Being practical

All week, Kottayam has been aflutter with a “flower show.” For four days, a dry, dusty piece of land has become the center of town. Shops have been set up inside, selling everything from lizard repellant to bindis to sugarcane juice. Flower arrangement contests were held, businesses donated potted flowers to be arranged in spirals and windy paths, and the biggest and brightest flowers were put on prime display under a tin roof.

Yesterday, I finally got to see the “flower show.” Some parts were spectacular; others not so much. But my favorite part was the henna vendors. For just five rupees (that’s $0.11), a man would decorate the entire inside of your hand with sprawling, crawling designs. The only henna I have ever seen done has been done painstakingly, slowly, like writing on a cake with icing. A small plastic bag filled with brown goop, looped over someone’s stiff-from-staying-still hand. This “henna” that was being done at the flower show (I’m still not sure it really was henna) was much easier. Several carved wooden stencils lay next to a large box filled with mushy, hard, spongy material soaked in a dark dye. I watched as someone stretched out their hand, and the vendor pressed his stencils into the outstretched hand, covering it with patterns.

I couldn’t help it. The non-Indian inside of me was leaping with the joy of novelty. I had to have it done!

I pulled out five rupees from my wallet, handed it to the man, and stretched out my right hand. The crowd that had gathered around the strange white woman (me) gasped. “No! No! Left hand!” Oops. I stuck out my left hand. Thirty seconds later, it was covered with golden brown flowers and leaves. Beautiful. I protected this hand all the way through the flower show, all the way back on the bus.

Later that afternoon, I made my daily trip to see the young girls at Balika Mandiram. “Cammy Auntie!” the youngest ones cried as I arrived, and ran toward me to take my hands. As they came running, I realized – one touch from their sweaty hands and my perfect hand-artwork will be smudged. There wasn’t time to act, though. Pretty soon, my hands were in theirs. When they realized that I had been stamped/henna-ed, they called the other girls over so that everyone could grab my hand, run their fingers over the quickly-smudging designs. The bravest ones would grab my hand and press their hand into it, then laugh and how the pattern had transferred just a little onto their hand.

When study time rolled around, I headed to the study room. “Cammy Auntie, ninte sahayam venam!” Cammy Auntie, I need your help! Two girls were sitting on the floor, styrofoam, cardboard, tissue paper and glue surrounding them. I sat down with them, helping to glue colored tissue paper to styrofoam kidneys and cardboard cubes. When I was finished, despite my best efforts to protect my left, henna-ed hand, bits of glue and tissue paper had been incorporated into the design. And I thought to myself, ‘Well, it was nice for awhile. It was nice to do something touristy for awhile. But it isn’t practical. I’m going to need to use both hands.’

After dinner, and after preparing myself to say goodbye to the possibly-fake henna, I washed my hands. Orange suds dripped from my hands. I rinsed. I looked at my hands. The design was still there! I washed again, and still the design remained.

And I thought, ‘Maybe this wasn’t so impractical after all.’

Slices of Life

Sometimes, when I sit down to type up a blog entry, I can't think of anything to write. Today, I am thinking of many things that I want to write about.

I want to tell you about the Harvest Festival I attended on Sunday. Harvest Festivals are celebrated in churches in Kerala by members bringing in produce and other items to be auctioned off for the church's benefit. The floor of the community hall was covered with produce. At least a hundred coconuts were stacked in one corner, taking up the space of a small bathroom. Probably a thousand bananas were stacked in another corner, still green and attached to their branches. Small piles of ginger lay among piles of larger roots, most of which don't have names in English. There was tapioca root, another lumpy root the size of a football, another larger root in the shape of a bowl and the size of a human head, and a few even larger roots the size of a human torso. Bottles of egg-yolk yellow ghee were actioned off, as well as cakes, beet syrup, jars of guppies, pepper and gooseberry wine.

I want to tell you about my trip to the park in Kottayam. As the sun set, I watched children crawl over a huge metal ladder structre in the shape of ABC. I watched women with headscaves run after little girls in little dresses. I watched two brothers chase each other, knock each other down, get up and start all over again. And at the end of the night, there was a water and lights show, complete with Bollywood music.

I want to tell you about my vain attempts to get malaria medication for my upcoming trip to Sri Lanka. I waited almost two and a half hours in the hospital for a doctor to show up (enduring the relentless staring and questioning of everyone around me - where are you from? what is your name? where are you staying?), and when he finally did, he told me that it wouldn't be necessary to take any medication. Thankfully, I had brought the names of two common medicines taken to prevent malaria. "Our pharmacy will not have these," the doctor told me, "but come back tomorrow, and I will tell you if we can order them."

I want to tell you about the family who invited me into their home recently. I walk by their house when I go for walks in the morning, and always stop and say hello. They have three children, two girls and one boy. The boy is the youngest, and the girls will whisper questions for me in his ear, which he will then ask me out loud, practically jumping up and down with excitement. They have a very nice home, and I even got to watch some Saturday morning cartoons with the kids. They invited me to breakfast, but I was afraid that the people and Mandiram would worry about where I was if I did not return. I was really touched by their kindness, though.

Sometimes, I write in this blog with a point in mind. Sometimes, the point is just to give you a little slice of what my life is like here.

Lights, Camera, Action!

Yesterday, I found myself under bright lights and in front of a camera, talking about equality for woman in India. And it was awesome.

It started the way a lot of things start here - I was pushed into a moment I didn't have much right to be in, just because I'm American. After attending weddings of people I've never met, listening to speaches made by important people that I can't understand, and so on, I've gotten used to this kind of treatment. So when I showed up in the office yesterday afternoon and was shooed out with instrustions to go see the tv crew at the orphanage, I wasn't shocked. Well, I was shocked there was a tv crew here, but I wasn't shocked that the office staff found it logical that I should join the crew.

The crew, someone informed me, was shooting a piece on "abandoned children." My heart dropped when I heard this. Many of the children at the orphanage here have no living family, or family that has the money needed to support them. They are NOT abandoned. Then I was asked to be interviewed. Would I please accomodate them? I looked at the scene before me. Ammachee was sitting at an angle under the staircase, and two of the girls were playing behind her. If I didn't do the interview, I would feel more comfortable. If I did talk...

I never really agreed to the do the interview. But that's how things happen here, too. A man motioned me over to the stairwell. A crib was replaced with a potted plant from outside. Someone handed me a clip-on microphone. Lights on. Instrudctions to look at the camera when I speak. I wondered if they really wanted an interview in English... but there I was.

As the interview went on, I realized that this was one of the first times since I've been here that I've been asked for my opinion. I've heard many other people's opinions on a wide variety of subjects, but I am not usually given much chance to comment. Maybe it's because I'm not Indian. Maybe it's because I'm a woman. At any rate, being able to share my opinions made me start to get excited about the interview. What do I think should be done to decrease the number of "abandoned children," you ask? Ensure that women are treated and protected as equals, of course! (I think the interviewer nearly fell out of his chair when I said this, conservative Christian tv channel as he was a part of) If women were treated with respect, then abuse against them would decrease, rape would decrease, and there would be fewer unwanted pregnancies. Furthermore, single mothers would have a greater base to fall back on if they were paid the same as men and weren't viewed so poorly by society, and would therefore be better able to care for their children.

Ahh, it felt good!

"But... I mean..." the interviewer contintued, "what should be done spiritually?"

I decided that, unfortunately, now was not the time or place to explain how this was a spiritual answer. Instead, I told the story of another volunteer who works at a school that is run by a church. This school is attended by Dalit children, and it is in total disrepair. Walls are crumbling, there are no fans... and meanwhile, the same church has a second school for the upper-class children as well, and it is in mint condition. The church should be caring for the least of these, not catering to the rich.

When the interview was over, my initial ambivalent feelings had finally turned into feelings of relief. Even if nothing of what I said gets aired, at least someone heard it. At least I know that I have the courage to say these kinds of things. I got to say something that means a lot to me - I hope it will give me the strength and desire to do it more often!

Polio

Yesterday, the main caretaker of the girls at the orphanage was gone for most of the day on a rare trip home. When she returned, at first, everyone was excited to see her. Then, suddenly, things were kicked into high gear. Two girls went running off, and the main caretaker (who I simply call Ammachee, which means Grandmother) started calling out orders. "What happened?" I asked Ammachee. "Leya-kutty... poliodrop..." she answered.

That morning, I had read in the paper about the huge polio drop drive in effect in Kerala. Children were able to receive a vaccination against polio, a disease that unfortunately still plagues India, for free. Leya-kutty was apparently supposed to go to get her drops, but with Ammachee gone, everyone had forgotten.

Leya-kutty didn't understand what was going on, but she was excited about it. Her Ammachee was finally back, and everyone was running around for her sake. She wandered around aimlessly, singing to herself, occassionally running to Ammachee to give her a hug. She was perfectly content, oblivious to the fact (or at least, everyone was acting like it was a fact) that she had suddenly become vulnerable to the vicious polio. Everyone was worried for Leya-kutty, except Leya-kutty.

The two girls who had run off came back, breathless. The polio drive was supposed to end at 5; it was 6, but the nurses at the hospital had said Leya could come. Ammachee grabbed Leya-kutty and put her in a different dress (clearly, this is a special occassion?) and led her back outside. Anju and I both took one of Leya-kutty's hands, and we sped off to the hospital. The hospital, by the way, is maybe 50 meters from Mandiram, so it was not far off.

As we walked up the hill to the hospital, Anju quizzed Leya-kutty on questions the nurses might ask her. "How old are you?" she asked. "Three," Leya-kutty answered after thinking for a moment. "No," said Anju, "You must say 'I am three years old.' Say that." "I am three years old," responded Leya-kutty. "Okay, so, how old are you?" asked Anju again. "Three!" said Leya-kutty. Anju sighed, and we each pulled Leya-kutty up into the air, so that we could speed up the stairs more quickly.

Once we made it to the hospital, we went into a small cubicle labeled (in English) "Injection Room." Leya-kutty was led to a plastic chair. At this point, her giddiness had been abandoned, and was replaced with fear. She wouldn't let go of my hand. I stood next to her, as the nurse tilted her head back and opened her mouth. She looked at me with wide eyes, as though to say, 'Are you really going to let this happen to me?' The nurse uncapped a small tube, and squeezed a small, pink drop into Leya-kutty's mouth. Leya-kutty quickly closed her mouth, hoping the whole ordeal was over. "No, no," said the nurse. Again, Leya-kutty opened her mouth, and two more pink drops went in. And that was it!

As we re-entered the sunshine, I asked Leya-kutty, "Not difficult?" "No!" she said and smiled.

A quick review of my past few weeks

#1: Mandiram's Christmas Program


The residents sang, dressed up as Bible characters, and wowed the audience in Mandiram's Christmast Program 2006. In the Bible Play (which I'm pretty sure didn't include Jesus), I got to be Rebekah (sp?). I think my portrayal blew some minds. Or maybe not. Although my little feminist self got pretty excited when someone told me "Rebekah - very smart! She foolished Issac!" Yeah she did! I also sang 'Hark! The Herald Angels Sing' with my advisor. One verse in English, and then the surprise verse in Malayalam. The whole program ended up being a lot of fun, and I have some sweet pictures of the elderly residents in their Biblical costumes.

#2: Christmas in Aluva
All 5 volunteers (plus 2 of Kyle's friends, who are traveling the world, check out their site: www.wherearemikeandkristi.com) headed up to Aluva to celebrate with our program coordinator, Thomas John Achen, and his wife and son. Their kindness and love for us has been overwhelming; their house is really like a home away from home. On Christmas Eve, we barbequed some chicken while watching the fireworks, and laughed at how it felt a lot like the 4th of July. We went to Achen's church on Christmas, spent the day at his house and had a huge dinner later in the day. Most of the time, we talked about our experiences in India, about politics, about global issues, and laughed a lot. And ate a lot. Bob Marley's 'Redemption Song' will now forever remind me of Christmas.

#3: Yoga in the Mountains of India

The day after Christmas, the volunteers plus Kyle's friends took a bus to Idukki, a mountainous area of Kerala. We spent 5 days there, and it was pretty spectacular. The yoga center was on top of a large hill, and looked down over mountains and a river. We woke up early in the morning to meditate on straw mats of a mud hut, spent the morning doing sun salutations and learning other asanas (yoga positions?), helped out with maintenence in the afternoon, and rounded out the day with some more asanas and meditation. And of course, we were fed copious amounts of tea and food throughout the day. The site was beautiful, our instructers were understanding, and we had a lot of fun.

Now, I am back at Mandiram, trying to get back into the swing of things. I apologize for the lack of updates, but rest assured that I'll be back on track soon enough!