Whisky Chocolates

The henna on my hands has long dried, flaking onto the key boards as I type this. I have spent the past week with a Hindu family at the base of a valley town called Dehradun huddling under blankets and wrapped in layers of clothes to warm me in the midst of the North India chill. Its been an incredible holiday; one that has led me to furiously record occasions as they occur so as to preserve them forever. All of the sounds, sights, and flavors of this time  must be remembered  so that I can be transported back in a moment in the future. Its too precious of a time to forget. So in the spirit of Christmas, I thought I would share the following experience so you can be transported to this place alongside me...

"I am sitting on the side patio in the warm afternoon sun of Dehradun. The rays of sunshine are making me sleepy and heating the shawl around my neck till it radiates warmth. I was invited to sit here beside an ancient grandmother and her aging daughter, the relatives of a friend of mine who invited me to join her family for the hoildays. I've been told to call them by their Hindi names for grandmother and aunt as I've now become part of the family for the holidays. Dadi, the grandmother, cracks the shells of peanuts and places them in my hand for me to eat. Boha, the daughter, knits baby booties for her newest granddaughter who was born just two weeks ago. The sun lights on the identical faces of a mother and daughter separated only in looks by time that spans a few decades.

They both stand at five feet tall with knee length dppattas on and hair tightly pulled back. They have spent Boha's entire life together living in a joint family in the valley town of Dehradun. Their quiet way and soft-spoken Hindi is captivating and soothing to my senses so I do not have to understand what they say to simply enjoy being in their presence. Nevertheless, I wish with all my heart to understand and soak up their words which have been marinated in a lifetime of love and laughter.

In an effort to present a small gift to share in this moment, I excused myself to go grab a chocolate bar that I obtained earlier in my journey in Delhi. I paid no mind to the fact that the truffled chocolates contained a gooey center that has been infused with Grouse's Whisky. Only after presenting it did I remember that Hindus don't partake of alcohol as part of their religious observances.

By the time I realized my mistake, it was too late to withdraw the gift. Both Dadi and Babu had curiously opened and eaten the decadent chocolate, marveling appropriately at the taste as only the kindest of people do when they receive a gift. I felt too guilty not to divulge myself for presenting them with sinful treats. Being that neither of them speak English, I explained the situation to Dadi's grandson who thankfully laughed and informed both the women of the chocolate's true nature. Dadi's eyes widened and her toothless mouth gaped; alcohol had never passed her lips over the span of more than eighty years of her lifetime. Boha's eyes lit up, and she chuckled at me. Both looked at the chocolates, at me, and then back at the chocolates again. Boha then carefully wrapped the chocolate bar up and put the chocolates in the box to be saved for Dadi's son, the father of my friend, who secretly liked to take an occasional and secret whisky in a separate room from the family.

Throughout the rest of the day, my mishap was told with subsequent laughter that was shared by all to include myself. The climax of the retelling came when Dadi wobbled in a comedic rendition of drunkenness to the delight of the entire family...."

The rest of my Christmas time tale goes on, but I'll save more of its telling for another time lest the blog get too long. Until then, I hope you all had a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

The Train that Leads to Nowhere

It has been about two months since I first arrived in Chennai. Every day feels like an accomplishment; every day feels like an adventure. The little things which I have taken for granted for years suddenly feel like monumental undertakings. I’m no longer able to confidently say that I can pay my own bills, brush my teeth in the morning, order takeout, or travel places confidently on my own.  It has become an everyday adaptation in which I learn to trust and rely on others for the simplest of tasks. Yesterday, this was tested to the extreme on my mistaken boarding of a train to nowhere.

It was 6:30 a.m. yesterday morning when my alarm blaringly shouted for me to get up. The night had been unusually muggy for this season and so I slept fitfully.  The mosquitoes took advantage of every opportunity to feast before I retired, so the itching angry welts didn’t help me in my slumber attempts. I tossed and turned most all night only to be awoken by the shouts, singing, and banging doors of the college girls in the hostel. Apparently 5 am is the new hour to sing Christmas carols; I guess I missed that memo. Let me just say that a pillow over your head can only help so much.

Lacking sleep and good humor, my morning increased my discomfort when I discovered that the water, once again, had run out. This has been happening more frequently as of late, but fortunately I have the buckets of brownish water standing by to suffice me until the tinted liquid flows through the pipes again. I managed my morning ritual quickly with the stand-by buckets, grabbed my things, and headed out the door by 7:15 am.

I flagged down a rickshaw and, naturally, two or three stopped to claim my fare. They bartered amongst themselves leaving me to settle on the driver with the best price. Once aboard, I noticed that I had miscalculated the time it would take for me to reach the train station. It was 7:35 at this point and my train left at 7:45. This was my second time on the rail way and my first time alone so I was worried about being on time. I wasn’t even thinking about the possibility of getting on the wrong train at that point.

I hurried along the pathway to the stations, ducked into a queue, and asked the man behind the scratched foggy glass for a round trip ticket in first class to Chengalpet. During my time here, I have learned that service providers will generally give what they think I’m asking for instead of clarifying with me.  So, he gave me a one-way ticket on general boarding and told me the train would leave in two minutes from the left side of the platform. I didn’t have the time or wherewithal to argue so I hurried to find my arriving train.

I reached the crowded platform just as the train was pulling in and hopped onto the ladies’ only cart. I found a seat that wasn’t doused from the recent rains and placed myself by a window. The cart was moderately unoccupied, so I pulled out a book to pass the time until I would meet my coworker, Shega, a few stops later. We were conducting field visits for the day with rural clients to assess their housing situation and design individualized housing construction plans. I was really excited about seeing more of the rural life, taking pictures for the reports and meeting new people.

Breaking my reverie, my phone buzzed loudly in my lap.Shega wanted to confirm that I was on the right train and asked me the most recent stop I had seen. I wasn’t sure because of my daydreaming so she asked if the train was stopping while we were talking. It was, so we both assumed it was the right train. I noticed later that we passed a station that was along the route, so I settled into my seat and continued reading.

My thoughts were jarred with each stop as the cart became more and more packed with women of every sort. There were sellers, students, and professionals in colorful saris and duppattas all cramming further and further into every available space. One woman was practically sitting on my lap while another snoozed beside me. The lady two seats down was complaining loudly to others and pointing towards me because my purse had fallen in her lap earlier. I simply stared out the window, hoping to get off soon. An hour and a half had passed since I first boarded, and I was feeling claustrophobic.

The phone buzzed again, and it was Shega letting me know to de-board the train in two stops. I pushed my way to the door, gripping the handles, while ladies selling cheap goods pushed their way around me. I was at least a head taller than most of the people on the cart: a glaring white woman with oversized sunglasses and messy hair amidst a crowd of gleaming braids, gold jewelry, and bindis. Right before I de-boarded, my phone buzzed again.

“Where are you?” Shega asked.

I stepped onto the platform and looked around at a vaguely familiar site.

“I just stepped off. Where are you?”

“I’m standing on the platform and I don’t see you.”

I looked to my left and noticed a sign that said: Chetpet. I was extremely confused at this point because I live on the border of Chetpet and Nungambakkam at a hostel in WCC. After spending an hour and a half on the train there was no way I should have gotten off at almost the same place I boarded.

Miserably, I replied: “Oh no, Shega. I’m in Chetpet.”

“Chetpet? Spell it.”

“C-H-E-T-P-E-T.”

Matter-of-factly, Shega said: “Heather, you got on the wrong train.”.

Normally, moments like these are laughable. But I just wasn’t feeling capable of humor right then. With a sigh, I hopped off the platform, crossed the rows of rail tracks with the other passengers, and climbed the dilapidated stairs on a bridge to the main road where I hailed a taxi back to WCC. I was extremely frustrated to the point of curses and tears, which I resorted to for a moment once back in my room before I then collapsed on the bed in exhaustion.

Later on, I found out that I could have been largely fined for making a round trip journey, but I thought that was laughable since I never actually de-boarded.  Another person shared that I should always ask at least ten people for direction before following the most reoccurring advice given. It seems outrageous to me, but that’s the way of life here. And so, every day I am learning that my self-sufficiency is counterproductive and will often lead me to board the wrong train. This notion can so easily be taken for a life lesson if I were feeling up to philosophizing about trains that lead nowhere.  Maybe someday I’ll feel creative enough for that. For the moment, I’ll just default to a new phrase I’ve adopted and used with a frequent sigh for situations such as these: 

“That’s India!”

Throw a Stone Up in the Skies of Goa

The European couple posed jauntily for their self-portrait as they waited alongside us on the five hour lay-over in Mumbai. Their pierced faces, exposed skin, and tattooed arms seemed grossly out of place next to the conservative Indian dress of the other airport passengers to include Jen and myself. The women were unperceptive to their differences; instead, they guzzled their morning beers while bending towards each other in some secret conversation. I only saw them three other times after we waited. One was at the Café Coffee counter while Jen and I ordered afternoon samosas. One of the women laid thickly into the workers with an air of indifference and sharp tongue at being served food heated in the microwave. The next time they would be jutting their hips, standing on their chairs on the plane, and celebrating our landing in Goa among the silence of the other waiting passengers. The last time I saw them, they were crashing into the other passengers with luggage carts and aggressive determination.  I watched the retreating backsides of Mohawk and skin as they strutted out of the airport, baggage piled high, on their way to party their way through Goa. It was our first experience with the bands of tourists we would join in the land of beach, beauty, and nightlife.

There is a saying in Goa that goes something like this: “If you throw a stone into the sky, it will land on a church, a temple, or a bar.”  If it were allowed, I would also add that the stone would surely land on a tourist. We joined the masses in the bare white skin parade on our non-traditional Thanksgiving vacation to the beaches of Goa, witnessing firsthand the stark contrast of the differences in cultures.  

Our first day on the beach was Thursday morning; the day the rest of America would be dutifully tending to family time and the mealtime indulgence. Jen and I trooped our way down to the beach, securing a spot along the Arabian. The water was warm and the waves embracing; it was perfect. All around us, varying sizes and shapes of whiteness joined in our worship of the sun while we were catered to by the beach attendants.

Our attendant introduced himself as ‘Terry,’ but Jen observed that the name seemed unusual. We would later find out that his actual name was Bharat.  Due to the unfamiliarity of the Western tongue to Indian names, he changed his name to make himself more memorable to his customers. Throughout the day, he dutifully brought us whatever we asked and made sure that we were comfortable. During conversation, I asked him about his family, where he was from, and how he liked Goa. He shared that he lived with his wife and two children six months out of the year in Goa, working as a beach attendant. He paid about $30 to the owner of the beach chairs in order to serve the guests and only profited from the tips that he earned.  Sometimes he made $4 dollars from a customer; sometimes he made nothing. Either way, he seemed content to be standing in the heat of the sun day in and day out, serving foreigners as they baked their white skin in the Indian sun. These things always make me pause and reflect on my own opportunities in life with a grating and guilty sense of gratefulness. 
 

Though we spent much of our time reading and lazing in the sun under the care of Bharat, Jen and I reserved a day to observe the sites in South Goa. We found ourselves on a tour along with newly married Indian couples, a young family, and a guide who did not speak English very well. From the morning to the night we toured all over South Goa, seeing flashes of various beaches, temples, churches, and even a haunted house. It was a glorious whirlwind of a day complete with dolphins, history, and new friendships.

The nonstop tour ended with a dancing boat cruise along the Mandovi River under the stars. There I managed to coerce two of the brides to join me for the ladies’ dance on the stage. We laughed and imitated each other’s Western and Indian style moves till the very last of the songs had been rung out. It was one of my favorite memories of the weekend. While making our way off the stage, I noticed a group of younger Indian boys pointing in my direction and approaching me. Before I knew it, I was surrounded.  The group of boys shook my hand, telling me I was a good dancer, and asked for a picture with me. Apparently my attempts at Indian dance moves are better than my Western shuffle. I chuckled to myself as they posed around me, pulling Jen in the picture and snapping a few shots. Honestly, I’m not sure that I will ever get used to my skin color being a novelty item.

Aside from the beach and the beauty, the trip would not have been complete without experiencing some of the nightlife of Goa. It was a sampling of Western culture all over again, with many tourists bound and determined to wear the badge of ‘intoxication’ throughout their stay. Jen and I followed the recommendations of the locals and ended up at Cavala, one of the first bars ever established in Goa. An Indian band was crooning out Paul Simon, Jimmy Buffet, and other old tunes on the outside deck of the quaint little bar. It looked like a lighted shed or wooded haven and felt like an old friend. A few days later, we found ourselves at Club Havana on a hill-top overlooking Anjuna beach. The bar had outdoor pools, three levels of carved stone decks, and breathtaking views. However, my favorite nightlife experience by far was ‘Lucky’s’. Jen and I serendipitously found it as we aimlessly wandered one night.  We ended up sitting on beach chairs under the stars with a candle lit table and scruffy dogs at our feet. It was glorious.

There was a lot to be grateful for in all of our relaxation. Throwing a stone up in the skies of Goa landed us in some pretty spectacular places among fantastic people and left us with some incredible memories. Though it is never easy to be away from family on a beloved holiday, I have to say that this non-traditional Thanksgiving not only takes the cake but it takes the turkey as well.

Biryani and Prescription Drugs

It was a hapless Thursday afternoon just a week and a half ago. Nothing noteworthy was happening; a good sign if you are in a foreign land. I attended a training on home improvement by the Habitat team for some clients of a partner micro finance institution called Growing Opportunity. There was a good turn-out with lots of questions asked by potential clients, making it a productive work day overall. At least that’s what I was told. I don’t speak Tamil, so I couldn’t really understand much of what was said. Nonetheless, we all celebrated with some Biryani, a much-sought-after rice dish, from a place my coworker had ordered from for nearly two decades. It was true to its form, and I dug in heartily to the delicious dish with a recently-discovered passion for eating with my hands.

Two hours later, something was not right. My stomach, it seems, didn’t take to the Biryani the way my appetite had. I was sick as a dog by the evening and languished through the night with a rocking nausea that had me clinging to furniture as I walked around my room. Come Friday morning, I was useless, sleepy and terribly sick. The food sickness seemed to have exacerbated a chest cold that had been brewing from all of the pollution in Chennai. So there I was: sick, sick, and sicker. The racking cough triggered the nausea which triggered the sweating which triggered the sneezing. A lovely combination, don’t you think?  

I made it through the weekend with the stomach flu subsiding and the cold viciously settling further into my lungs. I ended up leaving work early on Monday and made my way through the fumes of exhaust with barely enough strength to move. There is something terribly frightening to being sick in a foreign country that doesn't compare to being sick in a place you know. In place of Nightquil, people were subscribing hot milk with lots of pepper in it for my cough and cold; instead of throat spray, salt water and spicy food was the cure. 

Lucky for me, rescue was not too far off! The college campus has the privilege of hosting a 70+ retired doctor who spent her life in the field of medicine. At the request of the warden of my hostel, I visited the good doctor with the hopes she would prescribe something better than hot milk and black pepper. I was in luck. She had stashes and stashes of drugs, and she readily gave me them all. I don’t know if they were expired; I don’t know if they were helpful; I don’t even know what they were. But I walked out of the room after she thumped on my chest with the strict orders to rest and take the handful of medicine she gave me. Whatever it was, it worked. I took the medicine and fell fast asleep around 9 p.m. that night. I woke up the next day around 2 p.m., feeling more alive. 

Since then, I can’t say I have fully recuperated. The chunky cough is still there, but I think the blame lies with the toxic pollution in Chennai. Aside from that, I did get the chance to face my nemesis, Biryani, at my first Indian wedding this past Friday. Fortunately my recent upset stomach didn’t permanently stave off my craving for wonderful Indian dishes.

 So from biryani to prescriptions drugs: I knew getting sick was bound come. India is renowned for it, after all. Still it is never fun to be sick no matter where you are. Fortunate for you, being sick in India makes an illness something to blog about. : )

Eating Biryani on a banana leaf at my first Indian wedding

Let There Be Art

Just six miles or so away from me lays another world. The unassuming gate welcomes visitors from all over to step inside the door to explore the wealth of beauty within. Cholamandal Artist’s village is a co-op of thirty or so artists who banded together to develop their artistic skills in an unfettered and pure environment. A phenomenon of its own kind, it’s a sustainable village of artists who push the boundaries of art to fuse the East and West together.

In my last post, I recounted a rather dire saga about my failed attempt to explore the hidden world of art in Cholamandal. Thanks to a few extra rupees and the services offered by ‘Fast Trak’ cabs, Jen and I finally reached our destination this past weekend. In every way, it was worth the wait. 

Though it would have most definitely been frowned upon, I managed to snap a few shots in the art gallery and sculptor garden so that you could take a brief peak into the richness of Cholamandal along with me. The quality of some is poor, but if you try just hard enough, you can picture yourself alongside me in a meager gallery with beauty strung up all around. 

Random Statue

I love this one

Texture

This artist was one of our favorites

One of Jen's favorites

One of Mine....

Birthing

No Hands

Its fuzzy, but I love all that this picture says. They are floating on a sea of dead people while crows feed upon the carcasses. The woman, bare-chested, boldly stares at the birds while the man cowers behind her. I just like the story here....

This was called 'Butterflies'

Stunning in person

 

The day finished off with tea in the sculpture garden. Inspired by the day, I managed to snap a few shots that I kind of like.....

Roots

Broken Pots

Young Coconut

Tea time flowers

Fuzzy but interesting

Blink

Multiple Me

Tea time treats (complete with french press coffee. We were in heaven!)

With Sweat and Determination

Determination is a beautiful quality to have. It’ll get you further than you ever thought you would go and provide momentum to achieve things even when obstacles stand in your way. However, there are times in your life when signs clearly indicate: “STOP,” “DON’T GO THERE,” and “ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.”  That’s when perception should step up and say, “You’ve taken this as far as its going to. You’re done.” I’ve never been very good at heeding the latter because of this innate stubbornness I was blessed with.  However, I AM slowly learning as I get older. Lucky for me, India is the perfect environment to hone my stubbornness into an art of determination combined with perception.

Since arriving in Chennai, I’ve anticipated visiting the Cholamandal Artists’ village just outside of Chennai. It is a commune started by a group of reputed artists in 1965 who pledged to devote themselves to a lifetime of making art. The village consists of quaint resident cottages, two art galleries, and gardens all nestled on a serene plot of land in the midst of the city’s hustle and bustle. Everything about stepping into an artist’s world appeals to me, and I eagerly put it at the top of my list of things to do while in India. Fortunately my dear friend in the area, Jen, is an artist herself and could easily be roped into coming. This past Saturday was the day we set to stimulate our artistic inclinations and tap into our hippy side.

When I researched Cholamandal online, the website gave me all the confidence in the world that I could navigate the 8 km separating me from my prized destination. After recently taking on public transportation and discovering that I could handle it, I had enough self-assurance in my ability to make my way to Cholamandal on the public bus. After all I might as well experience it while I’m here, right?

I was wrong;  very wrong. My novice navigation of the city and public transportation could not have prepared me for public buses on a 95 degree day. The sweating never stopped from the moment I woke up and continued to seep profusely through my clothing as I made my way to meet Jen. There we were, right or wrong bus stop, dripping all over the place and turning our heads in circle. This way? That way?  Neither of us had any clue but feigned confidence in order to maintain our spirits.

We jumped onto the first bus that loomed into the stop. Teetering back and forth, packed tightly into every space, we bumped and sweated our way through the city.  I was sopping up my forehead with a small tissue, deeply regretting my choice of Western wear for the city adventure. Jen mirrored my misery and I could tell that both us might not be up for the 45 minute ride of clinging to seats and sweating out last night’s curry.  At our bus switch, a man noticed our perturbed cluelessness and volunteered his services. He weaved through the crowds with his head barely visible and pointed to a major bus depot across the street. It was shaded; it had buses; it looked like the perfect waiting spot for our final leg of the journey.

Jen asked the conductor to indicate our bus to Injabakkam, the route we would take to Cholamandal, and we were told to find bus 599. There were dozens and dozens of buses in no clear order, but Jen’s keen eye spotted the faithful iron steed in no time. After securing our spot on the 599, the hour-long waiting game began in the oven like innards of the bus. We were hot; we were sweaty; and we were overwhelmed. Sitting still and drinking water seemed like the best thing to curb the dehydration setting in.

However, once we sat down, the beggars that lived at the bus stop spotted us and began to make their way towards us. One after the other, they came in waves of small children, crippled men, and mother’s with crying babies. A woman with steel needles piercing her cheeks even passed by and offered us the opportunity to pray to her small Hindu altar for a small fee. It was difficult to resist their persistence, and soon I had given away the scraps of food I had and every coin I possessed.  But it wasn’t enough to satiate their need or insistence that I should give them more.

The hardest part was seeing the little girls lassoed into the ring of women beggars. I watched the begging women gather in the center of the bus terminal, looking like football players formulating their next play. A little girl in a shiny, cheap satin dress with pink ribbons in her hair approached them. One of the women lifted her head from the huddle and pushed the little girl on the shoulder, indicating that the girl should get back to work. She came round to our 599 haven, singing an Indian song in a surprisingly clear and beautiful voice. Once her song ended, she very aggressively began demanding alms from each waiting passenger. I was somewhat taken aback at her adeptness at begging and scamming us, appealing to us with her need for food and money. I managed to snap a shot during her insistence…

After about 50 minutes, Jen and I noticed that people were getting off of the 599 and going to other buses. After asking around, we both discovered that we were in fact on the wrong bus. Frantic now, we approached the conductor and asked for more direction. He told us to look at the front line of all the buses for 599, giving us no real direcion. Knowing that precious time was passing us by, we ran up to the front to see the first line of buses leaving the terminal. We roamed the remaining aisles looking for the blasted 599, asking random strangers as we looked around. Our efforts were coming up empty, the sun was beating on our heads, and no one could seem to tell us if the bus had left or where it might be. My steely determination had kicked in as I searched, dragging Jen behind me on my quest to find the bus. After stopping to rack our brains and come up with a game plan, I realized that I was being repeatedly hit on my arm. Looking down, I noted the girl in the shiny cheap dress with pink ribbons demanding more money from me. I turned away, and she continued to twist my fingers and tap my arm firmly.  I needed to lose her.

Spotting the 599 at the back of the line, Jen and I ducked into the bus and picked out new sits. It was just after one in the afternoon, and the bus wasn’t leaving for another hour and a half. Sitting there, frustrated and sweating, I looked over at Jen to see her visibly wilting. She was growing more dehydrated by the minute in the intense heat. Still determined, I began to remind both of us how wonderful it would be when we arrived and were embraced by a commune of artists. We both smiled weakly at the prospect, sweat beading on our forehead and dripping down our backs. In that moment, another begging girl boarded the bus and made her way to us. In Jen’s face, she began to demand food and alms. After a firm no, she made her way to my side under our elevated seat and began to hit my feet, poke my toes, and tap my leg. Here we go again, I thought.

It was 1:30 and we had been at the bus stop for approximately 2 hours sweating the entire time. Jen looked at the little girl, at me, and then said very resolutely: “I’m done.” I knew then that my determination and resolve were not going to serve us if Jen dehydrated and we lost our tempers. Without further ado, I conceded defeat and we left the terminal. Both of us had one objective in mind: find air conditioning and find it fast.

Our day ended at one of the biggest malls in Chennai. I hate malls, but this was glorious in every way. It was cool, I wasn’t sweating, and there were no small children accosting me for money. I felt like a Western failure for not making it to the Cholamandal artists’ village, but sometimes things are not meant to work out. Not immediately, at least.  This weekend is another opportunity to make it happen under the right circumstances. Fortunate for Jen and I, its monsoon season. So instead of sweat, we’ll battle water of a different kind. But I’ll take it. Circumstances willing. 

This proves that we sweated....

I found a Go-Girl!

I Want to Be Sedated

Walking down the street listening to “I want to be Sedated” by The Ramones was an uncanny representation of my mental processes today. My feet sloshed through the mud in tune to the rapid beat of “ba-ba-bamp-ba ba-ba-ba-bamp-ba” as the feelings of insanity whirled around me in regards to the ironies of India. The past week has been so full of experiences both cruel and laughable that my only sentiment today is to turn off my brain or join in the madness. Instead, I think I want to be sedated.

The process of enlightenment to the organized chaos in Chennai has absolutely thrown me into a culture-shock quandary. From the beggars on the streets to hand-eating etiquette; there is lucid sanity that permeates life here. My first ray of irrational sense came last week during a grocery meander down the street with my friend, Shega. While Shega and I sauntered along, a begging woman approached us with a whip in hand and a determined look on her face. Raising her arm high she cracked the whip and struck herself before extending her right arm for money. I was shocked to a standstill while the small woman with weapon in hand began to loudly demand recompense for her self-abuse. Shega managed to pull me along, weaving around the woman and ducking into a store to lose the woman in her close pursuit.  She explained that many of the city’s beggars have developed scams using children or street theatrics to earn a living. I was nonplussed at such a jarring and convincing system, but Shega shared that many of the most convincing beggars have been pulling the same ruse year after year.

Her advice wasn’t so reassuring by the time the weekend rolled around. After the busy work week, I decided to get out and experience some of the sights. I was invited by a group to join in an early beach-side picnic on Saturday morning. It sounded like a great chance to mix with the locals and discover hidden gems around Chennai. Afterward, I planned to make my way alone to a tourist spot called “Elliot’s Beach” for a reprieve in nature. However, as I was soon to discover, nothing is ever as it seems to be in India.

Our beach-side venture turned out to be a picnic among planted groves of trees with the Bay of Bengal barely visible in the distance. We situated ourselves between two trees on a small hill above ant beds and other unknown creatures. As we prepared to dine, I suddenly noticed that we were not alone. Our hapless dining experience was soon to be shared by a gaggle of small, homeless boys led by an old woman. They gathered closely around us as we began to eat, hovering like dogs around a dinner table begging for scraps. I lost my appetite immediately. The children had reddish tinted hair with dark skin; a clear sign of malnourishment. The women herself was bedraggled and crouching in dirt with a deformed hand extended towards us. The young picnickers carried on, joking and laughing, but I was too disturbed to enjoy myself. Here we were on a happy weekend jaunt with hopeless suffering surrounding us. I could barely handle it, but the others carried on as if we were the only ones there. It was a disturbing irony  for life in India that they coped with, but it was a cruel nonetheless. I had never witnessed a picnic surrounded by poverty. The meal was shared at the end with the homeless group and money was given to the mothers, but I left feeling that it simply wasn’t enough.

After the picnic with poverty, I ventured by myself to the beach where I hoped to find respite from the city. Instead, my retreat led me to a trash-heap beach where the decayed skeleton of an old carnival now offering beggars a sunny reprieve. I walked about in an attempt to enjoy myself, dodging new groups of beggars as I snapped a few pictures. All of a sudden, I felt a tickle on my arm. I looked quickly to see a tiny, white maggot making his way into the sleeve of my shirt. I nearly screamed. A middle aged man passing by flirtatiously smiled and said, “Nice picture taking?” I swallowed my scream, smiled weakly, and walked quickly away from whatever maggoty spot I had stumbled upon.

I made my way to the shore where the waves looked like empty shelves with no surfers to adorn them. With a sigh of disappointment, I resigned myself to sit next to a pile of garbage in order to watch the waves’ crash onto the filthy beach. The oil tankers on the horizon smiled at me and waved in the distance. My first view of the Bay of Bengal looked more like the Bay of Pigs: and not the Cuban kind.

It wasn’t long before I managed to singe my skin in the intense rays of the sun. I was done with the beach. I was done with the picnic. The subsequent traffic and chaos of city made my trip back to the hostel increase my feelings that I had found my way to madness. Since then, I’ve managed to recover my spirits slightly, though I have to confess that it has only been marginal improvement. I’m grappling with this strange new upside-down world of chaos, and I feel like someone “just put me in a wheel chair” to get me front row seats to the show. “Ba-ba-bamp-ba ba-ba-ba-bamp-ba!”

Part 2: And The Winner Is....

I headed out the door of the office with advice trailing behind me, nervousness before me, and my head held high with determination. The office is situated along a side street dotted with street vendors peddling strings of flowers and spicy fried bits of foods. The occasional Hindu temple intermittently joins in the street adornment with flashes of colors and gleaming statues of the gods. I scurried half a mile of so past all of these with my senses heightened and my stomach queasy. Every smell was more pungent and every sight more distracting. But I pressed on with an assumed appearance that I knew what I was doing  and where I was going in order to keep from being accosted by passing auto (rickshaw) drivers and street vendors . It also served as a weak attempt to bolster myself with fake confidence.

The half a mile passed far too quickly. In the final stretch, the traffic seemed to reverse its pattern so that I was walking directly into the opposing lanes of buses, motorcycles, pedestrians, and auto drivers. There really are no sidewalks to speak of unless you consider leaping over giant cracks and unearthed cement in a dangerous game of hop-scotch as a sidewalk stroll. I clung to the road side, approaching the major intersection with the assumption that I’d have to sprint across in order to make it to the bus stop on the other side. I was relieved to find a pedestrian light and group waiting to cross. I looked across the way for the familiar and friendly sight of the lighted ‘walk’ man only to suddenly find the other pedestrians moving to cross before it was time. I jumped in the middle of the group, dodging a few motorcycles along the way as we made our way to the middle of the road. Another pause and the group moved again, safely making it to the other side.

The share auto awaited me upon my treacherous crossing. These forms of transportation are cheaper than a private auto or taxi, though not as cheap as the bus. For less than 50 cents, I can make it all the way across town. The bus is half of that while the auto is triple the amount. I didn’t want to appear like a frivolous westerner who reserves their own private chariot day after day, so I decided on the share auto and approached the first one I saw.  Pointing to the next share auto, the first driver told me in a mix of Tamil and English that the other driver was going to the Women’s Christian College (WCC) where I reside. I jumped into the next one which looks like a smaller version of a minivan with open windows and seating for about eight people.  On a good day, they can pack as many as 15 people into the seats through a nice layering affect where people are stacked on people.  I was fortunate to find one with only 6 people and I secured a spot by the window.

It was rush-hour traffic which is actually pretty comparable to every other chaotic hour of the day. By the time we made our next stop, I found myself sharing my ride with about 11 other people. Two in the front, two in the trunk, and 7 crammed in between. Through rules of etiquette, women generally divide from the men which meant that I spent the ride averting my gaze from directly in front of me. However, I couldn’t help but notice the older man resembling what Ghandi would have looked like had he lived to be one hundred. He seemed ancient in his soiled garment and vacant, gaping mouth; his toothless muttering only made him more intriguing. He had an old red bindhi coursing deeply through a wrinkle running directly down the middle of his forehead. With his old age, he was every bit the appearance of wisdom. The two teenage girls behind me in the trunk chattered in mix of English slang and Tamil. They clung to the trunk door, which swung wildly open if they didn’t keep it shut with their hands. The other passengers ranged from differing forms of various intrigue, but my curiosity was quickly diverted to the window outside.

That’s because a giant public bus was dangerously narrowing in on my side of the auto. Have you ever seen those cartoons of automobiles packed to the gills with various limbs and heads hanging out of every window?  This is exactly what was coming directly towards my side of the share auto. The bus was so full of occupants that men were hanging off the outside bars of the windows. They swung like rag dolls with every stop and start of the bus, and I could nearly reach out and grab hold of their garments. I knew then that I had chosen the right form of transportation for me.

The 45 minute ride fared well despite the leering of a mustached man. If you know me, then you know that I usually have a thing for men with facial hair. I don’t even discriminate against mustaches! But this experience may have forever altered my acceptance of furry caterpillars about the lip. Dusk was approaching, and the man was making me more nervous by the minute. When we were the only two occupants left in the vehicle, my eagerness to get off the auto increased exponentially.  I began to anticipate my stop despite my uncertainty as to where it was, and I decided to take my fare out and distract myself from the mustached stares. I reached for my wallet in my backpack and quickly realized that it wasn’t there. Immediately, panic began to set in and my mind started painting scenarios of me leaping off the auto and running like a mad woman. I frantically searched again, swirling other belongings around my pack as I searched for the one blessed item. I was sure I had put it there when I left, but I tend to do spacey things whenever I’m distracted and stressed. Now there was no telling where the wallet could be! After all, I have been known to put normal belongings in places like refrigerators when I’m not paying attention. As a last effort, I checked the very bottom compartment of my sack where I usually keep my power cord to my lap-top. Underneath everything, there my paisley wallet spoke to me and I grabbed it with a sigh of relief just as we turned onto the road where WCC is located.

After making the stop, leaving the mustached man behind, and paying my fare, I crossed one final road to arrive safely at my destination. I was exhausted. The pent-up nervousness from anticipating every unknown disaster left me as I crossed the campus to my room. I had made it, conquering my fear in the process. Well, nearly. Tomorrow is another day entirely.

So, for now, here is a toast to conquering silly fears in life!

Part One: The Show-Down

I have to confess something. I am petrified; absolutely terrified. Today, I will be challenging my fear in an all-out showdown. That’s right: I will soon be navigating public transportation on the busy streets of Chennai completely alone.  There should be a healthy dose of caution when attempting any form of public transportation wherever your destination may be. But this type of gripping anxiety can’t be healthy. I mean, it is just a bus ride. Or at least that is what I have been telling myself.

However, I can’t seem to stop the ceaseless ringing in my ears of the voices of my most beloved family members with their countless warnings of kidnapping at my heedless and solitary ventures.  I have always brushed them for being well-intentioned but overly concerned. More often than not, I won’t think twice about going for a two hour trail run deep into the heart of the Oregon woods by myself. I hardly bat an eye at a 13 hour car drive alone from Philadelphia to Chicago. Heck, I’ll even fly halfway across the world without hesitation. But put me on a crowded public bus teetering from side to side as it navigates its way through oncoming traffic, and I am shaking at the knees.

Oh, have I not mentioned how insane the traffic is here? You always hear people describe their hairy experiences with public roadways abroad. But this: this is its own furry beast entirely. I was fortunate to get my first taste on the back of a motorcycle at night.I sat on the back of the moped their gazing at the pretty lights of the city as the driver weaved their way around cars, nearly into cars, and past flagrantly walking pedestrians. If it weren’t for the jet lag, I might have needed to stop to use my “Go-Girl.”   The positive thing was that I knew the driver and trusted her. Public transportation drivers are an entirely different matter.

Along with my legitimate fear, I could probably attribute much of my overwrought condition to the stream of advice, descriptions, and warnings that I’ve been given since the second day I arrived in Chennai.  From what I’ve observed thus far, India is a land where people love to help you out. Mere strangers I meet for the first time will greet me and ask if I have eaten something recently.  The second question is then directed towards my accommodations. Thirdly, they will ask how I’ve managed the public transportation system. And that, my dear friends, is when the advice begins. I have been counseled by groups of college students at the hostel, member of my team at Habitat, and people I meet for the very first time. The funny thing about this stream of advice is that it is all different.  No person says the same thing. Regardless, these caring souls are so committed to what they tell me that I end up listening to an hour-long tutorial on how to navigate everything from the auto, taxi, public bus, deluxe bus, air conditioned bus, and share auto. Right now, I wish I had a bike more than anything. Not that I would last long on these crazy streets.

And now, it is time for the literal rubber to meet the road. With this confession complete, I will now head out to meet the beast alone. I’ll be sure to describe my experience to you if and when I make it safely back to my hostel. Until then, my courage is failing but I’ll go forward nonetheless. I can beat this. I can face my fear. Let the show-down begin!

A Strange New Home

Well, I've arrived safely in Chennai and for some strange reason I feel completely at home. Despite the slight set-back of exploding shampoo bottles and every other form of liquid in my suitcases, I survived the long flight and have settled into my room quite nicely. The heat and humidity hit me once I took my first step outside the airport, and the noise of the city ceaselessly floods my room. Strangely enough, I kind of like it. My accommodations are bare and simple, but they are cozy. The food is every kind of spicy, and I can tell that it will take some time for my body to get used to curry in the morning...and the afternoon...and the evening. However, the company I share my meals with makes it sweeter (if that's possible), and eating with my hands has always been a secret delight.


The unusual happenings are making the experience quite enjoyable. For instance, today after breakfast, I met the kitchen manager at the college where I'm staying. Her name is the Tamil word for Wisdom, and she introduced me to her parrot named Obama. I laughed to actually meet a talking bird with the same name as the President. Latert, I shared some green tea with the lady who cleans my room every day. When I asked if she liked it, I received the infamous head bobble. I have yet to figure out if it really does mean "yes" or "no." This proves that the subtleties of non-verbal communication may not serve me well during my stay here after all.


But by far, the most unsettling occurrence for me is that everywhere I've gone thus far people stare openly. Usually if it is a woman, I smile and wave. If it is a man, however, I try to remember to avert my eyes and look away. The signals cross sometimes in my brain and I stare openly back at the men. This might not work to my benefit, as it can easily be mistaken as a come-on, but I am a quick learner with most things. And if either of these approaches fail, I just pretend like I am in my own world with no eyes trailing me wherever I go. It has served me well until this afternoon when I discovered that I was being closely followed by a one-eyed woman in the supermarket. I was trying to pick out some items when I noticed her standing closely behind me. I shifted only to find her then beside me.  After attempting to smile and wave, which usually satisfies the viewer's curiosity, I realized that she was not leaving my side. So, I looked to her for help on selecting toiletries. She pointed; I grabbed and then hurriedly walked away. There is only so much observation that you can handle.

Aside from the learning curve with all these things, I really feel like I belong. It is a weird sensation in such a foreign land, but there is something to it that I can't quite put my finger on. As with all things, only time will tell. For now, I'll just keep exploring the new territories and sharing my experiences with you!