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.