death and suffering

I’m not what you’d call pro-violence. I stopped eating meat several years ago, and, while I’ve shot guns before, it’s not something I really jump at the chance to do. I don’t like watching movies with violence. I tend to spend most of them with my ears stopped up (to avoid the crunching and gushing) and my eyes closed. I even started to avoid killing insects due to my college roommate’s influence (she used to name spiders), but that all stopped when I moved here. You deal with a different kind of creature here. Cockroaches that sit on your dish sponge, then crawl up your arm. But, I would take a sink full of cockroaches over my newest nemesis. The mosquito.

I honestly think they’re mutated here. They have an almost human like intelligence. It’s uncanny. I’ve started reserving 15 minutes before bed to kill them all. I ruffle my curtains, search the ceiling, anything to scare them out. Recently, I started (now I’m not proud of this) blowing over every surface of my room. It’s almost impossible to get them to move otherwise. They hide in these cut out flowers my sister sent me. Little bastards.

It should be a reality t.v. show. Sleeping with mosquitoes makes you a bit of a crazy person. It does something to you. That spider naming friend, Laura, visited recently and went on her own rampage in the middle of the night. I have hit myself so many times in the head, I’m surprised I haven’t had a black eye or bruise. I am like a demented cannibal at night. My eyes roll in my head (usually from exhaustion, sometimes from rage), and I pace around my room, jump off my bed, shake everything I can move. Nothing works. They only come out when it’s dark. They literally won’t move a muscle before then. As soon as the deep sleep is just about upon me, “Bzzz” past my ear, then behind my head, then to the wall on the left. It stops the moment I flip the light on and stagger around my room, thirsty for blood.

I sit on my bed, pleading with God to let me kill it. Pleading for him to make it move or just have it drop dead. (In case you’re wondering, that was my night last night from 4:20 am to 5:45 am). At around 5:30, I looked at myself in the mirror. My left eye was entirely bloodshot from where I scratched it trying to smack a mutant mosquito off my face, and I thought, “God, please. Is this some kind of trial meant to make me stronger?”

Anyway, this whole mutant mosquito issue has really shocked me. I didn’t know I could be so violent. How much I could relish crushing a bug with my bare hands. One friend has an electric racquet that he uses to kill the mosquitoes. I put up a front of thinking it was a bit cruel, but I think I would have sold my first child for one of those racquets last night.

just do it.

While there are obviously many responses to poverty, I think I’m learning that, for me, what I really need, is just to respond. I was walking to work this morning, thinking about being five minutes late, when I noticed something really unexpected but beautiful. At least ten of the street dogs near my office were wearing vests. Little doggy vests. Apparently, someone went around and put vests on the dogs to help keep them warm at night. (You might not expect it, but it gets really cold here at night)

Now, this might not seem like much, but it felt like a glimmer of hope to me. A glimpse of what I’m called to do. I can’t change the realities for the millions of people living in poverty here, but I can respond in small ways to the immediate needs around me. There are thousands of street dogs in this city, freezing in the cold each night, so for most of them, those vests meant very little, but for the ten wearing them, it was a random, undeserved act of kindness. One that probably made all the difference.

It doesn’t make things less complicated or unfair, but I feel like I have an idea of the next right step. I just have to move forward and do something, however small and inconsequential.

frivolities

I am struggling to fall asleep tonight. I finished that last post, shut down my computer, and settled into bed. But all I can hear are the sharp barks and cries of street dogs fighting. I tried to focus on the gradual shift of mucous from one side of my face to the other (the joy of allergies), but that inability to fall asleep gave me too much time to think.

I started to think about the little kids I know that sleep on the street. I hoped that they were safely away from the fighting dogs. Not likely. Safely away from biting rats. Not likely. Safely away from racing cars, groping hands, pain-numbing drugs, empty stomachs. Not likely. I pulled my blankets up around my head because the nights get cold here. I wondered if that family has enough blankets. Not likely. What am I doing here? What am I doing with my lap top computer, wireless internet, a closet full of clothes, and at least 6 bags solely designed to carry things?

Sometimes, I can convince myself that I can and should have all of these things, all this money, and it not really matter as long as I realize that they ultimately belong to God. I tell myself that having nice things is good. There’s nothing wrong with it. And it’s true. I can’t really even find an argument for it’s rightness or wrongness. All I know, is that tonight, with the street dogs barking outside, there are few things more irrelevant in the world than the bulk of my possessions. What makes me different? Why am I entitled to this life of protected luxury and those sweet children relegated to sorting through my trash? I have no rights. No predestination to comfort. There is something remarkably wrong with this picture. I’m not saying I’m throwing my computer out tomorrow. Although, that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t, I just don’t want to. I’m only sharing with you my thought process tonight.

I shouldn’t be shocked that the sweet puppies I see snuggling on the side walks grow up to be the snarling dogs I hear outside. I shouldn’t be surprised that begging children carrying drugged babies might become exploiters to the next generation. These children barely stand a chance. If they survive childhood, in all likelihood, the life waiting for them is only filled with more toil and struggle. What would I do? I would probably sniff the first glue-soaked rag I could get my hands on. Just forget. Just dull the reality, and it becomes doable. I’ve never known this desire. My reality, my experiences, are almost always savored. It’s not that we’re called to destitution, but neither are they. So, something must change. Something has to be different.

I walked past that family tonight. The little girl (I confess, she’s my favorite) was standing on the sidewalk, watching her mom cook. I stopped to chat for a moment, and the mom just said, “Bhat korechi” (making rice). I laughed and said, “Yeah, me too, I’m going to make dinner at my house” in an effort to connect with them. She motioned with her head to the tall white buildings behind her and said, “Your house is there? In a building?” “Yes. In a building.”

List Maker

I never thought I was one of those people, but I am. I make lists after I complete the tasks, just for the satisfaction of checking them off. It’s a little pathetic, but I prefer to think of it as thorough. But, seriously, I have become a bit of a manic list maker. Maybe living in a city that feels like it is perpetually in a state of chaos makes me want to maintain as much stability in my little world as possible.

I’m making grocery lists, to do lists, to get rid of lists, to think about lists, blogs to write (this is actually not one of them), and countless others. I start to get this little panicky feeling in my stomach from time to time, but a good list making session settles that right up. I secretly think it’s an overcompensation for my lack of organization. My lack of overall dedication to the cause of life.  (I feel like I have to make some excuse for failing completely in my only New Year’s resolution ever, to write more.)

Tomorrow, I start a new week. And soon a new month. I have been here for over six months already, which is almost impossible to believe. Life races forward, as it always has. There are, and always will be, endless opportunities to start over, to begin anew. My Christmas break felt like a fresh start. I was reminded again of why I was so grateful to be here, so conscious of how fortunate I am. I think somehow I started to believe I was making some great sacrifice by living here. I’m not. I just had an amazing lunch of curried chickpeas and paratha for 20 cents. I am daily bombarded by sights, sounds, and smells you cannot (and may not want to) encounter anywhere else. Here’s this week’s list of to do’s/goals: 1. yoga on the roof at least once 2. barbecue on the roof with friends in honor of Australia Day 3. write 1 letter a day 4. watercolor once 5. start a new book 6. explore alone 7. cook Indian food

Resolution

I am resolved this year. I am determined to completely alter my personality, transform my daily habits, and overhaul my chocolate consumption. It is a crusade, and I will succeed. Just to show you how bad things have gotten, I just wrote an Ode to Chicken Rolls as a blog post. I’m considering posting it, but feel it betrays, between pathetic attempts at poetry, the truth. Food rules my life here. It is the comfort you look to. But here is my true resolution. I want to write once a week here. It might be as bad as an ode to chicken rolls, but I want to force myself to process and write because that is how I learn and figure out what is on my mind. For instance, tonight, my mind is on living well here. Choosing to be the person and do the things I want to be and do someday, when I feel like I’ll be able to, now. Good luck to me.

The ugly truth

There are many, many things that I love about living in other countries, but I think one of my favorites about this particular city is how people tell you exactly what they think. People speak the truth, and they mean it with the best intentions. I honestly love it. So, the following is shared with great amusement and without tears, I promise. Please, do not feel like you have to contradict anything. Say it with me, “It’s just different here.” I feel quite free to laugh at this, so you should too.

Day one of Dian being here, I took her shopping for kurtas. I should clarify for those of you that don’t know her, that Dian is pocket sized. She is almost a head shorter than I am and quite petite. (Reminder if it’s been awhile since you’ve seen me, I am not petite.) We walked into the store and started looking through the extra small section (consider that your foreshadowing). I held up a top for her, and a salesperson came over and said, “Oh, ma’am, that is not for you, is it?! Your size is over here!” Even as I write this, I am shaking my head in bewilderment. Is this part of their training?

A few weeks later, I was in a bit of a mood and felt like shopping, so I went into some of the nicer boutique stores to try on clothes that I could never afford. I found a really cute top and decided to try it. I took it to the back, and the woman there put it in the room for me and said, “Don’t worry, ma’am. This should fit you. It is a large size.” Cue thought bubble: “Wow, thank you. I was in a near panic over that.” I wanted so badly for it to fit me like a glove and then to not buy it because I didn’t like it, but sadly, she was wrong. I should have worried. It didn’t fit.

A few weeks after that (as in a week ago), I was waiting for some friends and wandered into a store and started looking at a jacket. Yes, I know where I am, but I was bored, and I’m going to be in cold weather soon. Anyway, I picked up the jacket (size L) and sort of pondered the possibility of trying it on when I heard a soothing voice next to me, “If you like this, ma’am, I can try to see if we can find your size.” It really is salesmanship at its best.

I feel it in my fingers

You missed it. The official start to the holiday season. Last night it was decided. Last night it became official. Not the snow. Not the decorations and music. It’s the programs. The holidays are here because only during this season do you find pageantry like I experienced last night. Like I created last night. Yes, my friends, I was in an interpretive dance.

I was cornered after church yesterday and told that one of the dancers couldn’t make the performance that night because of work and they needed me to stand in. (I later realized this wasn’t exactly a true statement, but the pastor had just preached on leaving our safe harbors, so…) Thankfully, I picked up the dance pretty quickly, otherwise I might have been cut. When you’re using a Jaci Valasquez song, it helps to guess what’s coming next. But no one could have guessed what was coming. Not in your wildest dreams would you have imagined the poignancy of the final notes. Friends, I formed a cross with another dancer. I did. If you’re devastated that you missed it, as you should obviously be, do not fear. I have it on video. It will be coming soon if I can figure out how to upload it. But I was not alone last night. There were carols and dances and one particular solo that stood out because the accompaniment sounded like it was practicing a completely different song (for the first time). I love Christmas. 

Yet even apart from the carols, there are a few things about life here that announce the Christmas season. My heart lurches in my chest when I walk under the petrol pump lights because the swarming bugs looked like fluttering snow flakes. It is a short lived fantasy, but those brief moments bring just enough hope that I could sip a cup of hot chocolate on my sunny roof. Then, of course, there is the almost constant shopping frenzy here because of the number of people. It’s like Black Friday every day. Also, you can be fairly sure (or hopeful) that Christmas is around the corner when there is an unnaturally frequent mention of virgin wombs. I would be one to say any mention is unnatural, but singing about them sort of takes it to a whole new level, as does singing praise to little 6 pound baby Jesus.

Well, I’m sure you’ve felt the change in the weather there, watching the leaves fall, and sipping hot apple cidar. But the weather is still in the high 70s here, and, like I’ve mentioned, everyone walks around prepared for the blizzard of ‘68. Apparently it’s noticeable that I wear the same clothes as I did in July because my guards asked me about it last night, and I said, “For me, it is still very hot.” They said, “Yes, you have water on your face.”

First of all, I was not sweating.  I just looked at them in the universal language of, “Excuse me?”, and they all started laughing. The guards have been getting a little cheeky lately. They’ve started saying, “Bhalo achi” before I even ask them how they are. But they laugh at me, which is really all I care about. I’m here for the laughs, and it is the holiday season. It’s December even if I’m rocking my Birkenstock sandals rather than my clogs and even if I work up a sweat brushing my teeth, and the only sledding I get is slipping on the dusty floor.

a taste of grace

The Lord is faithful. In so many ways. He comes through when you least expect it, and often not when you think you need it most. One of the drivers in our office told me the light was back in my face after a long time, and I have to admit, I felt like myself today for the first time in several weeks. And I can pretty much pin point it to puffy eyes.

I woke up this morning with puffy eyes. It’s happened a couple of times in the last few days, and I don’t know whether to attribute it to sleeping heavily or dry air or what. Anyway, I woke up with a puffy left eye that didn’t show signs of diminishing. It wouldn’t have been an issue since it was only noticeable to me when I smiled and it obscured my vision. Too much smiling isn’t typically a risk for me in the morning, but today was a rare day. We sang a Christmas carol during devotions, which would obviously make any sane person smile. So, as a sane person, I started singing the song and immediately began to smile. Unfortunately, my puffy eye lids distorted my vision so I could no longer read, which made my eyes start to water, which made me laugh, which further blocked my vision and exacerbated the eye watering scenario. For some reason, while it sounds physically uncomfortable, and my eyes are watering just remembering it, it was actually a really wonderful way to start a Monday. Laughing.

The senseless of that joy and the randomness of that moment trailed me for the day. Every few hours, it seemed to tug on my heart. I smiled on the bus for the first time in awhile. I’ve gotten into the habit of wearing my, “Mess with me, and you’ll wish you’d never been born” face all the time, not just when walking past men. But today was different. Without any conscious effort, I started smiling at the women. Some of them looked at me with only thinly veiled suspicion, while others turned their heads quickly, but not enough that I didn’t see the smiles pulling at the edges of their mouths. Every once in awhile, one of them will look back with a smile that says we’re understanding one another. This usually happens when we make eye contact after a particularly buxom (wonderful word) woman has knocked me over in an effort to grab a railing.

Have I mentioned how much I love the women here? Sometimes I get frustrated by how aggressive they are. I haven’t been boxed out like this since junior high basket ball, but usually there is a soft beauty that you can see lying just beneath the surface. You see it as they look out the window or talk to their child, or maybe when you smile at them and catch them off guard. I know life isn’t easy for them. I know that I’m naive and privileged to a nauseating degree to many of them, but every once in awhile I get this sense that if we sat down over some chai and chatted, we could laugh until we cried.

not for mothers (most specifically, mine)

It’s truly an adventure every time I step out of my door. Just the other day, I walked to a coffee shop down the street and documented my meandering with photographs (to be posted later), and it was such a beautiful experience to just look and see the little street that I live on.

But, not every experience on the roads here is sweet and beautiful. Some are quite terrifying.

During that trip I mentioned in my previous post, to some far off lands up north, we drove on some interesting roads. Pavement ends, gravel (if you’re lucky) begins. Single lane traffic. Headlights viewed as optional (or merely as a signaling tool). Small children scurrying across the road. Herds lumbering along.

As a signal, the headlights’ code could be broken down as follows: 1 flash: Hi, I’m here.  2 flashes: You are on my side of the road. Multiple flashes: I realize I’m on your side of the road, but just slow down a little so I can pass this oxen drawn cart with the seven families on it plus the six bicycles in front of it that I won’t see until I’m directly on top of them. Multiple flashes and horn: Hell, no, get back on your side of the road. It differs…day light, rain, presence of herds of animals, and a median change the meanings, but generally, you can follow the above as a rule if you ever try to drive here.

Anyway, during our trip, we bought a few permanently borrowed dvds (everyone does it), but we ended up not even getting our 35 rupees worth. There were five Bollywood movies, and all might have possibly been recorded while sitting in a movie theatre.  The one we chose to watch was 16 minutes in length. Quite possibly the most intense preview I have ever seen. At one point, it cut from a song and dance routine to a woman weeping. We thought the recorder had slipped into a different movie after being caught recording for the 5th time. So, I’m clearly absorbed in this compelling film, yet still strangely distracted by what’s going on ahead. Headlights flashing. Still flashing. Horn comes, and we slip in just in time. My heart was racing the whole time.

I would nominate driving here, especially at night, as an olympic sport. It takes muscle coordination, performing at top capacity under extreme circumstances, and considerable skills and training. I have never been so happy to see a median in my life as I was after riding in the car for 14 hours. Not that a median is any guarantee of traffic direction in your lane, but it helps to lessen the abrupt presence of oncoming traffic at any given moment. There are still giant holes in the pavement where, during the day, men had set about to repair a water line and simply hadn’t finished it, or finished it with a large bump in the middle of the road.

But the point of all of this is that the driving here, apart from being a fantastic olympic sport, would be an amazing Mario Kart course. I think about it every time I’m on the road. I don’t want to brag, but I’m really good at Mario Kart. (Even though I just spelled it Maria Cart, and couldn’t figure out why it looked wrong). Rainbow World has nothing on this. No amount of red shells or bananas or ticking bombs on wheels or lightning bolts could have prepared me for driving here. Instead of bananas, you have napping dogs. Instead of ticking bombs, you have massive, blundering bovine. Instead of red shells, you have children haphazardly trying to ride bicycles on a dark street. It is crazy, but it’s the world I’m in.

I am pine.

I recently went on an overnight trip with my supervisor and another intern, Brendan, who served as our bodyguard. Although, I have to say, he didn’t do a very good job. I still managed to get mobbed by a group of 5 year old boys. We were wandering around, trying to be as inconspicuous as two white foreigners can be in a town seven hours from a big city, but, shockingly, they found us. The little punk kids always find you. I spotted them down the lane. Or really, I heard them. They were shouting, “What your name?”. We slowly walked down closer to them, laughed, and walked back. One of the older ones, emboldened by his recent brush with death-by-contact-with-foreigner, jumped through a bicycle and the others followed close behind.

I meant to say through. Little kids ride adult sized bikes one of three ways. 1. They stand on one side and use it like a skooter. 2. They sit on the bar rather than the seat. 3. But this kid was in a class of his own. He stuck his leg below the support bar, through to the other side, balanced his weight, and rode the bike. He would actually pedal. I have no idea how he did it. His obvious efforts to impress succeeded completely. One of the littlest ones ran behind trying to poke a stick in the back wheel. Classic boy. If you can’t do it, make the other guy mess up. It makes me smile to know that kids are the same everywhere.

So they rode up to us, and made sure to stop a safe distance away. I greeted them, and they all giggled like little five year old boys do, except the cheeky one with the stick. He just lifted his eye brows. Now, my friend Brendan contends that there is no difference between an eye brow lifted in greeting and an eye brow lifted in invitation. I beg to differ. Either way, this kid was not greeting, let’s just say that. I laughed out loud because it was so unexpected. How does a five year old learn to do that? He was instantly my favorite.

We went back and forth asking “What your name?” to each other, then they got spooked and ran back to the other end of the street to tell everyone about how they were almost eaten alive by the strange white woman. We followed them a few minutes later and were again bombarded by, “What your name?”. I decided they needed to learn some other English phrases, so I taught them, “How are you?” and “I am fine.” Brendan and I demonstrated the interchange, but every time I would ask them, “How are you?” they would just repeat it back. Then I’d say, “I am fine” and they would say in unison, “I am pine.” After awhile a few of them got the hang of it, so we walked down the street like the pied piper with a herd of five year olds behind us shouting, “How are you?” “I am pine!”. What a fun world.