Being Restorative Justice

New in my Old America

2011-12-29T22:55:00.000+05:30

I have been back since Thanksgiving, back in the bedroom I left at 18, now at 28. My parents bought me a 2000 car again, just like they did when I was 17. It is all very full circle and funny, not at all what I was taught to expect. In Australia I was taught that inside each of us is a child, teenage, and adult self, and as adults we need to practice embracing all of these aspects of self, the parent and teenager comfort and guide the child, the child be encouraged to play and be free, and the parent set loving and firm boundaries to keep the child and teenager safe. These boundaries based on personal responsibility and self-respect flow from deep inner feeling and I find they are most easily accessed through mindfulness, intuition, meditation and dreams.

Let's sing and dance around and be proud of ourselves and know that we are loved and worthy of being loved simply because we exist, and know that the more we love ourselves the more we can find compassion for others. I am increasingly seeing the hurt children in those around me, and it is helping to heal the hurt and confused child within me. All we need to do is remember and we can laugh and feel good in any moment. Each moment is what we have, and we can choose to take responsibility for creating moments of fulfillment and joy, no matter our circumstance. We can be happy we are experiencing and being mindful of where we are now, even when we are in pain we can rejoice we are feeling alive. Buddhism teaches that pain is inevitable, but suffering is a choice. Even when we have chosen to be in an office meeting we find boring, we can choose instead of an inner complaint dialogue in our minds, to quietly and quickly cultivate a fun memory to make ourselves smile, thereby brightening ourselves and the entire meeting room with our inner joy radiating out.

We can practice letting go and flowing with the changes in life, embracing new experiences with the exciting eyes of a child seeing something for the first time. I believe we are given and create in our lives only what we are capable of handling. Sometimes we can do things ourselves, and sometimes we need more help than others. I believe every thing is our teacher. A leaf floating down a stream teaches us that we can gracefully flow with the rough and changing currents of life. A rock teaches us that to be still and solid is strength. A tree swaying in the breeze teaches us that balance is fluid and not controlled. The squirrel and oak tree shows us a mutually beneficial natural dance of giving and receiving. Even our smart phone teaches us that there are amazing new things to discover and people to speak to every day, that we can connect to the entire world wherever we are, and that we can choose how much we want to experience and put the phone down, breathe and walk away when we are feeling overwhelmed.

I also believe all people are our teachers. Some teachers are with us longer than others. When we do not feel we are growing in a relationship, we can lovingly learn to let it go, and be excited that we had beautiful moments together and may meet again our life journey. I believe the goal of life is navigating and experiencing life, being present and not caught in past hurts or future fears. This is a big part of the work I am doing now. One aspect I am practicing is to allow the child and teenager within to have fun, within loving boundaries set by my adult parent self. You know how kids are excited by everything, how everything is new and imagination is so active? We can do that too! We can be excited about our new pretty light blue toothbrush, the comfort of a steaming cup of spiced tea and a warm blanket keeping us cozy on a wintry day, an upcoming visit from an old friend, or a meeting with a new colleague, even the moo of a cow!

We can experience love all around us. We can be excited about a walk in the woods, and feel loved by the way the light travels through the branches and traces the contours of a turtle's shell as it suns itself. We can choose to feel loved by the sun as is peeks out of the clouds to shed a bit of light and warmth on a winter's day, and we can choose to feel loved by the clouds that fluffily cover the sun so that we appreciate the shades within daylight, and we can choose to feel loved by the night with its twinkling stars, lights and appreciate its darkness as a beautiful contrast to the light of the daytime sun.

Seeing other friends going through this and writing encouraging emails has inspired me to blog again, so I am very grateful to be asked for support and also that my asking for support has brought me back here. If you are reading this, I want you to know that you are loved and you are worthy of being and feeling loved simply because you exist. All beings are deserving of this. <3

Feeling, following and flowing

2011-06-12T10:18:00.000+05:30

Time is not a constant. Einstein taught us this, and it's really sunk deeply into me recently. I can meditate for an hour and it feels like 20 years of dreams/thoughts/astral travel, walk for 2 hours and it feels like 4 days of movement, or ride my bike for 45 minutes and it feels like 5 minutes of effort and 5 years of thought.

Our minds create our worlds. When I started daily yoga and meditation last year (both of which I have picked up and put down in different stages of life, like good books I wasn't quite ready to read and absorb), I felt the true expanse of the meditative state, that layer of superconsciousness between conscious waking and subconscious sleep. Soon I was able to meditate myself into sleep and integrate even more fascinating levels of the subconscious and superconscious through dreams. Then I began meditating for even 10 minutes when tired to perk myself back up, recenter, ground, remain present, and more fully integrate the superconscious and conscious. My senses heightened. I began energy work/reiki, and can now feel the energy of people, crystals, buildings--anything. Suddenly tastes, touch, smell, hearing, all feel more intense. (Photo: street statute men in impressive makeup)

Since Operation Nurture commenced, I have been working hard to let go a lot of emotions and traumas in my body, to really feel them, thank them for their lesson, and release them. Trauma sits in the body (like whiplash from a car wreck), and everything is integrated. When I think, I feel where a trauma or emotion sits in me; for example, thoughts of a past lover bring tears to my eyes, a smile to my face, a choke in my throat, a welling in my root, pins in my heart, and goosebumps on my arms. It's immediate and intense. Sometimes it scares me. But I feel blessed and amazed and excited to feel, learn, and let go, and stand with others so they can do the same. (Photo: Tile says 'Make <3 Not War!' and written underneath: 'Don't discriminate! Make both.')

Many people seek to "have" (money, accolade, material things) in order to "do" (travel, go out at night, pursue hobbies) so that they can "be" (happy, fulfilled, joyous, etc.) This is backwards. So is how I have been consciously living until recently. I have been "doing" (working 80 hours a week, cleaning dishes immediately after use, responding to people as soon as possible, not sleeping or taking true care of myself) in order to "have"/'be". This is just as silly. I realise now one must firstly "be" (knowing, feeling and integrating the essence of self, what feels right to be doing/acting, integrating how one wants to live in the world into "is" and into each day, relationship, work, and thought), then in that state of being, "do" (I find I do fewer things with more intention and energy and intuition and purpose than I used to), and this allows one to "have" (the essence of having: one then creates and attracts what is needed and wanted for one's true self and work, and accomplishes more).

I needed to learn how to sit still and nurture myself. Tada, I was hit by a car! I rested a bit, delved deeper into spirituality, and still overworked myself and felt bad asking for help when I needed it, and tada the next week another car hit and reminded me to really sit still! So I did--I spent about 5 days sleeping and barely getting out of bed, and another month focusing energy on healing myself and doing what absolutely mattered most (nurturing and resting myself, continuing my work, keeping up with key friends and family, etc.). Where I previously would've felt guilty letting some things and people slide out of my everyday, I really knew and owned that was what I needed. And without guilt behind it, those people and things, and most importantly I, were not upset, and are slowly reconnecting now as my energy elevates.

My mom framed a fortune cookie note for me, that I carry with me around the world. (Photo includes a gift from a dear friend I also carry around) So much of my life I lived just in my head and was not integrated in my body. When my head wasn't in tune with my intuition, feelings and emotions in my body, I got very physically ill, drained, and malnourished. Now I am stronger and healthier than I ever remember being. I do yoga, mediate, eat homemade farm-grown food, cycle, spend time with people I adore and learn from and feel nourished and accepted by, and do work that fulfills my soul. When I need to cancel plans or take the train to work because I feel tired, I do, instead of pushing myself against better judgment.

I am pretty sure most clothes I've left in the US wouldn't remotely fit Healthy Me. I stand proud and own my space. When I tell a friend here that I used to be a size 2 and was once so weak that lifting a glass of water felt like it weighed 10 lbs, they can't comprehend it. I learned from the illness, and it no longer defines me. Fully integrating learned life lessons, thereby releasing patterns and leaving negative thought loops, heals the body, mind, spirit and relationships.

I feel as though I am ever-nearing the energetic essence of the universe, which like a gorgeous infinity is never reached completely, only asymptotically (my math studies do come in handy). It feels like such a fuller way of being, and I am excited to continue to explore the layers and depth and breadth of life, to be my essence and resonate throughout more and more of the infinitely many dimensions of being. What a journey--a deep breath, infinite love and trust, and a dive in! (Photo: street statue men clearing up, seen months later than first photo--did you realise the front 2 were fake, and only the back 2 were real people? I hadn't!)

Operation nurture in full swing

2011-04-25T19:27:00.000+05:30

So I was working 80 hour weeks on two jobs, my boss and I coordinating and co-facilitating a successful and moving restorative justice-based conference on clergy sexual abuse on Friday, and researching and writing a government submission paper on immigration law and domestic violence for the other job due the following Tuesday. Thursday while cycling in the bike lane to the office for what was meant to be a half day of work, a car stopped in the middle of the road and the passenger opened her door into my arm. That slammed my left shoulder into the parked car to my left, then momentum and the principle of ricochet pushed my bike and body forward, and I landed on the top of my right hand and my knees, with a gash between my knuckles and some spectacular bruises I'm still sporting two weeks later. (Photo: hospital had me do this yoga-rific x-ray configuration)

My first thought looking at my poor trooper of a writing hand was, 'Ahh how can I do down dog, or ride my bike? Yoga, cycling and meditation are my sanity.' Thankfully nothing is broken, though my right hand is bandaged and in a sling, I'm headachy and my shoulder isn't the happiest. Daily yoga for the past year, however light it is lately is really helpful. An ounce of prevention is such a truism. (Photo: watching a turtle--talk about restful)

Working slowly for half-days traveling by tram and alternately wearing two skirts that are easy to put on, because simple things like pulling hair back with one hand are tricky, I'd been trekking slowly along til last Thursday as a passenger in my boss's car we were bumped by a car whose driver didn't use his brakes. We were stopped, he hit us from behind and pushed us into the car in front. Didn't do much besides restart my adrenaline, which had been on the decline.

The Universe rings loud and clear my need to sit still and take care of myself.

So since Thursday I've been sleeping and eating and very little else, a self-imposed coma. Sleep is the best medicine. Some socialising, spiritual and energy work, yoga, online Scrabble and short walks are good, too. Along with West Wing, which my housemate has gotten me addicted to in my bedridden state. Watching pretend American politics is more fun outside the country. Also, congratulations Colorado law, as ranking seems to be top priority lately, and here's a plug for our friend Father Bob and his hilarious April Fool's drive-by confessional.

So I'm resting to re-emerge my happy active self and less of a zombie. Hope you're all having fun and experiencing warm fuzzies like the bunny-ful holiday just passed. Happy Passover and Easter, everyone! xo (Photo: bats resting, see how much we can learn from nature)

Multiple Jobs and 1 Person does not for much time make

2011-03-30T06:45:00.000+05:30

I've been wanting to blog for ages, to share--or maybe to gloat--that my current home is the second-most liveable city in the world, that in an effort to go easy on myself I tell myself it's important to prioritise time and if blogging and uploading pictures to Facebook slips lower on the list than socialising in person and by phone, then so it goes. Recent research shows the unhappiness of half-assing and pretending you're happy to do/be something when you're not, so unless you've got some deadline, why not do it well and thoroughly later than half-formed sooner? (Photo: sunrise from my bedroom window)

And speaking of deadlines, I've got more coming up. Having had a few-week break from the 2-full-time-job insanity, which time I happily filled with friends, socialising, dating, a visit to the countryside complete with a hike and visit to a wildlife sanctuary. Sometimes I feel so on the go I think I've forgotten how to sit still. People tend to think I don't sleep (which was actually true when I was pulling all-nighters deep in double-job mode last month). My first job is still the same, which is culminating in our convening a restorative justice forum on clergy sexual abuse on April 8, which is the first time to our knowledge restorative justice is being used in this area. My second involves legal research and consulting, writing submissions for the Australian federal government on behalf of another NGO on proposed law and policy changes, first regarding forced and servile marriage, and now on a domestic violence "escape" in immigration law for women on conditional spousal visas. I meet the most inspiring people and hear such amazing stories researching this on the ground. (Photo: a hike in Healesville)

As if I need more evidence my current life is and, let's be honest, has always been very cushy. I read with interest articles like this mapping out unhappiness, health, and other issues in the US. Sometimes it feels like the hazards of choice. If all you had time for was eking out a living, breaking your back working to just feed yourself, have shelter and survive, you wouldn't have the unhappiness and existential crises. You'd just do, which would be all you knew. (Photo: koalas sleep so I don't have to)

Because there are always more problems and challenges to tackle! You know, like this, and that, just regarding child sex abuse in Melbourne alone. Work-life balance is always a struggle, unless you actively strive to do less or live in Denmark, apparently. Yoga in the morning, easily 1-2 hours of cycling a day getting around town, and meditation at night all keep my energy strong. It's so important when you're on a mission. My boss asked me the other day, if you don't sit still, why don't you sit still? The answer is easy. There's just so much I want to do! Passion calls, and I'm off to another meeting with some priests-- (Photo: happily swinging around straight-haired me!)

The Power of Empowerment

2011-02-05T13:20:00.004+05:30

The Protection of Children from Sexual Offences Bill of 2010, which has been front page news since July (and I'm mentioned in a fore-running article here), has reached an intense debate recently on the age of consensual sex. The basic idea is not to charge an 18-year-old with rape for having consensual sex with his/her 16-year-old boy/girlfriend. The debate is about the age at which children can consent, culminating into sensation headlines like 'Non-penetrative Sex Ok for 12-year-olds, Bill Says.' To be clear, the minimum age was 14 in the draft we worked on, and the definition of 'young child' was under 12, meaning if a child is abused below that age, the offender faces increased sentencing. Agreement is building to use 16 as the minimum age allowable for consent. (Photo: colony of gulls on a bright green pond I've been cycling past in my daily commute)

My thoughts on this are similar regarding the recent activity in Egypt: the immediate outcome--whether the age of consent is 14 or 16, or whether a conservative Muslim government is voted in--is less important to me than public and open debate and interest in politics and governance, and general ownership of and participation in a fair process. (I realise Egypt's turmoil worries Israel. The Wikileaks-revealed Israeli strategy to leave Palestine on the brink of collapse is not endearing, though to say Iran is strategising to create another Gaza in Egypt seems overly alarmist.) In any case, India & Egypt, I'm impressed and excited to see how you sort it out. As James Bryant Conant said, "Behold the turtle: he makes progress only when he sticks his neck out." (And I'll add, he ensures he's at home wherever he goes. Admirable, indeed.)

In local news, besides the barrage of rain and resulting flooding from the cyclone which filled my boots and showered me as I walked home last night, it's been an inspiring week. I'm devoting myself full-time to the clergy sex abuse project, with much positive progress, and enjoying facilitating and circulating energy during meetings, and embedding restorative justice practices into all aspects of our work, including an amazing restorative guided healing conversation circle on Friday. Empowering in a safe space to promote communication and collaborate to heal--restorative circles are a magical process, and I feel honoured every time I lead one. This whole settling-in-by-February theory appears to be true: I've just been hired as a short-term consultant to prepare a comment on a proposed Australian law on forced and servile marriage for a local NGO. And tomorrow a friend and I move into a new place where I plan to unpack for the first time since August. (I just have to find some crates or drawers to unpack my stuff into, haha.) The new house is a unique space: a converted fire station closer to the city, and everyone from friends' parents to my boss are kindly pooling together to lend me furniture and supplies, affirming yet again (as if I needed it) that people are good. Or better than good, even. (Photo: You know you're in Australia when...)

Australia when...Here's to inner peace outwardly manifesting into a supremely scrumptious existence for us all! And to the positive potential of meditation: If there is to be any peace, it will come through being, not having (Henry Miller). (Photo: local graffiti

"You'll love it here, and never want to leave!"

2011-01-24T11:53:00.001+05:30

Life in Australia is easy. Social support structure, small population, minimal violence and international conflict (in Wikileaks, the US describes Australia as a "rock-solid" and uninfluential ally) make it quite comfortable here. And, as my Australian and ex-pat friends have been discussing, creates and attracts a number of vanilla custard-type people used to "the good life."

Considering Maslow's Heirarcy of Needs, basic human rights are biological and physiological needs, governments are meant to meet safety needs, social and societal community structures strive to fulfill belongingness and loving needs, education to supply esteem and cognitive needs. And then you reach art, "the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination." If what gets you out of bed in the morning is being the world's best ballerina (here's hoping you stay saner than Portman in the Black Swan), then as long as your lower needs are met, I suspect you can find a way to do that Thing That Brings You Joy. How else to explain the numbers of persistent unpublished poets and unsponsored athletes and even stay-at-home parents?

Van Gogh only sold one painting in his lifetime. Martin Luther King Jr was assassinated. There are so many examples to help us realise that making money or earning accolades is not a reflection of how good you are at what you're doing, or its value to yourself and society. Money does make it easier to take care of yourself, and if basic needs are already cared for (ala Australia), money can increase quality of life so you can explore arts, a sense of self, etc. I work with and for many who struggle to gather the basic flour, eggs and water, much less have an oven to put a custard into--all while my life "struggles" are choosing flavours of icing and toppings. Because of my stability, I'm lucky to be able to focus on my art. And if you're reading this, you're likely also lucky enough to be in the icing or whipped-creme zone, too.

What I see with some vanilla custard types here is a lack of upward momentum, a getting somewhere stuck between esteem and self-actualisation, and resulting feelings of elevated entitlement. For example, unlike many Britishers in the news lately, I do not feel entitled to free university education in any subject. (On the other hand, unlike the conservatives in the US trying to dial back heathcare, I do think a measure of such care is a basic need the government should ensure and that no one should go into debt or avoid achieving health for lack of money. This also does not seem to me in society's best interest, if you think what the person could be doing if feeling well!)

It's all relative. There was a study recently that once you earn above $75,000, your happiness actually decreases or stagnates. The theory is, if you want a new pair of shoes and you have to save for it, or go back later when it's on sale, you remember the anticipation, and when you do get it you have that story and excitement every time you wear it. If you're really wealthy and you just buy it because you look at it and like it, you don't appreciate it as much, you don't have a story, and you didn't reflect whether you really wanted or needed it. What I wonder with easy living, is whether people don't think about moving up the heirarchy because on a metaphorical level if they want the shoes they get them. Why consider even fancier shoes when you and everyone around can get nice shoes if they want?

Saturday night I sat in Federation Square watching the Australian Open on the big screen, snacking on carrots and hummus and chatting to friends. Walking to the train, my friend commented what a beautiful night it was, to which I replied, "Yes, and I love my life!" I do. I'm also all for national pride, and am tired of people telling me how much I'll love it and want to stay here. I do love it. I am here, and I chose to come. And, Australia, I do not want to stay for good. No offense (or offence). I'm enjoying our time together, and for what it's worth, I don't think you're uninfluencial at all. It's quite an antidote to South Africa, which I also adored.

If I'm Goldilocks, after all of this travel I'm thinking more and more that home-basing in the US will feel juuuuust right. You can test your fit into gross national happiness here. I'm a solid 35/35. Here's hoping you are too, and blessed to pursue whatever your art/heart desires!

Cheers! Salut! Prost! Oogy Wawa!

2011-01-01T04:10:00.005+05:30

Happy New Year! Instead of rushing into the future thinking what I want to achieve in 2011, I'm taking time to reflect on and relish accomplishments of the past year(s) and celebrate personal and career growth, and the support of friends and family around the world. Sometimes it's hard to stay positive and strive towards the balance of being present with mindful planning and past introspection. I'm making lists of what I want to release from my life, and what I want to call in and cultivate, forming more philosophical goals than specific measurable ones. One broad goal is to be grateful. "Gratitude sees mistakes as natural and forgivable. It sees them as opportunities for self-correction, not punishment. Gratitude is about opportunities to change and grow. Gratitude is optimistic in that it allows for anything to happen in the next moment. Gratitude is about being open to transformation," quoted from here. (Jack & Coke in a can, typical Christmas and New Year's fare. I, however, abstained from such merriment and the inevitable drama that ensues.)

So often we have fond thoughts of others we don't share. Sometimes that gushiness feels so good! It's not the typical Aussie method. Here people tend to show affection by putting others down. "I'd consider coming over if I actually wanted to see you," instead of "I wish I could come, because I'd love to see you, and already have plans." Teasing can be fun, but not when it's all there is, or egos involved are fragile. An alternative is that we can all aspire to be Jedi, and follow the Zen advice of doing less. Example: when is the last time you listened to music? Just listened: eyes closed, not involved in any other task but listening and experiencing the music? How about watching a movie--not with your laptop whirring, while folding laundry, or cooking supper, but just sat and immersed yourself in a movie? The same can apply to anything from washing dishes and feeling the warm soapy water feed through your fingers, to walking in a park and stopping to smell a flower or seek out a bird flitting around a nearby tree. 1/4 of people in the US said it was okay to be online during sex. Eeps! I'm thinking more and more that multi-tasking is a bit like processed food and much of Western medicine: highly overrated and short-sighted.

As for my holiday celebrations, after a 40C (100F) day ambitiously spent cycling and wandering around St Kilda beach, I began 2011 in a state of zen listening to waves crash across a rocky seashore, watching a string of fireworks across the city from afar (at one point there were 8 different sets firing off all across the bay), in the post-picnic company of a friend. Christmas and my first Boxing Day were with friendly and lively large families, both fun and exhausting. It made me appreciate that my family is small so that holidays are restful simply due to the limited number of attendees. House-sitting now by the beach south of the city, I'm enjoying a lot of restful alone time, meditating and cycling often. It's hard to be stressed with sand between one's toes, lorikeets squawking in trees, a peculiar flowery smell outside one's front door, a large patio with a waterfall and huge kitchen to come home to. I realise I spend more time on porches and in kitchens than anywhere else in a house, and tend to sit on the floor instead of on a sofa. (Photo: lorikeet in a gum tree)

On the work front, the project to reform the Melbourne response to priest sex abuse is heating up, with a front-page story in the paper. And I routinely spend hours a day reading about child trafficking. I'm currently engaging in an interesting inner debate, whether or not it's better to legalise prostitution. Current research is indicating not.
Pro's: can regulate it, test prostitutes for disease, keep it above-ground, it's going to happen anyway so may as well monitor it and make it safe, gives women career option, tax it for state income.
Con's: increases the amount of trafficking, diseased/drug-addicted women are forced underground, women in the profession have a history of abuse and neglect and often perpetuate it into further PTSD and other disorders through prostitution, creates a culture of condoning the commodification of women and paying for sex, women have plenty of career options that do not violate fundamental human right of safety and sanctity of one's body and sexuality, ruins sex for the women, many men feel peer-pressured into it and regret using prostitutes.
It's Australia/Scotland/Netherlands/Denmark and other Western nations who've legalised prostitution and seen a huge uptick in trafficking, porn, prostitution, and abuse of women versus Sweden, where prostitution and trafficking have been decriminalised for prostitutes and sex workers so they have incentive to report and can receive help, and criminalised for traffickers and sex exploiters and those who pay for such services. Stopping the demand side.
I'm obviously leaning towards the Swedish model. With Australia #2 in the world creating demand for sex workers, one wonders how soon such laws and attitudes will change. Here's hoping, and working toward that end! (Photo: Black Rock beach in the moonlight)

And here's to a new year full of love and light, health and fulfillment, and for those of us in the market, paid work in our fields of choice so we can easily continue our life's work. *wink*

You Give, I Give, We All Give!

2010-12-16T13:45:00.006+05:30

"Your life is all variables and no constants," a friend said to me today, appealing to the math major in me. Except for the lovely people in my life and idealistic area of work I am passionate about and determined to somehow earn a living doing, there are no constants here, it's true. I am very excited to be starting to use my brain productively, though! It's a bit hard to believe it took this long to even find suitable volunteer work. Oh, Australia and your delightfully slow pace. I'm beginning work on two projects this week, in talks for a few more after Christmas, and have my name on a temp agency list just in case. Money will follow, I have faith, and in the meantime I am blessed by Aussie generosity with free places to stay, and even some food and keys to local dumpsters, and positive sentiment, as in, "Wow, that's your line of work? Boy, the world really loses out when you're between jobs." (Photo: handmade chocolate-y window display)

Project #1 involves stopping child sex trafficking on the demand-side, through a documentary about the approximately 2 million children trafficked for sex work every year, mostly through Southeast Asia and Australia. The Advocate to Eliminate Team is producing & distributing Corridors of Children, watch the trailer here. I'm working to develop a training strategy and materials for educating the public and spreading the word through the tourism/hospitality industry, the legal/government prosecution/enforcement side, and critical mass/university/public forums angle. We are looking for 30,000 adult names to match the 30,000 child sex workers in the Thailand alone. Please add yourself to the list, take a stand & pass it on!

Project #2 involves advocacy work with In Good Faith, for victims abused by priests in the Melbourne diocese, where the church is not appropriately, nor legally, responding to perpetrators and compensating victims. Example: 300 substantiated allegations of sexual abuse since 1996, and only 1 defrocking. Stories of burning evidence, advising victims they don't need lawyers and forcing small settlements, not reporting crimes to police--in a word, appalling.

In sum, Australia, I really appreciate the hospitality and optimism about paid work opportunities, I appreciate the warm weather even though it doesn't feel to me like Christmas at 26C/80F, I appreciate the bike paths and lanes and lack of rain when pedaling around in a suit, I appreciate the hidden high-quality $5 lunch venues, and I appreciate all the kind people who meet with and call me offering an ear, share stories of their inspiring careers, as well as advice and contacts. I am not exaggerating when I say I have met roughly 100 people and emailed easily 300 in the month I've been here. "No one can say you're not enthusiastic," said one friend. "Do you go out at all?" asked another. No one can, and yes, I do a lot, though I can't be bothered to cycle half an hour away to first start salsa dance at 10 pm on a weeknight. Start something earlier, Melbourne, por favor. I am a healthier, happier me when I exercise a couple hours of cardio a day, do yoga regularly (slipping the past few days due to excess cycling, sorry shoulders!), and sleep with the sun. (Photo: street art attitude I'm aspiring not to have)

Sometimes one has to shift some of the variables into constants to promote stability and sanity, for reasons both sensible and silly, and even random. I've been asked so many times what I'm doing for Christmas, when I was concerned instead with sorting out where I would be sleeping the next night. Enjoying the journey, grasping at dreams, giving and humbly getting, and thankful for the ride. As Bette Davis said, "Fasten your seat belts. It's going to be a bumpy night." Yee-haw! (Photo credits to sneaky friend)

Patience, Ladybug

2010-12-08T19:37:00.002+05:30

Wow, what a great CV/story. We're doing xyz. We wish we could use your skills, and have no openings at the moment. Abc would be a great person for you to meet.
The current chorus, followed by:
You'll find a job after the holidays, in Jan or Feb for sure. The country shuts down now, everyone heads to the beach for Christmas and school holiday, and picks back up in mid- to late Jan.
I've just about met nearly everyone remotely in my field in Melbourne, and it's to the point that I'm starting to be referred in circles. Few new avenues left to explore without expanding out into other lines of work. Looking into volunteering in work I'm interested in part-time to start using my brain and get experience, and temping part-time in order to eat.
Now enter a potential job in US next fall, worth an interview for sure, since visa runs out next November anyway. (Photo: namesake Collingwood Cafe)
And then:
We have a job opening immediately that you'd be a great fit for. Interested?
In Washington DC, human right's work, opportunity to move up and run projects abroad in the future.
Result: Confusion.
My meditation today discussed the rocking chair test, thinking with your head or heart:
Imagine following a path your whole life, and sitting on a rocking chair in your old age, reflecting. Are you happy with the decision? Is it a decision unveiling your highest possible destiny, or an easy, comfortable solution that fits into your outer life?
Someone said I'm juggling so many maybe-balls in the air, one's bound to hit me in the head. Sounds potentially painful, yet I'm sure the sentiment of whatever happens will be great, whether it's a US yes or maybe's here congealing into a yes. And "helpful" stories of someone taking 6 months to find volunteer work an hour outside the city are as helpful as a cancer patient being told, I knew someone with cancer, and he died.

Speaking of meditation, I've been yoga-ing and meditating mostly daily, which in addition to cycling is such a lovely mind and body-detox. I can't repeat enough how much I love non-driving cities. This year instead of a list of new years' resolutions, I'm compiling an annual (and even farther back perhaps) list of accomplishments, and a list of what I will let go and what I will call into my life. As my favorite healer said, What we seek seeks us, so your job is waiting. (Photo: surreal city art & architecture)

I'm keeping a gratitude journal and sending out notes, thoughts and energy of thankfulness. I can't afford to send bought presents, and this, at least, is personal. Last weekend I went on a (free!) meditation/yoga/qi gong/vegetarian/etc retreat for a day in the countryside. It was nice to escape the city, tree-ful as it is, to a place people grow their own vegetables again. Even getting dried spices (unground) from an Indian or Asian spice shop instead of the standard grocery store makes a huge difference in taste. Fresh food is more satisfying. I reckon (Australia speak) you eat less because it's so sumptuous & scrumptious you savor the splendid flavors. The meditation took up about half the day, maybe even 4 hours, and was not quiet contemplation but group Hare Krishna guitar-led chanting. I'm used to kinesiology, quiet contemplation, mindful yoga, and this was very different. Not quite my scene, though interesting.

I've been trying to meet a friend's sister since I arrived, and she wants to catch up Sunday next (2 Sundays from now). People ask what I'm doing to celebrate Christmas. I didn't even celebrate Hanukkah. I meant to go to an evening candle-lighting ceremony while it was monsooning (the 13-year drought is so over), and would've been stuck in the city waiting around for hours til then, so I went home and helped my hosts pack instead; they're moving house. Here's to being unable to plan, instead meditating in the moment.

What are you grateful for? (Photo: amusing & popular food shop at Melbourne Central Mall)

"You're a Refugee from America!"

2010-11-28T09:24:00.005+05:30

So said one of the lawyers I met this week in my networking & job-hunting palooza. (Apologies to Spanish friends who ask, 'Where in America??' when people from the US say they're 'American.') Unemployment here is around 5%, and people are shocked when I say in the US to continue my career path I would be competing for unpaid internships. I've met a nice group of expats, including many Spaniards who stay here because of 20% unemployment in Spain. With the 1-1 dollar parity between Australia and the US, plus working hours and lifestyle here, Australia sure is attractive! (Photo: Royal Exhibition Building)

And so is the art scene & interesting population here. After attending a local "sexy" film festival Wednesday, wandering toward the train station taking pictures of graffiti in the rain, a prostitute tried to befriend me. It was her birthday and her boyfriend was in jail, her ex-husband was "giving her shit," so she was "a good sport at the party and let them hang things all over her." I'm not sure I want to know what that means. She left the party because her friend is paranoid and has 27 cameras in his house, and once she sling-shot them all out the window to make a point, but what she really likes to do is build and then rip out gardens, and now she's in the ripping out stage at her house. Her drunken companion asked me for a light. I said I don't smoke, so he asked if I smoke pot. I said no, and he asked if I drink. She chastised him that she was talking politely about gardens trying to make a new friend. She offered to take me to a neighborhood across town to show me "the good graffiti" after they smoke up at his house for just five minutes. I politely declined, and wished her a happy birthday. Then I miraculously found a Korean grocer open and bought some seaweed & kimchee. (Photo: nighttime exploration of art in the Fitzroy/Brunswick area)

My Thursday networking day was cut short due to monsoon-style rain resulting in a lack of presentability as my hair lost three inches in length and gained five in width, so I hung out with a friend and worked from her house, then met another friend at a Japanese restaurant with a gluten-free menu. They still managed to poison two dishes, accompanied by massive apologies ("Here's my card, if you get sick we'll pay, please call"). Luckily the headache didn't last long, and while we got those dishes free, I suddenly realized I was a bad Cinderella and was about to miss the last midnight train. My friend ended up driving me all the way on his motorbike, which was actually quite fun, since I got to see a new piece of the city. After a lovely eat-and-chat-for-hours-in-the-rain day, followed by dancing and discussing US politics (which people love to do with me here), despite checking train times, I missed the last one again, and the motorbiker came to my rescue to avoid the $60 taxi. Again. Oops.

So on Saturday I was determined to be social-lite and not out late. I spent the day emailing every registered family law firm in Melbourne, then enjoyed the new Harry Potter movie & a delicious lamb dinner. (And my friend helped me find an umbrella for $10 instead of the $30 I kept finding. Here's hoping it lasts at least 1/3 as long as those!) I was telling my friend that I am so ready to be working, and it feels like a silly use of time to search for appropriate work. She had such a good response: it's not a waste of time, because it's spent finding a way to continue your life's work. Hurrah for positivity, and to all my other un-, under- or unhappily-employed friends, here's to waking up every morning and believing, 'Today I am reaching the perfect job for my skills and growth.' (Photo: Chinatown, obviously)

Operation 'Make a Life in Australia' Has Begun

2010-11-21T15:56:00.006+05:30

Monday I arrived in the Land Down Under. My bags decided to join me two days later. I woke up the second morning un-jetlagged and had a mini panic attack that I once again moved to a new country with no set job/friends/permanent housing/etc. My mom talked me down, saying, "You've been there 2 days. You are not expected to have a job yet." Still, I started networking meetings the following day, and everyone I've met & emailed with has been really positive and helpful, and suggest finding something before Christmas fever sets in when the country apparently shuts down to holiday on the beach. I hadn't realized how European the lifestyle is here: shop hours often 10-3 and closed one or two days a week, complaints about "working late" when staying in the office past 6. (Photo: Rush hour & typical modern architecture)

Melbourne is very, very, chill.

Not to say there aren't crowds, festivals, parks, interesting architecture, underground pubs, bike paths, hidden graffiti art, and loads of other interesting things to explore. In my limited experience of festivals (Spanish and Polish, so far), they seem to consist of small handicrafts (10%) and food and drink (90%). Australians like to eat, which is interesting considering how sticker-shocked I am at prices. Example: pecans grown in Australia $13/lb, lemons (in season) for $4/lb, even Target clothes start at $40/top. An ode to American stores--K-Mart, Safeway, Target, Borders, the list goes on--it's all here, for twice the price!

In addition to friends-of-friends and random newly-made friends, I have had some other love from this town. The first time I walked into a grocery store I was asked to do a survey on meat advertising, and 3 minutes of opinion netted me $5 (money is 1-1 with the US$ at the moment). Then two days later I met a nice local for a bike ride, and as I went to pay for a rental was asked to do a survey on the bike service, which has earned me unlimited bike access on those bikes-around-town for a week. I must look like a good little consumer. I've been taking advantage, cycling every day for hours, which would've cost more than $20/day and allows me to bide my time this week buying a bicycle. I've missed functional public transport, though the downside is one spends a lot of time in transit. So far that is more than offset by awesome hosts and ipod entertainment through fancy headphones from my newly-acquired not-in-Australia boyfriend. Two points to us for timing. (Photo: tram & downtown shopping area already decorated for Christmas)

My brother pointed out that this is my final frontier: I've now been to every continent (depending on how they're defined, and there are only baby penguins to work for in Antarctica). Thanks to support from wonderful people like you & friendly Aussies, I'm sure this will be another fulfilling year in the trenches. If Yogi Tea is right, and "Happiness is nothing but total relaxation," then Australia may be just the place to find it. (Photo: Busy Sunday in the Royal Botanic Gardens)

Slacking in the USA

2010-09-27T17:02:00.007+05:30

I suppose I am a new girl in the US now, so the title is still accurate. I wish I had some excitement to report, but actually I spent my first few weeks here pretty much sleeping, cooking, and seeing my family. My first weekend back, walking around the ridiculous Mall of Georgia I was struck by the juxtaposition of the kids I had been working with who owned a handful of shirts, and the kids clicking away on their Blackberries in $100 shoes.

I'm finally feeling back in the swing of things, applying for jobs and visas, cycling and yoga-ing and practicing energy work and catching up with friends, which this week includes a visit to Colorado. (Photo: orchid & my favorite graffiti park in Atlanta)

The only true Seinfeld-style craziness I've had here concerns my grandmother's 80th birthday ice cream cake. My grandfather went to order it, and after waiting around for twenty minutes the guy in the shop said he was too busy, so my poor flustered 84-year-old grandfather went home upset, and my mom went to order it instead. She said to them to make sure it's not vanilla-vanilla, but butter pecan and chocolate chip. We had a birthday dinner and poker game (her choice, no money bet) early to celebrate when my brother was in town. Cut open the cake and voila--vanilla vanilla. Grandy was disappointed. She only has ice cream like once a year. So my mom saved a slice in a tupperware, and I brought it back to the shop to show them and ask for a redone cake with the right flavors for her actual birthday. I showed the guy the slice: no chocolate chips, no pecans. He insisted I bring in the original box, which my grandparents took and threw away, and said he knows he made it correctly and that he "doesn't want any trouble." He accused me of bringing in an outside cake in order to get a free one, and said how does he know if he makes a new cake I won't bring in another outside cake, over and over? It was insultingly absurd. Since he was Indian I was pushy and put on a bit of a scene to make my point, to no avail. My parents went over later and the guy ignored my mom, too, but once my dad talked he got quiet. So sexist, and yet still no progress. $20 and 20+ years of lost business. Moral of the story: avoid Carvel, and one hopes there actually are some ice cream swindlers out there or this is a whole lot of nonsense for a whole lot of ego...from a guy who serves carvel. (Photo: Atlanta Botanic Gardens)

The need for the restorative justice idea of taking responsibility instead of blaming and shaming is so apparent. I hereby take responsibility for being a slacker about this blog. My life is pleasantly boring, which is a welcome change. As much as I enjoy the conveniences and perks of the US, and appreciate the time to rest and recenter, I miss the craziness, excitement and challenges of living and working abroad. I'm about ready to get back out there!

Sala Kahle (Stay Well)

2010-08-16T21:18:00.010+05:30

Last weekend I drove around Weenan Game Reserve with the express purpose of spotting a giraffe. Three hours into my self-guided safari, I’d had no luck. Then I passed a car full of people playing the game How Many India Men Can We Fit into a Vehicle.

“Is something back there?” I asked.

One of them wagged a dismissive finger. “A giraffe at the third set of trees. Is there water that direction?” he asked, indicating where I’d come from. I nodded, but all I’d found at the dam were a mess of muddy footprints of formerly thirsty animals and two exotic-looking water birds.

I parked the bakkie and walked into the bush about a hundred meters when staring into the sun, I saw a silhouette that reminded me of a Loch Ness monster with two little horn-like protrusions from the top of its head, and wide ears on the sides. I went closer, then stopped, closer, then stopped. All the while it stared, occasionally turning its head so I could see its profile, sweeping its magnificent mane of reddish brown. Its fur was cream-colored with sienna-brown spots, and overall was a bit dusty. Maybe I’ve gotten used to being around rhinos and zebras and have been swept up in the novelty of it, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen such an amazing creature. Then two more approached cautiously from my left. One went to stand behind the one I was watching, and the other, a bit younger, stared from farther away. If I inched forward slowly for another hour, I might’ve been able to touch one like an African Snow White. I thought of Isak Denison, I had a farm in Africa...

This week has been full of farewells, and a chance to greet the owner and show him the project before I go. Months ago when I first got that annoying rash on my neck, my healer friends said I wasn’t speaking my piece (or my peace). I went to see one a few days ago, and she told me it’s good I’m going home to rest and be safe, that I’ve made a huge impact and am very brave and other such kind reassurances from other dimensions, that as we talked a series of strings all around me were being cut, and my guardian beings reappeared, that upon my return from India I reacted to an evil spell here and have cleared it myself, and that all the energy I felt when she first met me was her wrapping me in white light of protection. I thanked her, and she asked me to pick a tarot card. The card I picked simply stated ‘Success.’ And another labyrinth walk this morning provided thankful confirmation.

My work here has been really rewarding and really difficult. With much idealism and heart for everyone, if all I did was touch a few people and expand their knowledge and confidence, then this has been a success. People are the best investment there is. “We’ll never find another like you,” they say. But we found each other, and one at a time, however slow and disheartening it may feel, we’ll each pay it forward and keep making steady positive progress.

For the final movie night on Saturday, I picked up The Gods Must Be Crazy. With all we’ve been through these last few months, they must indeed. It was an amazing community send-off, the usual chorus of ‘We need you’ and ‘My heart is breaking,’ and lots of people requesting pictures, and I've been receiving Zulu send-off calls all day. I’m complete and ready to go. Thank you, South Africa, for letting me into your heart. Keep in touch.

She's Got a Ticket to Ride

2010-08-04T20:20:00.007+05:30

I realized on Monday that my original plane ticket back to the US was in time to visit my dad for his birthday in August. I have done "better than my best" (as She & Him sing), and though we're not where I hoped we'd be, we've made such amazing progress. I've worked with so many motivated, wonderful, smart people. When people protest that they need me, I remind them I was never meant to stay forever. I aim to be a Mary Poppins: build their confidence and pride in their work, stabilize by using input to form workable systems so they can sort out future crises togther through positive collective action. It's a community project, and I think it's imperative the community, with helpful guidance from professionals, be empowered to dictate its direction. Otherwise we'll never break the cycle of the have-not's asking and not doing themselves, and the have's giving and thereby deciding, and the mutual resentment that such a system breeds. I say, 'You are doing this work! You are amazing. You started this project without me, and you'll continue without me. And I am teaching a few of you to use the computer so you can better do your jobs, but also selfishly so we can keep in touch!' (Photo: a hard day's work making thatch)

Which reminds me, last night my brother said he got all the selfish genes. He was sitting by the beach sipping sweet tea and eating a muffin and asked, "Don't you want this?" Yes and no. I appreciate that more when it's not an everyday occurence, when it's in contrast to, for example, what I did today. Coming full circle from my child sex abuse work in India, I learned of a man in one of the communities who's raped at least two children, one at age 6 and one at 13. The 13-year-old is now 16, and suffered a heart attack earlier this year before finally getting up the nerve to report what she's been living with, the poor stong girl. The man threatened to kill her and her family if she rtld, and now she says she feels much better that it's out. Her heart was breaking physically and emotionally, and now she can heal instead of hide. The good news is she has tested negative, and now victim counseling will begin at school and the local hospital for her. People have been pushing her to file a police report, and she doesn't want to. I told her she doesn't have to and tried to tip off the police. They weren't interested, but said her mother could report it. I treated mother and child to KFC & Coke for the ride home, which delighted them and honestly didn't smell appealing or like real food to me. I'm so spoiled from this fresh farm food.

Where to now? Looks like a visit to the land of plenty to see my very relieved family & see how many friends I can summon to visit me (or fund me to visit them, ha). I wish everyone here the best, and bid farewell with a heavy heart, full of admiration for all the hard work and positive people I've had the pleasure to know. In the spring the burnt grass will grow back a lighter, fresher green, and the buffalo, rhino, and all the people will keep on keepin' on. (Photos: friend's drive, and a close-up of the red: things are not always as they appear when close up)

Playing with Fire

2010-07-16T19:47:00.003+05:30

This post should be about a monsoon wedding during a peaceful countrywide strike. Of colored rice, Sanskrit vows, bright red saris, mehendhi and a foreign family feel on the soggy beaches of Goa. Of a drizzy train ride of 500 rummy, dream discussions and Flight of the Conchords,, followed by reunions while rediscovering a deliciously delicate dew-coated Bombay, dew that washed the pollution to the gutter, muddy-greened the streets and trees and slid down in short sheets so as not to spoil shopping stock-ups. Of finally going inside Gandhi’s old house, which was less remarkable than overdue since I’d lived a block away and then moved to South Africa where lawyer Gandhi got his start preaching ahimsa (nonviolence). I could write about catching the final World Cup match in the Dubai airport with the most international crowd possible, screams at the set-up screen in seventeen languages, and how even in the middle of the night the Arabian desert was so hot that sitting on the airport toilet the water beneath the bum felt fit to boil. But what’s really on my mind isn’t ahimsa. It’s violence. (Photo: Ahimsa is the highest ideal, Gandhi library)

South Africa has a bad reputation. Even in India they ask me, “Isn’t it a poor country?” And if I say I live here, the first European or American comment is always, “Be careful, don’t get raped!” A few weeks ago our mentally unstable mechanic threw a fit and quit. Clearing out the workshop it was discovered that he had been grinding knives like this one. He said they were for hunting.

I returned here from India to striking and a general state of unrest. Eight to ten people threw fire inside the reserve and burned about half of the land. It looks like hell and smells like singe. Before I even knew about the fire, I awoke sick with food poisoning my first morning here and retched for over an hour. I peeled myself off the bathroom floor and back into bed and barely got any work done the rest of the week. Given all the calming appearances of 37 in India (and by the way this is my 37th post), it was an especially grim sign. So far all the threats I’ve heard through community rumors have come true, down to raise demands and these fires. Now there’s talk of killing someone to “show they’re serious.” My translator is the most likely target. I talked to him about it on Friday.

“What’s your safety plan?” I asked. “Why don’t you move your family out of the community for a while? I’ll help you find a place to stay.”

He said he’d send his family to his sister’s and would stay home alone. He knows which five people are likely to attempt attack. He’ll wait to defend himself.

“Do you have a gun?” I asked.

“No, a crossbow, and the support of the spirits of my ancestors.”

“What happens to your family if you’re hurt? Who’ll support your wife and eleven kids? You’re probably the most important person on the reserve, and who else can take over when I’m gone?”

“If I go, it’s admitting they’re right. Sometimes you have to fight violence with violence.”

“This place is not worth dying for. Don’t be a martyr. You’re not Jesus. Think about a safety plan this weekend, and Monday I’ll help you find a place to stay.”

“Okay, I’ll think about it,” he said. “Thank you for this talk. Thank you for caring.”

He can’t even tell the police about the death threats because the threateners are friends with the officers. It would just fuel their fire. No one should have to live that way. And I can’t do my job. Never mind the stress—I can’t build community while they’re burning it down. It just takes one gust of wind blowing fire back into a community to wreck hundreds of homes and lives. The Education Trust is too young to sustain such a storm. (Photo: insane zebra post-cull)

I suppose the silver lining if, I dare call it that, of the slow evolution from slavery to abolition to voting to segregation to affirmative action to today is that blacks in the US had generations for their education to catch up so they could fill equal jobs. South Africa’s trying it all in one go: throwing blacks into jobs and responsibilities they’re not prepared for which they’re floundering and often failing at, whites resentful of black incompetence and greedy lining of pockets and sickened watching the white systems slowly collapse, with racial tension piled on top. Tall order for the Rainbow Nation.

To over-generalize, in my experience in Asia when a poor man looks up at a rich man he thinks to himself, ‘How did he get there? I must work hard and get a good education and get there myself. I want what he has.’ In Africa, a poor man looks up at a rich man and thinks to himself, ‘Why does he have that? I want what he has. I deserve it. I’ll knock him down and take it.’ There’s a sense of responsibility and valuation of education missing. It’s easier to unite against something (apartheid, slavery, Saddam, Mugabe, colonial rule—) than for something (even Obama’s uniting for Change has provided profound disagreement about what that Change should be).

People want opportunities they don’t know how to create. They don’t know what they don’t know. Some apartheid-like patterns are still very much in place. Toxic clouds spew blame like acid rain over everything. How to harness ahimsa here? Patience, listening, respect—the usual. Fire doesn’t figure. More fire will sadly force me to leave. As one of my friends said last week, "There are plenty of other babies to save." (Photo: unfortunately 20 km later another such sign appears)

Soccer Zulu-gans

2010-06-29T14:08:00.005+05:30

We were there! Friday I drove the ladies down to Durban for the Brazil-Portugal match. They were alternately in Bafana Bafana jerseys and church clothes. I had to arrive by 1 to fetch my passport from the American Embassy, and of course we arrived at 1:05. Last time I parked downtown I scraped the side of the vehicle in the garage (cities & Valerie-drivers were not designed for 4x4s), so with a bunch of ladies in the car I was confident could talk us out of anything I decided to double-park the double-cab and make a dash for the passport (and of course the Embassy's on the 31st floor, the very top). Since I called ahead someone kindly got my passport anyway (thanks, USA!) and I ran back to the lobby to find two ladies waiting. "The police are there, hurry!" They had asked the security guard, "Do you know Valer?" to which he replied, "There are a lot of people in this building." I froggered across the street back and apologized profusely. The ladies had made up a story of my being an overseas driver not used to the vehicle and that I had to go into a shop to ask for help because it was broken down, but neglected to tell me so I could keep the story straight. The officer let us go, with some words in Zulu that the ladies should be ashamed for making him "look like a fool" and we were off to sit in traffic and avoid the psychotic weaving of taxi vans til I found safe non-garage parking. (Photo: soccer balls of the world & a typical Brazil fan.)

It took about 2 hours to walk 2 km, what with photos, complaints and the slow shuffle of black people (hey, you US blacks know you walk slowly, too). We passed approximately 37 Brazil fans for every 1 Portugal fan, and the ladies collected discarded plastic bottles to fill with seawater. I asked what the water was for, and one said, "We need wives!" Silence and confusion ensued. Another corrected, "husbands!" and we all laughed. I asked the one who has a husband what she'll use it for, and she said she will wash with it everyday and "it is very important! the most important." It reminds me of New Orleans, the mix of traditional customs and ancestor worship with very heavy Christianity. By 3:45 they were all hungry as none had heeded my advice to bring lunch, and kept fruitlessly hoping the next shop would be cheaper. With the game set to start in 15 minutes, half went on a hunt for KFC and half sat at Wimpy Burger. I said I didn't come to Durban to sit at Wimpy and made my way onto the sandy Fan Park. (Photo: Moses Mabida, the best-looking stadium)

Portugal and Brazil were so well-matched it was a rather anticlimactic game. For all the pre-game vuvuzela-ing, parading and yelling, afterwards the fans were all rather subdued as yellow and green with a hint of red streamed out of the stadium. After driving in Durban during World Cup I think I could maybe handle Bombay on a weekend. But I don't care to test that theory. On the way back when we stopped for gas the ladies talked the attendant filling our tank into buying them a big Fanta to share. True teamwork.

Sunday early we were at it again: another community movie showing (Mr. Bones was requested again), using our new popcorn machine. We sold over 100 bags, and everyone was SO excited. Some people in the community walked over 20 min each way just to buy popcorn and not even see the movie. As I started my taxi-ing home with children screaming singing in the back of the cruiser, the ones who remained played Bingo, for the first time. They loved it. This weekend ladies are going to do a popcorn and community Bingo afternoon without me, because I am heading back for a visit to India! And here's hoping no one else breaks into my translator's house to do more witchcraft. (Photo: popcorn & a movie ala generator)

I both am & will never be Zulu

2010-06-23T19:34:00.005+05:30

Last weekend the community was amazed that I went to Bonisiwe's funeral. "You are different," they kept telling me, shaking their heads, impressed I thought to wear a long skirt and black top. "Valer, you are the only white to come to our funeral. And your dress is right." It was a long (9-2) and very lovely ritual. First we paid respects in the house. I'm rarely invited inside houses, as mostly people are embarassed to show me how they live. Usually they bring chairs (or if they're really poor, sagging wooden benches), and no one sits until I do. I'm not sure how much is my being white or in a position of authority. When I do go inside like on Saturday, while everyone else kneeled on mats on the floor (a richer home, instead of a mud floor it was covered with patches of three different kinds of linoleum), I was instructed to sit on one green plastic chair. I felt like I was on a throne above everyone, but when I protest such special treatment, they insist and I don't want to be rude. Then all of us women sat on plastic chairs under a tent. The coffin was brought out and people took turns speaking and leading songs. The pastors interrupted with prayers, while outside the men all dug a huge hole in the yard and piled the rocky soil neatly with planks of wood on top. Once one of our volunteers spoke, we rose and laid a newly bought blanket over the coffin, then folded and handed it to Bonisiwe's mother. We then carried the coffin to the burial site, and the men took over. They lowered the coffin in and covered it with perfectly-cut wood, then ripped a mat and put the mat in, and poured a bag of what I presume were some small things from Bonisiwe's four-year-old daughter inside. While men shoveled, the children Bonisiwe taught in the pre-school symbolically buried her by throwing small fistfuls of soil into the grave. All the while the women sang spirituals, and when we finished we all washed our hands and sat down for a delicious feast of chicken curry, pumpkin mash, yellow rice, baked desserts, roasted beetroot, cole slaw and a host of other food that had been carefully cooking all morning to feed about a hundred people. We paid the family Bonisiwe's salary and each donated some money on top, which may have just covered that food. Funerals cost families small fortunes they don't have. We presented a quote for a group funeral plan, and the ladies opted for the most expensive package, nearly 1/6 of their salary. Sadly, it makes sense: death is damn expensive and way too common. (Photo: you can't see the mountains for the fog)

Sunday I was invited to another Zulu church service. I have mixed feelings about the churches: they are a morally positive force, and they also bleed the community of more money they don't have. I present what we're doing, that I'm a volunteer, and then open for questions, and they always ask me to do X, Y, and Z, when (1) I'm not Christian, (2) I'm here for the kids, not the churches, (3) white ≠ money, and (4) I'm overworked as is and giving up a Sunday to be with them without taking up even more causes. Also, religious services in an unintelligible language despite lovely singing, are rather wearing. Which is why we are all SO looking forward to tomorrow. A lovely friend who runs a soccer league offered to pay for petrol for me to drive the ladies down to the Fan Zone in Durban for the Brazil-Portugal match. "Unbelievable!" and cheers of excitement were among the sentiment. In the afternoon, one of the ladies ran down the road to tell a reserve employee how thrilled she is, even to be bumping along in the back of the buggy for the 2.5+ hour drive down. Crossing fingers we aren't deafened by vuvuzelas. (Photo: cheap Coca-Cola vuvuzelas for sale)

Have I mentioned recently how much I love my job? Today I taught the ladies bingo, as a potential fundraiser to go along with our new popcorn machine. They loved it. "That game is right! Number one!" So we're doing our first community bingo afternoon on Sunday, without even a bingo game set, just printed pieces of paper in a bag. If I've learned anything living outside the US, it doesn't have to look nice or even make much sense so long as it functions.

In closing as a homage to the stupidity of McChrystal, I bring you some South African political humor, including the popular quote, "Don't Touch me on my Studio!" And the most hilarious gift against the cold I've ever received. (Photo: even the spiders are frozen!)

A Bit of Buddha in South Africa

2010-06-16T21:07:00.010+05:30

In need of a little zen, I went to the Buddhist retreat centre last weekend for a mini yoga and meditation vacation. As suspected it was a mostly-female retreat for the kickoff of the World Cup. But we knew South Africa didn’t lose with the vuvuzelas bellowing from the valley below. Which was easy to hear since the lodge where I stayed was 24/7 Noble Silence and the entire Centre was nobly silent from 9 pm to 9 am. One would think that would be calming, but I get plenty of silence every evening on my own, so when I go out I prefer some conversation. So I skipped evening meditation Saturday night to make some phone calls, and got sad news.

One of the ladies passed away on Saturday. She was thirty-three, had a four-year-old and was taking care of her elderly mother since her brother had been murdered last year. She didn’t take a day off from working with the kids. One of the ladies visited her just Thursday to finish putting together portfolios to complete pre-school teacher certification training and found her hunched over her binder in pain unable to walk. She went to clinic Friday, was transferred directly to hospital. Tomorrow morning we’re going together to visit the family. We decided to pay her entire month’s salary, pitch some more money in ourselves, and buy her family a warm blanket. Snow’s set into the mountains, and firewood is scarce (or if you’re me, firewood is useless with a half-built fireplace). I feel truly spoiled at twenty-seven that this is my first winter without climate control. When I was easing the buggy up the mountain on Sunday I was reminded of Red Velvet and how maybe someday I’ll drive a car that I doesn’t slow to 40 kilometers per hour huffing up an incline. Then I thought nah, I’m lucky to have a car to drive at all. Money can be better spent than on an fancier car. People live so day-to-day I’m loaning each the $4 (R 30) we’re donating. (Photo: evening retreat view)

This is why last week I decided to monetarily empower them. This is a community project, and the community should decide how to spend the money. There’s too much drama about money on the reserve, so to stop it from spilling into our work, my translator and I walked an hour from the office to meet the ladies at the Resource Centre and had a money meeting. I wrote on the chalkboard how much we started with, what we have now, and the expenses so far. After we talked about ways to cut costs and make money, they voted themselves a very reasonable raise. Information is so empowering. There’s so much potential waiting to be tapped. That’s really why people here are so excited about World Cup: the chance to Get Out. Out of poverty, out of the same small community and culture they’ve only and always known, out of Africa… (Photo: sunbird)

So many people I work with are so bright, talented, and eager for opportunity. They’ve been oppressed, first in the Zulu culture by following an induna much like an American Indian chief, then by the apartheid system, and now by the current corrupt government and some employers. We need to ease into increased responsibility. Do something once, walk someone through it once, and let go, remaining on stand by. Last Thursday when a government agency didn’t show to speak about how to get grants. I smsed to see how it went and was told they were all still waiting 1½ hours later. No one called the agency to confirm or find out what happened. The instinct was to blame, not take responsibility. Things like this make whites frustrated that blacks don’t take charge or seemingly appreciate opportunities. There’s also frustration people make decisions they’re not prepared for. If you don’t know what you don’t know (and are rather isolated), you don’t know that you need more information, much less how to get it.

I don’t know why Bonisiwe left us. I don’t know what I’ll say to the family tomorrow. I do know she worked harder and smiled through more than I’ll ever experience. (Photo: retreat dam view)

Namaste.

Green Eggs, No Ham

2010-06-07T11:27:00.004+05:30

From a chicken’s head to an emu egg, for dinner last night I baked an emu frittata. Rewind: Saturday I was driven 45 km, dropped off and walked 6 km to pick up my bike from the shop, rode 25 km and the pedal fell off from the crank. Not what one hopes after picking it up from the shop. Top-notch customer service: owner drove out to fetch me, took me back to the shop and fixed the bike, then to his house for lunch with his wife and kids and sent me home with two emu eggs from his farm. The friendliness of rural people is heartwarming: I wasn’t even hitching and three cars stopped while I walked my bike. And someone sold me an avocado. (Photo: emu eggs & peace-sign of a feather)

Seventy-five people turned out to watch Up for movie night number two. The sound still hasn’t been sorted. They prefer to have a quiet movie now to a perfect one later, and don't understand much English anyway.

Family in crisis update: teenage mother had baby a few weeks ago, a sweet little boy. Her mother, who had a grant, moved in to help. Then sadly, she died a week later. Seems like the teenage mom is slowly stepping up. Lately when we visit there’s talk in Zulu with little translation. I'm glad to be less necessary as they sort it out.

New family in crisis: five orphans, two women on one gogo’s old age grant. Mix in TB and a five-year-old who holds up his head with his hand due to a neck injury, with a pained ache of a face and big hungry belly. I asked if they have enough food, and they said yes. We left and they called us back, and said actually there is just half a bag of mealie meal for the lot of them. And the list-of-needs floodgate opened. We offered to help them get an emergency grant and apologized we can’t afford school uniforms for the kids. One of my ladies shook her head and said, “We offer them a hand and they ask for an arm.” I smiled. “Yes, and if they grab our arm when we reach out a hand we’ll all fall over.”

Whites are guilty and also resentful their help doesn’t seem to be appreciated and feel imposed upon to do more and more. Blacks are resentful and angry for lesser education, opportunity, income and feeling of self-worth and feel entitled to massive improvement in circumstance. The effects of apartheid fester. Wonder if this was what it felt like when Jim Crow ended in the South. (Photos: flowering winter grass & perched oriole that brings sunshine to the cold office with his song.)

Helping is important and fraught. Jealousy so rampant. I’m having a meeting to explain why I’m scared if we give too much of a raise we’ll finish the money and all be out of work. Scant consolation for people who struggle to buy food. Growling bellies are understandably less patient. Empowering people to do for themselves is a slower and more stable & sustainable solution. There’s resistance to change yet resentment of the status quo. My translator is getting such threats from coworkers he took out a huge loan to pay a sangoma to put a safety spell on his house. (One threatener was thrown into jail last week, accused of murder for stabbing a man in a bar who was stealing his friend’s wallet.) No one should have to live with such a feeling of desperation.

I aspire to dwell on positive sentiment and am thankful for the friendly ears I’ve been bending lately. I admire so many people I encounter. Like the government lady who helped the new family in crisis. She’s not only on the ball, she’s throwing passes and running as she’s tackled from all angles. Example: she gets hot chocolate donated for people waiting on cold mornings, and someone else donates condoms. Local paper headline: government encouraging sex. Superiors say stop all innovation. Or: schizophrenic is given an R500 loan from an R250 grant. Not surprisingly, he couldn’t pay. The loan officer illegally seized his grant card as collateral. She went to the loan office and yelled that this poor schitzo man wouldn’t remember he got the loan even if he could pay it back. The loan officer opened his drawer to reveal 1000s of seized cards. Each card costs R65. She started thinking of all the grants people could’ve gotten if the government wasn’t busy paying to remake those cards, so she called the police. The police officer was friends with the loan officer, and arrested her. She got a restraining order. She can’t enter an entire block of a very small town, cutting her off from the Old Navy-like clothing shop, Mr. Price, until July. In July she’s going back to call the police again. Here's hoping a different officer comes. (Photo: world cup fever in Shoprite)

Calm, cool and collected. Who, me?

2010-05-28T18:27:00.017+05:30

No news on my coat, and the following week a couple coworkers bought me some pepper spray. It's the third time I've been given pepper spray, and I think I shall actually practice using it once and carry it around this time. I got some wonderful birthday wishes, and on top of it, two of my favorite people said they want to buy me a new coat as a belated birthday present! Thanks for all the <3. href="http://www.daltoneducationtrust.com/newsletter-advert-may.htm">newsletter!(Photo: rhino dad and mom & baby very suspicious of me. By the way, rhinos are nearly blind. So did they see or smell me behind an electric fence?. Other photo: winter sunrise)

My conflict work and "crazy outsider" status has turned me into a bit of an ombuds-woman, and I have a lot less to lose by trying to implement change than the other workers here. I also think that if one continues to work within a fraught framework without working within to implement positive change, that one becomes complicit and has responsibility for one's inaction. Something interesting came up in conflict class this week, too: why do we think other people say or do things to purposely hurt/annoy/degrade/etc us, yet we don't do/say /think with those intentions. Why do we think others do? Let's assume the best! Also, I've started conflict work with schools and teaching about the peaceable classroom model in exchange for donations to the project. Peaceable communities, workplaces, classrooms, ole!

Speaking of peaceable, I had a such a difficult visitor last weekend I have been apologizing and de-compressing from it all week. From refusing the dinner I made because it has potatoes and then eating potato chips, to when my boss was kind enough to invite us to dinner dictating what would be cooked and how, to putting files on and burning music from my computer without asking (computers are personal and it took me 2 weeks to get blank cd's out here), to leaving half-eaten sandwiches and dishes all over my house knowing my gluten allergy, to making kids ride in the back of a buggy on a cold night while he sat inside...it was horrifying. Twenty-five going on five. Driving to the community movie I visualized a healthy, calm, cool and collected aura with white energy bursting from the top of my head so his murky stormy aura wouldn't penetrate me. One apology for bringing him round to a friend entails volunteering for a school survivor-style fundraiser this weekend. Building a raft from sticks and mud, eating a mouse or a raw egg--I think I have signed up for Crazy. (Photo: another winter sunrise)

This week's motto: be zen.

Please Press 1 if this is an Emergency. Then Hold.

2010-05-17T11:00:00.007+05:30

“Valerie, call the police! There’s a man with a knife outside the window!” I ran for my phone and dialed the emergency number. I had to listen to a recording and press 1 that This Was An Emergency, then I was put on hold, then had to explain to a switchboard operator, presumably in Jo’burg, where I was so she could connect me to the closest police station. She did not understand my accent, nor was she familiar with my location. As I repeated myself in frustration, my friend found her phone and called the local station directly.

To rewind just a bit: at about 2:30 AM my friend and I realized we’d been chatting by the fire, exchanging music and enjoying her delicious raw cuisine and spice tea with no regard to time, and that I had better stay the night. She lives in a small town about 40 minutes from the reserve. She walked over to shut the music and turned around to the lit guest room to make up my bed, where she saw a man with a knife standing outside the window, on the lit porch, peering at her. She screamed to me, then turned to scream at him: “Go away! Get out of here! We’re calling the police!” He waved his knife at her. My first thought as I dashed for the phone was her three kids asleep in the bedroom. I felt completely powerless. (Photo: another bathtub with a view from a tea spot in town.)

She got through to the local police before I made it through the switchboard. “Hi, there’s an intruder on my property with a knife. There’s just women and children here. Please send someone quickly.” Not sure which direction the man ran, we roused the kids in case he’d gone around the back. The eldest, a boy, was content to keep sleeping. The middle girl came in quite scared and sat next to me by the fire. She drank my tea, I stroked her hair, and she said, “I wish we didn’t have money. We should go back to swapping things.” Trying to distract her, I asked how many carrots one would swap for a haircut. We chatted and waited, and the youngest girl joined us. We were all a bit shaky. There’s something incredibly brazen, illogical and especially scary about a man--without even any facial covering--coming to a lit house with music playing, in which people are clearly awake, and trying to break in. After waiting over half an hour (the station is about an 8 minute drive away, tops), my friend phoned back to see if someone was coming. The officers were lost. She repeated her directions. Then, “No, I will NOT come outside to meet them—did you not hear me that there’s a man with a knife outside my house?!” The middle child cringed and lay her head on my lap.

A few minutes later the police arrived and did a perimeter search. They found nothing. I walked outside to check my vehicle. In that cold weather with a choke the robber would’ve made a faster getaway by foot than trying to steal my buggy. While my boss sorted out the strike and tension on the reserve, I met a friend and spent the morning playing with poo (rhino, zebra, and buffalo), working on our new product, biopots and cute manure-made instantly-plantable indigenous seed discs, so the back of the buggy was full of manure and a bag of kids’ shorts from our psychomotor training. He’d peered inside and passed on those. In the front I had some papers, a Tupperware, my black straw hat and a new white winter coat I’d treated myself to on my trip to Jo’burg. The passenger door was unlocked, and the coat was missing. I wondered if my hat should be offended. (Photo: malfunctioning fountain in the Jo'burg botanic gardens that seems appropriate here)

The police came in to take down a report for my stolen coat. There were two, one in training, who mimicked the constable he was working with, down to when he lifted his pen or sipped his tea. They worked through their forms, asking questions and filling boxes. “What is your date of birth?” I suddenly realized. “It’s today, actually.” They didn’t flinch. “Year?” The girls and my friend all chorused an oh shame, happy birthday, sorry about the coat! More so than the coat, even though I didn’t see him, I’ve got an image in my mind of a middle aged man brandishing a knife glinting in the light, and the cockiness of his attempted armed robbery. My friend has lived in that house for about 2 years, and this is her 4^th break-in. The 2^nd time, a year ago, she was home and at 3 am heard a noise. She and her dog walked into the kitchen and saw a man at the window. She screamed and ran for her phone, and he stayed there and kept banging as if to break the glass. She was alone. Then he went around to the front door and banged and rattled around as if to try and enter from there. She locked herself and her dog in the bathroom and talked on the phone to a friend until the police arrived, over 30 minutes later. Then the officer proceeded to hit on her and tried to force a kiss when he left.

The officers thanked my friend for the coffee (she'd made them tea). After a couple hours of sleep, we four women in one room, I head to toe on a twin mattress on the floor with the middle girl, I led my friend in a little yoga and we sipped smoothies. The kids’ dad arrived, and after hearing our encounter told us his friend’s girlfriend in Durban was in the ICU. She had just admitted to her husband whom she’s separated from that she’s been seeing someone else. He’d gotten mad, and then later apologized and asked her for a hug to make up. She went to hug him and with a knife in his hand he stabbed her chest. With their kid in the room. I do not envy the life of a single mom in South Africa. Hats off to you, ladies, truly. (Thankfully I still have my beautiful vintage black hat to take off!) (Photo: contemplating at home)

What I needed was some sleep and a long walk. I hadn’t been in a proper humid forest since camping with a friend in Tennessee in August. A long wintry walk amid trees was just what I needed: wet, crisp, and comforting. The forest was also full of blackjacks and bramble, burring all over my leggings and skirt. My skirt was also soaked about ten centimeters up as I sloshed in my socks and shoes. When I drove home the kids presented me with a basket of naartjie and hand-dipped candles they’d made. My parents phoned to say happy birthday, and my house smelled from the lovely roses a coworker left on my table with my mail. I opened cards and a few packages (hooray for my new Opex watch!) and was treated to a yummy farm-fresh dinner at my boss’s house, and had a long chat with a coworker friend. The next day I redecorated my walls with the cards & wrapping paper & a new lovely screen print, and another coworker brought over a present. I readied the next batch of cards & quills and watched Strictly Ballroom, missing dancing and mostly thankful I was safe on the reserve. I locked my doors for the first time in a long time. The cats will have to sleep with their owners for a while. (Photo: view from home)

Rhino-conomics

2010-05-12T11:10:00.007+05:30

As I walked into work this morning I watched a rhino slowly ambling up a mountainside and a pair of cranes building a nest above a pond. One crane flew to gather a branch or some grass, flew back and gave it to the other who put it in place. I’m told the crane couple builds their nest every year and they have yet to have babies. Both struck me as metaphors for progress: collaboration, positivity, patience, perseverance…pretty much the opposite of the environment here now. I feel like I’ve been transported to 1903 and the worker’s rights’ movement: high ideals of what a union can do with little legal and practical understanding, no trust for The Man (aka management).

On the other hand, my workers are happy and working well. Our coordinator spent all day last Friday assembling a database in Excel of the kids we serve—and it was her first time using a computer! And Saturday a group of us finished our community food garden: 3 beds of winter veggies (beets, cabbage, spinach, beans) & 8 fruit trees (fig, lemon, apple, peach, orange) to start our orchard. (Photo: helping in the garden. So sweet.)

Now that the communities are coming together and our everyday is running smoother, I’m shifting into building a business so we have a steady source of income and can employ more locals. The idea of producing biodegradable stuffs is forcing me to brush up on my chemistry. Today I made milk plastic. It’s not that hard now, but it hardens over time (that’s what she said). I emailed a couple engineer friends for advice, and one said, "You know the question you're asking...is basically how to restart society with nothing...it's gonna be hard to just use the same supplies and compete in the market since people have been using those supplies forever."Ouch, it’s not that dire. A friend & collaborator has suggested that what we need is a Thneed (according to Dr. Suess, A Fine-Something-That-All-People-Need). What’s the point of having a supposedly $200,000 brain if I can’t develop a thneed? (Photo: an ancient fern tree of the ilk that dinos used to chomp on)

The new business (ad)venture, along with some Sunday-poker-in-the-pub friends (horse-breeder friend: “It’s my one year one ear anniversary!”) and my first actual Scrabble game since I left the US are pleasantly rounding out my life like a rhino’s bum. Speaking of rhinos, they’re so fat that in the last month two had babies, and we thought one still had months of pregnancy left. I’ve caught glimpses of the babies, but mostly the parents hover around to protect them so I just get a peek of some extra small tubby chubby legs. Since the gestation period is ??? so they can only have one baby every ??? years, they gotta protect their offspring. Especially when a stupid neighbor farmer starts a fire and leaves the country so we can watch it with worry and chant a stayawayfromourdrygrass mantra. Which is about as effective as a plane full of rabbis praying to prevent swine flu.

Right now it’s the opposite of monsoon season. I’ve taken to pouring puddles around my bedroom before I sleep so thety evaporate and wet the air. (I must just be careful not to pour too near my bed to avoid another mid-night knee wham.)

Yesterday I was asked whether I can sprint (with probing, I find out this means that if I run into Pogenpoel, the lone, angry male buffalo who’s been kicked out of the herd they want to think I can sprint to my escape). The two most popular Zulu questions: (1) Do you have kids, Valer?, and (2) What do you do on weekends [since you don’t have kids or animals]? This weekend I know what I’m planning: inaugural community outdoor movie night! Without electricity. Requested feature film: Mr. Bones. Those 2 ½ years of engineering sure are coming in handy. (Might be postponed due to worker strike safety concerns. Shame.)

Speaking of weekends, I’ve been watching Flight of the Conchords (or rather rewatching the first season it's all I have), and driving home one night hunched over my steering wheel squinting down a dark, dirt country road a little ditty popped into my head: ‘Like a porcupine, you’ve stuck your quill in my spine and I can’t get you out of my mind’. Bret & Germaine could definitely work with that. And the Zulu worry what I do in my free time. (Photo: if only we all had the view of this bathtub at a friend's former house)

A Quote Collage

2010-05-06T11:49:00.013+05:30

Heard & said in the last week:

If you’re gored by a rhino, the indemnity form will be scant consolation.

She ate her hearing aid!

The car’s fine, you won’t have a problem, it just needs new brake pads so try not to brake much, and if it breaks down nearby, here’s my number.

You’re leaking petrol--you can’t drive, you have to stay here!

If you don’t know what you’re doing, you will get carjacked.

Aren’t we targets sitting here waiting for the gate to open?

The gate closes at 6, but you’ll want to be gone by 4:30 at the latest.

Whenever I see the police I shit myself and think please don’t commit a crime while I’m around.

Yeah, but you sell yourself to help kids, and he just sells himself.

The first night I was here I cooked vegetables in the meat pot.

Not to be racist, but Jews are known for guilt.

She survived the Holocaust and now she won’t leave Israel, because she says all goyim are out to kill us. (Photo: Double-butt buffalo money shot)

They lied about my being an Israeli citizen for 22 years, but Israel figured it out.

When she house-sat for us, she drank 22 bottles in 21 days, at R300 a bottle!

R4300 to India—you’d pay that in petrol to drive to Cape Town!

I wasn’t even informed I’d be flying out of a different airport.

Is this picture really recent? (Photos: rose & Jo'burg botanic gardens)

It’s my Mary Poppins skirt.

Wow, I’ve never heard German with an American accent before.

I can't believe I just heard an American say banana [in South African accent].

I got a golf scholarship to Missouri, but was denied a US visa three times.

They called and said if you want a visa, come right away, so I don’t dare say my travel plans changed.

Learning is like feeding a baby, best to eat a little at a time more often.

If we're good at our job, it's like we're a brick and they cement us in place and we get stuck in that job.

I can feel it [through the phone], you’re processing.

He was either married, or worse, a politician.

Here, look at the bra straps my daughter is wearing.

I could cut your hair, but then it would be shorter.

I think I’m allergic to my washing powder.

Are you sure this is gluten-free pizza?

I’m just in shock someone ordered tea.

I’ve never seen someone without a pupil before.

Zulu don't eat Zulu food, they want homemade bologna and fetkuchen [donuts].

Do it at the beginning of the month when people have money, maybe the second weekend, when they’re less drunk, and earlier in the evening.

He licked my face at 3 am so I kicked him out.

I feed him moldy goat cheese.

He’s using my driveway as a litter box.

We have a bet whether the cats will be cuddling by August, and the loser has to do 75 favors. (Photo: inside a schmanzy Jo'burg furniture shop)

How about a drinkie-poo?

I can play Scrabble not today, but Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, or Tuesday.

You usually do it in 8 hours, but can you do it in 2?

Only someone who hasn’t given birth would say that—I’ve seen it—it’s not that hard.

I have never known a dog that would not hump anybody’s leg.

A Wisconsin woman arrested for shooting blow-darts at pedestrians said she had done so because she liked to hear people say, “Ouch.”

Good news: the federal government gave you $125 for working and being poor!

I thought it was playing Frogger with my life crossing the street in Bombay, but people here cross the freeway when I’m going like 120 km per hour, and all the notice I have is a triangular sign with an ‘!’ that says ‘Pedestrians. No Fencing.’

Can you stop by Atlanta on your way to India? (Photo: Durban being African/Indian)

"I had to go all over the world to collect your energy."

2010-04-21T14:40:00.007+05:30

I suppose that's the hazard of global living: leaving piece of yourself wherever you land. That, weddings and other rites of passages of loved ones, and picking up interesting diseases. Ringworm (or some other fungal rash variation), now that's sexy. A red blotchy blow to the ego. (Which along with an unexpected haircut is on my list to embrace! embrace!)

Last Sunday was my only day off in a 3 week span. Plus, my workdays have been hovering around 14-hour zone; hence, the slow blogging. Two weeks ago we started a community food garden for our kids, with over 40 people pitching up to dig, hack, and generally get dirty. I was assigned to hands-in-dirt tasks the Zulu women didn't care for, and also because when I used the big tools they shook their heads and smiled and pointed to bigger ladies to do that job. That, and I screen-printed precisely a bazillion t-shirts to sell for Eco Saturday (and we sold, like, 10?). (Photo: busy digging holes for fruit trees!)

In an early celebration of Earth Day, last weekend we celebrated Eco Saturday. It was a well-attended (about 300 people) day of game drives, pita pockets (why are white people so much pickier about what goes in their pitas?), pony rides, Zulu dancing (from little kids in suits & white gloves to a professional troupe in traditional garb), face painting, a garden mural, and the general mayhem of a first-time event. I have never seen the employees work so hard, move so quickly, and smile so much. Some even thanked me for organizing it--after they'd worked their butts off for 8 hours straight! I think the staff were especially excited their families got to see where they work, and as a happy surprise, a bunch of my ladies showed up in traditional costume, adding even more color to a beautiful day. Looking at the rolls of resulting photos, I'm pleased to see people had so much fun. There's definitely room for improvement (one can never really advertise enough!), like making more money and having more learning activities for different ages. Overall, I'm pleased, for employee and community goodwill most of all. (Photo: learning to throw rubbish in the bin)

Between ladies telling me , "You came to Africa to work! You should stay!", community members smiling and waving as I drive by, a lady coming to say she wants to work with the kids (first time we have not actively recruited), and employees asking for additional conflict resolution reading, which I'm excitedly turning into a weekly course, I am overjoyed (and overwhelmed), to see such positive progress. Although all the work (and occasional loneliness of rural living) does get exhausting and I feel like I'm becoming uncentered. Giving to others and neglecting healthy selfishness takes a toll. So, the titular quote is from a bio energy healer I treated myself to yesterday. Warning: about to get metaphysical. (Photo: laughing on Eco Saturday--winter's a-comin!)

Massage/yoga/acupressure/tai chi/etc all unblock clogs in energy channels (think: those bioelectric energy fields viewed by medical machines/auras/prana/qi or whatever you want to call it). Most of us feel more open after massage/yoga/etc, and I had never felt something as strong as this bio energy healing. I literally felt energy coursing through me (a low-grade full body wave-orgasmic feeling, or a pleasant version of a limb falling asleep but waves of that energy pulsating through the body), from toe to head-top, and later felt toxic energy draining from my feet, followed by positive energy surging from my crown. I left feeling so revitalized and was sent with the message to "be aware of your expectations" (very apropos for overachiever me who even did some work for India amidst the recent craziness). Also had a vision/dream (of a skinny black man with braided hair holding 3 bundled babies onto a wooden plank like loaves of bread, and a hysterical lady crying and pleading for him not to take off their clothes, to which he turned his head away to ignore her), felt compelled to buckle my seat belt for the first time since I've been here (maybe this is part of taking care of myself, although on these roads being able to jump out more easily might arguably be safer), and as a reminder of my over-giving tendencies, still feel energy surging out of my third eye chakra (it's too open). (Photo: metaphysical VW in Pietermaritzburg)

She was the second to tell me my neck and head rash (ringworm? eczema? dry skin?) is related to thinking and not then speaking my piece. On that note, I've been reading about mind-healing ala the famous Louise Hay as well. Do I think one can control disease with the mind alone? Not really. Do I think negative thought patterns contribute to disease? Absolutely. (There's scientific data on that, and on the positive thought flip side, think of the placebo effect!) I'm working on banishing self- criticism and guilt (the other two big offenders are resentment and anger, which thankfully I'm light on). I find all of this metaphysical-ness extremely fascinating; apologies if it's not your cup of tea (mine, by the way, is herbal, sans sugar, sans milk). (Photo: second full double rainbow in a week outside the office)

P.S. Please, if I phone, don't worry what it costs. Besides food (which costs little fresh from the farm), it's my only personal expense (there are no tempting shops within 50 km). Talking to you is infinitely more valuable than buying some sweater or seeing a movie. Promise.

Less Traveled Roads

2010-04-06T15:03:00.010+05:30

I’m starting to relish some country senses: the whispering swish swish swish of grass against my shins as my staccato steps scare away snakes, servils, tufted eagles and all other manner of grassland creatures astir. Despite my lingering fluishness, I can smell the menthol-like wild silvery bush plant the Zulu called imphepho. Likely the only Jew in at least a twenty-mile radius, for our farm Passover/Easter celebration I put together a seder plate and hid afikomen to explain the holiday to the kids. I spent the morning making my two favorite dishes from scratch: charoset and potato kugel (no Manishewitz mix out here!). Without a blender, I crushed the pecans with my fingers, feeling them crumble and oil in my hands (although I recommend a blender for those averse to blisters). I chopped green apples and fresh dates into fairy-sized bites, and drizzled and sprinkled the result with honey, wine, cinnamon, carob, and orange juice to glue the mortar-representation together. It took two hours to make a small number of human-sized bites, which I instructed everyone else to spread onto a matzo cracker for dessert. The kugel I had never made before, and I guessed at a recipe, combining mashed potatoes, eggs, salt, pepper, onion, and garlic. I plowed fork-tine lines across the top just like my grandmother does, set it in the oven on very low heat, and drove my coworker into town and back (aka 1 hour), and ran into the house, fingers crossed that the kugel hadn’t burned. It hadn’t. It was all very delicious. Even the picky six-year-old tasted a piece. (Photo: post-lunch stroll)

As for sense of sight, nothing compares to these African skies. At night, village lights twitter a weak reply to planets and stars swathed across the sky. City star-spotting (oh, look, there’s one!) gives way to true star-gazing, and sleeping a night on my veranda I surprisingly had to don my green Thai-warrior-inspired eye mask to blacken the bright glare of a mere half-moon. I wake and sleep with the sun, ayurveda-style: up by six, down by ten at the latest. When a long-tailed tufted mousebird slammed into my veranda wall, knocking himself on his back onto my porch, gasping for breath, I panicked. What could I do? He died in under a minute, and it ruined my afternoon. Yet how many pigeons have I seen run over in Bombay and walked past with a quick ‘oh, shame’ pout? Do “the little things” mean more in the country, or are they really “little” at all?

If you grow up out here, I don’t think it registers how beautiful it is. And in these small communities the little things mean a lot: rumors are the bane of my existence. A series of she said-she said-he said’s easily spins someone into a complete tizz. There’s no questioning: Is this rumor even plausible? Is this worth getting upset over? Can I talk to the earliest she in the string and see if it’s true and sort it out? Instead, the response is not just emotional immaturity but complete emotional incompetence. Think ostrich with head in sand, feet not planted into the ground but wildly kicking all around itself, til it falls over and starts watering its head-hole with hysterical tears. “I can’t work this way! I’m going to quit! These people are driving me crazy!” Enter Valerie: you don’t even know if any of that is true. Is this what you want to teach your children, that when something is hard, you run away? Even if you quit your job, you’ll still see all these people in the community (small town reality). And practically, you need the income and you can’t afford to pay us back for what we’ve invested in your training, which your contract says you owe us if you quit too soon. We must trust and believe the good in each other, or we’ll never get anything done. We’re all here working for the children. Yes, there are jealousies and problems, sure. We can only sort them out when we communicate and collaborate…etc. In addition to conflict resolution, I may need to put together decision-making workshops as well. (Photo: Northern Drackensbergs)

Why is it so hard to assume the good and so easy to focus on the negative? Feeling like a fluey mass of throbs, aches and phlegm last week I was having trouble getting motivated one morning and a friend said, “Really? You do such good work.” Sometimes a positive kick in the schlumpy-stained-and-slightly-torn-shouldn’t-be-worn-outside-the-house-but-somehow-it’s-okay-cause-you’re-sick skirt is just what one needs. That, and a lot of rest. Plus, a mini weekend trip to Lesotho can only help! It costs $1 to bring a vehicle into Lesotho. There are no visa fees. There are also no trees, as the entire country is above 1400 m (4593 ft), and 80% above 1800 m (5906 ft), and thus is home to the highest low in the world. Before the recent discovery of diamonds, Lesotho’s largest export was water, to South Africa. About 40% of the people live below the poverty line, and the few I saw were tall, thin shepherds wrapped sherpa-like in blankets. The round-ovals were made of rocks instead of South African clay, and when it’s not rainy and misty and chilly (which at that altitude is quite often), the Bastho people have quite epic views. Which probably does little to compensate for very, very rough roads (literally and figuratively) and hard lives. (Photo: View of our switchbacked road into Lesotho)

Speaking of roads, I thought I’d round out this rambling post with a couple more pictures of some roads I’ve been on recently, from a post-Easter meal walk to cosmos-lined glory. And a warm thanks to my parents for the loveliest of sweet-n-short visits. (Photo: cows block the road, and a cosmos-lined street near my house)

Zulu church singing

2010-03-28T03:28:00.003+05:30

(no image, just sound)

If my hair is any reflection of my state of frazzle

2010-03-17T17:07:00.005+05:30

Then call me Valerie Frizzle, because it's getting more African by the day: curls are tightening and expanding horizontally. No wonder my grandmother called me Shirley Temple as a kid.

Monday morning I played social worker: 30 minute bike ride to work, 30 minute drive into community, 30 minute wait for Gogo (grandma of those kids: a social worker gave temporary custody to her Friday and told us all to return early Monday for a food voucher), Gogo says she thought she should go get her grant by herself (aka she doesn't trust us), 30 minute drive into town, 3 hour wait for social worker (who came in and ignored us until her supervisor saw us sit there so long she made everyone in the office look for the voucher book), 1 hour grocery shopping and car-loading (no way Gogo could've gotten those groceries home alone in a crowded taxi), 1 hour driving Gogo and my coworker into community, resulting in being 30 minutes late for lunch. Apparently when I came in I was cranky. Sometimes I need to vent. Without much company around to listen, I've been turning more and more to kicking my own butt with exercise. It does feel good to be getting back into shape! (Photo: local Zulu dancers)

It's on my mind that we're losing our almost-trained pre-school teachers left and right and getting reports many aren't working and some are lying about the number of kids they're teaching. Do you pay more to keep the good ones who leave for higher paying jobs in the fast food sector in town? Do you suck up the training costs and find new people to train who are more committed? Keeping in mind we're operating on a small seed fund and it's just running out. Really, I need to focus on fundraisers, like the Eco Saturday event I'm trying to plan in April, or designing and building toys to sell . The beauty (and beast) of NGO work is, you are everything: social worker, lawyer, mediator, toy designer, garden planner, event planner, manager, trainer, therapist... And speaking of therapist, last Friday as I dropped a Zulu coworker home we had something resembling the following conversation:

"I miss my son. He's in school in Wembezi [township nearby] with my sister." This woman seems to have an unlimited number of sisters. She is forever doing something for some sister.
"Why is he in Wembezi?"
"There was corruption between my son and his teacher. He didn't do anything. Many children are leaving. It is a problem." No contractions in Zulu, always "I am" and "it is."
"What does she do?"
"She is just causing trouble."
"And does the headmaster not do anything?"
"He is afraid of her. In the last 3 years 3 principals have died. We think she is a witch doctor and she wants to be principal. I am scared. I sleep alone at night without my son. I don't have money to take the taxi to see him every day. She lives very near to me."
"Shame, that sounds bad. I think some parents maybe need to tell the Department of Education what's happening if the principal isn't doing anything."
Eager face. "Can you call?"
"Well, I don't even know that teacher, so I think it's better if parents call. I can find a number for you." (Photo: local doctor's sign in town)

Shame, she's probably scared to report for fear of reprisal from the witch doctor. To anyone doubtful of the woman's witch doctor status, let me gently remind you of the power of the placebo effect. I generally believe that if it's real to someone, it's worth dealing with. And speaking of dealing with, I'm doing an n amount of conflict resolution and negotiation trainings and some meeting facilitation at the reserve to help improve management-staff communication, trust and respect and am part of a larger effort to avoid another staff strike this year. Living here is a medley of what I learned in school as historical time periods, from Bushmen and elands (3000+ years ago) to indigenous plants and organic farming (modern hippie) to the dynamics of unions and sub-standard educated workers (the early 1900s?) with dreams for their children clashing with the reality of finite funding and a recession. (Photo: reserve rhinos I biked past this morning)

PS Maybe it's payback for all the hitchers I've been toting around lately: thank you lovely lady who sent me home with a huge container or biryani when I went to visit her creche and said something smelled good and made me miss India!

Did you run into the rhino on your way in?

2010-03-09T20:47:00.006+05:30

Thus my boss greeted me yesterday morning. Actually biked the long non-hypotenuse path into office, so I did not run into a rhino. I suspect if I had I wouldn’t be here to tell. Cycling strengthens the legs, sure, but you’d be surprised how fast those fatties can chase if they want to do. Thankfully they don’t chase. Lately the bush pigs have taken to poorly stalking me when I cycle. I see their busy little tails bobbing in the grass just ahead of me, then they scurry across the road with a grunt as if oops! I caught them and run along the other side. The tips of their tails look a bit like a lion’s with a cute little tuft. They’re so fast they’re hard to photograph. Hope this will do.

Meanwhile, there’s drama with the family I got the emergency grant for—the mother is still not making an effort to care for her kids, and her uncle who is the adult on the grant since the mother is unreliable, has locked the food in his room and is feeding his wife and children and still starving the kids we got the grant for. I could tell when I saw one of the kids—she was listless and when I was alone with her she quickly scarfed down the bananas and egg I brought. So, we’re having an emergency meeting with the community leaders tomorrow. These poor kids are getting it from all angles! I am getting too attached to the more ill twin—I want to take her home and love her. I want to hug her when she’s in pain instead of watching her to lean on someone’s legs. I want to kiss her head and hold her and feed her fresh food every day. Good thing I’m in no position to adopt. Gotta be careful I don’t turn into the next Angelina Jolie, picking up kids instead of souvenirs when I travel.

I’ve been enjoying doing conflict resolution workshops with another NGO and with employees here, and they’ve been responding and participating well, although it seems there’s so much distrust between employees and management that now there’s some suspicion I’m trying to influence employees in management’s favor with these trainings. At least I’m teaching conflict resolution and negotiation skills so when employees meet with the union or with management they can choose to use the skills and think about issues in a deeper way, think about interests instead of positions, for example. I’ve just come from India, a country known for castes, yet it feels much more caste-like here. The other day someone said it’s so nice I treat blacks and whites the same, and please keep doing it. I’m glad people feel that way, and it’s distressing that’s not the general attitude. I wonder how much race plays into issues and negative assumptions here. Maybe it helps that in India everyone is brown!

Sorry, this seems like a heavy post. I think I have been taking too much in. As people here say when something's too spicy or just too much: it's too hectic. So on a lighter note let me add that I spent Saturday with my boss’s kids playing cards, reading comics, making sushi, feeding fish and geese and bunnies, taking funny trampoline photos, sipping fresh juice, and drawing pictures. It was very fun—and then I spent Sunday doing pretty much nothing: reading and relaxing and chatting at home, mostly alone. I needed to refuel-. Definitely not ready to take on three kids full time. I do love borrowing them, though! (Photo: kids playing in psychomotor training at our Resource Centre)

Yaebo, Life is Lekker

2010-02-22T18:41:00.008+05:30

Fueled on an egg and a banana, I spent 12 hours getting that family in crisis medical care, food and an emergency grant sorted out. It was quite a bureaucratic push (thank goodness for the nice director at the social security agency), and there were a lot of stumbling blocks (like hospital chains of referral after hours of waiting so no one would have to actually serve these families). It’s tough to be a teenage mom anywhere. It’s astronomically harder to be in rural RSA with no income and no education, and when you finally get your positive children to the hospital, instead of trying to treat them, after a day of pushing (me) and waiting (all of us), the doctor says, “She’s positive and pregnant again. And these other kids’ growth has been stunted by not getting TB or AIDS treatment. What’s the point?” I wanted to hit that Indian doctor in the face. Is it race? Class? Education? The general rule is: whites are upper and middle class, they hire black nannies and workers, and Indians are middle class and generally in the service professions or own small shops, and they hire black workers. Blacks who work hard shake their heads and say to me, “I shouldn’t say this, but it’s the Blacks. Theft, laziness, selfishness, jealousy—it’s a big problem to get people to work together. We say the right things in church and forget it outside.” The typical analogy I hear is whenever someone lifts himself up and sticks out his head (be it better job, school, responsibility), everyone tries to chop it off and bring him back down. (Photo: one of our kids playing)

One theory is starting in 1994 with all the talk of people’s people gained a feeling of entitlement without responsibility behind it. Another is that getting through high school is seen as such a prize, people don’t see the point when so many get through school and can’t find jobs. Still, in India or the US instead of not working or constantly griping about low pay, I think people would be more inclined to go back for more school or professional training than sitting around in desperation begging neighbors for food (granted the system here is hard to navigate and usually costs money to get yourself to the right office and may take a couple days of waiting once there, there IS a system of free medical care and need-based grants!).

Still, I find many Zulu do work very hard, are quite strong community leaders and very inspiring. My translator (who has officially dubbed me “a reliable driver”) went off to help his sister last week when she was robbed. They suspect it was an inside job, and since the police aren’t investigating, he gathered a group to collect muthi (traditional medicine) and meet with a medicine man so that the muthi would essentially act like a truth serum: you smuggle it into the suspect’s house and its presence makes him want to confess.However, when they went to gather the muthi the first time, a group of five men all saw a big green car perched atop an impossible-to-reach cliff. They did a double-take and it was gone. Then they thought, maybe it was a snake, because one of the men in their group is a twin and the son of a twin, and snakes are scared of twins (because two can overpower them), which is actually considered good luck. Plus, they smoke and grow a lot of weed. Maybe I should've started with that. (Photo: sunset view from the reserve, the mesa on the right is Giant's Castle)

This weekend I went to the beach, which was beautiful and massively hot, and with families who oriented their day around feeding an army of children. A bike ride netted me not one but two flat tires, and so an upper body workout instead pushing the bike back along the beach and lifting it up over rocky outcroppings. A couple hours in a bookstore (a bookstore! you have no idea how exciting this was! and how poor I am so I mostly browsed and didn't buy), an evening theater comedy (thanks to a friend of a friend's sister), and then home. For 5 hours. Then picked up our volunteer pre-school teachers and drove them to another town to training, where they trained me for half a day and I spent the night at one of their houses in the countryside where I followed a terrier named Chester through fields and flowers and around a river feeling like I was in a Jane Austen novel. Although oddly they never mention picking off ticks when you get home.

The next day I ran a conflict resolution workshop with the management staff there, which was so rewarding ("I can't believe I've gotten to this age and never thought about preparing not just my side of an argument, but from the other person's side!"). I want to do more of that! Because I need more work to do! Ruminating on being a professor and establishing an NGO-like program from the uni where I teach, research and train students to be free labor to help run it...which could mean getting a PhD in... education? NGO management? conflict resolution? child development? Clearly, I need to ruminate more. And to look for a job that pays something in a few months so my wonderfully supportive parents don't have heart attacks.

Nissan Karma

2010-02-12T20:23:00.001+05:30

Do cars talk? Did my old Nissans put in a bad word for me? Or does this truck (which I have totally learned to drive, by the way, reversing down single-tracked rocky road-less hillsides no less) just enjoy breaking down when it’s 95 degrees Fahrenheit while I’m driving women home after church (where I even sang along to transliterated Zulu hymns)? Or when I go to our neighbor’s dairy to pick up fresh milk that’s apt to spoil? Or right outside the gate after traveling around the rural communities for hours and totally burning my white white skin?

Saturday I finally got a break (from driving, politics and church), and went on an amazing hike to a world heritage site and state park called Giants Castle. I went on a hike with a friend to see 2000+ year-old Bushmen cave paintings, picnic atop a mountain near the Lesuti border, avoid a poisonous black adder, spot a baboon eating his way up a hillside, drink from and swim and slide and generally frolic in the Bushmen’s River on the way back down, and sip a glass of wine on the park’s restaurant patio as the stars came out. This weekend we’re going to bring the fancy telescope home and break out the star chart and see what we can pick out. In addition to driving on the other side of the road than I’m used to, the constellations in the Southern Hemisphere are mirror images of what I’m used to too. I think you can tell a lot about people by whether they make a comment about driving on the “other” side of the road or the “wrong” side of the road. Hey, I have no judgment when people here tell me to turn left at the robot (aka traffic light). It makes me giggle on the inside. (Photos: 2000-ish-year-old Bushmen paintings, right are medicine men with animal heads and human bodies, one on the right has bubbles on his body)

Maybe it’s all that giggling the mosquitoes find so attractive. I’m continually impressed by their ingenuity in covering me in welts. Maybe they’re in cahoots with the Nissan. Well, it’s not gonna work. I woke up Thursday morning and took an extra-long bike ride in the mist with the Oklahoma “Oh What a Beautiful Morning” song swimming through my head. I even got someone in a government department to call me back unprompted this week—I was on such a high. That day I left the Zulu to in charge of something themselves which resulted in yelling, name-calling and threats to quit. Now we need multiple meetings to sort it out and smooth it all over. Why is it so hard to assume the best in people? Or in cars? Go, Nissan go! I have faith in the Zulu and in you! (Photo: Giant's Castle park)

Today we found a family in crisis: two-year-old twins without birth certificates, but with TB (no birth certificates generally means no social welfare grants). One little girl was full of sores and so listless she could barely keep her eyes open, and both were in shirts only, no bottoms. The father said there is no food and he wants seeds to start a vegetable garden and they are quite far off the beaten path (45 min drive on rural “roads”) winding up and around and through the Drackenbergs. Luckily we made a great contact at the social welfare agency last week, and when I called today she said she’d help them get an emergency grant on Monday. I even finished the last minute presentation for India today so it looks like I get the weekend off (hooray!—or maybe I should start translating that book for the other NGO…) and Monday at 7 am I’m off to pick up the family in crisis to take the mother and children to hospital (people outside the US don’t say “to the hospital”), and the father to social welfare.

Zebras Neigh, and Zulu Love to say, “Okay!”

2010-02-05T10:49:00.010+05:30

I thought driving through a second coming of Noah’s ark-style flood-inducing rains in a U-Haul through the armpit of Texas (aka Amarilla) was difficult. Today I drove a small manual Nissan pick-up to meet with another NGO, LETCEE, who’s working with us in a town an hour and a half away. It might’ve taken me a smidge longer than that to get there, due to: avoiding avoid potholes in fog I could only see five meters ahead in, shaking my head at and passing both an overloaded taxi van and an eighteen-wheeler who passed me and promptly slowed to half my previous speed as they huffed up the Drackenbergs, all the while battling with my newly-acquired poor manual driving skills on my way back trying hard not to stall or stop because before I left the car’s battery went dead, had to be jumped twice and a friendly LETCEE employee drove me around town to pump the battery back up, and another employee followed us.

Sunday morning after hours of translating Zulu (which makes about as much sense to me as typing random letters), I drove my self-educated Zulu translator/interpreter to a Catholic church in one of the communities the Trust serves in an effort to build community, do outreach, get feedback, etc., while he told me which gear to shift into and when to use the clutch or accelerator (I’d had a slow start because I hadn’t been introduced to the choke), I asked what he’d done the day before, because when I called it sounded like he was at a party.

“Oh, no, no party. I was gambling. There were horse races in Cape Town.”
“Horse races? Do you have a TV?”
“Oh, no, no. I have two wives and eleven children. When you’re young you think you know so much, and you don’t listen. If I could go back and do it over, I would plan and do it all different. We’re so many, and that’s why we barely get by, so I was at this place where we get tapes of old races and we watch them and bet on them. I think I lost 200 Rand ($25). I’m bad, I don’t usually go to church. I have to go into town after church today and gamble more.”
“Races in Cape Town—have you been to Cape Town? Have you been outside Zulu-Natal (the state we’re in)?”“Yes, of course outside, I have been to Johannesburg (four hours northeast). Not Cape Town (six hours southwest).”
“Did you like Jo’burg?”
“No, I’m not used to cities. Maybe then I would like it. The boss took us to Durban last year and we went to the ocean. That was good.”

Actually, the boss took some senior management on their first trip to the sea (two hours south) and forgot to tell them to bring bathing suits, so the men ended up splashing in the waves in their underwear. Someday I’ll ask my interpreter why he’s missing three fingers and so many teeth.
Conversations with Zulu usually end with some sentiment about “this crazy world” as they are continually full of amazement that I “came from so far to help.” It seems to be a good selling point. I came from US/UK (often they say UK, because UK or US don’t really have much meaning except as faraway two-letter lands full of white people), so surely they can get a committee together to find a place for a new crèche, go with me to have their handicapped children evaluated to try to get them into school, or come together on a weekend to build a playground and food garden at the Resource Centre where the NGO PEISA and the local women they’re teaching (and we’re employing) do weekly psychomotor training with the children.

As a side note, I think the Catholic church is genius with its rising and swaying, sitting and listening, kneeling and praying (keep moving = staying awake), calm candles, beautiful melodies, comforting tunes, and the whole song and dance of a typical service—even with an assistant priest in a church too poor to afford to build a toilet or fencing with chipped paint and so musty and dusty inside I almost passed out until I moved near an open window. And wow, can these Zulu women sing. (Will try to upload when I get better internet sometime) (Photos: the reserve on the left, one of the communities we serve on the right, Ezindikini)

Meanwhile, life on the reserve is fantastic. I’m working my butt off (besides long days and weekend work here, I’m still working for Childline India via email) and loving every minute of it (the work is great, the volume could decrease...). I’ve gotten into a routine where I wake with the sun by six to do yoga, ride my bike or hitch a ride to the office to start the workday at seven, break at one for a management lunch (last Friday was our first brie, and this week we had bobotie minus the bread), and head home around six to do a little more yoga/exercise (my shoulders are more thankful by the day), cook, watch Friends (stolen from a friend in India) and crash. The zebras, eland and antelope are getting less finicky when I bike by, I saw a one-week-old water buffalo babe enter the herd, and one morning there was a rhino traffic jam as three of the fattest bums waddled on and off the road, with a jiggle even Atlanta and LA KFC-over-eaters couldn’t rival. (By the way, KFC seems to be gaining on McDonald’s in worldwide popularity. That man’s white beard and red and white stripes are everywhere from South Africa to Dubai to Cambodia.) (Photo: Water buffalo classic pose that makes me think 'whatchoo lookin at?')

Speaking of exercise, buying a bicycle was such a good decision. I don’t think I’m ever as happy as when I am on a bicycle in nature taking a break from (hopefully!) positively impactful community building and conflict resolution work with families and children.

And speaking of happy, I had not one but six bottles of champagne and flowers brought over for my housewarming dinner party last weekend. The theme was Greek: salad, fresh from our garden (lettuce, tomato, cucumber, chives, feta, lemon, pepper and olive oil), roasted potatoes (onion, garlic, salt, pepper, oregano and lemon), my version of moussaka (eggplant, our own venison, onion, coriander, cinnamon, anise, parsley and melted mozzerella), and grilled bananas (cinnamon, ginger and carob) with walnuts and yogurt for dessert.

People here keep asking how I’m doing with such a big change, going from eighteen million neighbors to six (plus a few cats and horses); from sharing a room plus another five flatmates to my own apartment with a veranda overlooking the mountains; from eating out daily due to minimal cooking capabilities and eagerness to escape the apartment to a happily home-cooked fresh-from-our-farm dinner alone (or occasionally with a kind coworker); from Maruti Suzuki taxis and playing Frogger with my life crossing a street to slaloming, slipping, skidding and sliding down an unpaved muddy mountain road in a pick-up I am surely slowly winning over. That battery dying thing was just payback for my rough shifting. I think we’re even now. I figure it’s like a friend said: you gotta be a turtle and carry your home with you wherever you are. I wouldn’t trade one (possibly permanently deafening) traffic-ful night or one moths-that-sound-like-helicopters and toad-ful night for anything.

I love my life. And I’m so glad you’re in it, and care enough to read this.

In India I’m Madam, In Thailand I’m Miss, In Cambodia I’m a Lady

2010-02-02T11:18:00.000+05:30

In Thailand if you stopped in the middle of a road, cars would line up behind you and wait without honking. In Cambodia if you are naïve enough to pause across the street from a vendor, an entire family will run over and present you with freshly cut fruit, bamboo flutes, woven bracelets, postcards, and any tschochke you would never need while calling out: “Lady! You buy something!” In the whole of Cambodia there are no set prices. You bargain everything from entry visas to bus fares, and there’s generally a two-tier system, which we called the Khmer price and the Whitey Tax. Since Cambodia uses US dollars (and their riel as change instead of coins), most Whitey Tax prices start at $1. Where a Whitey Tax meal costs $3, the same Khmer meal is twenty-five cents. The ‘they-need-the-money’ argument is certainly valid: there’s a complete lack of infrastructure (a friend: “they sweep garbage to the side like snow”) and industry outside of some sweat shops (check the Made In ___ label on that Gap top). And there’s the fact that Pol Pot’s regime murdered a third of the country’s population with a focus on the most educated, and that he came into power when people were mad at the previous democratic government for allowing the US to build bases there during the Vietnam War. We settled on rewarding less annoying behavior and buying from enterprising selling swarms of children with whom we had conversations like this:

“You know the capital of Burkina Faso?”
“No.”
“I tell you, you buy!”
“Can you point to Burkina Faso on a map?”
Guilty smile. “No. You know the capital of Madagascar? I tell you, you buy!”

And just when feeling like not a person but a purse was starting to overwhelm, suddenly we were riding old beaters of bicycles for less than $1 a day through the Korean Friendship forest and into Angkor Wat, a surreal human feat I can only imagine rivals the pyramids in its impressive scale, attention to detail, and quad-religious symbolism (Hinduism, Buddhism, animism and ancestor worship). The temples of the largest pre-industrial civilization are amazingly well preserved, and as a UN World Heritage site, there’s a concerted effort to repair them. Pick a country, and it’s sponsored a restoration project (the Indians, French, Chinese and Japanese seemed very on top of it, while at the US site a few laborers were lounging in hammocks; I wonder who’s rebudgeted). Biking and hiking and wandering around temples and the rice patty-ful countryside (careful to remain on roads: there are landmines about!), we snacked jack fruit chips, unripe mango, massively sticky rice and beans cooked inside a chute of bamboo, and wowed locals with Laughing Cow cheese and gnawing on raw carrots. Khmer cuisine was similar to Thai, only with less spice and more msg. Though in all fairness, I only tried it once during our daily dinner dance of trying to find a restaurant that understood “I am allergic to msg.” Cambodians don’t understand the idea of allergies. In Khmer, you say, “I don’t know how to eat msg,” but attempts at cultural sensitivity fail when you don’t know the term for what you don’t know how to eat. And eating yogurt, fruit and hard-boiled egg is preferable to making yourself throw up an msg-laden meal.

Back in Bangkok I paid $15 and spent a day a the Indian embassy to make sure I could get back into the country for just enough time to say some goodbyes, meet with my boss and pack before landing in the fanciest airport ever, aka Dubai (oil money, like drug money, will buy you some niiice things), and finally in Durban. Describing Angkor Wat is like trying to type out a rainbow bursting through a sunset over elands and zebra grazing on an African savanna...oh wait, that’s my next entry. Stay tuned.

The Land of 7-11's

2010-01-26T12:04:00.002+05:30

With smushed nails, crossed fingers, and armed with letters from my boss, landlords, and printouts of plane tickets I boarded a plane to Thailand hoping India would let me back in when I planned to return. On exactly no hours of sleep I met my surprisingly un-jetlagged American friend and spent a day exploring temples where disciples walked in slow-paced circles around huge golden Buddhas and through an entire market of amulets. After dinner we decided to go to the Central Palace grounds for a traditional Thai New Year. We wandered among crowds sipping bright orange soda out of plastic bags, past lines of women on blankets with buckets of cucumbers and bottles of vodka, past one stage of traditional Thai theater, one stage of a modern Thai soap opera with women in sparkly Southern belle hoop-type dresses, another stage of Thai pop music that sounded surprisingly whiny and screechy, and a tent surrounded by a rapt audience eagerly watching a man speaking to a cobra that lay still on the ground. And did nothing. For more time than we had an attention span to continue to watch. We wandered through shopping stalls, from cookware to clothing, and through a carnival with bingo and balloon-popping games where you could win stuffed animals the size of Thai women, kiddie bumper boats, and past a most structurally unsound ferris wheel my friend called The Box of Death. And just before midnight we discovered my favorite: rat roulette. This consisted of a rat under a bucket in a circular enclosure with numbered holes so people could bet which hole the rat would run into when the bucket was lifted. Attached to the holes were plastic tubes finished off with water bottles. And yet for all its high-falutin’ technology, rat roulette was infinitely more entertaining than watching some marble slide into a colored slot. And more interactive as people urged the rat into their hole of choice. Vegas: take note.

If you’ve heard of the waking dead, I was the walking sleep by midnight, so after fireworks for the King (careful! say anything bad about him and you can be imprisoned), we took a pink Camry taxi home and crashed. The next day we rode a bus to the small town of Trat where we connected with European travelers for an un-understood attempt at ordering dinner, and I got my first gluten poisoning (Mono Sodium GLUTamate) that made me feel like half a person and half an asleep person for four days of our South Pacific adventure complete with beach, snorkeling, swimming to an island with a temple dedicated to the male genitalia, elephant and motorbike-riding (so weak-motored I had to walk up all the hills—the motorbike, not the elephant), poor fisherman villages with satellite TV, and a Swiss Family Robinson-style clubhouse hotel called The Tree House.

After one of my many $5 massages, a Thai woman told me that fisherman make a penny per kilogram selling their fish, her family doesn’t farm enough sticky rice to feed themselves, topless dancers make $1/day and spend half of that on rent… and so Thai women turn to prostitution ($25/session) and old white European boyfriends (practically unlimited $ if you marry or are willing to put up with multiple girlfriends at once) who give them money to do things like build houses for their parents and children, keep them in clothes, feed them more than sticky rice with fish sauce for dinner, and pay for them to go to massage school. This, along with some manufacturing in Bangkok, appears to be the main industry in Thailand. Call it tourism, Asian female exploitation, or as one jilted recently-divorced-from-a-young-Thai-wife Britisher said, sharks and rip-offs searching for white bait. Maybe he’s unhappy about being stuck in Thailand and having to use Kimberly Clark tissues and toilet paper on the tables as napkins, or towels as bed sheets, or is just angry at himself for “thinking with [his] pants.”

(Photo: scribbling notes at a Bangkok temple)

For the rest of the trip I saw cute young Asian women hanging on old fat balding white men everywhere.

“I’m worried he’ll leave me and I’ll have to find a new boyfriend. He says he won’t marry and I really just want to settle down and stop looking,” the massuse said.

“Does he love you?” I asked.

“Oh, no, he’d never say that.” But after she took care of him for three days in the hospital when all his other girlfriends refused to visit, and then agreed to have dinner with another girlfriend who said she wanted to see him (but who never showed), she made him agree she would be his only girlfriend.As far as she knows, she still is.

“Do you love him?” I asked.

“I do, yes. I pity him. He was in hospital and his daughter in Switzerland, his girlfriends and friends here, his friends in Europe, no one comes to see him. He has no one take care of him but me.” The implication, rightly so, was if she were in the hospital, she wouldn’t deal with such a dearth of support. At least these women have that.

Now That's What I Call Customer Service

2009-12-30T03:47:00.003+05:30

Last week my landlady didn't sign for a package for me, I got a delivery attempt notice the next day, and thus precipated a series of calls, at least five calls and 20 minutes/day because I was either hung up on, put on hold and then hung up on, put on hold and transferred to someone new I had to start over with, put on hold and transferred to someone new I had to start over with and then hung up on...etc. Every time I finally got through I was promised the package would be delivered that very afternoon for sure. I was promised that on Thursday, and Friday, and Saturday, didn't bother to call Sunday, and on Monday was told the package was returned to sender in Calcutta. My response to this was to call exactly a bazillion times, insist I speak to a manager and refuse to be put on hold. I think this strategy just caused even more transfers and allowed for exciting eavesdropping of employees fiddling with wrappers and munching on their lunches. I also refused their first solution that I needed to call the sender and see if they received the returned package and can remail it. I said, it's your (TNT, evil courier) fault, you figure it out. Finally, I was told actually it wasn't returned to sender and a local carrier would call me. If you think I got a call, I have some oceanfront property in Switzerland to sell. Then tonight I got home and found a package on my bed. The card reads:
To Jenifer Peter JOhn [typo intentional]
Wish You A Very
Happy And Cheerful
Birthday. God Bless
You Chellam.
Selvaraj P.
and contains a plastic candy dish, bag of cashews and bag of raisins. Upon consulting my friend who surreptitiously asked "how the dried fruit was" a few days ago, I discovered this was intended to be a sweet Christmas gift and what I eventually received was not what he ordered. His turn to yell. (Photo: two angles of yet another flower I can't identify)

Then again, when a friend and I went to midnight mass on Christmas Eve the chairs were being stacked, because it had been held at 9 o'clock instead. And to top off the Scrooge-i-ness, on Christmas during a game of table tennis at the sports' club, someone stole my friend's phone out of her purse (we suspect the light-eyed watchman who kept walking in and out and made us keep the purses by his desk, because when we first called her phone someone answered and we heard music in the background of a holiday party in another part of the club, clearly the work of his co-conspirator!). A coworker keeps saying, "I promise, we're really normal, we Indians. I don't know how you meet so many weirdos and have so much trouble." I know by now when a store tells me they'll order a book and call me I better ask another store to do the same, and that between them I have about a 10% chance it'll come. I'm onto you, Indian customer service! The irony is, India is the outsource hot spot for US customer service. I know it can be done well here. Maybe it's another instance of doing something better for the white folks... (Photo: random local Christmas cheer)

Cleaning being done well, however, I'm not so sure. The concept of using different rags for, oh, say, the bathroom and the kitchen counter hasn't caught on, nor has using cleaning products other than water unless I buy an unopened bottle and hand it to the maid, which guarantees she will go product-crazy and use the entire 2 liters (litres, India?) in one small bathroom. Also, cleaning appears to be like the proverbial tree in the forest: if no one's home, she doesn't have to clean or do dishes, and somehow thinks we won't notice when we get home? Try again. My roommates seem to believe this as well: today I put a fresh roll of toilet paper in the bathroom, it disappeared around noon, and reappeared at night as an entirely empty roll.

Also, despite poor customer service at the previous medical center, either I am the universal giver (O-), another lab is wrong, my blood type changed, or my US records have been wrong for a really long time. Knowing one's blood type is a useful thing, and not just for Japanese horoscopes. Public service announcement of the day: next time you get a blood test, throw in a blood typing. While I'm at it, turn off your appliances when you're not using them, yay florescent light bulbs and rechargeable batteries and fans instead of a/c and all that climate jazz. And I like Thomas Friedman.

Ad in a magazine: "I only want to marry a man who's too smart to marry me!" I have no idea what it was advertising, but I laughed out loud in the beauty parlor and garnered more stares than on a normal day. Then I walked outside and saw this:

I'm off to Thailand tomorrow--Happy New Year and full blue moon (whether you see a rabbit or man, or neither like me)!

Avatar Foreign Policy

2009-12-24T21:09:00.004+05:30

SPOILER ALERT: Today I went to see the new Avatar movie in 3-D. To those who say the true star of the film is Pandora, the planet, and the mise-en–scéne Cameron created, I say right on. The bio-luminescence and gargantuan interconnected banyan and willow forest of fantasy foliage are truly awesome. While I liked the physical connection of living fibers as representations of the idea that all life forms are a part of one universal energy, I found the element overused, as if audiences wouldn’t buy the idea without a physical representation. The story, an outer space Dances with Wolves set in an alien Ferngully, leaves much to be desired. In a nutshell: (1) white man learns native ways for white exploitation, (2) white man betrays other white men to help natives (the Na’vi), (3) natives feel betrayed by white man when other white men attack, (4) white man easily manages feat few natives have managed in order to re-earn their trust, (5) white man leads natives to victory and joins native life for good. When one of the Na’vi says, “We have tried to teach sky people. It is hard to fill a cup that is already full,” the sentiment certainly rings true not just throughout history, but ironically in this movie, and not in the way Cameron intends. By pivoting the plot around a white man-cum-savior who quickly learns and takes advantage (from reporting on the sacred structural design of their home base to using Na’vi prayer to try to save his scientist friend after the deaths of so many Na’vi), and is ultimately able to rally all natives on Pandora to fight against the white men and win their collective freedom from commercial mining exploitation (insert obvious Middle East oil reference here), the Na’vi and other native peoples may as well be another herd of hammerhead rhinos, rather than humanoids. It seems Cameron is saying a problem created by white people requires a white person to solve—but not just any white person, a “thoughtful” one who sees the value of another culture to the extreme extent of ditching his own in favor of saving it.

Could this be more black or white? Where is the gray area for people who try to be open to other cultures, to the point of, oh, let’s say, moving to India to, perhaps idealistically, help be a force of positive social change by using their Western knowledge and not-yet-full cup to further a project of local design, scope and impact? People committed to making a positive impact while recognizing as much as they try to learn from locals, they cannot possibly solve local problems, especially conflicts? And that local issues are best solved by home grown solutions by those who are really in it, and outsiders’ best help is imparting their knowledge and experience as and when locals ask for it? Instead we have another perfectly imperfect white man who first ruins and then (if not saves) salvages native life. I hope nothing I work on makes me later think I should’ve kept my hands (or more likely in my case, my research, discussions, endless over-thinking and mad-typing fingers) out of it altogether. Let’s stop this stereotype. Isn’t electing Obama supposed to be a sign that we Americans are at least ostensibly trying to stop the mistaken-American-turned-hero method of foreign policy? Isn’t that why he got the (albeit a bit ridiculous) Peace Prize?

I think the greatest way to help is to empower people to help them develop ways to solve their own problems (hence mediation over judgment), and be available to listen and offer one’s own knowledge and experience when and how others ask for it. In any case, I try to live by that. Maybe someday Hollywood will agree. Until then, Avatar is entertaining, and my advice is to get lost in the scenery and not the story.

A Bombay Holiday

2009-12-23T01:40:00.022+05:30

Today was one of those perfect Bombay alone days. I got a good chunk of work done in the morning, wandered the streets to my personal one-eared ipod soundtrack (bought new headphones because one of my earbuds went out, and two weeks later one of the new ones has gone out too, so I think it's meant to be), browsed a bookstore for longer than I should admit, stopping myself when my books-to-buy pile hit five. I’ll need more for rural South Africa, and I’m such a nerd, they’re all non-fiction and mostly world-medicine-related tomes I can reread and study. Strange hobby, I know. That, and I want to work on my language learning. (Photos: look, look! I decorated the chair, since I can’t tape to the walls)

Speaking of strange, some friends and I attended Khai fest 2009, the local Hanukkah fest which was a cross between a community talent show, a Holi show and a fundraiser. I have never been to a Hanukkah fest, and certainly not with belly-dancing, Hindi comedians, Indian classical singing, bollywood dance, and even a tacky auction to light the menorahs that only some sucker white people in the audience participated in (insert Jewish money joke here). My favorite line was when one young man said he needs to find a good Jewish wife, but whenever he meets an Indian Jew he first asks, “Are we related?” To cap off Hanukkah, aka Jewish Diwali, I had a Hanukkah dinner (which I called my Jewish birthday so friends let me pay, because the birthday girl treats here instead of the other way around), where I taught the dreidel game, and we took turns lighting candles in little bowls as a makeshift menorah over Jewish/Lebanese/Greek snacks. (Videos: Jewish belly dancing and Indian dance)

Then I went to an expensive Western-priced mall (as in $40 tops expensive!) all decorated and lit for Christmas, although I have yet to hear any Christmas songs besides a few reggae ones on my computer a friend sent. As much as I grow weary of the same twenty songs in repetition for the month following Thanksgiving, it doesn’t feel like the holidays without them—nor in 90-degree heat at night. I’m pretty sure any nostalgia for cold weather could be quickly cured by one visit to India’s first ice bar. It’s just so expensive…well, $16, but I could travel by train across the country for (less than) that. Also, being white automatically merits me ‘Merry Christmas’ wishes, and people are very proud that they know Christmas is coming. Today I was invited to a midnight mass in a nearby garden. I’ve never been to a midnight mass, either, so I suppose I might as well. The most Christmas-y conversation I’ve had involved an argument that Santa is the best marketer in the world, which I suppose is fitting in a country where the business section of a bookstore is nearly as big as the fiction section. (Update: I am sitting in a Tea Leaf and Coffee Bean in South Bombay listening to a choir caroling with a guitar, keyboard and amp system, and half the choir appears to be Hare Krishna)

Now, a quick thank you to enteroquinol (which is banned in the West due to eyesight damage claims I shall ignore) for ridding me of whatever crazy dizziness-inducing bug I had. And the random observation of the day: TATA, a private Parsi conglomerate that’s in every industry from tea to steel to telecom to the Taj hotels (and began in the 1860’s in opium trade in Bombay), owns India. As I was marveling this to a friend, he informed me that actually, Reliance Industries is the second-largest private conglomerate in the world (started in just the 1960’s) and accounts for 3.5% of India’s GDP. So I guess I take it back. Reliance owns India, but Reliance, you need to advertise better. I didn’t know. (Photo: random Parsi architecture)

While Reliance and TATA duke it out, I for one am not a fan of conflict, and I am not a fan of blame. The instant response to conflict here (to generalize of course) seems to be to blame the other party, even if it’s something straightforward like a nurse telling me, “Go. Follow that woman.” I get up, follow, walk into a room I apparently shouldn’t be in, return to the waiting room, and the nurse says, “No, you didn’t understand me. Follow her in a few minutes. Sit now.” I sit for one second. “Follow her now.” We walk the other direction. Of course, my bad. As pushy as I find Indians (especially when disembarking from trains), Israelis I encounter are even more so. And I thought I was blunt. I can say directly, “I am not interested in dating. I feel uncomfortable,” and that doesn’t even end an Israeli’s pursuit. I don’t understand the Israel-India connection either, but tons of Israelis holiday here, and they even have special beach houses set up with Kosher food and everything. Israel is apparently the largest military supplier to India, and a study earlier this year found that Indians were more sympathetic to the Jewish state than even the US. Still, assertiveness is a tricky balance; I like how this article puts it: like salt in the sauce, if done well, no one notices it, and if too little or too much, it can wreck the balance. On the other hand, there’s Buddhism and yoga and meditation and so many beautiful and profound religions and philosophies about the meaning of life and how we are all "striving to join the infinite current,” and the immense comfort in the knowledge that “everything is nothing”... I have not even begun to scratch the spiritual surface of this country. If the temples and ashram retreats serve as the opposite to everyday aggression, then India (and Israel!), could work on spreading the salt around more evenly as it’s shaken.

Amoeba Mediator

2009-12-16T01:55:00.009+05:30

I want to thank my heart for not being broken (literally, healthy ECG), and my Dr. friend for putting me on anti-amoeba pills that within hours cracked my 101 fever and severely reduced my dizzies (I'm trying not to think what that means was/is inside me). A week of dizzies and heart palpitations, a day of fever and some bed bug bites don’t seem like much. However, I am not going to tempt fate and ask for India to “bring it on” or anything. It’s like Goldilocks and the Bears—I’ve got juuust the right amount of stressiness, India, so that I don’t tip over the edge.

Such sweet friends: one made me a favorite food for dinner, and another took me to tea at a lovely outdoor cafe aptly called Under the Banyan Tree. (Photo of another banyan tree) Even my roommate is talking! I always know my roommate is home, because the bedroom door is locked when I get in. The signal is kick twice to rouse her. Tonight the landlady got her angry, and she finally opened up a little: she has a sister near here and has lived in this room for 1.5 years, and we got a/c the day before I moved in, and it was painted just a week before (that I knew). She also blames the stain on her mattress on a pigeon flying in and peeing on her bed (a warning since I leave windows open for "fresh" Bombay air), and fears lizards will rush in and attack us. In her defense, the maid probably wouldn’t clean that up. (Photos: look what a good job our maid did today because I left before she was done)

I am amused by Indian marriage mania (which is easier for me because I am not in it, aside from a grandmother who told me I am too old, no man will want me). A number of friends here seem to be in marriage crunch mode (or at least their families are) and typical entries on what I am calling Indian marriage resumés include: “wheatish” complexion, the following # stats: (age)/(height)/(salary), “homely” (girl who’s good at housework), native language, caste (often disguised as “highly placed” or “status” family, employer (corporate or family business empire seem best), “teetotaler” (non-drinker) and non-smoker, if open to resumé responses from abroad, education level and work field of prospective spouse, mini bios of all family members (including where they live, if married, ages, education levels), a hobby (I know one who put water sports, and since I have yet to meet an Indian who can even swim, this is possibly more limiting than matching native language, caste and salary—which one middle-class man told me in Bombay has in 9 years matched him with just 25 local prospects, only one he even considered). Men should be a few years older than the women, divorced women are in way more trouble than divorced men, resumés are often exchanged more frequently between mothers than potential mates. I was invited to an Indian wedding, but alas I will be (better be!) in Cambodia. (Photo: Muslims heading to Haji Ali for prayer, excited I caught a crow mid-flight with my slow-snapping camera)

I can’t tell at times if people offer me extra help because I’m foreign, a woman, white, or some combination of the three. Like today, spending a day in and out of the South African embassy while everyone else sat in the waiting area, I sat on a sofa where South African nationals wait, so I didn’t “wait” like the Indians there. I thought it was because I was a woman, but then I saw an Indian woman in the other room. And employees kept coming to talk to me (“madam”). Of course, they won’t guarantee to return my passport in time for my Thailand trip and they tried to add a 15th document that would take days to get right after I’d paid and gotten a receipt, so I am not exactly confident about this. But then, I am American, so I know I have a better shot. (Note: Somehow the embassy got my cell and called the very next evening to say my 8-month visa is ready, and "Now, you are not so worried, right?" I so got the royal non-Indian treatment.) Like this recent to-do about a Häagen Dazs opening in New Dehli that didn’t allow any Indian nationals inside. A friend here sent me this picture, which I think is a perfect farce of the American mindset (click on it to make it bigger/more legible):

I’ve been listening to some very interesting PRI (Public Radio International) podcasts called America Abroad. Fitting with a general trend of response instead of prevention, I found the piece on Shortchanging Foreign Aid particularly enlightening (also since I applied for a USAID job, there are many empty offices for years now, and my application that the website said would be processed in 1 month has since been outsourced to a company to contact me within 1 year). There is no such podcast about any other country. There is, it seems, not to be high-and-mighty, no other such country. As for the universality of English, we owe much thanks to the UK ahead of us for exploiting the world. Here's hoping and working towards our not following that trend further.

Speaking of any other country, nowhere else have I found ants in my bed—which I later realized was due to ants in my computer! My response, as with the possibly-bed-bug-infested clothes, was for my sheets, nightie and sweatshirt to all chill in the freezer with the peas and homemade frozen juice desserts (as in, I freeze juice in little tupperwares and eat them like containered popsicles). And whenever one of those little buggers popped out of the keys or the vent today, I squished ‘em right quick. Take that! Speaking of which, I decided instead of reporting my “friend” at the Internet company, I would use him to remove my late fees from not being able to pay my bill on time because of my stolen credit card. Let’s just say, all I did was ask, and 6 hours later, over $40 in fees were gone and someone is coming to my house tomorrow to pick up the payment. (Photo: flower shops near a temple)

To come full circle on bugs in this post: my roommate also told a funny story about another anonymous roommate note left for her one day. 'You have killed a cockroach in the bathroom. It will take a rebirth and get back at you.' Does that mean the amoebas are coming to avenge me or the quinine?

Whose Blood Is This?

2009-12-13T14:21:00.002+05:30

On and off for the last few weeks I’ve been feeling dizzy, especially when I wake up. It generally starts to fade by evening (meaning it’s hard to work and stare at computer screen). As this became more on than off, I began to navigate the Indian medical system. (Completely unrelated video: German oompah musicians at the Bombay Weinachtsfest singing what they called a traditional German song with the refrain "Snow, snow, snow, beer, beer, beer!")

On Tuesday I went to a clinic doubly recommended by friends for some blood tests (not the one pictured). First they couldn’t spell my name correctly (Valne Gaimeon) while copying it from my passport. Twice. Then I finally got the results, and realized they listed me as O- blood type. I am B+. So I went back and argued, got new blood drawn, and they assured me of swift results. When I went to pick up those results, they argued that the new blood sample was also O- and that my previous 26 years of blood typing must be wrong, since 15 people in their lab typed this blood. This resulted in my creating my first scene since age 1 when (according to my parents) I simply had to have a red rubber ball with a star on it, complete with screaming and near-crying at the NM Medical Center where I spent my week being alternately told to, “Sit, Madam” and that “You must not know your blood type” and “You seem to like creating a scene.” Sure, yeah, I love having blood drawn, and I love not being able to go to the doctor because I don’t have results to show. I love being dizzy and not getting work done. And sure, my blood type has changed after 26 years without a single transfusion or organ transplant—not just type but from + to – (which is even less possible). More yelling resulted in their retesting everything again. When I shared these (somewhat different, actually) results with the doctor I saw on Saturday she was not surprised and suggested that I go to 3 different clinics to ensure accurate results—assuming that 2/3 will be similar and more likely correct. I think I’ll stick to getting blood drawn at the hospital. I’m feeling like enough of a pincushion.

This has all set me a bit on edge, and as usual, Bombay taxi drivers have been out to cheat me in force this week. No, I will not agree to pay 3x what I should and not use the meter; no, I will not pay 2x the fare that the card says. And when you’re spitting your spiced tobacco out your window it should not be surprising that it comes back into my window behind you. Lately some vendors have come up with a new game wherein they pretend they don’t have the right weights to balance the amount of fresh food I’ve picked, so they heap more onto the scale for me to buy. Also, I have no interest in paying extra for duck eggs—if it’s possible for eggs to taste gamey, those do. And the yolks are scary big.

I notice more and more that I walk around wearing my assertive face, and while walking and on the train my boob block has become so second nature, I sometimes realize my arms are up in the punch-like block position even in nice grocery stores. It’s my subconscious crowd response.

Since I’m in rant mode, my flatmates have gone a bit mad. I came home from Mysore to find the front door broken, unable to lock, and the girls had not yet told the landlord. When that was fixed, I came home to see the door closed and keys dangling next to the lock. When I said I did not feel safe with that solution, the new response has been massive doorbell-ringing (which in these girls’ defense, the tiffin-deliverer and laundryman also do) at any time of day (3:30 am, anyone?). No, I'm not answering. You crazy lazies let each other in. Granted, our building is small and safe and we are the only flat on our floor. We also have watchmen 24 hours a day, but the 3 watchmen who are presumably supposed to work in alternating 8-hour shifts usually set up plastic chairs and sit chatting in a circle by day, and all sleep at night, often not even near the entrance booth. 9/10 times when they see me reach my hand though the gate to open it from the inside, they just go back to sleep, and at least ½ the time they don’t see me at all. But you never know when a nutter like the man who stopped in the street last night to offer me a bow and a “Namaste” or the one who followed me around Chowpatty Beach repeating, “Curly hair, I photo, madam” will parade past the watchmen. How hard is it to carry a key? (Photos: not even close to sardine-packed trains)

Speaking of keys, I carry my parents’ house key on my keychain here. It’s a subtle smile of a reminder of home, of which I had a much larger and lovelier reminder this week when I opened holiday packages with my parents watching on Skype. They sent dreidels, a Happy Hanukkah banner, a tiny Christmas tree, a couple candles, and even a few small ornaments. My brother sent a journal, fancy NASA space-and-underwater-writing gel pen, and some of my favorite comic books (Pearls Before Swine) to elicit some giggles; it’s as if they predicted my medical madness of a week. Thank you, wonderful family! I also got my first card in the mail from a friend, and my aunt sent some adorable pictures of my mother as a young teen. Thank you, thank you everyone for the mail, email, and facebook love! I apologize for the turmoil surrounding some of my packages trickling to you (including a few reports of their being slit open, and one with some powder inside resulting in drug dog drama).

Lest this post appear too negative, I want to assure you dear readers I am/will be fine, and have been having some fun as well. I went to Bombay’s only (outdoor) climbing wall this week, where three of us watched little kids deftly roam around the wall while we struggled to stay on for more than a minute at a time. It was fun, and I still feel the wimp burn in my forearms. It’s been a while. We followed the climbing with a delicious fishy dinner. The following night I think I My-Big-Fat-Greek-Wedding culture-shocked my friend taking her to a Shabbos Hanukkah dinner typical of any Jewish holiday: tons of food (grape-y wine, challah, hummus, etc), loud talking of the friendly speak-over-each-other and never-ending story variety, an amazingly unfussy baby (awake way past her bedtime) diverting everyone’s attention, and a bit too much Hebrew and prayer. The following day after a doctor friend's opinion over breakfast Under the Banyan Tree (a cute cafe), and an afternoon at another doctor, at night a friend and I visited another nearby rooftop establishment with a lit-up wedding view, then wandered SoBo (yes, I moved from South Boulder to South Bombay) complete with a delicious fresh juice stop at Bachelor’s. You may think all fresh-squeezed juice is fresh-squeezed juice, but I can assure you, these people know how to squish their fruit. If only that cured the dizzies. Current mantra: Hebrew song

Elephants and Tigers and Yoga, Oh My!

2009-12-06T13:39:00.001+05:30

“Our vision is that we are staying in the animal’s home.” After a bumpy 3-hour car ride due to our driver (whose phone ring was a song with lyrics “Sing me a song, and you won’t be alone, forever and a day…”) not following clear signs, telling us he’s lost because he wanted to stop and have a coconut and make us pay, as well as driving on slow dirt streets, we arrived at an eco oasis, greeted with cool scented towels, coconuts, and a delicious lunch. 24 hours and 2 safaris later we were lucky enough to have spotted: the ever-elusive tiger (context: an Indian wildlife photographer friend has had just 8 sightings in the last 6 years), a leopard, barking deer (they sound like dogs), wild boar, wild cattle, peacocks, monkeys, many birds I can’t identify, spotted deer, a crocodile, elephants, and a little toad named Norbert who snuck into our cottage. (Click on the collage below to magnify it.)

Despite a comedy of errors complete with my being attacked by bed bugs, from which I am still sporting sexy red welts and in slight itch-o-rama mode (I was just growing spots to fit in with the leopard...), being in nature and breathing clean air was a relaxing and very welcome respite. The night before I got bed bugs, I said, “With all the cheap trains I take, it’s a wonder I don’t have lice by now.” Insert obvious karmic joke here.

So about that tiger: cruising up the Kabini River between Nagarhole and Bandipur national parks, our naturalist guide heard birds chirping fiercely to warn each other of a predator’s presence. We waited and watched as a mid-sized female tiger sauntered out of the trees to the river’s edge. She lapped up water in a way I can only describe as the tiger equivalent of daintily sipping tea with a pinky held out from a porcelain handle. We watched for 20 minutes as the jungle queen gracefully drank, surveyed her kingdom, and then slowly strolled back into her forest. Our guide, whose nickname is Mowgli, was high-fiving me, as excited as a little boy at Christmas; the way his face lit up I could tell he is in the right profession. If we could only all be so enchanted with our work. The leopard was spotted the next morning a bit far from our jeep in the forest, lounging in a tree watching potential prey on the ground, and only looked up once when our guide made repeated calls. He was so good at calling the animals, I told him to teach me to call an elephant to use for summoning Bombay taxi drivers. We can all practice with this video:

I also spent some time in Mysore, the birthplace of yoga, now a Western-comfortable retreat of a city with a beautiful Maharaja’s palace, easy pace, relatively clear air and warm assortment of international souls, complete with organic smoothies and idyllic French bed-and-breakfast feasting opportunities.

Then I spent one night in the Silicon Valley of India, Bangalore, which both more polluted and slow-paced than I expected. A friend took me to the 13th Floor where I sipped fresh lime soda and dined on tandoori appetizers overlooking the city, then to an Israeli trance DJ spinning at Club Nero where I saw an Indian who looked so much like a pirate (read: all in white, long curly brown hair, chest hair overflowing, adorned by gold necklaces) we named him Johnny Deepu as we watched 20-somethings standing in neat formation, one foot apart and facing the DJ, doing what I call the Indian T Rex dance (elbows to your sides, alternately lift your arms, and if you’re brave also shift legs slightly side to side)—all before the 11:30 city curfew. I was impressed with and endeared by the attempt, MG Road. It’s better than much of Bombay “dancing” with two people awkwardly facing each other shifting from side to side, girls shaking their heads and hair back and forth and avoiding eye contact. Two questions, though, Bangalore: (1) why do the ric driver info cards list a category for driver blood type, with no types listed on any I saw?, and (2) why do you refer to servers and rickshaw drivers as “Boss” when they are mostly so rude?

The following day I was lucky enough to meet two more amazing American women, one who let me fly with acroyoga http://www.acroyoga.org/ which was not only fun, it delightfully also stretched and back-cracked me in ways a chiropractor can only dream of (and flattered me by calling me “flexy”), while the other served a delicious lunch of rice, cucumber, sambar, and Jamaican fried fish on her rooftop balcony. (Photo caption: Deep breath out with an ahh)

Before I moved to India I was a careful, bike-helmet-wearing sort of girl, and now I'm riding on the backs of scooters without a helmet, and ignoring old women who likely rent the babies they’re holding when they start poking my arm to ask for “Change, madam.” India doesn’t tap on the glass of one’s boundaries, she completely shatters them. When I left for this little sojourn, I was feeling stressy with a lot on my mind (work, visas, lost wallet…), and the 9 + 3 hours from Bombay to Mysore to the park wasn’t exactly relaxing. Sometimes India takes so much out of me, and then when I let her, she puts so much more back in...

“Where do you get vegetables?”

2009-11-30T00:44:00.002+05:30

So asks my flatmate, who orders food and doesn’t answer the door when it arrives, leaves a glass of open milk in the fridge for days til the stench more than wrinkles the nose, or an open bowl of half-eaten noodles til it’s all so crusted together she tries to heat it in the bowl in the toaster oven, which clearly doesn’t work, so she leaves it on the counter and I throw the resulting concoction away. Sometimes I think she doesn’t need to grow up, she needs to start over at age 7 and try again.
I tell her, “I get them at the market.”
“At the shop down the lane?”
“No, the market by the train station.”
“The train?” She is confused, gives up and walks away. Why would she know where the train is? It’s a 7-minute walk, and if she ever leaves the house she likely takes a taxi or a friend’s car. She’s probably never bought groceries in her life. And in her defense (or as Indians would say, defence), doing everyday things is like having another job here. (Photo: hypnotising English class advertisment)

(1)    Buying groceries. Yes, you can have them home-delivered, but I don’t know exactly what to ask for, phone conversations in Hinglish are tricky, and I want to pick out my own fresh food and not be sent a box of unripe tomatoes. This requires different stores for different types of food: dairy store, dried fruit and nuts store, snacks store, eggs store, grain and flour store, open farmer’s market for fruits and veg, or a grocery store with some combination of the above, like one called Nature’s Basket so comparable Whole Foods you can easily pay $5 for a box of imported organic cereal. (Photo: Subway's tandoori chicken salad is supa)

(2)    Mailing. I spent a day at the main post office to send holiday cheer by registered air mail, so I can track packages and there’s the least chance of their disappearing because they go from there directly to the airport. Some have to be packaged in cloth, so I had to go across the street and pay to have someone sew cloth around them, and I had to have customs forms filled out for each one. It’s cheaper to send fewer, so I tried to bundle some for people who live near each other. And the worker had to type so much in the computer for each package, when he saw my stack he laughed and put up a CLOSED sign to work on mine alone, for hours, and told me to sit in the back office and wait. And this is the most efficient post office—no wonder people have to bribe to get the bureaucracy moving.

(3)    Shopping. Speaking of sitting, sitting is considered very polite. People always want you to sit. Standing seems to make them nervous and feel rude. In the nicest stores you sit and say, “I want jeans,” and the staff bring it all over for you to look at, and then some. Even if I walk in a store and say no, I don’t want help, I’ll stand and look at a display, and suddenly two or three staff are hovering and telling me what the sign on the wall says, like, “This row is slim fit, and this is straight…” I know I get away with a lot being white, like touching the wares myself. I know it’s weird I pick up the shoe myself, turn it over, feel how much it bends. I should be sitting and pointing and saying, “That one, size 38.” Plus, there are areas of the city you go for certain things. Like, clearly you buy books and movies in Colaba, auto parts near Charni Road, wood beams and boards near Grant Road, jewelry at the bazaar near Crawford Market—and all the stores are in a row selling the same thing; I don’t know how to tell them apart, which are best.

(4)    Fixing things. My parents suggested that chains like Nokia must sell inferior products here to make up for lower profits here. I think so, or why would my one-month-old $90 phone screen break after sliding off the chair it was charging in, falling a mere two feet? First I found one store to go to, then I had to physically find it which took a while; next, they sent me to another store; and they in turn sent me to the official Nokia repair shop, where I waited 2 hours and was told I dropped the phone so it wasn’t a warranty-covered repair, and waited for a new screen.

(5)    Stolen/lost things. My wallet was (likely) stolen on Friday, and luckily I’m careful and keep my driver’s license, passport, and extra cash separate, so I just lost about $9 and an easily cancelable bank card (so getting a new card and a Western Union money transfer have become the new life/job adventure, in addition to the appropriate South African visa). (Photo: Uh oh, Gillette, you've been beat!)

While the operational inefficiency makes managers like my mother cringe, there’s less incentive to prevent the over-service and bureaucratic stumbles here, because it all provides jobs, and there’s a very different business culture. This is why servants are so useful: you don’t spend a day at the post office, your servant does, and he gets paid, so you both win. People don’t have hobbies; there’s little leisure unless you’re a rich housewife perhaps, which means you organize your days around lunching and weddings, yoga, facials, pedicures, massages, shopping, and other social and family obligations. A rocking Saturday night for the average person consists of walking, sitting, chai-sipping and people-watching on Marine Drive. And even though people often work 6 days a week, they go out Saturday and Sunday, not Friday. I don’t see why to choose Sunday over Friday, but so it goes.

There were eleven of us assembling a Thanksgiving dinner last week, and not an oven between those of us cooking, but the finished product (albeit veg, minus turkey) was still mighty fine. In sum, doing your own laundry and dishes in the U.S., as we'd say in the South, ain’t no thang.

Dear India,

2009-11-25T14:43:00.005+05:30

I never thought I’d be woken by a marching band in Bombay; and for a wedding, no less. Healthier than a jolt of coffee, I suppose. You always find a way to surprise me. Which reminds me: last night I unpacked my dinner package to find the restaurant mixed my mint and coconut chutneys in one bag! You wouldn't mix chutneys for an Indian's meal, that's for sure. I complained to a friend who agreed they are “mad people,” and then I found hidden toothpicks in the paneer (cheese) in the sauce—to which she replied, “Gone case.” Perfectly put. Speaking of which: all the food in India is so flavorful, except the cheese. Why is the cheese so plain, India? I know you love your dairy! Yes, I’m used to European cheese—but even Amul’s gouda and mozzarella flavors taste like little more than a slight variation in texture of paneer. Reminds me of Cochin, as a friend and I quickly walked past the local fish market stench and responded to sellers with a no-we’re-veg, a particularly persistent fish-walla yelled after us, "Veg fish, veg crab, veg prawn!"

On Thursday an American friend is hosting a veg Thanksgiving dinner (not only would it be tough to find good turkey here, none of us have ovens, only cook-tops), and more significantly, it’s the one-year anniversary of the terrorist attacks, where the trial for Kasab and other gunmen is progressing significantly faster than the one for 9/11. Kudos to you, Indian democracy! (Photo: Tree of Life Memorial at the Taj Hotel)

Now I have a question. “Hello? Hello? Hello?” Can you explain why when people can’t speak English instead of passing the phone to someone who can, they repeat “Hello?” as if they can’t hear me, until they either understand my poor Hindi or I give up and call back? I know my tongue isn’t used to pronouncing certain words, and sometimes, I admit, my ear can't detect the difference between what I’m saying and what I’m supposed to be saying. I’m sorry! I’m trying! And repeating “Hello?” (or occasionally hanging up on me) is not a very helpful response.

Speaking of language, “Come!” is another popular phrase, as opposed to the polite “Please follow me” I’m used to. I laughed the other day to learn an American friend’s helpful neighbor always answers her door with, “Yes, tell me!” India, you’re very direct. Friends have told me numerous times to stand up for myself, be more forceful, lodge complaints. I’m sorry, India, I'm just not an arguer. I find most conflict unnecessary and stressy (yes, I know I went to law school—but for policy and conflict resolution!). But last weekend I finally had my first argument. With a taxi driver. (Photo: from a modern art exhibit at Jehangir Art Gallery)

I got into a taxi, told the driver where to go, and he started in the wrong direction. With a “Bas! Bas! Bas!” (Enough!) I immediately made him pull over and let me out. Then I got into another taxi, said where I wanted to go, and the driver replied in English, “Yes I know where it is.” I didn’t believe him, but I knew how to get there, and at least he started driving in the right direction. Now, I’m concerned if you can’t correctly navigate to a neighborhood 15 minutes from me (hence leaving that first taxi), and if you don’t know exactly where you’re going, you could at least follow my directions when I say and then yell and then wildly gesture for you to turn left or right instead of pulling over, getting out (meter running) and asking people on the street who make directions up to be polite. At one point the road had been blasted, we stopped, and I thought surely he’ll turn around now and listen to me, but no: he rumbled that taxi over the rubble and continued on his own insane invented path (by which point I had no idea where we were and there were no other taxis around). Fifteen minutes from home and one hour later, he wanted 4 times more than I should’ve paid. India, I’ve been kicked out of taxis halfway to my destination and told they don’t want to go any farther, turned away because they don’t feel like driving somewhere, driven in circles just to make extra money, and dropped somewhere completely wrong which the driver argues is right, and this morning I’d had it. I told him I’d pay him 50 rupees ($1) or nothing. This of course led to an argument that quickly morphed into the main neighborhood attraction, and at least ten people hurried over to see the scene and intervene on my behalf in Hindi and Marathi. Like pedestrians, taxi and rickshaw drivers are also always at fault (except in a collision between the two, I think pedestrians would face more blame).

So, to avoid a repeat of further drama (and to partake in a deliciously fishy lunch), a friend drove me home. Along the way an officer pulled him over for a dubious traffic offence, for which my friend offered to “settle things,” meaning a small bribe. When the officer saw whites in the car he waived us on with a license check and a warning. Thanks for the appearance of legitimacy and legality in front of me, India! I like to think things can work that way—especially since I'm in law.

Also, India, I’ve meticulously assembled holiday packages and cards, and I’m finally ready to post them today. Please don’t steal my mail. There’s no money or anything exciting inside; I'm just sending some love.

One last request: I live in a Silence Zone. It’s also a one-way. Please stop honking when you’re one foot from me and I’m walking on the side of my street (right); I see you, and you’re not supposed to be driving that direction anyway. Not even if you’re trying to be more legit by backing your car up the entire block. The next street over is one-way the other way, and you can drive by Gandhi’s house (left). So try Laburnum instead.

Love,

Valerie

P.S. I know I don’t go through a huge roll of toilet paper in a week. I’m onto you and your increased usage of the extra bathroom, flat-mates! But you probably by now know I won’t start an argument to save a mere dime, so just consider yourself On Notice (like Colbert and the bears).

Friendly tip: if you use dashboard, you might like to follow my blog by clicking the follow link on the top of the screen, which may be more convenient than randomly checking to see if I've posted something new. xoxo

My Roommate the Mistress?

2009-11-22T22:13:00.008+05:30

Over the last few weeks as the mystery around my roommate grew, I started laying it all out to a friend:
her sheets are dirty and haven't been changed since I've been here;
she works in a department store in the suburbs where it would be much cheaper to live;
she sleeps here maybe 2 nights a week, leaving at 7 am and returning at 11 pm, often with a suitcase of clothes and shoes;
she appears to have just 1 nightgown, a yellow flowery number;
she evades yet asks me questions about family and job, which are highly popular Indian topics of conversation (the most popular is where you’re living and how long you’ve been there);
she says she has no family in Bombay;
she clicks around on her phone in bed at night and rarely has calls, seemingly only with one man and her mother;
she keeps no food here;
I’ve never seen her shower here;
she doesn’t appear to do laundry besides occasional rinsing out panties.
(Photo: totally unrelated, the cutest cell phone cover a friend gave me)

My first thought was that she has a boyfriend and works long hours and travels for work a lot, and a friend pointed out that she could be a professional mistress. As I wrapped my mind around that explanation, an American friend reminded me of the popularity in the US of websites like http://www.SeekingArrangement.com (NYT article) where typically young college women find sugar daddies to help pay their way through school. It’s a feminist debate: when women “choose” such arrangements, or when we legalize prostitution, are we empowering them or enabling the furtherance of social male dominance?

(Note: I have since learned some answers to the above curiosities:
her sister got her the place in South Bombay to be close by and because they knew the landlady;
her sister lives near and just got married, hence some travel;
she "works like a crazy monkey" and travels a lot for work, only day off is Saturday if she's in town;
she's very shy? or slow to open up? one evening's rant about the landlady turned her on and now the tap is flowing and she is answering questions and telling funny stories about our silly college roommates;
she has a boyfriend in her home state;
she uses the other shower early in the morning;
I've spied Toblerone in her wardrobe and she is so tiny I don't think she eats much;
still confused about the laundry.)
Speaking of male dominance, the value of male and female children was instantly apparent when I volunteered today for an elementary school-style Field Day. The kids are all thin and it’s nearly impossible to guess their age due poor nutrition and the resulting improper growth. The difference is, after every race (of maybe 5 or 6 heats) of the girls’ 200-meter dash, at least two collapsed on or before the finish line, and few had to actually be carried away. Some boys fell to the floor after their race, but none passed and wheezed with such apparent pain from lack of food to sustain such unusual and extreme exertion. I thought they should not have held that event, especially in the mid-day sun before lunch. Throughout the day kids ran and played soccer barefoot, in socks, in loafers, in jeans, in dresses, in saris—they were thrilled to compete. And when they won, if they didn’t pass out in the process, they jumped up and down slapping high-fives and shrieking with delight. This was also the only such event I’ve been where the volunteers and staff raced as well, much to the delight of the children (and they also were in jeans, loafers, and other such attire).

It reminded me of Olympic Day in my elementary school, where each class was assigned a country to learn about and represent as we competed. I don’t remember my class ever being India, which reminds me of some amusing recent interactions with friends and family back home, such as, “Do you need me to mail you shampoo?” or “I got your card in the mail, and my dad made me to wash my hands after I read it.” Yes, I ride the trains, I walk through who only knows what, I eat even rice with my hands, I drink tap water through a filter; no, I don’t eat street food or use public toilets. A girl’s got to have some healthful limits. In the US I was a vegan/veg local organic free-range hippie, and here other than limiting myself to meat just a few times a week at only expensive ($4+/dish) restaurants, I know the greens from my local market are bunched into sellable bundles every morning on the sidewalk by street and slum-dwellers amidst the Dadar cows and traffic; I’ve seen the sad chicken-laden trucks trot by spewing shit; filtered (and often also bottled) water has many heavy metals and pesticide residue; open sewage and barges of trash flow straight into the sea (which also explains why Indians don’t swim). I take a low dose of a natural antibiotic and anti-parasitic, and heavy a dose of acidophilus and vitamins daily. I figure spending a little more on food is worth not getting really sick. Yes, an 8 rupee fresh-squeezed juice (17 cents) is crazy cheap, but like fast food in the US, if you wear your body down with chemicals and germs, your quality of life and medical costs will rise to probably much more in the long run. Being out on the streets, in crowded trains and eating out taxes my immune system enough. I’m still building my energy reserves to be able to regularly exercise here, something I really miss from my former hiking-biking-climbing-dancing life in Colorado. (Photo: Hare Krishna temple near my house would've been a lot nicer without the proselytizing.)

To remind me of the holidays, this weekend I made my first foray into the bazaar, where hours in a silver shop with some friends shopping for wedding jewelry, I scored some lovely holiday presents, and my first nice little presents for myself: a giraffe ring to remind me of both India and Africa, and some geometrically diverse bangles to have a reprieve from my probably-not-real-silver bracelet leaving green lines on my arm. This past week I am a mad woman, up every night until 2 or 3 in the morning writing cards and putting together packages and wrapping and being my usual overly-ambitious loves-to-give-presents-and-feed-people self. I haven’t even managed to squeeze in another grime-removal pedicure so that, as one friend put it, “your feet can be their normal shade again.”

Other than noticing the ease with which I speak in a different version of English (specific diction and sentence structure with the occasional Hindi word) and having used my first spur of the moment yar, language skills are still sorely lacking. The other day, while buying carrots my mind momentarily blanked and the only number I could think of was seven. Loathe to re-resort to holding up fingers after having completed the rest of the transaction in Hindi, my vegetable-walla raised his brows but made no comment as he counted out exactly seven long, almost beet-colored carrots and wrapped them up. Lucky for me, fresh carrot-lime raita sure is tasty.

E is for Earthquake

2009-11-17T00:00:00.004+05:30

The infinite importance of hair: shiny and not oily; hair oils and pills and doctor treatment to combat thinning; traditionally long or at least thoughtfully styled; in lieu of plain hair elastics, a myriad of metal and plastic hair baubles and flowers and jewelry; ideally falls with a slight bounce; eyebrows perfectly threaded; legs and arms meticulously waxed in a hair-here-not-there mentality. India is the number one exporter of human hair in the world. The English word shampoo comes from a Hindi word for kneading. “Whether you are male or female, young or old, your hair is a reflection of who you are. Everyone envies long beautiful hair. Caring for your long locks is essential Healthy hair isn't only about looking good. It also can make you feel good.” This, cutting your hair is considered a way to overcome ego. There are even documentaries about this (check out the guy’s face in the screenshot), about how hair is given as an offering in a temple and then sold for profit unbeknownst to the offerer. In two minutes I could easily walk to at least four salons and even in an expensive one a full leg wax would only set me back $5. Also, for less than it would cost in quarters to do my own laundry in Colorado, I can have my clothes so thoroughly washed the shirts are impeccably pressed around newspaper, delivered next day in a lovely bundle like this. However, the relative cheapness of labor and such services as the $3 in-home massage make it easy to raise very spoiled children like the college girls I live with who sprawl their daily delivered dinners all over the kitchen.

Bombay shut down on Wednesday for a supposed cyclone that resulted in brief but welcome off-season rain, and then a few days later rocked from a 4.6 earthquake instead (which was centered at a fault line south of here on which India’s tallest dam is built). I felt the rolling from my bed while my wardrobe danced tentatively from side to side like a shy concertgoer afraid to truly move to the music. Alas, I have decided to temporarily hang up my salsa shoes. Opposite sexes don’t really touch here, and certainly not in partner dance. I’ll leave the dancing to Lord Vishnu. I took myself on a tour of a couple art galleries instead, and met a friend for tea who had another friend in town, and this other friend just so happened to have attended my elementary school, while the first friend’s husband just so happened to be from the same small German city my dad is from. Earthquakes née cyclones, neighbors in Georgia and Germany, twice passing out due to low blood pressure and inadvertent gluten poisoning due to massive msg intake (don't worry, I'm fine), my first ever intentionally after midnight supper—it was an interesting weekend to say the least!

On a more thoughtful note, I find it beautiful that despite how heavily-Hindu India is people really respect different religions. Muslims can have multiple wives (which is a debate in Islam way outside the scope of this post). Jains, who profess a nonviolent ideology extending to no digging up of root vegetables like potatoes and whose monks and nuns walk barefoot and sweep a broom in their path to prevent stepping on insects, prevent the moss on the steps of my friend’s apartment from being removed. Parsi have a Tower of Silence on a hilltop of my neighborhood where they place bodies of the deceased to be disposed of by the elements of nature and to feed birds of prey, because cut hair, nails and dead bodies are believed unclean. Although my friend and I did binocular-spy albino owls, wild parrots and bats from her seventh-floor terrace yesterday, birds of prey are not exactly flocking around Bombay.

Someone asked why there are no pictures of me on the blog, why I put up pictures of artifacts like ancient Indian board games instead. So I took a typical getting-out-of-the-house-in-daylight-hours picture of myself. Notice all the covering in an attempt to block that darn sun in stifling yet refreshingly humid ninety-degree weather (another sign of my Americaness, thinking in Fahrenheit).

Only in India do I get asked to take photographs with people like a celebrity; are the snacks already stale when you pop the plastic seal; do the rechargeable batteries last just 2 hours; do dogs obey traffic police when told to stop and go before crossing the street; am I always eating yet always hungry; do people actually believe me when I tell them my name is Priya because I’ve tired of repeating V for Violet, A for Apple, L for Love, E for Elephant, R for Rome, I for India, E for Elephant over the phone. India: aap ka javal be nahi! (I hope that transliterates sensibly to India, you are cool!)

Rain and Toilet Paper

2009-11-12T00:13:00.002+05:30

My one-month anniversary in India coincides with my first rain. Cyclone warnings not coming to fruition are proving a welcome respite from the regular ninety-degree humidity that shrinks my hair into Shirley Temple ringlets. An evening with my dear friend lounging with a breeze off the Arabian sea is pure bliss.

As I ponder taking some ayurvedic medicine my friends swear will help my digestion since everyone is shocked I can’t eat bread or sugar (they don’t realize how much of an improvement that is for me!), I realize my health has actually improved here. Maybe my immune system just needed more of a challenge. I think the hot weather and spicy food help. And I’ve started eating a smidge of meat, since I have to be more of a carnivore in South Africa, I want get my body used to it. Odd to give up years of veg in a land famous for it.

Despite common perception of Westerners, I like my food mirchi, or spicy, but in some ways I am so Western. I do a double take when I see a date written 15.10.09. I think of light switches facing up as on. I prefer toilet paper. I can do without a disposal, a dishwasher, a washing machine, hot water, a/c…all the things I used to look for in an apartment. And I am lucky enough to have a/c (though I rarely use it, because electricity is quite expensive) and occasional hot water—heck, I’m lucky enough to have water coming from the tap and electricity all day long, which was not true in my first place, and is not true in most of India. Also, Indians sure have strong bladders—even most restaurants don’t have bathrooms. Occasionally in desperation I pretend to “consider” a nice restaurant or hotel, and instead use the restroom and leave. Part of the benefit of being white is I can look a mess and still walk into a five-star hotel. I’ve been told to milk this and use the Four Seasons pool sometime.

“You’re not American. I understand your accent!” I’ve been getting that a lot lately. I try to be understandable: I speak slowly, choose my words deliberately, and use Hinglish (Hindi-English) where helpful. For example, the Mercedes Benz showroom landmark near my house is pronounced Murse-eh-deez Ben-zuh. I never thought of being American as exotic, but rather as generic. Yesterday I was on the phone with my internet provider trying to make a payment, and I texted my address to the worker so he could send someone to my house to collect the cash. India is very into home delivery. The next day I get a text from the guy: ‘How r u today dear?’ (And a follow up call the next day asking why I didn't answer.) After last weekend and some other experiences, I’m wary of meeting anyone (especially men) except through a chain of people I somehow know. It’s just not part of the culture.

I think I'm a split personality sometimes—part of me wants to settle down and part of me wants to be all over the place. Maybe I'll quench the wanderlust over the next few years and the settle down part will slowly take over. I’m enjoying settling in here and not quite wrapping my head around leaving in January. Seems so soon. Maybe someday Bombay can afford to actually pay me living wage for my work. Or as friends half-laughingly suggest, I’ll marry rich, to which I reply, I could win the lotto. But then, I was born a middle class American with loving family and friends: I already have.

My Definition of Love

2009-11-09T16:37:00.001+05:30

Is giving. I think the ultimate form of love is giving, and giving in the form the other person wants. For me this means truly listening when someone speaks without composing in my head what I’ll say next; trying to see things from someone else’s perspective; asking questions; considering others when making decisions for myself; making a real effort to surround myself with positive people and to act positively towards them; and working to making a positive contribution to others in the world. Yes, it’s idealistic. I want to believe better in people than they believe of themselves sometimes. Like this guy I met in Bombay…

Who admires Rambo and the Dark Knight, left his Muslim family and moved here alone and has effectively cut himself off from relationships with anyone in a city of 15 million. I listened as he shared some deeply personal thoughts. I’m no therapist; I just find that people respond really well to being listened to. Sometimes I play a game: how many questions can I ask and how much can I listen to someone before they ask me something in return? Sometimes when the conversation is over the other person apologizes that we didn’t “get to me,” and I smile and think, ‘I win!’(Photo: monkey scratching his bum before he stole my empty tupperware, opened it, found no food inside, threw it down and hit me on my leg to scold me)

Which leads me to another part of giving: responding in a way the other person can handle; if someone can’t handle listening to me, I work to let them know I understand their side and don’t try to explain mine. And this guy reminded that some people don’t give back at all—they are in a place where they need so much, and so they take and take. It drains my core, because I want to give, and then when I need something back and don’t get it, I get mad at myself for giving to a black hole. I don’t need people like that in my life. Like this guy who said, “I’m so proud of myself, I listened,” after interrupting during the pivotal part of my story, or, “It’s good you’re upset, it’s how I’m getting to know you,” after I cried for the first time since I left the US because he just couldn’t get over his selfishness.

So, my weekend trip to the hill station of Matheran, aka some nearby nature, turned out to be an exhausting rather than relaxing mountain retreat. It’s hard to enjoy light hiking and scenic surroundings when someone is pounding you with his drama 24/7 and planning every minute of the day around what he wants to do. I said I came here to relax and hike, so let’s talk about something less serious for a while (or help me with my Hindi like you promised), and he replied, "You came with the wrong person.”

Sometimes it feels like a catch 22—easier to be a woman in India with a man, yet being with a man is acceptable only in certain situations, and a weekend trip is not one of them. “It’s just not in the culture,” my friend said, and he’s right. Slogging home early and alone, the trains down due to construction, thereby doubling my trip, I thought, why do I make it so hard on myself? I so love people. And I believe in the good in everyone. And I forget that sometimes there is real beauty in being alone, being selfish in a nurturing and positive way. Like moving to India to chase a career dream that I hope in the end will help people like this guy by reforming society, which should ultimately be more help than any one listener can, however well-meaning, can provide. And thankfully, for the most part, I am surrounded by wonderful people who give back and I like to think that we lift each other up in a cycle of mutual giving. So to all of you reading this, I’ll be an annoying American who says ‘thank you’ for that one more time…

"You Live Here, Madam"

2009-11-04T14:54:00.005+05:30

So says the guard on a tree-lined street in one of the most posh parts of the city, just ten minutes from the former red light district and what Good Broker (Broker #3) called “the slum” where I was last week. My dear friend and now neighbor helped me house hunt, and this Good Broker, who even went with me to collect my things from my former place and told them he was with the police so I could at least get my deposit back, found a fabulous flat for twice the price and ten times the quality. I share my room with a working woman, and the other two rooms have two college women per room; three bathrooms and a kitchen complete the picture. I can still walk to the office, to Chowpatty beach, to the beautiful Hanging Gardens Park, to local markets and the train station, and I can cook (which will be more useful when I get internet at home and can stop frequenting the free wifi Veg Falafel place). Decorating with what I have, below.

Saturday I went to a Halloween Party at the American Embassy. Dubya and a swarm of secret service agents were at the infamous Taj Hotel, but oddly he didn’t show. I dressed in a black slip with a boa and sign that said ‘Freudian.’ It was the cliché of Westerners in India: rich, corporate partiers; friendly, yet not my scene in the US either. Mostly the Indians I’ve befriended are more my speed. Getting in touch with alumni, and their connecting me with even more friends of friends of friends has acquainted me with such wonderful people, and I’ve met a few other fun friends on my own. Picture of the Taj, not the dark rooftop party not conducive to photography.

However, the Americans did teach me one vital thing: in a Borders-like bookstore called Crossword (walkable from my new flat) is the only map of Bombay. Now as I walk or am driven around by taxi drivers who pretend to be lost, I follow in the book to better learn this city where road signs are for new Hindi names instead of the British names they’re known by--and the book even has landmarks, since that’s how most people navigate. Typical directions begin with, “In (neighborhood), do you know the ___ near the ___ restaurant? How about the ___ store?” My current landmarks are: I’m one block from Gandhi’s former Bombay home, now a free museum, and one block from a restaurant called Café New York.

On the weekend my friend who laughingly attempts to help me with Hindi pronunciation, and I were wandering around Colaba, past cricket fields and sketchy markets swarming with flies where vendors snot into the street, and we ran into a work colleague of his who introduced his companion with a, “This is my girlfriend,” the way you’d say, “This is my bike.” Saturday morning as I sat on the very busy Marine Drive reading the Times Of India to the sound of the Arabian Sea, a man pulled over his sports car and walked over to me to try to convince me to go for a ride in his car. This is not atypical—and I dress very conservatively. I have also gotten, "Are you working today?" and "How much?" and other gems. On the other hand, India Vogue may be entirely focused on the import of wedding fashion, yet the models are realistic-looking. Beauty here is epitomized by fair skin, long glossy hair, and a ‘toned yet soft’ body. All models have a little bit of gunch on them. I also get daily “health tip” text messages, like ‘Fat should not be totally eliminated from our diet as it is required to maintain a healthy body. Avoid saturated fat’ or ‘Women Problem – You will get a great relief from menstrual pain, if you have a gooseberry daily.’ Yet women are expected to work and still do cooking and care-taking at home, which is no different from the reality in the US. In general, the wealthier and more educated my surroundings, the more Western clothes, preference for Hollywood over Bollywood movies, English speaking, more powerful women--and air conditioning. Even in liberal Bombay, India is an interesting mixture of an evolving culture vis-à-vis sexism.

So if last week was the bottom, this week I’m climbing back up, complete with my first celebrity sighting, Aishwarya Rai, former Miss India, now a very wealthy and famous Bollywood actress, in the recent Steve Martin Pink Panther movies. She had a press conference at the Vie Lounge where another kind Colorado alum took me to dinner. A poor picture of her to the right.

Thank you warmly to everyone who reached out during my rough week with emails and calls, and to all the kind locals who dropped what they were doing to help a freaked-out American. The adventure continues...

The importance of internet

2009-10-30T14:13:00.005+05:30

Three days without internet or friendly faces and a night vomiting into the toilet has cracked me. I tried to call my mom long distance at a roadside stall, and got no answer. Just as well. I did this to myself. I always thought I was a cautious person, wading into water instead of jumping, braking downhill on my bike, buying insurance…and then I up and move to India. I have never felt so alone in a city of so many (15 million). I’ve decided daily internet access is important for my mental health and am looking into that this weekend.

Do people in the US realize how easy life is? I mean, really, really easy? I find myself skipping the occasional meal because I didn’t find somewhere to buy food, and I’m growing weary of eating at restaurants alone. It's like in old movies where people use letters of introduction, and I'm tapping everyone I can do try and meet people, including attending some expensive Halloween parties this weekend. On another note, my favorite Indian food so far is palaak paneer dosa, which is a spinach-and-cheese rice-flour crepe served with daal and coconut chutney for dipping. Part of eating is enjoying the texture of food, so you eat with your hands and a spoon. Here’s a picture.

My favorite fruit discovery is the sitafel, or custard apple, which looks a bit like an artichoke on the outside:

Since I haven’t had internet, here’s a brief catch-up on the week. On Tuesday I felt like I won the job lottery. I got a position working for Childline India, which is like the National Center for Missing Children, writing a draft of what we hope will be India’s first child abuse law. To celebrate I spent a sweaty day wandering the city and visiting the famous Hindu temple (Mahalaxhmi) and mosque (Haji Ali). The Elvis-loving broker ran into me at night, and dropped me at the fancy Vie Lounge in Juhu, the movie stat neighborhood, which had very sparse salsa dancing. He called the next day to ask if I was there to hang out with Jessica Simpson, as apparently she’d had a party there. Alas, Jessica and I run in different circles.

Wednesday I had a taste of rural India, visiting a home for girl street children north of Bombay run by an NGO called VOICE. It’s really quite idyllic, and they even grow their own food and are using solar panels to collect electricity. Still, being rural they have trouble finding staff. A husband and wife run it and live there with about 50 very sweet girls who insisted I show them the very few dance moves I know. Interesting the way culture plays into how they deal with the girls’ behavior problems from the trauma in their lives. They don’t talk about it. When the girls are upset, the goal is to put them into a meditative state to calm them down and let it all go. I find that’s a recipe for keeping it all deep within, and that’s probably also my own cultural bias. A view from the girls' home:

Thursday motor-biking with yet another broker I found and moved in as a Paid Guest in what I thought was a family home. Famlies rent out extra bedrooms to make extra money, I bought a hot plate for light cooking, and I can use the fridge and the bathroom, but I'm supposed to be in by 11:30 except on weekends if I call, because I don’t have a key. It’s about $150 a month, in a decent part of town and walkable to work. They assured me they don't go into my room, yet I woke up at 7 am to the maid going freely in and out. They also assured me no one else used my bathroom, but I had to wait 30 min for it this morning. And now they need to paint my room and want me to sleep in the living room for a week. No good. Now to look for somewhere else and see if I can get some money back. Sigh.

Plus, that rent is probably more than I’ll get paid. The non-drinking, non-smoking bar tender I chatted with at the Lounge the other night makes three times that easily. Now I get why people say ‘Oh, wow’ when I say I work for an NGO, and why this is short term til South Africa (where I’m making a couple thousand total, but at least it's something), and why my parents are awesome for helping me. A friend here says to look at it like continued education and not feel bad about parental monetary help. I can only do that for so long... At least living here is considerably cheaper than the US. Still hoping these “experiences” besides obviously rocking my inner self will be well-viewed back in the States and ultimately earn me a better position there.

I'm not gonna lie, this is hard. I keep reminding myself that I chose this. I want to do this. I am attempting to create a career that doesn't really exist... To all of you living outside your home country, I am so impressed. You are so strong. Someone told me years ago that I don’t know how to be alone. I think this proves otherwise.

(A Very Belated) Shabbat Shalom

2009-10-24T11:29:00.003+05:30

Growing up with a glorified Gandhi-centric image of modern Indian history I didn't realize the extent of the violent side of the Indian struggle for independence. With an opening motto of two ways to live: accept and endure, or take responsibility and change, the Oscar-nominated Rang de Basanti transports a group of Dehli college students back in time into five freedom fighters of the Hindustan Socialist Republic Association through a parallel story of modern politicians buying faulty parts for air force planes from the Soviets and then blaming the resulting pilot deaths on the own pilots' carelessness (this part is true), and ending with a dramatically violent and idealistic showing of their own (movie fiction, don't want to spoil it for you). As with any Bollywood movie, its intensity is offset with some lighthearted silly scenes and songs, but the movie also tackles the Muslim-Hindi divide and the legacy of colonialism. Indian history is another reminder of how much easier it is to unite against something (an end to colonial British rule), and not for something (creating a unified country, e.g. the current Kashmir conflict). And 'Oh my gosh!' in this movie was subtitled to our delight as 'Grandpa's hairy testicles!'

Favorite signs of the weekend: 'Persons who dirty public places are social criminals' and from a Jain restaurant:

I find Indians in general to be very kind. Since there are no maps, people always stop and ask each other for directions; it's considered rude to say they don't know, so people try to help even to the extent of sending you walking in the completely wrong direction. I'm slowly learning to recognize the subtle pause of unknowing before giving made-up as opposed to useful directions. People I have only emailed (alumni, friends of friends or even blindly) meet and spend substantial time with me, send suggestions of other contacts, and genuinely offer to help me any way they can. They're also very positive and don't want to say 'no,' so I sometimes get a run around of 'please call tomorrow to arrange a meeting,' and tomorrow the response is, 'oh yes, please call tomorrow,' until I eventually arrange something and they tell me they really want to work with me and have no money.

I began applying for jobs and post-graduation internships October of 2008. 65% of my graduating class is still unemployed. Friday, after yet another day of slogging through networking/interviews/meetings, I had a delicious dinner where we talked of being like Noah and building your own arc, being brave and taking care of yourself. I thought of a woman I met earlier this week who said worry is the most useless activity, and whenever she really wants something, she works and works for it and then releases it, saying, “Universe, if I deserve this, please provide it.” As I walked home I thought, 'Universe, if I deserve to pursue the career I have in mind, please provide a job.' When I got home I checked my email to find an official job offer to start an educational NGO in South Africa for six months beginning in January.

I can’t explain what a weight off and career confidence (and personal confidence!) boost that is. I've been ruminating lately on the idea of 'it's my job, not who I am' versus living one's work. It is not selfish to have a career to support yourself and live nicely. And it is easier to be brave and unselfish in my chosen career knowing I am from the US and have my family to fall back on, which children in the slums here can hardly say. As a new friend said yesterday, "Being poor in the States is not having a nice car." I admire the lucky ones who truly love and enjoy their work, and I really admire those who work to live despite a lack of passion in their profession. I happen to love child advocacy and conflict resolution, and I'm realizing more and more what a rewarding struggle of a career it is going to be.

As for working in India, I am giving myself one more week to find something, and then I will likely live at a home for street children just outside the city, knowing I have a position soon in January. Like the rest of the world, social-type work here is sorely needed and unfunded. Indians have no social services besides NGO's, many of which are fake and keep profits for themselves; people have no pensions from work unless they work for international companies with uniform packages, politicians are universally regarded as criminals (even charities are expected to pay bribes to get things done), and I was told an argument in favor of child labor that one daughter working as a maid in a nice home in the city can support her entire rural family. Girls on the street (orphans) are mostly raped by age 12, and family abuse and incest impacts millions of slum dwellers, but goes unreported because families can't afford to lose their breadwinners or shame the family name. In the news here a man in Mumbai locked up and starved his wife and three daughters for the past 7 years, and when an NGO helped one of the daughters escape, the man successfully filed a report for kidnapping to get her back and now the NGO is being sued. Although in good news, the women are now away from him.

Welcome to the second-most populated country of the world, an independent democracy for only 62 years. Indians are such an amazing and enterprising people, trying to rapidly advance on their own terms with colonialism still hovering over them.

Pulling a Life Together

2009-10-22T18:45:00.005+05:30

Now I'm alone, the holidays are over, and the job and flat-hunt are on! India is very whom-you-know. I'm slowly networking through layers of people and starting to interview for jobs. The goal is to have a flat by next week and a job or two (ie a non/low-paying NGO job and another paying job freelancing for a law firm or subtitling for a Publishing House) within the next two weeks. I'm ready to be independent.

Speaking of work, India is full of extraneous jobs. For instance, on the Sea Link roadway, when your car pulls up to pay the toll you hand the money to someone standing by the booth. He hands it to a man in the booth, who puts it in the cash register. Then the first man pushes the button to let you pass.

I love the English here. It's a unique mixture of old British with Indian cultural input, with signs on the road like 'Hospital ceilings are boring. Drive safely,' 'Honking won't make a red light turn green any faster,' or the ad on the left for Thums Up soda. Bombay also has its own slang, such as making what Americans know as the 'kissy sound' to call someone to come over to you. My first two Hindi words were ahimsa (nonviolence) and bagh (garden), and of course I've picked up more useful ones like Kitna wa? (how much?) as well.

Today I embarked on a flat-hunting adventure, which involved riding behind a broker on his moped. He first showed me a PG (paying guest) place where you rent a bedroom in someone's house who assures you that you can use the rest of the house too, and when you ask if you can cook they say you can heat up food once in a while, and you realize if you lived there you'd be an unwanted plus one confined to your room. I insisted I wanted an independent or a roommate set up, and was shown a couple 400 square-foot-ish studios in a "hip" suburb called Bandra. In one particularly sketchy flat near the Catholic hospital (which went for about $380/month or R18,000) seven men were opening closets, turning on taps and assuring me the broken window would be fixed ASAP. Talk about extraneous jobs. Luckily I bonded with my broker. Over Elvis. He is keen to help me find a place so I can show him pictures of an old trip to Graceland.

Tuesday I did a tour of Dharavi, the largest Bombay slum. Dharavi is in between two nice suburbs, Mahim and Bangra. I use the term suburb because it's used here, but the neighborhoods are urban, except without high rise towers. This slum of officially 1 million, and actually more like 2.5 million, was considerably cleaner, calmer and had more of community feel than Rio (or Compton). When I say cleaner, of course it's relative--children still play barefoot by the trash heap, there's open sewage in in the streets that flows straight into the Arabian Sea, and most of the local businesses center around very polluted industries. Every waste product of Bombay (and even as far as from Chennai) ends up in Dharavi, where local resident manufacturing ventures recycle and produce any and everything to resell to manufacturers. For $3/day or R150/day for a man or half that for a woman, workers sort plastics by color and ultimately churn out small recycled colored pellets; there are sewing sweat shops where children as young as 14 are paid by the piece. The unfortunates work in industries like aluminum recycling where in a basement incinerator facility they pollute their lungs with toxic gas of melted metal, as if the smog in Bombay isn't bad enough. Still by removing shoes before going into a house, which for a family of five is the size of the studios I was looking at (and without bathrooms or kitchens) and careful upkeep, the homes are clean and diseases are minimized. Hygeine is pretty good, and walking on the street you couldn't easily tell people apart, except for the number of scars on their faces or obvious maladies like smashed-in skulls healed into misshapen-looking heads, or missing limbs or something. Unfortunately, few hospitals in Bombay give discounts, and none give free medicine. Below, a ferris wheel in the slum:

You may have heard that the government is slowly reclaiming the slum land and turning it into high rises; the first couple floors are reserved for the resulting displaced slum residents who arrived in Bombay before 1995, and the rest are sold. Those who arrived after 1995 are SOL and likely to be forced to live in an illegal slum. Dharavi gets water for 2 hours in the morning 287 days/year (or fewer, depending on the monsoons) and has electrical meters hooked up to a network of low-hanging wires used for drying laundry, whereas illegal slums get no utilities.

In comparison, drug money will get you nice things, but also requires guns to protect them. Homes in the slums of Rio look like small American apartments inside, with leather sofas and cable tv, but schools are often entirely teacher-less, with children going just for a free meal at lunch. The only guns I've seen in India have been on armymen. Thankfully, education is highly valued in India, and most slum children finish high school and often do 1 or 2 years of school after. Yet even in a drugstore in Dharavi you find Gilette razors, Cadbury's chocolates and Colgate toothpaste.

Seeing the recycling and sweat shops really brings The Jungle to life. I will always picture this underbelly when I shop here, and abroad whenever I see a Made in China/India/etc sticker. Yet many of the businesses in the slums are built and run by slum residents themselves, which makes me wonder if our rampant consumerism is encouraging some enterprising behavior in addition to horrible labor conditions...

In the glaring bipolarity of Bombay (like most developing countries), Saturday night I paid a $20 cover to get into a dance club called Bling in the basement of a 5-star hotel, after hanging out in a posh lounge by the Sea with women who actually wore dresses and showed the first bit of leg (and shoulder) I've seen in India. In Malabar Hill, the richest part of town only accessible by car where financeers live, is a beautiful park called Hanging Gardens with amazing hillside views of the city, such as this.

I met an interesting German-Israeli couple wandering around the area I'm currently staying, the southern tip of the city called Colaba. Their impression of the US was that Americans all try to live up to an impossible Hollywood-Barbie ideal and life is "too stressy." Also, the universal opinion in Bombay seems to be that NYC is the best city ever, and LA is awful. So much for west coast solidarity. This is a good map to give an idea of the city's layout of neighborhoods. India also does not believe in maps, and most streets are known by their old British names, not the new Indian names on the signs. Navigating is all by neighborhood and landmarks.

I'll close with the following: wandering around Hanging Gardens, I walked past a family who nudged each other, saying 'American, American,' whipped out their cell phones and took pictures of me. I should start pretending to be an American movie star to get into all the nice clubs for free. In the all-white-people-look-the-same mentality here, it would work well. Even sweaty and dressed in $3 clothes, white skin always merits a 'Yes, madam?'

2009-10-17T22:22:00.002+05:30

I'm not sure the extent of the maelstrom of firecrackers, car horns, and yelling adequately comes across through this shoddy video. I think I've lost an entire register of hearing on Marine Drive tonight with booms so loud they shake your core into involuntary trembles. Happy Diwali. It's 4:30 am, time for bed...

The India Adventure Begins...

2009-10-17T14:27:00.001+05:30

Today marks my first week in India, and it is Diwali, the Festival of Lights. We Jews are used to just lighting candles whereas the children here have a much more exciting time lighting fire crackers (as if the city needed more smoke in the air). My tired old camera is keen on snapping shots once the cracker's finished, but by preemptive guesswork I've had a little luck.

This picture was taken on the famous Marine Drive walk that's in practically every Bollywood movie. Mumbai does feel a little like flashy yet chill LA, and from what I hear Dehli farther east is more fast-paced and has better public transport, perhaps more like NY, but I think the comparisons end there. The beaches on the Arabian sea look nothing like the Pacific. No one swims.

Speaking of movies, my friend and I went to see Wake Up Sid, whose lead actor reminds me a bit of Sylvester Stallone. It wasn't subtitled, so I understood about half of it (and she kept helpfully translating the parts in English). It was a simple somewhat westernized love story, sealed with a hug and not a kiss, since that is still taboo in movies here. The Title of the blog is taken from the movie, in which the female lead moves to Mumbai and the first person she meets is named Sid (my first contact here was a friendly CU alum named Sid). And then she finds a flat, and a job, and writes a column for a local mag called New Girl in the City. Assuming I find a flat and a job, you can appreciate the parallels...

As for jobs, Diwali is the worst time to be looking for one because everyone's on holiday, so I'm assembling a respectable list of contacts, meeting with friend-type people I contacted before I came, and trying to be patient and persevere. It will come.

There's so much to say, and I'm slowly writing letters to everyone. Stationary stores sell school notebooks and pens, not cards or nice paper. I happened to find envelopes in a small hodge-podge shop, and my first Hindi word popped into my head buying plain paper--I remembered how to say "small" (chota), since the stationary-walla was offering me a large ream of drawing paper. Apologies to everyone who gets boring plain white paper letters. Maybe I'll come across stickers somewhere to jazz them up...

Speaking of Jazz, the girl in Wake Up Sid went to Not Just Jazz By the Bay, a live music club a block from where we're staying. Coincidentally, another friend took us there last night and we found ourselves listening to an Indian cover band with a mohawked-goateed-rat-tailed lead singer play Nickelback, Coldplay, Greenday and Pearl Jam songs.

More later, comments very welcome, and I promise not to let this be an excuse not to keep in individual touch with each and every lovely one of you readers...

xoxo

Valerie