true life planet

I’ve been wanting to describe for my readers what it’s like to walk down the street–say, a fifteen minute walk down my street to the bakery I go to everyday–so that they can get a sense of what this place is like on a real, intimate level.  What follows is my attempt…

Imagine it’s lightly raining.

It’s not raining hard–it’s not even sprinkling–but its a misty, light rain. It’s almost as if someone is occassionally shaking their hands off at you and the water droplets are landing on you.

You’ve left your hotel, you are walking down the street.

You have to pay attention to where you are going–there are many things you must avoid stepping in, such as fresh spittle mixed with red betel-juice; feces; fetid food;trash;broken manholes; and gutters full of putrifying urine and a cloudy film which you imagine to be typhoid or cholera.

You start our walking down the narrow sidewalk as it seems safer than the street and it’s crazy traffic–but the sidewalk proves impossible, as it’s crowded with people actually camping out on it and people trying to do business.

You’re trying to get out to the street but you are distracted by the sights on this narrow strip of sidewalk. On just this one tiny piece of concrete real estate, you see:

A man, wearing only a checkered gray and blue cloth around his middle, like a diaper, sitting on a front step and chipping off the step he is sitting on using only a blunt hammer;

A woman, beautifully dressed, with gold jewelry, lying on a cardboard pallet, holding a new born infant, her other child calling out “Auntie, auntie” at you and motioning that they are hungry;

Two beautifully dressed women walk by, one is wearing a sari of radiant yellow silk, her hair perfectly oiled, her makeup carefully applied. Both are by your standards enormously fat, but here in India, in Calcutta, they are considered desirable and healthy;

A Muslim man, wearing an immaculate white skullcap and a blue long tunic that seems to change color to lavender in the light, beatinga stack of neatly arranged old Time magazines with a bunch of sticks–possibly to get the street dust off ?;

A man busily working at an impromtu “counter” which looks to have been hastily made from found bits of this and that, fixing–or is he taking apart?– cell phones and putting them back together again, while a line of young men wait;

A man, crawling on the sidewalk, legs bent in a strange contortion, banging a metal bowl for change. He grabs your leg, he has a strong grip, he won’t let go..he’s wailing now.

You’re cursing yourself, you’ve promised not to give money on the street, yet..he is suffering, he has no place to go…you somehow get the strength to not give him anything, you pry his fingers loose, you keep walking.

You know that if yu give him something, you will give to others..you know that it will not help allieviate anything but your guilt, so you keep walking.

You switch over to walking in the street for awhile.

The street is awful to walk in–it is, in fact, quite dangerous. People are hit by cars all the time, as brakes do not seem to be used here.

What are used here are horns. Everyone is blaring their horn at you, at everyone else, at rickshaws, at dogs, and the noise is deafening.

You’re walking as close as you can to the side of the road, to the parked cabs that line the left hand side of the street, but still, sometimes you must stand sideways and pull your feet in so they are not run over, the traffic comes by so close to you.

People are walking in the street along with you. Men don’t step out of the way for you, they don’t move aside–it is you who must move aside for them, as you are a woman.

Men also hold hands if they are walking together–no, they aren’t gay!–they just do that here. You see, men don’t pick their wives, they are chosen for them. They do not always feel close to them. They do choose their male friends, though, and so this peculiar custom of hand holding is just a way of demonstating their friendship.

You’re sharing the road with rickshaw wallahs and bicycles, too.

The rickshaw wallahs, if they see you, ring a tiny bell in their fingers–that’s their way of getting your attention, telling you you can get a ride. When you first came here, you’d look their way, start a conversation, you were distracted by their thin bodies, their shoeless feet, their sunken cheeks.

Now you give them the “namaste” sign (palms folded together, accompanied by a little bow) and nod your head “no”. You don’t need a ride–and they already know that you are the tourist who pays Palik, the rickshaw driver down the road, when you want a ride from a rickshaw.

The rickshaw drivers that are full of passengers are generally carrying fat–or plump–Indian women, well dressed and carrying packages; schoolchildren; or packages.

You’re looking at those tiny men carry those enormous women around when you almost get run over by a bike carrying over one hundred chickens, all white, hanging upsidedown, from the handlebars and bike frame. The chickens are alive but not moving, they are numb, on the way to the chicken market.

It’s back to the side walk, now. The street has become to busy to walk in.

Is it raining still? What just splashed on your face? No, that’s not rain, it’s water..someones dumping water from one of the rotting apartment complexs above you. Well, let’s hope it’s water. Don’t think about it.

Here’s a man pooping on the street, right in the gutter. Don’t look.

Here’s a dog, walking along as if it knows exactly where it’s going..a orange-y brown dog, all muscle, navigating its way through the traffic.

A man walks by, a platter of candy on his head, offering you to buy some. It’s white colored and sticky and seems to be incredibly white in the middle of all this dust and grime. It’s pristine.

A tiny woman–or is it a child–scurries by, absolutley filthy, carrying a baby whose legs seem to have been broken. She’s asking you for money, you give her nothing.

The shops have spotted you now, and the owners have all run out to pester you…

“Have a look, have a look”, one says.

“Buy something, Buy something”, another says.

“No looky charge, Madam. Silk, Silk.” says the man selling overpriced saris.

Keep walking. The last bit is the hardest, that last bit where you have to walk through a bit of street that seems to have been designated as a neighborhood toilet.

Ah, the smell is fouler than it was yesterday. You had thought the rain would have cleaned it up a bit. It didn’t.

Cover your mouth with your scarf, keep walking. God, it’s so bad you could pass out. Be careful where you step now, there’s urine everywhere, there’s feces everywhere.

A woman is doing her washing near it.

 Another woman is preparing a meal. She is preparing some sort of reddish curry looking thing and chopping up some sort of whitish meat–is it a cow’s stomach?–right in the gutter, carefully putting the scraps into the cooking pot.

 Two dead rats are being eaten by crows.

Another rat scurries by a man who seems to be a holy man, entirely naked, sitting under a tiny shrine of sorts near all the refuse and urine filled gutter.He is surrounded by marigold and jasmine flowers that have all been strung together.

Jasmine and urine blend together. The smell is overwhelming. Keep walking, you are almost there, almost to the bakery.

Made it. You’re by the bookstores now. You glance up–strange how one never looks up in this city, one is so busy looking down to make sure one isn’t stepping in anything gross..

Looking up, you notice how all the buildings are falling apart. What did this place look like when the British were here? It looks as though now one has maintained anything since they left. It’s all rotting, covered in mildew and mold and falling in on itself–yet people live in those buildings.

The bookstores’ owners have seen you, they are trying to pull you in. But you’re not interested–a few days ago you discovered the famous Oxford bookstore, only blocks away, that is clean, cheap, and has any book you want without dealing with bargaining. You keep walking.

Did I mention everyone is staring at you? Yes, everyone. Some people laugh, some people point, others attempt tiny conversations. You haven’t had a scrap of privacy since you closed the door of your hotel room and walked out onto the street. You’re an object of curiousity.

Just as the car exhaust is realis really beginning to hurt your chest, and that annoying little pollution cough is starting up again, you’re at the front door of Kathleen’s, the bakery you love.

A armed guard opens the door for you and you are greeted with a blast of air conditioning.

 The place is full of plump Indians, all standing around eating meat turnovers and iced little cakes. There are no chairs-one stands and eats one cake after another.

You get a few hot pastries, filled with vegetables, heated up and put in a box. Then you choose an iced cake–it all tastes like wedding cake, but who cares? It’s comforting, it’s sweet, and it’s freshly made everyday, so you won’t get sick (you hope). You choose strawberry cake today.

“Yes, yes, memsahib. We see you lucky tomarrow?”, says one of the owners, a man wearing a spotless white punjabi.

“Tomarrow, yes.”, you say, and turn around again, walking back through the streets to your hotel, where once you are in your room you will wash your face, hands, feet with disinfectant and drink some cold water to overcome your nausea so you can eat your pastries and cake.

You sit down at the little table in your room just as the Mosque’s call to prayer begins. The loudspeakers seem louder today. It’s so loud yo can think of nothing else, so you just listen and stare out the window, watching the rain come down on plastic tarps and rickshaws and people.

Life looks misty and fuzzy and you can’t concentrate.

Finally, the call to prayer ends, the rain dies down for a moment, and you begin to eat your melting strawberry cake, while pondering if you will actually be able to remember everything you are seeing here in India.

You won’t. It’s still fuzzy and muddled and mixed up, one scene blending into another.

And that’s only fifteen minutes in Calcutta.

gigi

I’ve got so much to write about that I doubt I will be able to get it all onto the blog, but I’m going to attempt to at the very least write a few choice bits. Here goes…

My stomach is better. Or should I say, the extreme pain is gone when I eat anything. Unfortunately, my bowels are far behind my stomach. They just can’t seem to acclimate to this place. I may have to accept that this may be my state of health the entire time I am here.

The main advantage to being under the weather this week was that I actually went out and did stuff–looked around my neighborhood and the city a bit more and actually had the energy level to socialize a tiny bit.

As usual, I’m finding it hard to hang out with the backpackers and take part in the backpacker scene. I’ve found this to be the case all over the world, wherever I have been. Sometimes–on a rare occassion–backpackers surprise me, but for the most part I find them a little embarrassing.

I’m probably going to get nasty comments on the blog now. Oh well.

But back to why I find backpackers embarrassing. Look, it’s just that they are so completely inappropriate sometimes, walking around with navels showing and partying. They make Westerners look bad, and unfortunately they don’t make a lot of attempts to blend in.

It’s strange..it’s as if they value Indian culture and it’s more Eastern approach to life more than the Western ways of their own country, at least spiritually anyway. But then they show absolutely no respect for the societal expectations that come along with that. At that point, they seem to revel in being Western and all the exceptional priveleges they get because they are, well, white.

But not all of them. I’ve befriended a few lately who I think are lovely people, and they are respectful of this culture, too.

Mostly though, as usual I find myself preferring companions who are in one of three categories: older travelers, say over 60 years old; travelers who are not actually traveling, but have a specific purpose, such as long term volunteering; and locals.

Locals here are a bit tricky. There are many social codes to follow here, so being friends with Indian men is absolutely out of the question. (Although many Western women seem to break this code and think the men actually want to be friends with them, it almost always leads to sex. Western women are thought of in one way only here. I have heard some very sad stories of late on this subject.)

This leaves Indian women as possible friends, but then again as I am a Westerner, this too comes with expectations. As I am not hanging out with wealthy people, any poorer person befriended would, of course, have expectations which would be understandable under the circumstances. Favors would be required at some point, as that is the basis for how people get by in this place.

So, outside of the Indian women I work with at work, making friends with Indian women is out of the question. I just don’t want to get that involved. I already have that kind of reciprocal relationship set up with plenty of people in Panama amongst the Ngobe, and that’s about all I can handle.

I have managed to meet several people who are volunteering long term here and befriended them. Long term volunteers are always more interesting–they aren’t going back home to their desk job in two weeks, they are more interested in the culture, and they tend to be more spiritually inclined.

You simply have to have some kind of spiritual belief to survive here if you are going to be here for more than a few weeks.

You need it to get through not just your workday, but all of the moments that come up unexpectedly and would otherwise cause you to burst into tears at the state of humanity.

You need some kind of spiritual life here to survive, otherwise this place has no continuity, no shape…it’s just an endless parade of confusion and darkness.

This place continually brings me to my knees.

Literally.

I am not kidding.

I have prayed here more than any place or at any other time in my life.

I have prayed for myself, because I was so numbed out by all the visually disturbing things around me.

I have prayed for whatever the nature of Christianity is–that it grow, develop, change into however it was to start with originally instead of what corrupt people continually try to make it–another excuse, another road to get more power.

I have prayed for people I do not know but who I have seen in the street, just that they receive some comfort–anything–to make their suffering a little bit easier.

I have prayed for  the people back at home, that they would come to this place just once, even if for a week, because it is the kind of place that changes you so dramatically, so rapidly, that you can’t go back to who you once were. And so many people I know would benefit from the experience of being in a place like this–it would take them out of their small concerns and into what it means to be more of a citizen of the world.

So I’d have to say, out of all the places I have been, this place has basicaly made me rely on God.

God is my main companion here.

God is such a no-no. God is such a dirty word in our culture. Generally the people who use this word don’t mean the God I am talking about. They mean Power. It’s just another way of one person trying to be powerful over another. Even the state of disbelief is used to have power over another.

When we hear the word “God”, we immediately make it mean something. Usually that something has absolutely nothing to do with what God is, but more with who we are and what makes us feel powerless or powerful.

The God I’m talking about is totally different. This God is just as revolted and probably discouraged as we are about the state of humanity. This God is really, actually love.

It’s bad to discuss God on your blog, I’ve been told. Why?

Look, I’ll tell all of you that I am here in what very well may be one of the darkest places on Earth, and if I didn’t have God–or some spiritual belief–I do believe I wouldn’t make it out of this place alive.

I’d die of sadness–or at least, some part of me would.

God seems to be the only one I can have a conversation with who understands the darkness I am looking at and can somehow inspire me to keep moving along in a positive direction. Otherwise, I do believe I’d splinter into a million pieces and disappear.

I came here thinking that I would discover the wonderful Bengali culture as well as be of some help in what I knew was a desperate place. And yes, I have found the Bengali culture to be interesting, but it doesn’t actually distract me too much from the larger picture here of poverty.

The poverty here–it’s different, somehow. The darkness here–it’s different, too.

It’s all out in the open.

At home we have horrors, too–but we keep them locked away, out of sight.

Here, the kid gets beat on the street right in front of you.

Maybe because it’s so out in the open is why I find the heaviness of this place so oppressive and why no matter what I think about, all my thoughts run back to these dark places and scenes I have seen on the streets.

I suppose, too, that that’s why I find myself praying so much in this place.

A new friend recently told me, after hearing some of the things I had seen that day on one of my walks around this city, “That you have to look for the joy here, because it’s harder to find than all the evil.”

I do see alot of joyful moments–street children playing a game of impromtu cricket; a man laughing, holding a wiggling puppy; a group of beautifully dressed women in candy colored saris dancing…but I have to say that I think not only is the dark side of life here harder to not look at, it’s kind of what I came to look at.

A book I am reading at the moment started out with a fascinating question:

‘People always ask: why is there evil in the world?, when perhaps the more important question is: why is there good in the world?’

It then goes into this theme on a much deeper level and examines why some people strive to be good and do good, while others lie, cheat, steal, and manipulate. I, just like everyone else, have had plenty of people in my life who have lied, or manipulated, or just done things that were completely selfserving.

This book’s point of view is that when we do these kinds of things–lie, cheat, steal, manipulate–even if it’s to protect ourselves–that this contributes to the evil of the world. That it even, in a sense, helps it grow. That it sustains it.

It’s a fascinating book, and it’s kind of reversed some of my thinking. I remember just a few weeks ago I was lamenting on this blog why there was so much darkness here and in the world at large.

Now, I’m thinking in reverse: why are there people who have a desire to put themselves into the midst of this gloom and do something about it? What makes people want to do good things? What makes someone good, or have the desire to be good, while someone else lacks that desire? Why do some people feel attracted to “helping professions”, for example, while others feel attracted to “hurting professions”?

I’m reading another excellent book right now that has a great deal to say on this very subject–but in a more down-to-earth, tangible way– and I would suggest you all go out and read it.

It’s called “Banker To The Poor, The Story of the Grameen Bank” and it’s the story of Muhammad Yunnus, who set up the Grameen Bank in Bangladesh to lend small sums of money to the poorest of the poor. You’ve no doubt heard of him–he won the Nobel Peace prize in 2006.

His book has dispelled many myths I was carrying around that were taught to me in my Western culture about the poor, the poor’s capacity to take ownership in what happens to them, and how one can change the system by starting with the havenots.

It also talks about how desperate poverty makes people do terrible, dark, and even evil things.

It’s a brilliant book and a hopeful book, and I think the very sort of book that people should read.

On the first page is a wonderfully brilliant quote:

” All that is needed for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.”

–Edmond Burke

Ah, this trip brings me to tears everyday when I think of who I was, just a year ago, living my small life, and who I am now, trying to live fully in a world that seems to challenge me to be 100 times the woman I once was.

gigi

The rat hole has been repaired in my room.

I feel a tremendous sense of accomplishment that due to my efforts it actually was patched up.

You see, here in India everything is falling apart. Everything is full of rat holes. Rats are a normal part of life, and some tourist complaining about a rat hole in her room rarely manages to get anything actually done about it.

Up until two days ago, the rat hole was just an excuse for the Indian men who work at my hotel to come into my room. Sometimes they would later knock on the door and offer to fix the rat hole in secret for a bribe.

The whole thing was irritating me. I just wanted it fixed.

I had begun sleeping with the light on because it seemed to keep the rat in the bathroom. Everytime I got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom I had to make a lot of noise and stomp around alot to get it to go back into it’s hole.

It seemed to have no fear.

One morning I woke up so exhausted and grumpy that I resolved that I would have to complain and pester them until they actually fixed it that very day.

Luckily for me, when I walked downstairs to the front hall, I was met by a beautiful old frail woman and her Sikh husband in a huge turban.

“How are you liking your stay here?”, the turbaned man asked me.

” I’m not.”, I replied. ” I have a huge rat living in my room and they won’t fix the hole it’s using to come in and out of the room.”

He laughed, hands on his belly and translated for his frail wife who immediately whispered something at him in return.

“I used to own this hotel.”, he said. “I sold it last year, to another Sikh, a good Sikh.”

He then asked me if I wanted a ride to anywhere. and I told him I wanted to go just a few blocks…I hopped in their enormous SUV and sat in the back with his wife a a bunch of giggling matrons who marveled at the size of my feet and complemented me on my salwaar kameez outfit.

” I would not normally give a Westerner a ride, but my wife says you are a good woman, a respectable woman, as you are wearing modest convienent attire.”, he says from the front seat, as he ploughs th enormous SUV through the streets, almost running over people, dogs, and cart-pullers.

I think to myself that Indians have a very strange way of speaking the English language. Who uses the words, “modest convienent attire”? It reminds me of my friend’s hotel, who promised “homely comfort” on their welcome sign, and when she came home to find her bathroom full of overfloing sewage the manager told her, “But ma’am, we aim to fill you and promise you homely comfort.” !!

My driver continues, “You are new to India. You do not understand how things are done. You must take the problem to the top man. You cannot talk about the problem with the middle man or the lowest man. The lowest man will do nothing, as he cannot. The middle man ill pretend to do something but will never complete what he has started. Only the top man will fix your problem.”

“That’s a problem in itself. ” , I reply. ” The top man–the owner–never seems to be there.”

He tells me that now that he knows me, my problem is his problem. He now knows about my problem and he will help me to fix it. He makes a few phone calls from his cell phone trying to locate the new owner.

We sit in the middle of the road in the SUV, and we’ve stopped traffic. We’re taking up the entire road. People are honking and shouting buut the occupants of the car–or should I say tank?–are oblivious. This car seems to have some kind of insulation. You can see the people outside shouting and shaking their fists, but they can’t see in through the dark tinited windows.

We’re sitting there for about ten minutes while he’s talking on the phone. It’s hot and sticky outside but inside this car they have cranked up the airconditioning and a television is showing a Bollywood movie.

The women I am sharing the back seat with are still giggling at me.

I feel like an enormous ostrich who has been stuffed into a basket of sparrows.

The women are fluttering, moving like birds..their hands flutter, their noses are little beaks, their mouths little heart shaped holes, their eyes darting around me. They keep touching me, but so lightly it’s as if I’m not really being touched.

I’m suddenly interrupted from this new world of women when the Sikh in the front seat turns around and says,

” It is taken care of. It will be fixed tomarrow.”

They let me out of the SUV onto the steamy street and I barely avoid stepping into a pile of fresh feces. Nausea overtakes me and I swallow hard, trying to think about anything other than poop and urine and the dirty gutters.

The next day, I’m wandering around the city all morning and I don’t return to my hotel until the afternoon. I’m still not feeling well, but the antibiotics have taken hold and I’ve decided to make the best of haing taken an entire week off of work…I’m trying to spend some time getting to know this city I’m calling home for the next several months.

I’m quite tired, and ready for a long nap,walking up the stairs, when a man calls out, ” How are you, Memsahib?”

I turn around. I have to answer. It would be rude not to.

” I am tired. “, I say.

I keep walking up the stairs.

” Ah, Memsahib. There is something here for you.” ,  the man calls out.

“What is it ?”, I ask.

” Memsahib, it is a carpenter.”, he replies.

I turn to look at the carpenter, who turns out to be an incredibly old man, with a white bird, a mouth full of broken teeth, and blue eyes, which really stand out against his skin that is the color of coffee beans after they have been roasted. He also wearing a filthy, hot pink child’s tshirt that has a picture of the Care Bears on it and says ” Know It Is Because I Barely Love You”.

We go upstairs, the carpenter, the six or so male employees, and me, to look at the rat hole.

“It’s going to take a long time to fix this rat hole, Memsahib.”, they tell me “We may not be able to fix it today.”

” No.”, I say. ” You will fix it now. I have spoken to a friend who has spoken to the owner, and he is the one who sent the carpenter. You will fix it now and I will wait.”

Everyone looks at me glumly, and then smiles and laughter break out.

Everyone is laughing, including me.

” Memsahib is knowing India, now! We do it for you ma’am.” , they tell me happily grinning ear to ear.

“Yes, but I don’t want all of you in my room. Only the carpenter and one helper. That is all.”, I say.

I go into my room and quickly lock up anything I have left out. Things have a tendency to “walk out” if they are interesting. Books are alright to leave out, but sometimes the most common things–like shampoo–is of interest.

The carpenter and his helper go to work on the hole, while I wait in the double room next door with the door open, watching the comings and goings.

One of the first things I notice is that the carpenter has no tools to speak of. He has no wood. He has nothing.

Someone shows up with an old rusty hammer that is taped together. Someone else shows up with a handul of bent, rusted nails.

But they still have no wood to put over the hole, and it’s quite a large hole..measuring 4 feet long by 5 inches wide.

They come into the room I am sitting in, reading a book.

They look around the room, decide on a board, and literally tear it off the wall, leaving a gaping hole, about 4 feet long by 5 inches wide.

My mouth is open. Close mouth, I command myself.

They go into my bathroom and after much pounding and even more discussion in Bengali, the hole in my room has been patched.

I go and inspect their handiwork. They have done a decent job.

The carpenter looks at me, his hands outstretched for payment.

“No. “, I say, crossing my arms. I point to the owner out in the hallway. “He is the one to pay you.”

“Memsahib is knowing India.”, he says, smiling his broken-teeth smile at me.

After the carpenter leaves, the owner comes to the door of my room. “Memsahib is happy now?” , He says.

“No.”. I say. ” I would like a better chair in my room.” (I had noticed a very nice-and clean–plastic chair in the double room they had just made the big hole in. I wanted that chair.)

“Is Memsahib happy now?”, the owner asks, after giving me the new plastic chair.

” No. “, I say. ” I would like a better pillow. “( I had noticed the double room I was just in had better, newer pillows, and I wanted a nicer one.)

“Is Memsahib happy now?”, the owner asks me, after giving a new white pillow.

” No.”, I say. “I would like a bucket of boiling hot water to be brought to my room every evening.” ( I had asked about getting hot water before, but there ad always been an excuse  and I had been stuck with taking bucket showers in cold tap water. I decided to push my luck and see how far I could go.)

They bring me a bucket of hot, boiling water–it’s so hot I can’t even think of taking a bucket shower with it for at least an hour, waiting for it to cool down.

” I am happy, thank you very much.”, I tell the owner.

“Yes, yes, good, good. We give homely Memsahib homely comfort.”

I think I am figuring out what they mean by “homely comfort”!
And..I’m also figuring out how this place works, day by day, little by little….

gigi

A general update…

I finally “gave in” and started taking Cipro. There was no choice, as my bowels had decided that I could not leave my room safely and I was feeling worse and worse!

Yesterday I stayed in my room most of the day. I never went to work. I felt terrible physically and anyway I could not bear it, just being on the street turned my stomach into knots.

While I waited for the antibiotic to take effect, I hung out in my hotel room all day and watched the men who work there attempt to patch a hole in my bathroom.

How many men does it take to patch a hole in one’s bathroom in India? As many men as one can find. At one point as I lay feverish and sweaty on my bed, I counted 8 men all trying to patch the hole. Everyone had a opinion and very little work got done.

The hole is still there, as large as it was before.

Unfortunately, so is the very large rat who is using the hole to come into my bedroom and attempt to nibble at my ginger biscuits.

Let’s hope this actually gets fixed sometime during my stay.

While I was hanging out in my room, 6 volunteers came by to see me. Apparently I was missed at work for the last two days. Everyone was worried.  It’s nice to know one has some semblance of community here, in the middle of all of this chaos.

It’s easy to feel somewhat displaced and lonely here. Yesterday I realized that I actually had made quite a few friends–and that’s a good thing to have in a place where it’s not unusual for a volunteer to disappear for a few days and then suddenly one finds out they have cholera or dengue or what have you.

I was feeling miserable and sorry for myself, but the Indian men trying to repair the hole and the numerous volunteers visiting kept things interesting.

I’ll write a post tomarrow that will be full of  things I have seen on the street lately and also about the experience of being fitted for a sari.

gigi

hey everyone,

I’ve been interviewed for the women’s travel site “Women-on-the-Road” about my travels and how volunteering has changed me and my life.

If you’d like to read it, please scroll down to “Travel Sites I Visit Often” on the right hand side of this page, and click on the “Women-on-the-Road” link. Then look at the right hand side of her feature page and click on “Interviews With Intrepid Travelers”.

I have to say, I am honored by the interview and very honored to have my interview on a site next to some of the world’s most interesting women travelers, too.

gigi

I have to apologize for not blogging…but, quite frankly, up until very recently I haven’t had time–and I haven’t felt that well, either.

I last blogged that I was working full time at Dany Dan–but despite their need and also my desire to help them, the hours were too much for me.

One thing I have heard over and over again from other volunteers and the Sisters themselves is that one must take care of oneself, or one is of no use to anyone.  So I finally told the Sister in charge at Dany Dan that I needed a few half days during the week, and the rest could be full time days.

Already with this new schedule I am much less tired and am feeling more positive about my work. I think it is easy to get “burned out” working with autistic children, let alone doing it in India where everything is overwhelming and assaulting one’s senses left and right.

It took a lot for me to acknowledge that I had some limits and am not superwoman. I got very sick and I was so fatigued I was kind of dragging myself around the city.

I also got a few strange health problems I had never had before.

 For example (and these are just a few)…

 I got a rash with huge boils up and down the front and back of my legs. It was painful to walk, especially as it has been veyr humid and hot. It turned out it was from my Western clothes. Synthetic travel pants are not good in Calcutta–for me, anyway. The solution was to go to a tailor and have loads of salwar kameez made up..sort of loose pants and long smocks, of light silk.

I also had strange rash like patches all over my body. I went to the doctor to find out what it was…his answer? An allergy to the pollution!

I have had some difficulty breathing and chest pain, and the inside of my ears and nose have been blackish from pollution, too.

So, just slowing down and realizing I can’t do it fulltime everyday has given me the tie for some much needed self care.

I should also have more time to blog about being here for now on.

So, until then,

gigi

From my journal entry October 7th, 2007

I am exhausted.

Today was my first day at Dany Dan, a home for autistic and mentally retarded children in Calcutta. Actually, this home run by Mother Theresa’s Sisters of Charity has kids with everything from autism to deafness to strange wasting-away diseases.

The morning started with a walk to the Motherhouse, which is located about 20 minutes’ walk from my hotel.

Walking through the city streets at 5:30 am, I found myself looking at a totally different Calcutta. The streets were quiet, the day was just beginning…It was much less disorienting without all the chaos.

One could not walk on the sidewalks, as they were full to capacity of sleeping men, women, and children. Bodies, bodies, bodies. They were so thin they looked like they would break. Children were very thin, with little narrow limbs and bloated bellies. People slept right on the ground, on the pavement, or on a piece of cardboard, using a piece of cloth from their clothing to cover their face.  I tried to count all the bodies and stopped at 430 people. (And that was within 15 minutes!)

People were taking turns to do their daily absolutions. In spite of the filth of the city, it’s inhabitants are fanatical about personal hygiene. Huge geysers and faucets spilled water out into the gutters, as men wrapped only in a tiny piece of plaid cloth covering their privates lathered up the best they could under the circumstances. Everyone in the neighborhood takes his turn, and a small line formed near each geyser of men.

Enormous piles of trash lined the streets, assaulting my nostrils. A few trashpickers were attempting to get an early start with their workday, and sifting through piles of stinking refuse, rotting food, ash, paper, metal, and human waste. They were accompanied by several calves and cows, who were calmly chewing their way through plastic bags.

Dogs were laying in the middle of the street, still asleep. As I walked, I thought about how yesterday a tourist told me thought that all the dogs in Calcutta should be put to sleep because they were treated so inhumanely, and how I had told him that I had thought the dogs in Calcutta were much better off than any dog I had seen in Central America. Here, at least, they eat trash and refuse, leftover food, and whatnot. They weren’t fat by any stretch of the imagination-but nor were they starving to death. They leave you alone when you walk by, and mind there own business–while the dogs in Central America actually run up to you and bite you and are literally skin and bones.

An occasional household had all awoken and had begun their cooking fires. A woman was making chapati with gnarled hands, using the sides of her hands to form the flat bread. Another woman had what looked to be a stomach and intestine of some animal, which she was rinsing out in the frothy contaminated gutter. A small child sat sifting through ash for charcoal to cook with. Another child defecated in the gutter.

The gutter is bubbling, oily, and full of disease and human excrement. The smell of urine overwhelms me.

The men who drive their yellow taxis around the city are just waking up. They fold themselves up in the back seat of their cabs at night to sleep-then wake up in the morning and give themselves and their cabs a complete wash. Men who carry huge carts made of bamboo are also sleeping on their carts, wearing their only set of clothes.

There seems to be a lot of water being used here…it pours out of the geysers on the streets, spilling into the gutter and the street. I have never seen so much water.

I count 54 rats–8 of which are dead, belly up in the street. The live ones are big rats, light in color with pink tails. They scamper around door ways and sleeping children.

A group of crows–very beautiful birds, the crow of Calcutta, a dark blue and gray with a small head–pick apart a dead rat while a very old man wearing only white, dirty trousers attempts to hit a crow with a slingshot. He hits one, and it immediately gets turned over to a woman nearby who begins to prepare it for the cooking pot.

I finally make it to the Motherhouse. It’s 6am, and they have a mass there every morning at 6, for an hour.

It’s a special day today, because this is the 50th anniversary of Mother Theresa’s having established this order and the homes that are still in operation today.

The mass is nice. Its a refreshing a hopeful change from everything outside on the street. There is alot of talk about everything that has been accomplished so far, a what a miracle it has been. But there is also alot of talk about what more needs to be done.

The mass is followed by breakfast. I am surprised when I enter the breakfast room how many volunteers there are, and how many of them are young backpackers. I expected more volunteers of an older age group. But there is great comraderie and everyone is very friendly.

After a breakfast of bananas, bread, and chai, we all head to our different destinations.

There’s a large group going to Dany Dan, where I am going..so we all pile into a bus. The bus has one part for women and one part for men. After the bus, we squeeze into auto rickshaws for the last part of the journey.

We arrive at Dany Dan, put on our aprons, and report to the head  nun. When she finds out I am assigned there for 5 months, she is estatic.

The place is chaotic. There are 64 children total, and 34 of those are boys. I am assigned to be with the boys on the first floor. They range in age from 7 years old to 18 years old.

The morning starts with laundry, which must be washed by hand in buckets, then carried upstairs to the roof to be hung up to dry.

Children are being bathed, and then we have to dress them all. This seems to take forever, but when we area done only an hour has passed.

Its then time for prayer. the kids have an alter in their main playroom, and they sing a song.

After prayer, its time for school. I am assigned to Binoy for the next 5 months, a very intelligent autistic boy with a short attention span and severe vision problems. He is very hard to work with and I have to think alotabout how to reach him and keep it interesting for him. We study writing and reading for an hour and a half, and then he goes to music class.

The kids are learning Christmas songs, and Binoy has turned out to be a very talented drummer… he blows me away with his drumming!

But I don’t have time to enjoy his performance, because I am busy keeping kids from hitting each other, running around, and changing poopy  pants.

Then I go down to the dining room, where I am assigned several children to feed everyday. Most kids can feed themselves, but some need help with how to use their hands and how to use a spoon. It takes about 45 minutes to feed one child. As one is feeding them, a nun comes by a drops various medications into their dal and rice, turning it into a very unappetizing stew of brownish lentils, vitamins, and pink syrup.

After lunch it’s naptime. It’s hard to get all the kids into bed, let alone get them to stay put.

I take a nap myself, since I’m going to be here all day on my own. All the other volunteers have already left for their other assignments–most are going to Kalighat, the home for the dying.

I wake up from my nap and am told I need to do physical therapy with one of the autistic boys who doesn’t like walking. It is very hard, he doesn’t want to do it and I have to muster upthe energy from somewhere to get him to at least try to walk. We work together for about half an hour.

Then I help the child suffering from soome sort of retardation and spastic disorder–he’s 18, actually, not a child–do arm exercises. When this kid smiles he lights up a room. He’s amazing, a truly gentle soul.

Then I start taking the kids out for short walks, one at a time, into the alley. They don’t go out much, so it’s very overwhelming for some of them. One kid gets very upset at the sight of a parked car, but the rest of the kids have a good time. There is a cricket game going on down the alley, all Indian boys and teenagers playing, and everyone is very kind. They find two spare chairs and I keep bringing the boys over to watch the game. The boys love it, they love being part of normal life and being with other boys.

The rest of the day is spent just playing with the kids, and trying to keep them from harming themselves and others. It’s very tiring, and I have to be alert always. I do not have any thoughts in my head other than these boys and what I need to be thinking about for them.

By the time I get off work and manage to take the metro home and get to my hotel, I’m worn out. There is nothing left.

Even the walk to the metro was overwhelming..it’sthe Hindu Puja celebration right now, and the streets are filled with shrines and people dressed in their best clothes, visiting all the Pujas. It’s hard to make one’s way through the streets there are so many people.

How will I do this everyday? I wonder. Yet the work is very rewarding, the kids are wonderful, and I love it.

Still, I can see that it will be a struggle to find balance here.

gigi

It’s been an incredibly full day today.

I started the day out looking around for a different hotel–which was more difficult than you might think.

Going into dive after dive, with cockroaches crawling about and rat poop in the hall way did not encourage me in my quest. Yet, I was determined to find a “better deal”, tired of trying to get a cheaper price on my room that I currently have, so I kept on.

The hotel that finally had be give up my search was named the Something Something Guesthouse, and seemed to be run by an old blind man who would be sleeping on a piece of cardboard outside my door–if I liked the room, that is.

I didn’t like it. It was absolutely filthy, and I imagined that I would soon have scabies and lice and who knows what else after a few nights of sleeping there.

With a sigh, I wandered back to my hotel. I guess I’ll be staying there, in spite of the fact that they are charging me too much.

On the plus side, it has five windows, with actual shutters and curtains(which I never saw as a luxury before looking elsewhere).

It also has a locked cabinent for my things (other hotels with a lower price didn’t have these either)

A chair and a table (definitely luxuries–most just had a bed)

A bathroom with an actual door, a toilet that actually flushes and is not a “squat toilet” but a normal Western style toilet (most hotels did not have even have a toilet /bathroom inside the room..you had to go out into the hallway and you had to share it, too..with complete strangers)

A sink with actual running water!

A bucket shower, with hot water on demand,

and best of all..

I feel safe there. There are so many employees, that the leather bench outside my door always has someone on it. The office is right outside my door too, so no ones going to sneak into my room..even if they cold make it past the big padlock.

After seeing all these other places this morning that were slimy, filthy, vermin infested and unsecure..I went back to my hotel, and decided despite the slight overcharge, I didn’t care. It’s worth it.

In India, I have decided, it’s not worth it to pick away at smaller battles when there are more important things to worry oneself over. Don’t sweat the small stuff (of which there is alot!)

In the afternoon, my journey here began to take more form and substance at last–no longer a tourist, I finally made it over to the Motherhouse, Mother Theresa’s Missionaries of Charity headquarters.

On arriving, I was let into the cool concrete courtyard, by a tiny nun wearing glasses who was from China. Wearing her white habit with blue trim, she was the picture of grace and gentleness, and she motioned me to sit on one of the cool benches in the shade.

I told her I was there to volunteer, and she told me to wait for her–that she would be going to the home for orphaned children next door in about 20 minutes (that’s where they do the orientation and give assignments).

I sat back and enjoyed the cool air inside the courtyard. The air in here seeemd cleaner and cooler than out on the street–and it probably was, as the high concrete walls served for more uses than just privacy.

The walls were painted a dove gray and pale lemon yellow, and everything was so clean–so much different than just a few feet outside it’s walls. The only decoration was a wooden carving of Jesus and a shrine to Mary, who was coered in garlands of marigolds and surrounded in potted plants.

In complete constast with this shrine and scene of clean, religious piety, was a bicycle that stood parked in the corner. It’s owner had decorated the fenders with cut outs from magazines, the two most prominent were a Bollywood actress wearing a red strapless evening gown, and a huge picture of Chuck Norris, whose photo was surrounded in beading and sequins.

That’s India for you!

Several nuns were sitting in the courtyard, all reading. One was from Sri Lanka, and she was reading a book called, “The Power of Affirmation”. Another nun from Ireland was reading ” The Herald”, an English newspaper. Another nun, this one from Japan, was reading a book titled,” Living Your Life To The Fullest”.

One thing I immediately noticed was that the nuns were from every country in the world. They crossed all boundaries and borders. They were of every nationality in the world; they were every shape and size; they were of every age.

A small nun had been assigned to answer the door, and as people came and went, she was the one to answer the bell. It seemed like the bell rang every 5 minutes.

A group of well dressed (although completely inappropriately dressed for India’s conservative dress code for women) American women showed up with ags of donations, all clothes and medicines.

A group of school children showed up, wearing pixie haircuts and purplish gray uniforms, white blouses that had lost their brightness from too many washings, burgundy bow ties…and flip flops.

A crew of Indian men came in and then went out again, carrying huge bundles of launry in brightly colored cloths on top of their heads.

Visitors came and went constantly from around the globe. Some had volunteered before and were just coming back to say hello;some were first time volunteers like me; some just came to see the tomb ovf Mother Theresa.

Many people did not come to volunteer, but just to look at the place. One girl from France told me that she, ” Couldn’t handle volunteering, doing that kind of work”, so she was just stopping off to see the tomb before heading on to Darjeeling.

I’ve met alot of Westerners like that here. Not just people who don’t have any interest in volunteering , actually–but people who don’t approve of Mother Theresa’s work. None of them had even stepped in and volunteered for a day, done the work, seen if it made any positive impact. Some people are very harsh on Mother Theresa’s organization without ever even getting a taste of what it’s like to volunteer with the Sisters.

This morning when I met two travelers who were on their way to an ashram and were very negative about Mother Theresa, I said to them, ” But if the Sisters were not doing this work, who would be doing it?”

They answered with silence. The answer is, no one would be. That’s why they do it.

But I digress.

After waitng around for awhile, we all went over to the children’s orphanage and got our orientation. We also had to decide where we wanted to be assigned.

There were various places to be assigned: one could work with children, one could work with babies, one could work with entally ill people, one could work with very ill people, and of course the dying of Calcutta.

I could not make up my mind where to go. I had come here to be of service, but I felt like my fears might have more of a role in deciding where I would choose than where I might be of most use. So, I decided to let the Sisters decide for me.

They decided I am going to Daya Dan. This is a home for mentally retarded, autistic, and severely disabled children. The children who are there often die in the home, as many have significant health problems.Unlike some of the other chidren in the Sister’s care, these children are not adoptable.

So I will be working with kids! (Unless they put me somewhere else, which I have heard they do every once in awhile!)

Also in the home is a dispensary, which is open to the public two days a week. I will be helping there, wrapping injured people in bandages and doing some basic health work (like I’ve done in othe rcountries on this trip).

I’m happy about this choice. I think it suits me.

Tomorrow is my first day on the job. We go to mass at the Motherhouse at 6am, then we all eat breakfast together at 7am, and then all the volunteers go off to their respective stations.

My job is all the way across town, so I will have to manage the metro and maybe have to take a rickshaw, too. Luckily there is a group of us going, so I won’t have to figure it all out on my own.

Work starts at 8 am, until 12 noon, and then starts up again at 3pm, until 5:30pm.

We work everyday but Thursday, and on Saturdays we can go to wash street children at the train station for the first half of the day.

I’d better go to bed!

 gigi

PS  …I’m..so happy to be here…doing this. One thing I really like is that here, I have met some like minded people. It’s an amazing experience to meet and talk to other people who have set aside a period of their lives aside to be here, to be of service to others. It’s so refreshing to be around and it invigorates me for the coming months, knowing that I’m working with some people who have also decided to amke a difference in this way. Some of the women who are volunteering for a long time here (one is here for 3 years and it’s her second time!) have decided to meet once a week and talk about our experiences and hopefully create a spiritual support group of sorts in the process. It’s tough and exhausting work, so I think having a group of people to rely on and talk to is going to make it a bit easier.

October 5th, 2008

I am reeling. I am a mix of moral ambiguity and a strange feeling of exhiliration.

I’ve just returned to my hotel, and run across the street through pouring rain to the internet cafe to quickly write a post about what has just happened, so I keep the freshness of the feeling on this blog.

I’ve just returned from riding in a human powered rickshaw. The kind that I’ve written about in the last entry–the ones that they are trying to ban from Calcutta. They are actually banned all over the world–Calcutta is the only place on Earth where they are still being used.

I was against riding in one of these from the start.

But somehow, I ended up riding in one.

Here’s what happened:

I was looking for the bank, an ATM…and there were none close by. Walking to one proved impossible, and landed me in an area that was so confusing that I got terribly lost and literally was praying to be found. I was in an area of town that was full of stalls, people selling things on the street, huge temporary altars of Ganesh and other Hindu Gods, traffic..noise..I couldn’t see where I was or how to get out.

My confusion was obvious, and a group of passerby stopped to help me.(So like the generous people of this city) I ended up being pointed the right way and ended up–somehow–back where I had started, near my hotel.

But I still needed money, as I was running very low, so I asked for a cab–one of the bright yellow Ambassador cabs–to take me to HSBC, the only bank that I knew of here that will take my ATM card.

I had gotten into the cab(not easy with zero leg room and enormous feet) when I was told to get out again. A crowd of taxi drivers had gathered and had told the taxi driver who had offered to take me that my destination was too close by, and that it was unfair to take a fare away from the rickshaw wallahs (the human taxis).

“Oh no”, I said, “I can’t get into one of those.”

“Why not?”, they all asked.

“Because..it’s not…right. I just can’t be carried by another human being.”, I said. ” I can’t, I just can’t.”

The rickshaw wallahs began to talk to a man who had joined the crowd…there was a crowd by now, this being the most interesting thing happening on my street for some time–since the man dying in the alley yesterday, anyway.

The man translated what the rickshaw wallahs were saying to me in perfect English.

He said, ” Look–they want you to take their taxi. They need you to take their taxi. This is their livelihood, this is how they live. A fare such as yours, that is a big fare. You will pay 4 or 5 times what a Indian will pay them–even more, if you want. They need your fare to eat.”

What do you do, when you are surrounded by a crowd of hungry Indian men, urging you to ride on one of their rickshaws, giving you an argument that you have no answer to?

” It’s immoral. I can’t. I will take a taxi.”‘ I say. Even as I say it, I know it seems ridiculous, from their point of view.

” You are wrong. It is their life. They need your fare.”, he tells me.

” We won’t take you there.”, say the yellow taxi drivers.

So I have no choice–the taxis won’t take me. I’m going to be pulled around by a human being. Oh my God. I am going to hell.

I watch as a tiny man is brought forward, bringing with him a worn down rickshaw. He sets it on the ground and gestures for me to get in.

I am afraid to step onto the thing, let alone be carried around by a human being. I feel like I am going to human rights hell in a handbasket.

After I get on, all the rickshaw wallahs applaud. The man driving me–or is carrying me?–is smiling.

Off we go.

Riding a rickshaw is unlike anything I have ever experienced. It places you smack in the center of traffic, and you have the sense that at any moment you are going to be killed, or at leat impaled by some object hurtling by you in the street.

But my driver is incredible. He is the most graceful person I have ever been around..he manages the rickshaw so it’s practically gliding thru the traffic, he’s dancing through cows, cars, bikes, people…it’s amazing. And he is doing all this while carrying me. I can’t enjoy the ride–I am wrestlin with my Western morality too much. I sink down as far as possible into the seat, trying to make myself as small as possible.

Other rickshaw wallahs smile at him and give him the thumbs up. I later learn this is because an Indian person will usually only pay 10 to 20 rupees for this ride. I’m going to pay him so much that he will stop work early and go out and celebrate.

Still. I am ashamed to be seen on this rickshaw. I can’t hide from the stares of people..although Indian people are looking at my and nodding along as though this is the most normal thing in the world, while the gringos glare at me, the big rich whitey exploiting the masses. The gringos are all like me, they think that this is the most immoral thing in the world.

I feel like the big rich whitey exploiting the masses, I do.

We arrive at the bank, and after I get some cash I buy my driver a snack. A crowd gathers, as we are in an area that is all Indian. There are no gringos to be seen–no scruffy backpackers, no tour groups, no missionaries. It’s just me and a crowd of Indians, all of them looking at this enormous white woman eating a samosa.

Someone translates back and forth, from my driver to me, and in this way, I find out some things about his life.

He’s like a character right out of Dominque Lapierre’s book, “City of Joy”, and he’s from the same area of India that the main character (who was a rickshaw wallah also) in Lapierre’s book is from. He also has the same last name– Pal. His name is Palik Pal.

He has been a rickshaw wallah for two years, and just like the main character of the book he came here with nothing. He lived on the street, although he now lives in a slum outside of the city–when he’s not sleeping in his rickshaw itself. He has four children and a wife, and another one on the way.

We get back in the rickshaw and head home, back to my hotel.

Going back through the streets from which we first came this time around, I notice alot more. I’m not as self involved about how horrible this is that I am being pulled by another huiman being. I’ve somehow or other set that aside and am looking at the fact that because he gave me the ride, he and his family will eat today–maybe even have a few extras. I never looked at something like this that way before.

I also have time on the way back to reflect on what another topic of conversation was–how the rickshaw wallahs themselves view the fact that Western tourists don’t use them much.

A few moments ago, standing eating piping hot samosas that burned my tongue, Palik had told me that tourists–white ones– don’t use the rickshaw wallahs, but they wish they would.

I couldn’t really explain to Palik why tourists–Western ones–have an issue with using a rickshaw wallah, it seemed impossible.

We were also surounded by a small crowd and more than half of them were other rickshaw wallahs, all taking part in the discussion in some way or another.

“A lot of people have stopped using us”, Palik sighed. Everyone nods in agreement.

He had continued on, explaining the absolute level of poverty and how many fares that he needs a day to pay his boss, the street boss, the rickshaw wallah boss, his rent, his family’s needs.

God. Here I am, hearing all about this from a man I just would’ve blindly walked by an hour ago. There are thousands like him in Calcutta–hundreds in my neighborhood alone.

Now, all of a sudden, I can see him see his life with it’s sense of urgency, see him like I haven’t seen anyone in India so far.

I’m grateful for this new perspective, this new view of the Indian psyche and experience–at least, one man’s view of things, anyway.

The street is so full of life on the way back. Somehow, I’m able to raise my head and look around, inside of trying to sink into the rickshaw like I was on the way to the bank.

A tiny girl balances on a tightrope, being held up by two men–a street act–and people gather around and watch.

A man makes charchol on a tiny clay oven.

Stands selling fried foods and sweets of every kind are everywhere, filling the street with smoke.

Girls party dresses and tiny salwaar kamez outfits are carried through the crowds on tall bamboo poles.

Homemade garlands of flowers, made by the very poor, are strung up around everyone from Jesus to Ganesh, are selling on the street corners.

Men on their hands and knees comb thru trash in the gutter, competing with cats.

Women, decked out in their best saris for the coming Hindu festival, fill the streets.

Groups of boys fill back alleyways, making everyhting from statues to little clay pots which will be broken after drinking tea from them.

An alley full of butchered meat is full of flies, dogs, and their puppies.

Buildings seem to tower over the streets, leaning in on them as though they are going to collaspe at any moment. Every building is damp and moldy, covered in greenery and vines, laundry and faded signs.

And human rickshaw wallahs line the streets. They are everywhere in this part of town. Pulling people around, or resting on the side of the streets waiting for a fare, they are everywhere I look.

We get back to my hotel, and Palik asks for much more money than I was originally told.

I give it to him. Who can put a cost on another human being carrying you through the street?

Afterwards, I approach the group of yellow taxi drivers/rickshaw wallahs I originally tried to get a taxi with, on the corner.

They all think that I want some of the money back from Palik, and are angry with him for overcharging me. A crowd gathers, and several young men come over and attempt to translate.

A heated debate ensues, and the crowd gets bigger.

” No problem.”, I say. ” I am happy.”

The crowd all smiles. “She is happy. She doesn’t want the money back.”, they say. Everyone is smiling and passing around bidi cigarettes.

“Yes, I am happy.”, I say. ” But I want Palik to give me a ride once a week to the bank. I will pay him well.”

They translate for Palik, who turns to me and smiles.
He says something to the crowd and everyone laughs, then one of the boys translates for me.

He says, ” He cannot believe his good luck…and he says welcome to India!”

Palik and I agree on a price, and it is agreed that he will take me over to the bank once a week and back. The price is high enough that he will now be able to take several days off a week, and rent out his rickshaw to another man. We also agree that I will not want him to drive me in the rain or bad weather, only on a clear day.

I walk back to my hotel, completely aghast with myself that I have agreed to pay a human being to drive me around once a week. But looking at their situation, and looking at it from their point of view, I now have a totally different moral code to deal with.

India is so completely mixed up. Or rather, I am completely mixed up in India. What’s right? What’s wrong? It’s easy to answer all these questions from the comfort of my own living room..it’s another thing to answer them when you are confronted with problems up close and personal.

India..it’s everything, all at once.

gigi

October 5th, 2008

The heat and humidity have killed off any desire I have to eat anything. It is so humid that I find it hard to drag myself out of bed and get dressed.

Added to this is my frustration that I am paying too much for my hotel..I’ve known for several days that I had overpaid for my single room, but didn’t feel motivated to do anything about it.

Today I finally tried to do something about it by talking to the manager, but it was to no avail. Part of this is because any moment the big Puja Festival–the largest Hindu festival in this area of India all year–is about to take place, so rooms are crowded. The other reason that I can’t lower the price is because I am a single, white woman. Women traveling alone here have told me that bargaining for a lower rate on a hotel room is impossible( If you are traveling alone, and not with a man), and it turns out to be pretty true.

The other frustration I have today is the corruption here, which is everywhere. Everyone is making money off of everyone else. A little bit is skimmed off the top for this person or that one..and when it finally filters down to who oever is supposed to receive it it’s become a mere pittance.

Even beggars have to pay for their spot on the street, and turn over a certain amount of their earnings to a big boss. Street childen often turn over all of their earnings in return for very little.

So although the people of this city are very kind, they also are full of corruption and people trying to take advantage . Even the smallest transaction has a middleman–or ten middlemen.

Tourists are no exception. When I overpaid for my room, part of the money was given to the taxi driver who brought me there, who gae some to his boss, and so on.

In the States, we have all these middlemen, too–but somehow it does not bother me so much, probably because I can’t see it affecting simple tiny transactions, like a street child’s earnings from begging  on the street.

My only two goals today are to eat something and find a new hotel. If I can accomplish only these two things, I will be happy. As happy as one can be here.

But that’s the strangest part about this place…in spite of it’s terribleness, I like it. There’s something about this city that draws me in and holds me here, whether I want it to or not.

Right now, a man is sitting and playing a sitar and singing in the internet cafe I am writing this post in. The music is entirely foreign to me–and yet, I feel like I’ve heard it before. It so fits in with the environment that it’s hard to notice it.

The experience yesterday, of the man dying in the street, it was something like this–like a sitar being played, the whirring og the fans overhead, the overwhelming smells raging war in my nostrils..it happened so quickly that it was literally hard to notice it.

I noticed it, of course, but passerby didn’t. It was not foreign, it was everyday. An everyday occurence, mixed up with thousands of other everyday occurences, in a city so packed that you can’t move without bumping into someone or something.

Out the back window of my hotel room there is a large building being built, out of concrete. Men shimmy up ladders made of bamboo that are shoddily put together. I watch them out my window, as they perform acrobatic feats of leaping off the bamboo ladders onto the building they are constructing and then shimmy down again.

At night, they sleep in the half shell of the building they are working on, on bits of cardboard. Their few clothes hang on a line, their cooking pots cook a simple meal over a fire of cooked trash…they work every   single  day, from 5 am until 10 pm.

Today a man fell off the scaffolding and hurt his leg and ribs. He did not even cry out. I watched it all happen as I was brushing my teeth and staring out the window.

All I could think of was that he must be so worried about his loss of livelihood–his family was no where nearby, perhaps he was sending them money, or perhaps they were living somewhere in this city. Money is such a commodity here–even a few ruppees–that people are willing to take work that kills them. They have no choice.

A rickshaw was brought and took the man away. The rickshaw was a human powered type, the kind that are pulled by men. These serve as the ambulances of the poor here.

They are trying to outlaw these types of rickshaws, saying that “they are not the face of Calcutta”. This is the last place on earth to use these types of human-horse types of transport in the world.

From what I have seen so far–in spite of a great concentration of industry and tourists and luxury goods in this city–these human powered rickshaws are the face of this city.

gigi