Journeys

Photoessay

2010-02-10T17:10:00.002+05:30

I am busy on grad school applications (eesh!) but I wanted to share what is both a beautifully done, but also deeply troubling photo essay. Child labor stinks. But the conditions that lead to child labor are perhaps even worse; India does not have a great track record for protecting its children, and labor is certainly a huge factor.

http://www.foreignpolicy.com/articles/2010/02/05/bricks_for_bread_and_milk?obref=obinsite

Cultural Exchange

2010-02-07T20:06:00.002+05:30

Visthar is currently host to a group called, School of Peace; SOP, as it is affectionately known, is attended by students from areas of conflict in Asia: Thailand, Indonesia, Nepal, Burma, Bangladesh, and Vietnam. Getting to know the group thus far has been too much fun, as well as profoundly educational; I can only imagine that the coming months will be an exciting time of learning and interacting and new friends.

In the mean time, though, tonight was Thai food night. It was really an exchange between myself and them; they created a masterpiece soup called tom yun and I taught a sweet little Muslim girl named Noorizan about food baby.

Nothing like a little tom yum food baby for cross cultural awareness :)

Google Earth

2010-02-03T20:50:00.002+05:30

If you ever need a bit of perspective, let me recommend Google Earth.

It's a pretty incredible tool, which I forget exists often enough to impress me every time I download it anew. You can zoom in to your very own house, and zoom out to the stars; it gives specific visual backing to the sentiment of feeling small in the world. Tonight, I was sitting at the monitor, surrounded by a few friends; Biju, the technology guru here at Visthar, and Ki Poh, a Karen boy (He's 20-- man?) from Myanmar.

We started the Imaging here at Visthar, excited to recognize the blurry image of the library take shape, right where we sat! We zoomed in to see the coconut grove, the square office with it's opening for the lotus pond, and the dormitory where Ki Po is staying, my room, the area where Biju is planting a garden.

Then, Biju zoomed out, refocusing on the southern state of Kerala, where his family home is located. He pulled the image closer, relying on rivers to guide his way through deep forests; the mountainous regions of eastern Kerala are densely wooded with dark canopies, making it difficult to discern roads and homes from a distance. But Biju accomplished his task, tracking up from the river causeway to his house upon a hill: a small home in a crook of the road, surrounded by the rubber trees that cover the area. It is a short walk from the nearby bus stop, but Biju informs me that the hill upon which his house is settled is a bit treacherous with a week's firewood balanced on one's head, as his father carried for most of his life.

My own home in Iowa was simple to find, its meticulous address accurately entered. Google Earth simply had to zoom out, flying across continents and oceans, making me feel very far from home indeed. It was a gentle landing, focusing slowly through Iowa, and Des Moines, and on to my beautiful house, my home of many years. It caused a sweet kind of homesickness, the gentle missing of a place well loved. Biju remarked at the inorganic orderliness of it all, roads mapped out in serious uniformity (I didn't mention the critique my neighborhood often receives of an arbitrarily wandering nature). Ki Poh looked for a long moment, staring, and said, "Your house is very big. A house like this... it would be..."

He sat down at the monitor, and in the address box merely typed, "Refugee Camp, Thailand."

Talk about perspective.

The houses are indeed, very small. The areas are clearly underdeveloped, 7 camps in all, scattered along the Thai/Burma border. In Ki Poh's camp, there is one clearing, where the traditional New Year is celebrated, but there is little other community space or resources. The roads are all but non existent, barely cutting through the mountains that box the people into their river valleys.

The Karen people are a minority in Myanmar, chased back and forth across the Thai/Burma border in a bizarre and sick sort of pinball; you can stay, you must leave, come back, go away… at 20, Ki Poh has lived most of his life on the Thai side, in a small refugee camp balanced on a riverbank near the border. He and some of his friends have started a youth group, to encourage their comrades, and themselves, to not to get swallowed up by the camps, by the governments, by the landmines sprinkled throughout their villages. It was announced yesterday that a recent camp, established only last year for Karen peopled chased across the border by the Burmese military, will be disassembled and the people returned to their now very dangerous village back on the other side. Ki Poh is worried.

I worry that it becomes too easy to lose one’s sense of awe; awe at the size of things, awe at the scope of the Earth’s great magnitude, as well as awe in the divergences between the lives that people lead. Even here, where I am so far removed from my norms, I become slowly inured to these massive gaps, and at times, the world seems very small.

Not tonight.

Happy New Year's...From the Future!

2009-12-31T20:42:00.002+05:30

This is a joke that never gets old-- but, in about three hours, I will be living in a different DECADE from most of my family and friends!

You have to admit that's a pretty fabulous feat. :) I will make sure to report back from the future to let everyone know how it holds up.

In the mean time, I wan to wish everyone a beautiful, blessed 2010, a New Year of warmth, blessing, and "enough."

Comfort and Joy

2009-12-27T19:19:00.003+05:30

I would like to begin by wishing everyone a very Merry Christmas. Or, by India’s rather British tradition, a Happy Christmas.

As I write, the skies have just begun to open into a warm rain; as the monsoon is long over, rains are only punctuated by rumbling from the quarry next door. I realize that the United States have been suffering under a very white Christmas this year, and I cannot help but feel very far away.

Christmas this year was not my usual tradition, but rather traditional in its own sense; I spent Christmas with David and Mary Selvaraj, attending a midnight service on Christmas Eve and seeing both sides of their family and many friends over the course of the holiday. It was all very comfortable, aside from the rather jarring moment when I realized that "Away in a Manger" was being sung to a tune that I attach in my mind to an entirely different song. Christmas trees and thoughtful gifts and heavy foods were all around, and everyone was very sweet in making me feel right at home. And, in the case of David's brother's family, half the family had married and had children all over the world, creating a veritable UN Council of Family Gatherings, with members from 4 of the 6 populated continents represented. Somehow, everyone else knew the words to Cotton Fields by CCR better than I: "It was down in Louisiana/ Just about a mile from Texarkana/ In them old cotton fields back home."

While the celebrations themselves have been very comfortable indeed, I cannot help but revise my reading of the Christmas story in the context of my surroundings. For the past week, a group of children have been staying here at Visthar; all of these children are either affected or infected by and with HIV/AIDS. The connection has been made in my mind between these children and the girls at Bandhavi-- all of them have been outcast by society as mere children, fighting through life from birth as a result of circumstances over which they had no control. Of course, as children, they are lovely, playing with David's pet rabbits and excitedly recounting the games being played to the boring grown ups.

But, context! It is not a far leap to connect the children with HIV, the Bandhavi girls, and another child born about 2000 years ago. Through the lens of actual poverty, de-Currier and Ives-d, Jesus looks very different. Here, he is the child of dubious birth, born quite literally in a barn to parents who amounted to day laborers. Jesus, historical Jesus, came out of this physical setting to protest empire and exclusion by challenging the all people with the Kingdom of God, where the poor are blessed and the weak are strong and with God. Jesus sided with the oppressed; He could understand their oppression all the more, because it was also his human experience. David often speaks of siding with the poor. It would seem that siding with the poor is quite literally siding with Jesus.

And so, back to contemporary India. There are a lot of children here. There are more children here than there are PEOPLE in the United States. Many of India's children are being born into comfortable homes, with the promise of education, and comfort. But there are staggering numbers, overwhelming numbers, of children that are born in India even today that will face malnutrition (almost 50% of them), illiteracy, child labor and social exclusion. These are the children with whom Jesus would be born. I see these children every day as I walk the streets; they sit quietly on sidewalks outside the blue tarp tent-homes their families have propped up on sidewalks on the side of the road.

To return to "Away in a Manger" (regardless of tune):
"Away in a manger, no crib for a bed...
The cattle are lowing
The poor baby wakes
But little Lord Jesus
No crying He makes."

But really, what Lord is here? The lord of a barn, valued less than the cattle nearby, already learning that crying will not improve circumstances. In this new context, this fluffy little carol is actually the daily story of millions of children, in India and around the world. The Jesus of Christmas is hope that this will not always be the case, and provides the imperative to respond to these situations.

For me and in this place, the message of, "I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these, you did for me" becomes more poignant every day.

So, with that, I wish you all a Christmas of comfort of spirit and heart, and with the joy of the promise of a Kingdom of God, guided by the children of sidewalk huts and of devadasis and AIDS victims.

Peace, Shanti, Peace.

Communication Options

2009-11-08T16:29:00.002+05:30

India can be a funny place.

I went out to buy a greeting card the other day, which is something of an amusing activity here; cards are generally large, heavily decorated, and adorned with English sentiments that are really close to making sense. I has a lovely time finding one with just the right mix of silliness, kitch and emotion, and went to purchase.

On the back, in small, stark letters, it read, "Greeting cards are more thoughtful than most other communication options."

You can't pay for that kind of endorsement.

Koppal Flooding

2009-11-06T12:41:00.006+05:30

The following is a copy of a letter I wrote a few weeks ago to send out, regarding Visthar's response to a series of particularly nasty floods in Northern Karnataka. At this point, the immediate relief is underway - slower than ideal, but happening. As a result, there are fewer people living under trees. I have pasted this here as a by-the-by, regarding the situation and some of the work being undertaken at Visthar:

October 12, 2009: Namaskara, Salaam, Namaste! I am writing from Visthar, a civil society organization located just outside the south Indian city of Bangalore (Visthar.org).

I recently visited Visthar’s satellite location in Koppal District, in northern Karnataka (the state where Bangalore is located) – one of the poorest districts (like American counties) in India. I saw an area plagued by poverty, and discrimination based on gender and caste. I met bonded laborers (modern slaves); a chief of district police; sharecroppers; a concierge who knew Bismarck, ND; and religious prostitutes (called “Devadasis”) and their children. Visthar works specifically with these children of Devadasis. Everyone I met was extremely hospitable – letting us visit their homes, singing at village gatherings, meeting with us, feeding us. It is this hospitality that I have in mind as I write.

Since my visit, Koppal and the surrounding areas have been receiving record rains, resulting in the worst flooding in memory. The national government in Delhi has named the entire area, covering two states, a national disaster. Flooding is bad enough, but when houses are built from packed mud, and an entire year’s supply of food grain is stored in a clay pot, flash floods or a burst dam are an immediate crisis—people going from “little” to “nothing.” The entire region has been affected, but here are some numbers from Koppal District flooding alone:
•22 people killed,
•22566 houses collapsed,
•14 bridges collapsed,
•134 km of roads swept away,
•Limited clean water access,
•~ 23,000 people in relief camps.
•Currently no count for animals or crops lost, but agricultural damage will be heavy

While in India, I have been asked by many how to help people here. Having been to Koppal, I know that supporting Visthar’s relief efforts there is an immediate way to help people who are truly in need. There is some government support for people in the district, but there is a gap between what the government is able to provide and what the people need. Even the US Embassy has pledged $100,000 to support relief, but that money is “government to government,” whereas Visthar is an established organization with experience helping the poorest community members in Koppal – the kinds of people that are often left behind by government support. Visthar has three primary goals:
1) To provide basic food rations, clothing, medicine, footwear, and cooking utensils to affected people in 20 villages in the Koppal area,
2) To supplement the government money allocated to families for home reconstruction.
3) To asses the long-term needs for rehabilitation, and connect those most in need (particularly women and low castes) with the resources and outlets to procure the necessary tools to rebuild their lives.

Several people in the US have expressed interest in helping the relief efforts in Koppal. Wakonda Christian Church has agreed to be a central gathering point for all relief donations. Through Wakonda, Visthar will track all donations to send receipts and updates (please include email or address where you would like to receive updates). **At this time, these donations will not be tax deductible, and Wakonda will not issue a receipt. If you are interested in supporting the relief efforts in Koppal, make your check out to Wakonda Christian Church, clearly marked, “India- Koppal flood relief.” Send checks to: Wakonda Christian Church, 3938 Fleur Drive, Des Moines, IA 50321. This is the home church of Lindsay Fox, a Visthar employee who will be returning to the US in November to finalize all relief transactions.

Thanks for reading, and considering Visthar’s Koppal effort. This is a case where your efforts really make a difference.

Times of India: http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/specialcoverage/5093607.cms
US Embassy: http://chennai.usconsulate.gov/indpr091008.html
New York Times: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/06/world/asia/06india.html?scp=8&sq=&st=nyt

Individualism and Fear

2009-10-19T17:15:00.003+05:30

Greetings from Visthar!!! After too long, it's time for an update. The American students have arrived, and my time has been greatly absorbed into the programming for that program, including some excellent time spent in the Yeligiri Hills in Tamil Nadu and Koppal in northern Karanataka.

In other news, my summer compatriot-in-justice, Amy, left Visthar at the end of August, leaving me a room too large and short a dear friend.

While I have been reasonably bummed about this, a lot of other people are, too. A few of the Bandhavi girls were asking about her the other day, and I expected that they would talk about loneliness for a bit – as girls away from their village in a culture that centers on “home place,” they know a bit about loneliness. However, the first and only thing they commented on when I said that I was now staying alone was a look of shock on Sunita’s face – “Aunty – you – no, bayaa?” I was confused – bayaa is the Kannada word for fear. I asked her if she would feel bayaa, and she strongly agreed – “only one Aunty, not good.”

I thought about this interaction for a while, and came to the conclusion that it has to do with space, or the lack thereof. There’s very little personal space here in general, which leads to a lot of togetherness, even when it isn’t entirely warranted or necessary. People are constantly in contact (on the bus, on the land, in the house), so it would make sense for a girl who lives with her entire family in one room, a group of 70 girls split between four rooms, to associate fear with loneliness. There are aching stories told by immigrants from this kind of community culture moving to the US, and not being able to sleep because they could not hear anyone else breathing in their sleep.

This all got me feeling very smug about my cultural intuition, which is usually a good indicator that I have missed something important.

A week later, I was sitting in the office after everyone else had begun to leave, when Roja, Renuka and Devi came by to pick up some old newspaper to cover their schoolbooks. It wasn’t late, but nor was it early, probably 6:45pm, and certainly well into dusk. They sat and chatted for a bit about school, and I downloaded a Telelgu love song on Youtube for the enjoyment of all (if you ever want to see a mustache, you should check out Telegu love songs), and then they had to head back to Bandhavi. They wanted me to come with them, but I wasn’t wrapped up quite yet. I told them I would be a few minutes, and told them to go ahead, but paused with the subsequent question- “Go alone? But… aunty… aren’t you… bayaa?”

That bayaa again, and in a very different context. What fear, what loneliness is there in walking across less than an acre, on a lit path, on a campus with over a hundred people?

Then I realized that this fear is about being alone, yes, but it is rooted in insecurity; and this insecurity is rooted in poverty. I can feel safe, generally, because I know that I have a mobile phone if things get hairy, I have money to get myself out of a bad situation, and I have socio-cultural power that comes from being a wealthy American. I can replace a pair of pants that get ripped when I trip in a dark hole, and even if it gets really ugly, I can afford to buy antidote to save my life if bitten by a snake.

But imagine if you didn’t. Wouldn’t fear become an important emotion for you, too? I would want the protection and reassurance of others close by, if I didn’t have other safety nets, too.

So, this thought brought me to a question – is individualism, the need for space both physically and metaphorically, enabled by wealth?

The Patriots

2009-08-09T15:59:00.004+05:30

August 15th is India's Independence Day, and the preparations are already beginning at Visthar for quite the fest. The girls at Bandhavi, in their usual expressions of adorableness, are planning a play to perform. From my spot in the window seat in the library (with the windows open, I can just hear the cows bawling in the distant pasture), I have the perfect vantage to spy on them as they practice. From the polish to their performance, they seem to have already talked through what they wanted to perform -- mostly vignettes, with lots of saluting and "Vande Mataram"-ing (Vande mataram is "hail to the motherland").

I looked out of my idyllic window just in time to see sweet Sunita (Sunita of the chubby cheeks, versus Sunita of the high voice) picking up an air machine gun, taking a stance and sounding out her actions as she "gunned down" Akshaya, Nagaratna, Shruthi, Deepa, Ganga, Sheshikila and others. (ironically, they are practicing in a structure called, "Priety Mane" - house of love) They hopped up a moment later, moving into the next statement of nationality.

It would be impossible to talk about India as a nation without talking about violence. This Independence Day will be only their 62nd; a young nation of an ancient culture. Though borne out of a nonviolence movement against the Raj, India's national history has thus far been punctuated by violence. There is the incalculable violence of the Partition as India and Pakistan West and East were split. Several wars have been fought with Pakistan over land and primacy, and India's border areas remain ragged with hostilities. Then, there are the daily violences brought on by crushing poverty, caste, gender... the list goes on.

By the way, I am not picking on India here; violence seems imbued in the identity of a new state. Look at US history as comparison - in our first 62 years, we tried the Articles of Confederation and had to scratch them because of insurrections (one of the more successful over the taxation of whiskey), fought a rather nasty war with the British, and seriously thought about trying it with the French, too. In the mean time, we quite nearly annihilated an entire indigenous population, enslaved a decent proportion of another, and laid the seeds for civil war.

So, in celebrating our respective Independence(s), how do we celebrate a nation without celebrating violence? How to we honor sacrifice without creating a culture of war? In the US, we are as likely to have a barbecue on the 4th as we are to have a program -- perhaps we are further removed from the realities of our independence-- but still we talk about war.

At my own personal stance, I think we have to realize that being a citizen of a nation is negotiating the border between just national pride and the insidious influence of violent nationalism. How do you celebrate independence justly without turning into a, "'Merica for 'mericans." How do children talk about India's history without machine gunning each other in a field? Does the celebration of institutionalized violence lead to those same trends and themes in political and social thought?

Eclipse

2009-08-02T23:04:00.002+05:30

The longest solar eclipse of the century tracked over India late last week; it was heralded by astronomical nerds for weeks prior, and even the average global citizen found cause for excitement as the time for the eclipse approached. There’s a lot to be learned about the sun during an eclipse, about the outer layers of the corona, and solar flares; more interesting to me is what was to be learned about those watching.

The path of the eclipse was predicted to cut across northern India, then on to China and terminating in the Pacific. When the news began to spread that there would be an eclipse, interesting things began happening… an eclipse has certain superstitious portents, and preparations cannot be thrown together lightly to make full use of the power and avoid the threat of eclipse.

In Northern Karnataka (the state where Bangalore is located), many families brought disabled children to a common place in the village and buried them in mud up to their necks. It was believed that performing this act during the eclipse would help to heal these children. The children were reported as rather uncomfortable with the process, but most were hopeful for progress. This strikes some of us as superstition at best – how can people in the modern age believe these things? But for rural people who crave for competent medical care even at basic levels, how different is this mud treatment from sticking your child in a machine that pops out pictures of their bones?

In certain areas, an eclipse requires certain ablutions at temples, and it was possible prior to the eclipse to purchase eclipse insurance related to journeys to these temples. Has there been such a pleasant meeting of modern and ancient?

As for myself, the celestial proved rather banal. I set my alarm for 6am (for those of you aware of my sleeping preferences understand what commitment this indicates to see the celestial event) and headed outside with my camera, journal, and two sheets of paper to create a “pinhole” effect; at some point, I remember Mr. Murphy, my slightly terrifying elementary art teacher, explaining that looking directly at an eclipse would scald your corneas. I walked out to the mango grove near my little home, hoping for the best sightlines to the east. There, I ran into Aishwarya and Barathi, two of my favorite girls from Bandhavi, loitering after yoga. They looked surprised to see their rather oddly attired aunty tromping around in the bushes with my expedition gear. I explained as best I could the impending event – “camera is Suriya (sun) and journal is Chandra (moon)… suriya no see…” Barathi has a sharp little laugh, and has no hesitation to cry out, “Auuuuntieeee” when I am being particularly ridiculous. Aishwarya grabbed my hand, and pulled me towards Bandhavi – “TV, Aunty,” and sure enough, it seemed that Bangalore was sadly refusing my excitement—monsoon clouds hung low and heavy. Why not watch a little TV?

But when I arrived, the whole of the group were watching the eclipse on their little television in the dining hall, 70 girls in various states of wakefulness (Small Shruti didn’t even pretend, wrapping her head in a blanket and falling asleep on the floor) settled in to watch the sun disappear, with the sound of Star Trek: Voyager playing in the background.

And so, I watched the eclipse on television, like so many other of millions around the world, but in a way that left me more pleased by the experience than any old mango grove could provide.

Eve Teasing

2009-07-13T22:34:00.008+05:30

I am angry.

I had an awesome day, and it got all messed up by a stupid 15 year old boy. There is a social happening in India that is euphemistically known as, "Eve teasing", in which men touch women and get away with it. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eve_teasing. In my estimation, eve teasing is the product of a sexually repressed culture, compounded by a culture in which women are often object, maneuvered by and subject to men. India, for all it's beauty... this too is India.

So: I was walking along with Amy tonight after being out to the store, and it was just starting to get dusky. This boy pulled up, and asked us the way to Dodda Gubbi, the nearby village, and we started giving him the rather simple directions. He stopped us, indicating that he only knew Kannada, and so we pointed the way. He looked a bit confused, but started pulling away on his bike... until about 5 meters away, when he stopped. We kept walking -- it's always best in these situations to keep walking, walk purposefully, and not mention where exactly you're walking to. He kept this up, asking if he can take us part of the way, asking where Dodda Gubbi is, pulling up, and asking all over again. Then, when it was getting dark and the road opened up to show that no one but Amy and I were around, and he raised his hand to point down the road towards Dodda Gubbi, and instead moved his palm against my breast.

Well.

I threw his hand away, and said, rather stupidly, "Dodda Gubbi is that way, and do not touch me again," jabbing my finger in the air in his direction. I think he started to appreciate that I had him by 10 years, 5 inches and 50 pounds, and that the game was very, very much up. He turned and drove off, and I stupidly (again) didn't get his vehicle registration.

The whole thing was passing, and it was stupid, and it was inconsequential, but it was also deeply upsetting. How is it that such an incredible country has such... issues? Not that this is entirely India's fault -- the way that Americans behave in media -- and really, the way Americans behave in person -- can lead one to believe a lot of things about the way that American girls would act in such a situation. What does Kate Winslet do in Titanic? And don't even get me going on whatever nutwit thought it was a culturally good idea to export Baywatch. But still, I am careful to wear clothing that is conservative (I do in the US as well, for that matter) and I am careful not to hold eye contact for too long, careful not to touch men, careful careful careful. And I hate it that some ridiculously inept, horny 15 year old can impede on that, violate that, especially by taking advantage of someone's willingness to try and help. I had half a mind to run after him and give him a thrashing with Amy's umbrella.

What's perhaps worst is that when we got back, all the women were very concerned, clucked about his brazenness, and nodded with understanding. They have all been there, and probably more constantly, and probably to much greater degrees.

I don't tell this story as more or less than an anecdote. I was so shaken by the encounter simply because it was so unexpected, so uncommon in my experience. India is not full of sex crazed scary men intent on fondling women on dark roads, but nor is it wise to ignore the significant hurdles that many women face here to enjoy rather mundane standards of dignity and respect.

And so, I close with an Americanism -- boo on crappy people, wherever they may be.

Bangalorean Day

2009-07-05T14:36:00.004+05:30

I am currently sitting at the lovely "Cafe Coffee Day" to write-- it's one of the more Western places in Bangalore, and has computers for use for 60rupees per half hour. I don't like it, particularly, but the monsoon has brought irregularity to Visthar's connection, so I'll take what I can get! However, if my spelling and punctuation are erratic, be aware that I am working on a keyboard that is perhaps slightly past its prime. And then, I just received a complimentary cappuccino and airline-style packet of cookies, so perhaps not all is lost :) There is some sort of techno Europop restyle of 7 Nation Army on the loudspeakers, a bit too loud for 2 in the afternoon. It's an interesting mix of east and west, to say the least.

Cafe Coffe Day stands in a nice counterpoint to the rest of the day, which up until this point has been a lovely day of wandering the city and tagging along as Barbara, the Swiss girl teaching English at Visthar, shops for small things to take home with her when she leaves at the end of the month. It reminds me of how hard it was for me to leave Bangalore two years ago, and I feel for her, and I understand the love in her eyes as we ride around in a rickshaw through the heart of the city. We went to City Market for spices: saffron, turmeric, garam masala and chilie. City Market is easily one of the busiest, dirtiest places in Bangalore, the meeting place where everyone gathers to exchange in day to day commerce -- fruits and vegetables and flowers strung in chains and cooking vessels and simple clothes and spices. It is dizzying, with people shoulder to shoulder, and the merchants shouting over each other their products and prices, and bullocks blocking the way, insence burning too thickly to cover the smell of rotting produce. On the ground, fruit peels mix with straw, making it slippery in the monsoon drizzle, which seems not to stymie the men carrying huge baskets of pomegranites on their heads but only me. Barbara bought a cooking vessel for making idli, and as we sat, we had a long conversation with a Muslim steel merchant about President Obama, who he is in favor of (though, had to clarify that Obama is not actually Musilm-- a worldwide misconception?), the excitement of travelling in Rajasthan, and marriage. Thankfully, he was 26, two years our senior, and not married, so he gave Barbara and I a pass for being too old to be unmarried. We are usually not so lucky :) He was a little surprised that we had no arranged marriage in the US/Switzerland, and recommended that we look into it - much better success rates than love marriage. These are conversations I relish, these moments of meeting across the divides of culture and class and gender and religion to have a small cup of chai and a discussion about the things we love.

Bangalore is a place in constant transition -- transition that moves much faster, in my estimation, than most places. There is a constant requirement of focus, and consideration (cross the street now? No, huge truck coming... now? No, no! Now? Run! The rickshaw will stop!) It makes the city exciting and exhausting, all at once -- and it makes returning to the gentle peace of Visthar so wonderful at the end of the day. The pollution of the traffic and the city lingers in your hair, and on your clothes, but also some of the beauty. It is that beauty that brings me back, over and over and over again.

India is Growing and Shrinking

2009-06-10T13:58:00.003+05:30

So many people have asked my why I come to India, what is it that draws me here. I usually give a pat answer. But really, I believe that India will be at the forefront of the minds of the world’s citizens as this century progresses; there is change afoot here, there is motion. But I think it at least partially the job of the world not only to bear witness, but also to play a role in what will happen here. India is where poverty, real poverty, is smashing into great wealth and new wealth. I don’t anticipate some sort of massive class uprising, but I do anticipate the way that India develops itself in the next decade will tell us all a great deal about the ways that the 21st century will look.

This poverty is important to remember in the face of the flurry of media coverage on India's growth. Western companies are looking to outsource as much as possible in deference to the bottom line, to the point that Obama people have started the chant of "Buffalo not Bangalore." India's own government has begun to promise its citizens growth in the next year.

But this growth is critical. Unicef just issued a new report that South Asia (India, Pakistan, Nepal, Bangladesh, Afghanistan) has 100 million new cases of chronic hunger in the past year. This is what recession looks like in a global world. That brings the total of chronically hungry people in South Asia to around 400million. For context -- the population of the United States, the 3rd most populous nation in the world, is just over 300 million. There are more people in South Asia that regularly do not have enough to eat than there are people in the United States.

Of course, it is difficult to keep this in mind, when I am surrounded by daily beauty. Visthar is an oasis, where we work on positive change and empowerment in an environment that could not be more bucolic if we tried. Think of it – Visthar is six acres, where the buildings are built to match the land, where fruit trees are various and heavy with produce, the offices are open air with a lotus pool at the center, where flowers sprout from every available nook and women are as well employed as men and adorable girls run around shouting, “Hi Aunty!” and singing. How do you think of food security in all of this? But it is lurking at the gate. And really, in a "flat" world, it is lurking at every gate.

http://www.unicef.org/photoessays/49854.html

Book to Read: White Tiger, by Aravind Adiga. Winner of the 2008 Booker Prize - discusses both the desperation of poverty, as well as the opportunity for advancement.

Opus

2009-06-03T17:22:00.005+05:30

I went out the other night to a nightclub called "Opus" with the son of Visthar's director -- he is from Bangalore, but going to college in the US. Opus was, by and large, one of those very striking “globalized” sorts of places. Of course, Opus' only claim to actually being an opus was the extensive tribute it seemed to be making towards western culture. It was lovely, and weirdly familiar. There was supposed to have been an acoustic band playing, but when we got there, “Smack That” was on the loudspeakers and the place was full with girls in impossibly tights jeans and tank tops and poofy hair and makeup and looking very much like they were sitting down at Cabaret West in Des Moines, Iowa. The place was designed as a courtyard, white rocks on the ground shown off by white rope lights and tables built low, so the under-25 crowd could drape themselves over the cushions on the floor. It was gorgeous; it was mood lit; the band was singing “Free Falling” and drinking Red Bull. Incidentally, one of the guys we were with is employed by Red Bull to go around to parties with cute girls (this is key) and to hand out Red Bull to revelers. I had to laugh… the whole thing felt totally natural, in the sort of way that I only felt uncomfortable in that a) I was the only one wearing a kurthi top, and b) I was skewing the age demographic, up.

But on the way home, I started to find myself frustrated by the evening, this most American of evenings—why didn’t we just stop at Perkins on the way home and get it over with? What is the worth in coming halfway around the world just to revel in the things that are most familiar? I was working myself into the rant about why we of the West immediately cling to those things most Western... But then, a realization: Can I really lay claim to the Opus experience as “Western” anymore? At what point does culture leave the confines of its origin and become global? The kids there were certainly not dabbling in a foreign experience, and just because we arrived at the door in an autorickshaw does not mean that Tom Petty was inaccessible to them. Honestly, there was more in common between me and the kids at Opus than the kids at Opus and the people who grew up in the slums nearby. I was reminded of dinner, only a few weeks ago in West Des Moines—a few girls were sitting around at Simo’s, the Cajun restaurant, drinking margaritas and complimenting each other. One girl had on a kurthi, not unlike the one I wore to Opus – she got it at TJ Maxx, the discount chain, because “Indian clothes are all over right now, they’re really popular.” I have never been a fashion maven (which is why I have Kathleen vet so many of my outfits), but, really? Think about the confusion of a system when you can wear a kurthi to a West Des Moines bar but not to a bar in Bangalore.

So, today’s thoughts: Is this “global culture” merely an exchange of ideas by the rich? And is this global culture actually global, or rather a process of dominant societies impressing their own traditions and culture upon another while co-opting the “pretties” of the culture they are assimilating?

Settled.

2009-06-02T11:33:00.004+05:30

Vegan friends are the best! I have already done some looking, and found nice things... as a vegetarian myself, I am always on the hunt for tasty stuff online :) Thankfully, David has deemed that eggs may be used in the kitchen, but that they were being improperly mixed in the current recipes, and could only be introduced if they were done well. This adds a certain pressure, but I think we can rise to the challenge :)

The girls at Bandhavi remember me better than I had anticipated, and they are so aggressively friendly that it feels like the past two years were more like a few weeks. Jyothi has taken upon herself the task of teaching me Kannada – she asserts, with four or five other girls, that she received top marks in English this year :) Thank goodness for it, of course, because my “teach yourself Kannada in 30 days” book seems to be over-optimistic in my abilities. Alice, a girl from England working here, is reputed to have very good Kannada, and it’s not that I hate her for it, I just resent her :) But the girls love this Alice person, and she seems very nice. They say, “Aunty Lindsay, Aunty Alice, you are aka and tenge!” (older and younger sister). They test me on their names, of which I do not remember enough– I must work on that sooner rather than later. Thankfully, I have left myself a bit of a breadcrumb trail from the last time – a few photos with a few of the girls names- at least a study guide to start.

Last night was my first monsoon storm. It rained a bit the first night,, and I though to myself what a letdown it was. Well, then, last night really showed itself up. I skipped lunch yesterday because I wasn’t hungry, and while I wasn’t particularly hungry in the evening, I thought that Rathi would come find me if I missed another meal. It has just started to threaten rain, so I hit the road over there- taking my flashlight but leaving my umbrella (the banyan and the palm trees cover most of the way, how much do I really need an umbrella?). It would seems that I needed it a great deal, and I only avoided the real downpour by a few precious moments. But my did it storm! The water rushed over the roofs, flooding the central courtyard by several inches; the power went out almost immediately and stayed out for several hours; and the girls just danced and danced. Akshaya has the grace of a dancer, and the talent—it was beautiful, watching her teach the younger girls in the candle light, in the flashlight, though the rain drops splashing in under the roof. The lightening was hardly visible through all the rain, and the thunder became another person in the room, rumbling just out of sight.

Oh, and, my roof leaks.

Arrival

2009-05-30T22:03:00.003+05:30

I have arrived. I am not tired; I am not sore; I have come back.

The journey from Des Moines to Chicago to Frankfurt to Delhi to Bangalore was long and uneventful-- long enough that you forget to be antsy after hour 30 because it seems as though the transit itself will never end. Of course, once I started to get close, excitement set in-- coming back to a place you love, wherever it is, feels like shaking off dust off a favorite novel; it feels like the first surya namaskar after a long time away from practice; it is finding the muscles that have been left dormant, feeling out how much you can still do. As I watched the ground approach from several thousand feet, I could not help that every inch down was lightening my steps. Even the landscape itself excited—There are no rolling hills to speak of, but rather oddly randomized rock outcroppings, sprinkled over the landscape, surrounded by entirely flat farms and developments. It looks nothing so much like an artist’s depiction of the sea on a still day, a fish’s back arcing out of the water – rendered in stone. So uniquely Bangalore.

There was a great deal I did not recognize upon my arrival – the driver sent to pick me up – the ultra modern buses that took us through the “New Airport” part of the city—the New Airport part of the city itself. There is a great deal of bustle, a great deal of construction, all of it focused on an area significantly outside the heart of the city. This new Bangalore will take some getting used to, especially as it has also changed Guddilahalli, Kothanur, Dodda Gubbi, all of these haunts that I just got to know the last time I was here. They are sleeker now, more full with cars and Maruthis and Qualises and Fords than bullock carts or handcarts or even rickshaws. (This is a bit of concern, actually – the traffic on the outer ring road has sped up, to a point now that I could see it being rather dangerous – riding along in the bus from the airport reminded me a great deal of The Knight Bus, in Harry Potter) with it's high speed weaving.

But pulling into Visthar was a coming home. The campus is little changed; they have added a bakery unit for the girls to learn to make delectable things to go along with their cooking (speaking of -- does anyone have a good eggless cookie recipe? Is there such a thing?) I am staying in a gorgeous second story one bedroom flat, that I will be sharing with another girl in the relatively near future. My Bandhavi girls were startled to see me -- I think they have been told that I was coming, but only in passing -- I am remembering their names as well as I can, and several girls are already happy to inform me that my Kannada is still terrible but their English is better so they will translate for me. The mosquitoes are still pestilential, and the campus is completely laden with fruit: guava, mango, jackfruit (in the running for weirdest looking fruit ever: http://s3.amazonaws.com/picable/2007/07/27/45430_Jackfruit-Tree_620.jpg), coconut, banana. I think everyone needs to know that I can pick guava from my balcony! Not that they are quite ripe, but it's the proximity that counts!

Tomorrow being Sunday, I will probably sleep a bit late to account for the many hours of sleep I didn't get while sitting in the Delhi airport. After that -- exploring and wandering and unpacking and making myself a general nuisance :) I then begin work on Monday, as Visthar's Program Associate for International Education. I will be here for at least 6months (a visa requirement will have me home in November), and the excitement of it all is breathtaking!

More soon!

Lindsay