling in packs (out of tune)
dogs chasing each other around my hut
dogs wrestling under my bed
dogs hitting their legs and heads under my bum
Hindi chanting through loud speakers
distant trance base
Konkane shouting
rumbling moped motors
crows wings flapping
parrots squawking
Christian church bells
Good night, Moon.
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