true life planet

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

October 4th. 2008

I’ve been in this city for a few days now.

At first, it seemed so overwhelming, but eventually I had to just leave my hotel room and deal with it.

Calcutta is exactly as I pictured it to be—full of people, full of traffic, full of falling apart buildings, muddy streets, rickshaws and noise.

But the city is also the friendliest large city I have been to on my world travels. The Bengali people are kind, patient and helpful beyond belief.

Walking around the city, it’s easy to get lost–I get disoriented the moment I leave my hotel. Street names and signs are useless here. ( Even if you could find one. ) I have to rely on landmarks or shop signs to figure out how to get home.

After recovering from the worst jet lag I have ever had, I finally felt well rested enough to actually go out and explore some of the city. I also had to buy supplies, such as toilet paper and drinking water

I walked over to the Sudder Street area, which is about two city blocks from my hotel. It’s full of tourists, backpackers, Mother Theresa volunteers and Indians who live there. It’s also full of beggars. Lots and lots of them, all begging not for money but for food, for milk for their baby and so on.

I was standing at a kiosk trying to buy water (or rather, I was examining the bottled water they had to see if it was tampered with or not, as much of the water here is simply Calcutta tap water put into bottles..) when a tiny woman thrust her baby on to my hip and began asking for milk for her baby.

There is always a moment for me, when I am confronted by a  beggar or someone asking for something, that I just want to give whatever they are asking for. I think that happens to everyone.It’s a very emotional response.

But here in Calcutta, within just two days, my response has become much more critical. I intellectually know that giving to a person begging doesn’t solve anything at all. I intellectually know that in all probability the woman doesn’t need the milk and it’s all a scam. It helps to not respond to any request immediately and just watch and observe for a few moments to see if the person asking for help actually needs it or if there is some sort of scam involved.

So I don’t give her anything, but instead keep window shopping while watching what happens when the next tourist walks up to the shopcounter. In minutes, another tourist walks up to the same kiosk, this time to buy toilet paper. The beggar does the same thing to her–thrusts the baby on to the tourist, pleading so loudly the tourist is overwhelmed. The tourist asks the shopkeeper “How much for powered milk?” , and then proceeds to buy it and give it to the woman.

The moment the tourist has left, the packet of milk is returned to the shopkeeper owner by the beggar, who then gives the beggar a few coins.

The scam only makes the beggar woman a few coins, while the shopkeeper makes several dollars, as he’s sold the milk to the tourist at an exorbant rate in the first place.

I am constantly confronted with scams like these, moments like these, thruout the day.

It becomes less of a moral choice (do I help them or not?) than determining intellectually what would be the best way to be of help. And–even though the woman does get a few coins–it’s not an effective solution to a bigger problem. Besides that, it’s continuing a very corrupt practice.

It makes people very uncomfortable to read about or think about having to make decisons like this, but when you’re here in Calcutta, you’ve got no choice but to make decsions like this every 15 minutes.

In addition, finding a reliable retaurant has given me a headache. I would prefer not to eat out, but I haven’t found my way to the large markets yet, and even when I do, cooking is forbidden in my hotel.

I finally had the idea of asking at a pricey hotel where to eat. Brilliant. So when I passed by a very expensive hotel on my way to Sudder street, I simply slipped inside to the front desk, where I asked them for a list of restaurants they suggested their guests eat at.

I choose one off of their list, and it’s called “The Blue Sky Cafe”, and it’s a pleasant enough place. It’s tables are crowded with tourists from around the world, including Indian tourists. It’s easy to strike up a conversation, and find out what people think of the city and why they are here. Most turn out to be passing through–it’s not anyone’s favorite city, by far. A few people are volunteering with Mother Theresa’s organization (this is the slow volunteer season, apparently, and there are only about 70 volunteers total right now), and from them I get a few tips on when to sign up and how to get there. All the long term volunteers are ready with tips on how to live here for an extended period of time;how to stay healthy; how to deal with getting around; and just how to exist here without becoming totally drained from the environment and the volunteer work itself.

The food at Blue Sky is fine, and since I’ve struggled alot with food–and eating it–since I arrived here, it’s nice to have a place that actually makes stuff that I like to eat. It has “Continental” food, which I think translates to bland traveler fare, but I stick to the mildly spicy Indian menu. My appetite has been very adversely affected by the humidity; and just being in such a place where one is constantly confronted by poverty; bbut, it’s also that most places that serve food look incredibly dirty, and I am very concerned about getting sick.

So I’ve made an arrangement with The Blue Sky Cafe to eat one meal a day there, and so far it’s working out pretty well. It’s clean, it’s relatively tasty, It’s cheap and substantial, and it seems to be a great place to meet other travelers.

My waiter, Sam, is incredibly friendly and has explained much about the culture of Calcutta to me during slow moments. He also explained several of the scams people use to get money from the tourists, how much to pay for things, and gave me a list of other restaurants that are safe to eat at.

I also found out alot about the water situation. Much of the water for sale is actually just Calcutta water that is bottled and sealed, and that’s very bad, because the water is full of stuff that will leave you sick for days. Other bottles are tampered with at the bottom–tourists don’t crush their bottles after drinking them, and the bottles are sold by the hotels to people who then refill them with tap water and sell them back to the tourists. I’ve seen this type of transaction happening right out in front of my hotel, too–simply refill with tap water, put on a new seal, and voila!

However, a few restaurants sell good bottled water, and it’s the same price as what you would find on the street (or cheaper, actually).

At the moment, just making my way around the city has been a struggle.

I am trying to just figure out my neighborhood at the moment, staying withi a five city block radius and trying to find everything I need nearby.

The streets are full of everything and anything you can imagine.

A severly deformed man sits crosslegged (or maybe his legs are permanently in that contorted state?) on the pavement, carving a teak armchair.

A woman who lives under a plastic tarp on the corner is doing her laundry.

A dog chews thru a bag of trash.

A well dressed man is shaking hands on the corner and giving a speech.

Women, the tiniest women I have ever seen, carry wooden trays on their heads of wet cement.

Cars constantly honk their horns.

A calf, beautifully pristine and white in the midle of the muddy street, is tied up to a post and sports a flower garland.

Rickshaw drivers laboriously carry loads of passengers, chickens, schoolchildren, bricks..or rest, parked on the side of the road.

Shops, sometimes only two by five feet, sell everything and anything you want. Shopkeepers squat on boards inside these little hovels and do everything from write letters to make phone calls to bottle up medicines.

At first, walking down the street seems difficult, and I think at any moment I will be hit by a large Ambassador cab or a bicycle or a rickshaw. But strangely enough, I get used to it, and soon, like everyone else, I seem to magically know when to step out of the way.

The street is also full of people who want something from me–money, food, business. I quickly learn that not establishing eye contact with anyone is essential, otherwise I am bombarded by requests for to buy something, take a rickshaw ride, give money to a beggar..

I think for most visitors to Calcutta, this is the problem they are confronted with when they arrive here, and since they are rarely here for long, it ends up defining the city for them. A lot of tourists I have spoken with said things like ” Calcutta is hell on Earth” and that it was their least favorite place in all of India.

Long term volunteers tell me that once you’ve been in a neighborhood for awhile, though, the beggars stop asking you for anything. They recognize you, smile, and you go on your way.

Today I was totally lost (as usual on this trip!) and I was looking around, trying to get my bearings, when a woman came over to me and asked me in perfect English where I was going. I told her the name of my street, and she pointed me the right direction, smiled, and ducked back under the tarp that served as her makeshift house on the pavement.

“Come back and see me sometime. This is my house.”, she proudly said, and with a grand sweep of her hand gestured trowards what seemed to be a grey tarp held up by four sticks.

I peered inside and looked at what must be one of the cleanest places in the city. All of the family’s belongings were neatly piled up into little stacks, the outdoor kitchen was well organized, with a pot of something cooking away.

This doesn’t mean, of course, that the woman and her family wouldn’t much rather live somewhere else. Of course they would. The idea of “the happy beggar/family joyfully living on the street” is not an idea I embrace.

It was, however, interesting to see how the woman and her family made the best of what was obviously a trying situation.

One Bengali man at a bookshop told me,” The problem of Calcutta is not that Calcutta doesn’t welcome immigrants/the very poor–it does, in fact warmly accept anyone who choses to live here. We are the most hospitable people on Earth. The problem is that there is no place or resources for these people to live.”

So on one side of things, one gets confronted by pain, suffering, and poverty..and on the other hand one gets embraced by the incredible hospitality of the city itself. It makes for a strange mix, and yet it’s affect is that I have become more comfortable here within a day of walking than I would have imagined I would have been with in a month’s time.

I finally make it back to my hotel, having wandered around the streets of Calcutta for 5 hours.

I decide to try out the internet cafe across the street, and walk over and begin talking to the owner, who is smoking outside. As he is telling me that the power had gone out(again!), a man who had been walking by us suddenly leaned against the wall to our right with a pained expression.

Suddenly he clutched his gut and began throwing up what looked like blood. A lot of blood, bright red, all over the crumbling brick wall and the pavement.

There is blood all over the sidewalk. How can so much blood come from one person, so quickly? What is happening? It’s all a blur.

Everyone stands back, and within a minute or two the man is bent over and staggering into the alley right next to the internet shop.

He then falls down and dies.

He was quickly surrounded by a group of men, who talked amonst themselves about what to do. Soon, a cart was brought and he was carried away.

This all happened within the space of 15 minutes or less.

The power then went back on and I was whisked away from the street scene into the cafe by the owner.

“TB”, he said. “It is a sorrow of the poor.”

I’m reeling and thinking, how can I write anything online at this moment? What to say? How to explain this to anyone else? It’s impossible. I can’t even begin to try.

It is frankly impossible to describe how I feel at the moment. Impossible. I don’t even have words for it, this feeling. It’s a mix of sadness and disbelief, a mix of compassion and pain. It is overwhelming. I can’t even write about it anymore.

And that brings me, here, where I now sit inside the above internet cafe, writing this blog entry.

I am sitting next to young woman from Argentina, who has been traveling around India for some time and is here in Calcutta volunteering with Mother Theresa for one week. One thing I really like about being here is that the volunteers are all so easy going and helpful to one another..just sitting here next to here, she’s already helped me figure out which house I want to volunteer at during my stay.

I had forgotten about the time difference and so find myself having to wait until the day after tomorrow to register to volunteer. That gives me another day to wander around the city and get a little bit more of a sense of place–which I really need.

Still, my mind reels from everything I’ve seen today. The man dying in the street, not more than eight feet away from me; the woman, living in her plastic tarp house, the severely deformed man sitting on the pavement carving beautiful teak furniture…

Somehow it’s all blended into one big mass in my brain. How do i process all of these events and images?

I have never been a place that had so much beauty (delicate saris, colored temples set up for Puja–the big Hindi festival coming up–piles of fruits, incense for sale) and so much want and poverty.

Until the next entry,

gigi

October 2nd, 2008 /Journal Entry

I am writing this from what has to be the tiniest, cramped internet cafe in the entire world.

It’s small, cramped space is just a tinier version of the city itself. Although Calcutta is huge, it full of people, all crammed together. The street is full of people, walking , talking, selling, begging, bathing, sleeping, standing, squatting, praying, and eating.

Journal Entry:

Arriving here was no easy task. I hate airports all over the world. Arriving at an airport is like waking up blindfolded. You have no idea where to go, what to do, where your bags are, what the rules are, how to leave once you’re done…

I followed the advice of my travel guide and used the prepay taxi service, which means you prepay for the taxi . But once I walked out of the airport, I was literally accosted by twenty men all trying to grab my receipt for my prepaid taxi.

” Now look, you give it me! You must give it to me, ma’am!”

” Ma’am, ma’am ..Give the paper to me. I will take care of you!”

I don’t know what to do, so I just stand there for a minute. There does not seem to be a stand for prepaid taxis as I was told when I paid for my ride at the prepay office a few moments ago.

Additionally, I am drenched. In sweat. The humid air has hit me like a tidal wave, and sweat pours down my face and legs. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. This is the most humid and uncomfortable place I have ever been in my life. Even the buildings and pavement seem to sweat.
I finally end up walking over to a bunch of taxis, and the taxi drivers there grab at my bags and try to take them and put them in their cabs. I hold on tight and keep asking for the prepay taxis.

“There are no prepay taxis, ma’am. They lied to you inside. Our government is very corrupt. You only paid the TAX for the taxi ride inside. That tax goes to the government. Now you must pay us separately for the taxi ride.”

Is he lying? I am so tired and sweaty and hungry that I can’t think clearly. I decide to ask him one question to see if he is telling the truth.

“How much does a hotel room cost in Calcutta?”, I ask.

” 2000 rupees, ma’am. It is terrible, but that is how much it costs here. Now let me take your bags, I will take you to a very nice place.” (a room can cost as little as 200 rupees, so I know he is lying).

He and his friends now have a tight hold on my bags, but so do I.

I decide to leave and go to a group of taxis I can see in the distance. They’re hopefully the prepay taxis I need.

They don’t let go ogf my bags, and I’m trying to move away from them. I’m 6’3 and weigh more than all of them put together, but this doesn’t deter them. They want me to pay them for a taxi. Period,

” I need to go ask the advice of my military friend that I know in the airport.”, I say.

At the mention of the word “military” they let go of my bags and walk away.

I walk over the the other group of taxis, and it turns out these are the taxis that I want.

I have no idea where I’m going, because I didn’t reserve anything. The taxi driver doesn’t speak any English, but his boss does, and his boss gives him some instructions to take me to Sudder street (an area where all the gringo hostels are).

My taxi driver drives like a maniac. He butts in front of anyone of anyone and anything, including other taxis, rickshaw drivers, people, children, a herd of goats, bicycles…his hand never leaves the horn. We crawl along through the city streets, blaring the horn and causing near accidents every few minutes.

I don’t have time to notice that I am being driven by an insane person because I am looking out of the windows. What I see there is so visually arresting that I am entirely distracted from the man who holds my life in his hands and from the pool of sweat that is rapidly soaking me and my car seat.

Beggars constantly run up to the car windows, putting their hands inside, touching me, groping, asking for money, for food.

A woman shoves a tiny baby into the car window, and it looks at me calm, unruffled, as though it is used to this sort of thing.

A very filthy, old man, wearing only a cloth around his privates, touches my head and then bows and gives the “namaste” greeting.

A child runs up, soon joined by five other children, all calling out,” Auntie. Auntie. Auntie.”, and pointing to their mouths, gesturing that they are hungry.

I give no one anything, since I don’t believe that kind of giving to be effective. But what do I do? I don’t know how to handle it..I sink into my seat and close my eyes for a moment, and then remember that this is what I came here to see.

Still, after awhile, the beggars get so bad that my driver rolls all the windows up, but this doesn’t stop them. As we crawl along at a snail’s pace, they press their faces and hands against the glass.

From inside my glass prison I get a view of the streets: it’s pouring rain and it’s 9:30 at night, but everyone in the city seems to be outside. People pour out of every alleyway and crowd the road and sidewalks, some which seem to have turned into pure mud. People lay in the rain, sleeping under cardboard and fabric makeshift tents. Children stare out from their small piece of cardboard with a dazed, glazed over expression. People are pulling everything from rocks to chubby, well-dressed women loaded with purchases in bicycle rickshaws. The famous human powered rickshaw–a cart with a seat for the passenger, pulled by a man who carries it on his upper body and walks through the streets–are everywhere. The men who pull them are the thinnest people I have ever seen.

The city doesn’t seem to sleep. Everyone is out shopping, working…the entire city is lit up by electric lights, including the kind one lights up Christmas trees with. Work of all kinds is taking place, from loading up of cement (onto the platters which then get placed on woman’s heads) to trashpickers, squatting on the roadside, going through heaps of trash.

I am most surprised to see a barefoot man, wearing only a few rags, carrying a ladder through the city street. He stops at each stoplight, and taking out a dirty rag, he carefully wipes down the traffic light with a very dirty rag. As he stands precariously on his wooden ladder, cars and bikes and rickshaws zoom around him. He looks entirely unperturbed.

We arrive at a hotel I have randomly chosen out of my guidebook, and it’s on the famous Sudder street. I ask the driver to wait, and even though he doesn’t understand English, he knows what I’m asking him to do.

I go inside the hotel, a well advertised cheapie on the backpacker circuit, and it is filthy. It is the dirtiest place I have ever seen–cockroaches everywhere, flooding on the first floor, and the room is small, cramped and dank, with no window, all for 2500 rupees! (That’s about 5 usd.)

It’s late. I have no where to stay. I’m in a huge city and know no one. But I can’t stay there. I decide to try a different one, and get back into the taxi again.

The second hotel, called the Hotel Neelam, turns out to be much nicer. It’s two blocks or so away from the Sudder street area, so it’s close to things I need access to, like safe food to eat and internet–but it’s far enough a way to make it a little less touristy. The room is fine for the price, 330 rupees a night–but, it’s also filthy, and looks as though it has never been cleaned. Ever.

But it does have it’s own bathroom, with a bucket shower and cold water.

It’s got a nice view of the street below, a locking cabinet for my things,and a huge padlock for the door. It also has a tv, which seems to have 2 channels only, featuring Indian soap operas and Indian news.

And best of all, it seems pretty safe–there is a twenty four hour attendant at the office, which is right outside my door.

I pay for a few days’ stay and go into my room–the room that will be mine for the next 5 months. As I sit on the bed, I notice how disgusting the bedding and mattress are. There are insects on the pillow case. I realize that I was right to bring alot of lice shampoo to India…

I am so exhausted that I can hardly move. I want to just lie down and sleep.

But first things first. I begin to clean the room, stripping the bed, getting rid of the disgusting pillow, vputting my new sheets on it, hang my mosquito net, unpack…I check the room for rat holes(one), peepholes(none), and cockroaches(none).

By the time I am reasonably set up, I’m so tired I think I am going to faint. I rummage through my bag and come up with a bag of almonds and a jar of Marmite. Almonds dipped into Marmite turn out to not be all that bad…

I lay on my bed, lathered with mosquito repellent and eating my Marmite/almond concoction, thinking about the city I’m in. What I’ve seen so far doesn’t invite me to explore it much–in fact, it makes he want to get the hell out of here.

But I guess I was expecting that. It’s just natural culture shock. It will wear off, I reason with myself.

I try to imagine figuring out how to get around the city on my own and am at a loss. I can’t imagine it. But I have to figure out so many things tomorrow, like where to eat, where to buy clean water, how to get to the Motherhouse..

I get up and look out a window. An entire family is camping out on the sidewalk. It’s lightly raining, and they only have piece of cardboard for shelter. Another man is setting up his home for the night right next door to them, and his son is bathing in the street, wearing only a small piece of cloth.

I look around my room, feeling pretty grateful to have it.

I fall asleep, waking up through out the night by dogs barking, car horns , babies crying, Indian music, and people yelling. I’m so tired that none of it bothers me, and I just blissfully fall back asleep. I’m so grateful to just finally have a place to rest and be alone after this long journey here.

gigi

I am heading to Geneva in the morning, then taking  a train to Zurich.

In Zurich, I’ve got  a few hours to sightsee so I’m going to take in some of the museums and then head to the airport.

First flight:

On Oct 1, 2008 …..Leaves Zurich at 22:15 for Dubai arrives there at 6:25 am . Flight EK 86 EMIRATES

Second flight:

On Oct 2nd, 2008….Leaves Dubai at 13:00 for Calcutta arrives there at 19:15 pm. Flight EK 548 EMIRATES

I haven’t decided what I am doing yet once I reach Calcutta. It will be evening, so depending on safety factors I will decide from there. The current plan is to get a prepaid cab to the Sudder street area and get a inexpensive room for a few days until I find a better place to stay. Don’t expect any email for some time as it may take me awhile to get accustomed to where things are and also I report for work on Monday so will not have much time the first week.

I will be in touch, love you all. Thinking of you.

gigi

In less than 24 hours, I’m on my way to hopefully be what will be an experience of a lifetime. As the time for departure has gotten closer, I’ve found myself searching the Internet for stories by people that have been there. They are few and far between, especially by people around my age group (the 40 plus age group!).

Most of the blogs I’ve found haven’t been all that inspiring. I’ve found one or two that were very good and caught the emotive side of working with the Missionaries of Charity on Bootsnall–but other than that, pickings have been sadly slim. I haven’t found any blogs that have gone into any depth about the intellectual richness of the city, either. Volunteers blogs about their time there seem to focus exclusively on the day to day volunteering and the various forms of escape they’ve needed to sustain themselves in what must be a very challenging situation.

Many volunteers only go to help out on their way to another destination, or perhaps go for no more than a month. I haven’t found any blogs by anyone who has been a very long term volunteer like I am planning on being (I am planning on being there for 5 months, with a view short breaks thrown in for my sanity).This is why one of my major goals while there is to write a blog with daily journal entries describing the experience of both volunteering and of being in the city itself– so that future volunteers can read it and get more of a visceral, immediate idea of what it will be like.

I wonder what it will be like to be in this dirty, crazy, and polluted city for so long and how it will impact my state of mind, spiritual life, and health.

I think right now my biggest worry is about health and the risks that I am about to take. Even on the streets of Calcutta, rickshaw-wallahs have the cough of tuberculosis, let alone in some of the homes Mother Theresa established that I will be working in. And that’s just one of the many contagious illnesses that I’m about to expose myself to. I even worry about simple things like food poisoning so on, because I’ve had the luxury to prepare my own food for over a month now and I am no longer accustomed to having to eat whatever is served to me.

I think about my own spiritual life and path, and I wonder how will being in a place with so much suffering day after day  fit in with my beliefs? What will it be like to live for months on end where people practice a caste system and people are doomed to the be the lowest of the low because that was who their fathers and grandfathers were? How will this experience change how I look at humanity as a whole?

I worry about the noise, the lack of privacy, all the people packed together in tight, stifling conditions. I think of the strong smells, the choking fumes of car exhaust, the mud and the human excrement in the streets…I can only imagine what it will be like, and even my imagination fails me now.

I worry about how I will deal with taking care of myself, with validating taking care of myself, when I will be surrounded by people who literally have nothing and are dying on the street. How will I walk by them everyday? How will I look at that child lying in the street with nothing? How will I look at myself?

I think about why I have wanted to go be a longterm volunteer in Calcutta for years and years, and now that I’m actually going to do it, I wonder what put it into my mind as a young girl. How did she think such an experience would impact her young life? Now that I’m actually doing it, how will it impact me and everything I think and believe about who I am–my identity?

I think about the growth ahead, for which I am both excited and nervous. I have the sense that a tremendous amount of self growth will happen in the five months ahead, and I have no idea who I will be when I am done. It’s scary and tremendous all at the same time.

At the same time I am thinking about all of this, I think about the tremendous cultural capital Calcutta is. I think of the challenge of learning Bengali… of meeting writers, artists, and poets … Of watching films and going to book fairs… How can all of this exist next to the other side of Calcutta?

I’m about to find out.

gigi