the big post...enjoy!
22-Aug-07
Finally, out of the U.S. and into India...the triple jack and coke mixed with xanax was a nice welcome to the sky.
The flight was long, but felt like first class...wine, whiskey and warm towels! I'm out adventuring on the second day. Today we become oriented in the art of riding an Indian railway and look at a potential flat to rent. This place is amazingly different than anything i've ever seen or done before.
Thursday 23-Aug-2007
Red. Yellow. Orange. Dirt. The attention is tuned in and it’s hard to change the channel, although you kind of want to. It’s like when your favorite toy falls in a mud puddle. You want to enjoy it, but it’s kind of disgusting. After traveling some 30 hours to get here, I’m struck by how easily we went from air conditioned building to air conditioned jetway to air conditioned plane and on and on to more air conditioned buildings, hermetically sealed and without a sense that we could possibly be in Newark, Brussels, and finally India. It took walking down the wobbly stairs off the airplane to finally feel the overwhelming sensory overload. This place smells horribly, and looks close to it. For some reason, though, I’m enamored by it’s rough beauty and traditions. Marigolds, bindis, chai tea, Krishna, Ganesh, ghandi, and Best buses. Horn Ok Please! Jesus, how did I choose this place to study? After only 4 hours of sleep our Tata Institute host, Arunima, is towing me around the city pointing things out like an auction caller. It’s quite the adventure. Local time is 10.5 hours ahead of New York.
Arunima helped us get mobiles so I’ve been able to contact both mom and dad. Dad fears the worst, safety is always the topic. Today we went to the train station and became oriented in the art of riding an Indian train. Yet, we never took a ride. We just walked in, looked around, and left to see the next point of interest. This train terminal serves 2.5 million people a day! Holy shit...
As the adventure continues on we have a discussion about Katrina and the recent flooding in Mumbai. Arunima tells us that the reason things are back to normal here is because everyone helps each other. So in comparison to our individualistic and guarded society, Mumbaikers focus on the community at large and their neighbor. She explained further that the people in New Orleans have come to rely on the government and therefore expected help. Comparatively, the folks in Mumbai have never received adequate disaster assistance so they didn’t (and never do) wait for the government to assist, they started without them and things have return to a new normal in a matter of months. This struck me because, first off, she was so frank about it. Secondly, as a model in disaster management this city has rebounded from monsoon flooding nearly every year. But, the progress lies with the people not the government. It would be interesting to research the average citizen’s perspective on why the rebounds occur so quickly and without much failure. Overall, though, I think cultural and societal differences in community play a major role in disaster recovery.
Seth my dearest dear friend,
Hello! or Alloooo! as they tend to extend here. My flight was a-maze-ing. It felt like first class, real silverware, indian food, wine, whiskey, warm towels, etc. Even lotion in the loo! We arrived around 2am on Tues, slept for 4 hours and then proceeded to go on a little adventure with our Tata Institute coordinator. She was amazing. She got us hooked up with a mobile and took us shopping for salwaar kameez (no saree for this girl). Things are amazingly different than anything I
've ever seen before. For 2 rupees, you can feed a cow...because it's "auspicious" but when you try to take a picture of your friend doing so, people freak out because you're "behaving strangely." Thus, the reason i will never have a picture of myself doing so.
We ate our first meal at mcdonald's...i'm disgusted. But we had to compromise with one of the girls on our trip. I had the McVeggie with fries and coke. I'm not kidding. it was 90RS. = $2.50USD. Anyway, the chai is flowing like water and it smells of garbage/exhaust constantly. Just another day in the life of Mumbai.
Today we have the morning off and later shall become oriented in the art of riding an India railway. Pray for me ...to whatever you think will watch over our journey. This evening we get to view a potential flat for rent. We have another international student with us, Johanna from Sweden. I'm getting cultural experiences 2 for 1!
I'll text you my mobile number later (it's nearly 2a.m. your time). We are 10.5 hours ahead of you. I've spoken to my mom twice already. She loves being so closely connected. If you have, or get, an international plan on a landline or cell, it's supposedly cheap for you and free for me, as in, it does not take my minutes but will cost you roughly $.20/minute or less. Just make sure to verify the rate for india.
Finally, if you ever find the time and money (roughly $2500 would suffice) please please please consider coming over.
much love from bollywood,
jenelle.
24-August-2007
Today I bought traditional clothes called salwar kameez and shelled shrimp on the ground with women in a slum. It was great, except i was being too rough with the shrimp, basically doing it wrong, but I didn't know until they were all shouting at me. I have no Hindi skills. Luckily, there's a woman from the University who has been leading us all around the city like her very own children and she is lovely. Helping us on the trains and everything! Trains in Bombay, by the way, are no effing joke. You have to push, shove, and run. Grown folks actin' crazy!
Sunday 26-Aug-2007
Trains!
Finally, I got to ride the train. It was delightful. Air whipping through the car, people swaying, the wheels clink clink clinking along the rails. Of course, it was pointed out that we will most likely be riding against rush hour so we’ll never fully experience the crushing push of bodies aiming to board and exit in the same frenzied motion. We ride in the female-only compartments. Indian women are shy, quiet and slender. I am loud, talkative and fat. They stare at me unrelentingly.
Going to the Movies!
Elizabeth and I share a glance as the city disappears and a barren wasteland of broken cars and mechanics appears, a taxi graveyard. “There are no women anywhere,” I whisper to her. We hold out and in the distance appears the Imax Theatre in all her glory, in the middle of nowhere. Bumping and clamoring along the taxi has donut sized wheels, much like a model T Ford, except these black banged-up beauties look like they have been through a third world war. The miniscule value of the rupee and the smell of the interior leads one to believe the taxi must also second as a mobile residence for the drivers. Parking and living space is limited. This guy was young, cute and didn’t seem to give two shits that we were foreign. It put me at a strange ease knowing he wouldn’t be staring at me like I had a third eye. Maybe he wouldn’t rip us off either. The movie was sold out except three tickets and we were four, so we ate and left. I didn’t really want to see Heyy Babyy anyway.
Going to the Market!!
Dr. Dabir, our host professor, lives on floor 10 of Centrum Towers. Just six floors up, our co-adventurer, Johanna, is a paying guest in a couple’s second apartment. She is from Sweden and seems to be just as confused as us. Although, she definitely stands out more with her blond hair and height, so I think Indians speak to her less than us. We learned a few days ago that we may be able to move in with her as there is room for three more. Rumor has it there might be a pool somewhere within the towers. We met up with Dr. Dabir at her apartment so that she could show us around the local markets and such. Another taxi ride and we were standing in the middle of fresh fruit stalls, vegetable stalls, open-air
spice stalls, and a plethora of general merchandise stores. We bought custard apples, guava fruits, and a thing that looked like a giant lime with grapefruit-esque flesh inside. Everything else was off-limits. I’d probably be sick for weeks if I ate a tomato off the street.
28-August-2007
My first day of work is complete. huge sigh of relief. today is the holiday of Raksha Bandhan, to celebrate brother and sister bonds, so i'm sportin' a red dot on my forehead and a flashy pink bracelet along with my salwar and duputta scarf. Since i'm ridiculously foreign to the kids at the day care, they decided to go against the tradition of the boys wearing the bracelets and slapped one on my wrist.
Earlier today i ate some sort of combo of wheat paste and sugar on the cement floor of the day care with women yelling in Hindi and flies buzzing. the kids encouraged me to eat it, but then i realized that it will probably make me sick within the next 12 hours. it was well worth it if it does. i wish i knew more hindi than "my name is jenelle" or "namaste." i could probably avoid these situations if my vocabulary was expanded.
oh oh! and i got mehendi henna all over my hand by a girl no older than 12 in the slums we worked today. She very skillfully crafted a beautiful scene on my hand in less than 15 minutes in the same small cement room the daycare was held in moments before. I couldn't believe what she could do with just a small metallic cone filled with henna and her imagination.
In two days three of us move into our flat a few miles from the place i'm working. we're moving in with another student from sweden, johanna. i'm getting a two-for-one cultural lesson here. at the new place i'll have more space and wifi. rent is 10,000 rupees. or around $250USD. Meager compared to New Orleans and the place is niiice by Indian standards. the professor who is hosting us is living a few floors down and the woman renting it out is amazing. everyday she tells us how much she wants to take care of us. her cook sleeps in our kitchen. every morning he will make us breakfast and the ever famous chai tea...complete with loads of sugar and thick milk. ugh. it's becoming cumbersome to order black coffee so i'm forced to drink the heavy chai. must learn more hindi!
Oh the buses and trains! Now that we are moving out of downtown (where work is located) and to the suburbs, we will be traveling with rush hour every morning and evening. we agreed that we cannot do it by train for fear of our personal safety. on sunday we rode the trains to meet our landlord and found ourselves swept off the train by screaming women with rage in their eyes. it's seriously battle royale for a spot getting on and off the train. even on buses, which are less crowded and stop longer, old men pushed me aside feverishly. i'm too slow getting on, i'm too slow stepping off, i'm too slow finding the proper change for taxis. it's like a new york minute, in 2 seconds. a whirlwind of excitement and off you go.
Last night I tried to wash my kortas (long tunics) for work in a huge bucket normally used for showering and using the toilet. they had to be washed with salt water to prevent the dye from running...it was no use. today my white pants are all turquoise from my korta. I even used tide. anyway, that took me almost an hour. I now appreciate washing machines.
I realized today that the 2nd Anniversary of Katrina is upon us soon. My mind is with those of you in NOLA still working towards mending the city. I miss you all.
there's so much more to write but little time. i haven't written more than two pages in my journal so it's all jumbled around in my head. eventually i'll get it down...
Friday 31-Aug-07
Culture shock is wearing off. After a week of field placement I’m becoming acclimated to my surroundings and the lifestyle, if you can call it that. We’ve ventured into neighborhoods that I would never have the opportunity as a tourist to see. Our guides are our co-workers and they
are amazing. These social workers make around 7,000 rupees a month, our rent costs 12,500. I feel so guilty living in a gated tower 16 floors above the tin-roof shacks and blue-tarp covered dwellings that are scattered below.
The slum communities are cramped, wet and filthy. The kids we’ve been working with have less education than most 1st graders in the US and it seems they have more encouragement to be employed than go to school. Dirty faced, barely clothed and fiercely independent they come to balwadi, or dayschool, with little more than an eager mind.
I’ve always been told that education is the key to success. This statement is meaningful here. The disparity between rich and poor is astounding. For a country that boasts the fastest growing economy, it sure doesn’t show in the poorest areas. These poor areas constitute the majority of the city of Mumbai and the city is currently handing out eviction notices to clear valuable land of the slum villages. The children, last in line for care and first to be exploited, are lacking proper hygiene, nutrition, and education. I can see that only with education would they ever be able to get away from the life they lead now in the slums. However, it would take a drastic change in their environment to foster their education and poverty runs wild. Parents with four or five extra mouths to feed need money to do so, in response the children are put to work at a young age and an education moves further down the priority list. Some of them are extremely intelligent, not only formally but they’re street savvy too. After spending a few days with the kids, I was slowly coming out of my cynical cave.
Earlier in the week I squatted in a narrow passage near a home erected from tarps, tin and plastic and shelled some prawns with local women in a “Self Help Group.” Groups of women come together to save rupees, there is a membership fee of around 10Rs. And each moth loans are given out and interest collected. This particular group we met cleaned fish for extra income as their husbands went out to sea catching the daily chore. This model is being followed by numerous NGOs here in the city, including my agency called Family Service Center. According to them, and Arunima, it has become a very successful model for women’s empowerment and a tool for community organizing. I hope to learn more about the groups in the weeks ahead.
Yesterday was by far the most exciting day at the agency. We observed two four-hour sessions of Reproductive Health Information for boys ages 13 and 14 at St. Sebastian School. Two social workers from Family Service Center presented information on HIV/AIDS, sexuality, health, hygiene, child rights and exploitation, and safety. The information was general and basic but I feel like it was pretty radical for India. The social workers corrected me and said that it wasn’t considered radical by today’s Indian standards, but when they started it was pretty wild. I would like to point out that these sessions held yesterday were in a Christian school building. It seemed like the last place you would find Sex Education but the social workers explained that the State has set requirements for reproductive health in all government-sanctioned or government-aided schools. Apparently, the teachers have the materials yet skip the chapters in textbooks or fail to teach the lessons. Sounds familiar. I noted, however, that there was only brief discussion on STD’s, pregnancy or women’s rights. The social workers explained that these topics were discussed in depth in earlier sessions. I also noted that LBGTQ questions from the students were not directly answered and that the topic of sex workers was discussed in a negative tone. Overall, I felt good about what they were doing, even if there was room for improvement. Maybe they will ask for our input, or I will just give it to them for future use. Couldn’t hurt right?
Last night, in the pouring rain, we caught a taxi to our new digs. Our instructions were to "go to the Wadala East Bridge and take a sharp turn to reach Centrum Towers." We had been there a few days prior and were confident we could reach it again. However, that was during the day, and without rain. The driver said "yes, yes, i know the way" so we handed over our bags and our lives and hopped in the little black machine. After an hour, with fogged windows and suffocating air, we arrived at a bridge. Not the right bridge. Everything looks the same but this was definitely not our bridge. Another 45 minutes passes with us driving around aimlessly, calling our flatmate who speaks Swenglish with no luck because we had no clue where we were. Finally the driver pulled over and asked another taxi driver the way. When he returned to the taxi he was grinning and confident. As we U-turned into a crowd of women, children and livestock, I felt like we may actually arrive at our destination. Moments later the towering apartment building comes into view! The three of us cheer, as the driver is completely unaware of our elation. He turns--in the wrong direction. We head away from the towers as Meg yells in muffled Hindi from a sea of luggage and bags. He turns again! We missed our turn a second time. I put my face down into the bag on my lap because the frenzy inside the car, coupled with the frenzy outside the car, was making me dizzy and sick. Finally, I yell "let us out right here!" near the entrance to the road which takes us to the building. With my huge back pack, another smaller pack, one plastic bag of toiletries and a jute bag full of electronics closely strapped to my body, we trek the 200 yards up to the golden gates of our new flat greeted by a security guard, or three...
The nightmares of travel in this country are starting to get to me. If you plan on taking 30 minutes to get somewhere, add an hour because you never know what will happen. The train ride this morning went well and i feel very safe in the "ladies only" compartment. Aside from pushing and shoving to get on and off, the constant stares and fear of theft, there is really nothing to worry about when riding public transportation during the daylight hours. Buses take longer but they are less chaotic. Today we're at the University trying to begin some classwork. I'm experiencing internet withdrawals. The lack of technology is painful.
Okay wow, i really need to get started on some school work. Send email, it's fun!
I think my address is as follows:
161 Centrum Towers
Barkat Ali Road
Wadala (East), Mumbai-400037
Maharasthra, India
02-Sept-20007
We attempted to visit Crawford Market. The significance of the place I am unsure about, but it was definitely overwhelming once there. As we wait for the bus it begins to rain, then pour. Our roadside-purchased umbrellas are no match for this rain and my new white stretch pants, which I was told are so in-style right now, are beginning to be splattered with mud. At least I’m telling myself it was just mud. The rain comes down and washes over dirt, garbage, human and animal waste, food scraps, and whatever else has made its way to the ground then forms a small river that rushes down the bridges and roadways to collect in mini lakes. Bus number 45 comes barreling toward us and screeches to a halt for several seconds. With the “ting” of a bell it is off again with passengers still chasing after. Jumping on a moving vehicle or train is the norm here. So as we cram onto the bus several men jump on, barely making the stairs. We manage to understand the attendant who walks around clicking his paper punch at new riders. Nine rupees to Crawford Market! I’m shocked he had the patience to even look at me...he had a rather dismissive attitude.
Along the way it becomes especially apparent that life is hard here. People are camped out along the roadways under plastic sheeting and tarps. These are Mumbai’s poorest. In the slums there are formidable buildings which people can rely on. Here, on the streets, people live in makeshift tents, vulnerable to the conditions which include rain, vehicle pollution and intruders. We pass naked toddlers, men squatting under tin roofs watching traffic, and women scrambling to remove clothing from drying lines. The children are the most heart wrenching. Naked, hungry, dirty. They have nothing and no one cares. At least from the onset it seems that way. Maybe there are NGOs working to help this population, but how much can each one do? Theses makeshift communities line every street.
Last night we came home around 2am after a night out with Sreesh and Jeevan, some locals guys we met. They are animators at some Crest Studios and saved us from a seedy pub. Anyway, as we are coming home the streets are empty of vehicles. We pass people sleeping outside directly on the hard cement. Whole families on cots without any covering. It’s interesting that they take their shoes off, place them next to their bodies and drift away. When we walked out of the bakery earlier in the night there was a child no more than 8 sleeping on the curb. His hand was laid out into the path of foot traffic. Pedestrians carefully stepped over him and around his outstretched limb.
At that same place I saw another young, dirty child begging for rupees. She saw me and ran over to get some quick change. A boy standing with his middle-class looking family saw her standing next to him and his whole demeanor changed. He stepped away from her and gave a disgusted look in her direction. It was totally heartbreaking. Soon after a security guard serving as doorman of the bakery shooed her away like an animal.
02 Sept. 2007
I just ate lunch with my crazy Indian family. They have more books than some small libraries. I’m pretty sure they are the smartest people I’ve met in quite a while. you can see the sea from their 16th floor balcony along with ships and elephanta island. at night they say the twinkling lights in the oil fields look like a fairy tale. The breeze smells like lavender and there is quiet sitar music flowing from the next room. Mr. Kahn let me hook up to their wireless for a moment so he could compare our Macs. I think I’m going to learn a lot from him. He was a journalist and knows Mumbai inside out. They have stacks of magazines. We read them at night. This is crazy.
The Kahns are probably considered upper-middle class. Mr. Kahn is either a lawyer or a journalist, I can’t decipher the answer everytime I ask the question. Judging by the massive amount of books in their neighboring flat, I’d say writer. Either way, they live a comfortable life. Their daughter studied at Colombia and is a journalist currently writing about women’s empowerment in India. A real liberal woman. Her daughter Imani is spoiled rotten...well almost rotten. She comes nearly nightly to tell us good night or to just catch a glimpse of what we’re doing. Most times she runs away when we catch her staring at us. But when her grandmother yells for her, she tells her to “wait just one minute, I’m not finished” and defiantly goes about her business of telling us about her upcoming swim classes at the complex pool.
Mrs. Kahn is driving us crazy with her rules and recommendations. When we arrive home in the evenings, she’s usually in our flat with someone, her daughter, a delivery person, herself. It is her apartment but she also rented it to us and I thought that would mean we had a little privacy. She insists we empty the dustbins every morning whether they have trash or not. I think she comes in and rearranges things when we’re gone. The room looks different every afternoon and my things are sometimes not where I left them in the morning. We’re throwing her orderly, scheduled life out of alignment. I love it. I don’t take to authority or pushy intruders very well and this lady is giving me a run for my money.
07 Sept 2007
While walking to the train station this morning I saw the most disturbing sight yet since coming to India. Along the way we approached a man squatted on the ground at the top of the crossover to the train. Indistinct yelling could be heard through the shuffling of the morning commuters. As I got closer I could hear screaming and crying. Then I looked directly at him as he rocked back and forth. There was blood splattered around his feet, which were partially tucked below him. One hand was outstretched, containing several rupee coins. The other hand was below him with his elbow propped on his bent knee. His entire elbow was a gaping wound, infected and oozing. The smell of him hit me like wild Indian taxi. Commuters walked by, ignoring his cries, and I couldn’t help feeling completely overwhelmed with helplessness as I rode the wave of pedestrians to the waiting train. It’s now 9.30pm and I still can’t rid my mind of the sight. As I processed the moment later, I realized that what overwhelmed me was the all too familiarity of ignoring someone in need. In the West, America specifically, society has conditioned us to disregard this population. I guess I naively thought I had escaped.
On a lighter note, Sreesh has invited me to an evening coffee meet-up. I’m not sure if my roommates will accept me going alone so I may end up canceling. He’s attractive, South Indian and full of life. His abstinence from alcohol, and possibly food judging from his small limbs, is impressive. He says it’s because he’s into yoga that he doesn’t drink, but I’m sure he’s covering a previous life of blissful intoxication. I’m also sure he’s looking for a little foreigner fling while he’s here wasting time before the next move he’ll inevitably make. That makes two of us so we’ll see how things heat up. If his arm around me on the second night is any indicator, I may have secured a night caller.
09 Sept 2007
This weekend we went to the eco-sensitive city of Matheran! A bunch of folks along the way have suggested we go up there so I looked it up and made plans. We left early Saturday morning to catch the train to Victoria Terminus, then to Nerul junction. After a ticket confusion with the Neral stop, we were on our way. The ride up took about two hours but it was beautiful to see the city thinning out and the hillsides clearer. We arrived at Nerul junction and found a Dutchman, Alex, to share taxi-van since the toy train was still out of commission. Apparently it hasn’t been working due to track damage following the 2005 monsoons. The taxi sped us further up the hillside on a winding road to the point where cars are left behind and horses and foot become the mode of transport. We decided to forego the horses and human powered rickshaws and walked the 4 kilometers to Matharan. The soil up there is completely red causing streams of rust colored water to trickle down the rock face. Our feet started to turn orange, much like the henna we had on our hands. As we walk, there are monkeys everywhere! Meg gets robbed of her trail map. They are merciless attackers.
We had the names of a few places to stay but Johanna forgot the Lonely Planet. Alex didn’t have reservations either so we all decided upon Hope Hall Hotel. The place seemed pretty cool. It had mosaic-lined footpaths and stairs, and the office lady was welcoming and told us some funny stories about past visitors. The room had meager accommodations but at only 512 rupees we took it. Alex got his own room for about 300. Finding food was easy at Royal Restaurant nearby. Then we set out to find Sunset Point.
The view from the point was spectacular. One side had waterfalls down open rock formations. From the other side it seemed you could see back to Bombay. Amazing! We made grass necklaces, bracelets and figurines then took a nap on a rock that jutted out from the side of the hill. It felt like sleeping on air.
After our nap, we headed back to the hotel to half-ass clean up and find dinner. The Spice Lounge back in town had good food and hookahs! We had an apricot smoke and hung out for a while, when Alex arrived with some other foreigners who checked into our hotel moments after us.
Around 11pm, we headed back to good old Hope Hall. It was then that we realized the beds were pretty disgusting and the pillows were mold covered. There were questionable blankets and the Indian-style toilet stall smelled so bad that we had to barricade the door to keep it contained. We woke up in the morning to a dog barking for about two hours right outside our room. Most of us were congested, tired and cold. In the middle of the night I dug out my “next day clothes” and used a shirt as a blanket and a tank top to cover my feet. Johanna was huddled under her bug net and Elizabeth had put her jeans half on to keep warm. Needless to say, no one took a bath in the bucket of freezing water.
We spent the rest of the day trekking around to several other look-out points which were absolutely incredible. Really breathtaking views of untouched, lush green land for miles. The whole place used to be a British vacation spot and there are signs along the trails that tell you it must have been the upper crust that hung out here. There are sprawling estates and abandoned mansions, all European architecture. And to get all of the materials up to these estates, it had to be carted by horse or human along narrow, rocky hillside trails of red stone. On our way out we witnessed the capabilities of the residents as young men pushed carts loaded with bricks up the hill trails. They even pushed with their heads, grunting and yelling all the way up.
Now we’re back at our flat, in comfy beds with orange feet listening to the city carry on below.
