So when I say "burkha," you all must picture the long black robe-like garment and hijab head covering some women wear which is ubiquitous with much of the Islamic world. And I assume (and excuse me if I'm wrong) that most of you think of it as being an oppressive garment which husbands or fathers force their wives and daughters to wear. Now what would you say if I told you that a young,educated, modern 23 year old American woman living and working in Hyderabad went out one day and bought a burkha and now happily wears it around to run errands and go to work?
Growing up in America and especially after 9/11, the idea of donning a burkha never would have crossed my mind. In fact, I was taught that much more than a garment, it was a symbol of oppression and that any woman wearing it was a victim of her culture. Of course, as I grew up and attended some more liberal-thinking schools, I began to realize that some women do choose to wear the burkha of their own accord and for various reasons. But still, it would never be for me. That was for those other women, who call God by the name of Allah and who are still considered subordinate to men in many ways.
But now listen to this story. Said young American woman works in a majority Muslim school in a majority Muslim area of the city where most women do wear burkhas. She is used to getting stares by men and women alike in the neighborhood but that still doesn't mean it is any less annoying. One day, this girl was in an autorickshaw with her friends, in the early evening, in the "western" area of Hyderabad, going out to dinner. So these girls were dressed up a bit, in jeans and nice t-shirts. Two Indian men on a motorcycle were alternately following alongside of the auto and behind it, hassling the girls a little. Then one of the men reached into the auto and grabbed this woman before speeding off. That was enough for her. The next day on her way home from school she bought the cheapest burkha she could find which just so happened to be blinged out a bit. And she saw the city from a new side.
The first thing she noticed was that it was really hot under there. Although the fabric was light, the black color didn't exactly deflect the sunlight. Also, her peripheral vision had all but disappeared with the head covering. Yet at the same time, no one stared at her and in fact, for the first time since coming to India, she was basically ignored. Luckily she has brown eyes and so is indistinguishable as a foreigner. She also got auto drivers to agree to take her anywhere in the city at the price of a meter which doesn't usually happen to any of us. And most importantly she felt more secure and comfortable throughout the day and even at night where she could travel alone well past the time when most of us can. She's even received numerous compliments from Indians, both Muslim and non-Muslim, for her new covering.
So, before you judge, consider. Unfortunately, I know that most of you, dear readers, are worldly and well aware of the complexity of the issue surrounding such a simple garment. The people who really should read this won't. In my friend's case (and no I wasn't talking about me), wearing the burkha is definitely a personal choice and one that has made her life easier and more comfortable. Exactly the opposite of what most of us would expect. If it wasn't for my low heat tolerance I definitely would have worn the burkha by now and it's still on my to-do-before-I-leave-India list. With that I leave you with a hope, a hope that we just start treating the burkha as what it is - an item of clothing. This is not to say there are not instances where it is misused as a tool for oppression and I do think a woman should have a choice if she wears it or not. But let's not demonize those who do. Who knows, she may even be someone you know.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
The Road More Traveled Part 2
When I last left you, we were on our way to Varkala, along the Arabian Sea , for some serious beach time. I had been recommended to visit the place by a friend but I had no idea what was in store for me. Varkala Beach at least, where all the tourists go and you’d be hard pressed to spot any Indians, is a beautiful clifftop town, with restaurants, shops and cafes lining a paved walkway along the deep drop to the sandy beach and ocean below.
Of course, I felt scandalized as soon as we arrived to the town, feeling like a young girl as I gawked at all the foreigners. I mean, women were walking around in their swimsuits and wearing revealing dresses and skirts I hadn’t seen since college. And they were in INDIA and doing so! Geez, have some respect, I thought. Once I got over my initial shock and we had settled into our “bamboo hut” lodgings, I did my own bit of rebelling by changing into shorts and a tank top, things I didn’t think I would be able to wear until next July.
My friend and I walked along in the sun, happy to feel the ocean breezes buffeting us on the cliff and being able to stretch our legs after so much driving in the last few days. We stopped at a restaurant almost completely packed with Caucasians, most of whom I discovered were Russian, German or Scandanavian, and were drinking beers with their lunch. I had another “where am I?” moment before settling in to order a sandwich that had real, honest to goodness, avocado in it. Delicious. Before dinner we went down to the beach and walked some more. As we got further from the town along the water, we finally started seeing large groups of Indians on holiday themselves. I had wondered where they all were. Then it was time for a seafood dinner with prawns, calamari and white fish. I felt like I was in paradise and continued to feel that way after waking up to the roar of the ocean water.
We ended up taking a cooking class at our hotel where I have to say, we made some pretty delicious Aloo Gobi, Chicken Tikka, Eggplant Bajii, Biryani and Chappathi. The thing about cooking here though and trying to write down the recipes was that there really aren’t exact measurements and fresh spices of all kinds are way easier and cheaper to find here than at home. I do have to admit that I committed a cardinal post-lunch sin by immediately going down to the ocean to swim but the water was calling to me. There is nothing like warm, salty waves to make a person forget the stresses of life. And some after dinner shopping and early morning yoga before leaving Varkala definitely didn’t hurt any.
This particular morning, I had decided to go swimming again before having to catch a ride to Trivandrum. While I was at the beach, I was constantly disturbed by the whistles of lifeguards any time an Indian man approached the sunbathing foreigners with his mobile phone camera out. “Good,” I thought. But then it started to seem they were blowing their whistles at all Indians who were on the beach, or, God forbid, swimming in the water. After this happened a few times, I marched up to a lifeguard. There was no way I was swimming at a segregated beach. “Oh no Madam, Indians are allowed but it is only a family beach, no bachelors.” To be fair I had seen them only turn away single Indian men or groups who were swimming and I saw a woman and her child walk by undisturbed. But then why were bachelor foreigner men allowed on the beach as well? Needless to say, I didn’t quite appreciate his explanation.
Our final Keralan afternoon was in Trivandrum, almost on the southern most tip of the subcontinent as we awaited our flight to Delhi. Trivandrum was pleasant, with actual sidewalks, palm trees and old British colonial buildings everywhere. We visited a royal museum and a beautiful temple before crashing early an the hotel to prepare our 6 AM flight. I was definitely getting tired of those early mornings and little did I know that the majority of the next day would be spent travelling as our flight to Delhi via Bangalore was diverted to Chennai due to fog in Bangalore. Landing and departing 3 times on the same plane is no fun and for perhaps the first and last time, I was relieved to have reached Delhi by the afternoon.
In an earlier blog, I spoke of my dislike for Delhi and I must admit, not much has changed, not even in this trip. My memories of Delhi will always be filled with brown, derelict-looking buildings, trash, crowds, and an awful smell that I can’t put my finger on but would make me nauseous every time we walked around. I know this may make me sound like a snob but I can’t help it. Anyway, both of us being crammed into a metro on our way to visit the Red Fort and Old Delhi and having our butts groped at least 2-3 times didn’t make me feel any better about the city. I think the biggest thing about Delhi is that as foreigners, everyone hassles us in the crowded areas. And since English is more widely spoken here, you can’t really escape. Delhi just doesn’t feel safe to me in the same way that most everywhere else I’ve visited here does.
We were disappointed to discover many of the monuments closed in preparation for big Republic Day celebrations which our flights to our respective homes ensured we just barely missed. Whoops. But we still got to see some really cool things like Hanuman’s Tomb which the Taj Mahal was based on and houses the grave of a Mughal Emperor. And on the plus side, our hotel was really nice and a cozy shelter from the freezing cold outside as temperatures dropped into the 40s at night. A big change from Hyderabad, that’s for sure.
Luckily we only had about 24 hours in Delhi before catching our train to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. At this point, I realized I should stop hating Delhi and being up north again because I would be one of the lucky few people who would get to see the Taj Mahal not once, but twice. And it definitely didn’t disappoint. While it was a lot colder at this sunrise, the dappled winter sunlight also gave it a more monumental feel and we spent several hours wandering amongst the garden and the Taj itself. It really is a convergence place of sorts, with Tibetan monks, Japanese tourists, western Europeans and every Indian imagineable all coming to marvel at what I still consider the most beautiful building in the world.
All too soon, it was time to head back to Delhi to fly home. I couldn’t believe how quickly the time had passed and I was sad to say goodbye to my friend. In all honesty, travelling here is what keeps me sane because it reminds me how absolutely incredible and diverse this country is and how lucky I am to be here. At the same time, I am always a bit bothered by my inability to appreciate these amazing places at the time I am there- instead I tend to realize only after the fact what I have been privileged enough to see. But being with my friend also reminded me that I am leaving in three short months. And while I do feel ready to leave and I do think it is time, I am starting to get those pangs of nostalgia already for my experiences here, both the good and the bad, and I am sure they will just continue to get worse. So here’s to the next few months, the next trip and all upcoming adventures! I hope you’ll keep reading about them…
Thursday, January 26, 2012
A Road Much More Traveled Part 1
I know it's been a while since I've posted, but for good reason. While you all were wondering why I wasn't writing in my blog, I was off galivanting around the country yet again. One of my good friends came to visit for two weeks and we decided it was time to go and check out Kerala, one of the most scenic states in India, before heading back up to Delhi and Agra so she could see the Taj. As always, traveling here is anything but simple and I've come to be in awe of the people I meet who backpack around the country for months at a time.
First we spent a few days in Hyderabad which meant that I finally got to see all of the sights that the city has to offer. Who knew the massive Golconda Fort or the famous white marble Birla Mandir Hindu temple could be so beautiful. Unfortunately, I was a bit under the weather and concerned I wouldn't be in traveling shape but trying to keep to early nights seemed to do the trick and by Sunday, I was ready to fly off to Kochi, in the heart of what Indians call "God's Own Country" in Kerala. (A note here: this has to be one of the most ironic names ever because the local state government in Kerala is and has been communist for many years).
Kochi is along the Arabian Sea and is famous for its fishing community, in particular, the Chinese fishing nets that many locals use not only to catch fish but also to generate some side income from letting tourists take pictures with them. It was a bit shocking to see so many foreigners on the narrow, brightly colored streets of downtown Kochi and in our hostel. I mean, Hyderabad hardly has any tourists in comparison to many other places in India, so it was a big surprise. But it was also a bit fun to haggle with the touts trying to sell me things and see how taken aback they were by my bargaining and Hinglish, realizing I wasn't just a tourist. Although that didn't mean we weren't hassled plenty.
Our one night in Kochi was spent eating delicious Keralan seafood curry and planning the rest of our trip details in a funky art cafe. I felt worlds away from Hyderabad and the stress involved in living there, although the stress of setting off into the unknown was definitely still present. In fact, the next morning we were supposed to be picked up by a taxi driver to take us to the hill town of Munnar and for some reason, I had a bad feeling something would go wrong.
Sure enough, as the scheduled time to be picked up loomed, I hadn't heard anything from the driver. I finally called him and he politely informed me that he was waiting for us. I said there was no way he could be waiting for us as I was standing in the street outside of our hostel and there was literally no traffic around. "Yes Madam, I am waiting. What time was your flight?" Suddenly, I realized he was at the arrivals gate at the airport, a full hour away from our hostel where I had told the taxi company to send the driver. So, like all good Indian businesses, the taxi company just sent us another driver who was nearby and had no idea he would be our driver for the next five days as the company apparently didn't give him ANY details as to our itinerary. Luckily for us, although Bose lacked many English skills beyond "Madam" and "thank you," he turned out to be a gem of a driver, but more on that later.
We finally set off for Munnar, a former hill station of the British Raj and the seat of tea production in Kerala. We left the lush tropical lowlands of the state and climbed a winding mountain road through beautiful green hills and small, bright villages. As we drove up the Western Ghats and the fresh air streamed into the window, I was reminded again of how much I missed being outdoors in nature. As an Oregonian, being surrounded by green is basically a prerequisite for living and Hyderabad is definitely not green.
Four hours later, we reached Munnar and our hotel which had stunning views over the neatly rowed, bright green tea fields and into the valley below. Plus, we even had a real shower (and by real I mean the shower head was physically separate from the rest of the bathroom) with hot water, a necessity as the temperature at that elevation dropped into the 40s. We spent our day in Munnar touring a tea factory and of course sampling said tea, wandering around the small town that reminded me of a trekking outpost, buying tea, and driving up to "Top Station," the highest point of the area with stunning views of impossibly green and steep mountains dropping into the fog below. And for once, my sweating was at a minimal due to the perfect temperature. Too much information I'm sure but when you live in India, a day without breaking a sweat is special indeed.
The true highlight though had to be the "bonfire" our hotel hosted on the rooftop. And by highlight, I mean funniest and strangely cute thing I'd seen in a while. First off, our bonfire was a small fire surrounded by stobe lights and rejected 90s music that reminded me of childhood Friday nights spent at the roller skating rink. But the true icing on the cake was the older man who was convulsing around, in some imitation of a dance, to the song "Barbie Girl." I had to admire his self-confidence as he imitated a penguin and I can only hope I will do the same when I am in my late 60s.
Unfortunately, it was also at this bonfire that my friend and I discovered we had a problem. Again, in typical Indian fashion, we were informed, quite matter-of-factly and almost cheerfully, that there was a strike in Kerala tomorrow, protesting a dam on the border with Tamil Nadu, and that there would be roadblocks set up on highways from 6AM-6PM and that it may be quite unsafe to travel at that time as people were liable to throw rocks and stop any vehicle trying to pass through. Awesome. Especially seeing as we had to continue on to the mountain animal reserve of Thekkady which was three hours away the next day. And then from Thekkady we had a houseboat we scheduled in the lowlands again, meaning that we really couldn't afford another night in Munnar. So our options were leave the hotel at 3AM that morning to reach Thekkady before sunrise or wait until 6PM and basically not have any time to spend in the area. After consulting our driver who had waited outside of the hotel for us to offer to drive us at 3, we decided to go for it. Of course, we spent three harrowing hours in the early morning, peering around every mountaineous curve, afraid we would be confronted with an angry mob, but we reached our hotel in Thekkady in one piece, shivering the cold but glad to be there.
Of course, that wasn't the end of our dilemma. You see, the draw of Thekkady is that it is the home of the Periyar animal reserve and one of the most popular activities is to take a boat out onto its lake and see wild elephants bathing and all sorts of other wildlife. But, our hotel was unfortunately several kilometers outside of town and as Thekkady just so happened to be on the border of Kerala and Tamil Nadu, it was at the center of the dam conflict. So we were advised not to even try travelling to the lake as there was definitely agitation and it might be closed anyway. We were really disappointed. Granted, the hotel we were marooned at was really a resort on 50 acres which included a pool, a walking path and a massage center but we hadn't really come to the area just to stay there. But it honestly wasn't that hard for me to settle into the rythmn of doing nothing for the day and by the end, I felt reenergized and ready to tackle the rest of Kerala, and, unfortunately, the chaos of New Delhi and Agra the next week...
First we spent a few days in Hyderabad which meant that I finally got to see all of the sights that the city has to offer. Who knew the massive Golconda Fort or the famous white marble Birla Mandir Hindu temple could be so beautiful. Unfortunately, I was a bit under the weather and concerned I wouldn't be in traveling shape but trying to keep to early nights seemed to do the trick and by Sunday, I was ready to fly off to Kochi, in the heart of what Indians call "God's Own Country" in Kerala. (A note here: this has to be one of the most ironic names ever because the local state government in Kerala is and has been communist for many years).
Kochi is along the Arabian Sea and is famous for its fishing community, in particular, the Chinese fishing nets that many locals use not only to catch fish but also to generate some side income from letting tourists take pictures with them. It was a bit shocking to see so many foreigners on the narrow, brightly colored streets of downtown Kochi and in our hostel. I mean, Hyderabad hardly has any tourists in comparison to many other places in India, so it was a big surprise. But it was also a bit fun to haggle with the touts trying to sell me things and see how taken aback they were by my bargaining and Hinglish, realizing I wasn't just a tourist. Although that didn't mean we weren't hassled plenty.
Our one night in Kochi was spent eating delicious Keralan seafood curry and planning the rest of our trip details in a funky art cafe. I felt worlds away from Hyderabad and the stress involved in living there, although the stress of setting off into the unknown was definitely still present. In fact, the next morning we were supposed to be picked up by a taxi driver to take us to the hill town of Munnar and for some reason, I had a bad feeling something would go wrong.
Sure enough, as the scheduled time to be picked up loomed, I hadn't heard anything from the driver. I finally called him and he politely informed me that he was waiting for us. I said there was no way he could be waiting for us as I was standing in the street outside of our hostel and there was literally no traffic around. "Yes Madam, I am waiting. What time was your flight?" Suddenly, I realized he was at the arrivals gate at the airport, a full hour away from our hostel where I had told the taxi company to send the driver. So, like all good Indian businesses, the taxi company just sent us another driver who was nearby and had no idea he would be our driver for the next five days as the company apparently didn't give him ANY details as to our itinerary. Luckily for us, although Bose lacked many English skills beyond "Madam" and "thank you," he turned out to be a gem of a driver, but more on that later.
We finally set off for Munnar, a former hill station of the British Raj and the seat of tea production in Kerala. We left the lush tropical lowlands of the state and climbed a winding mountain road through beautiful green hills and small, bright villages. As we drove up the Western Ghats and the fresh air streamed into the window, I was reminded again of how much I missed being outdoors in nature. As an Oregonian, being surrounded by green is basically a prerequisite for living and Hyderabad is definitely not green.
Four hours later, we reached Munnar and our hotel which had stunning views over the neatly rowed, bright green tea fields and into the valley below. Plus, we even had a real shower (and by real I mean the shower head was physically separate from the rest of the bathroom) with hot water, a necessity as the temperature at that elevation dropped into the 40s. We spent our day in Munnar touring a tea factory and of course sampling said tea, wandering around the small town that reminded me of a trekking outpost, buying tea, and driving up to "Top Station," the highest point of the area with stunning views of impossibly green and steep mountains dropping into the fog below. And for once, my sweating was at a minimal due to the perfect temperature. Too much information I'm sure but when you live in India, a day without breaking a sweat is special indeed.
The true highlight though had to be the "bonfire" our hotel hosted on the rooftop. And by highlight, I mean funniest and strangely cute thing I'd seen in a while. First off, our bonfire was a small fire surrounded by stobe lights and rejected 90s music that reminded me of childhood Friday nights spent at the roller skating rink. But the true icing on the cake was the older man who was convulsing around, in some imitation of a dance, to the song "Barbie Girl." I had to admire his self-confidence as he imitated a penguin and I can only hope I will do the same when I am in my late 60s.
Unfortunately, it was also at this bonfire that my friend and I discovered we had a problem. Again, in typical Indian fashion, we were informed, quite matter-of-factly and almost cheerfully, that there was a strike in Kerala tomorrow, protesting a dam on the border with Tamil Nadu, and that there would be roadblocks set up on highways from 6AM-6PM and that it may be quite unsafe to travel at that time as people were liable to throw rocks and stop any vehicle trying to pass through. Awesome. Especially seeing as we had to continue on to the mountain animal reserve of Thekkady which was three hours away the next day. And then from Thekkady we had a houseboat we scheduled in the lowlands again, meaning that we really couldn't afford another night in Munnar. So our options were leave the hotel at 3AM that morning to reach Thekkady before sunrise or wait until 6PM and basically not have any time to spend in the area. After consulting our driver who had waited outside of the hotel for us to offer to drive us at 3, we decided to go for it. Of course, we spent three harrowing hours in the early morning, peering around every mountaineous curve, afraid we would be confronted with an angry mob, but we reached our hotel in Thekkady in one piece, shivering the cold but glad to be there.
Of course, that wasn't the end of our dilemma. You see, the draw of Thekkady is that it is the home of the Periyar animal reserve and one of the most popular activities is to take a boat out onto its lake and see wild elephants bathing and all sorts of other wildlife. But, our hotel was unfortunately several kilometers outside of town and as Thekkady just so happened to be on the border of Kerala and Tamil Nadu, it was at the center of the dam conflict. So we were advised not to even try travelling to the lake as there was definitely agitation and it might be closed anyway. We were really disappointed. Granted, the hotel we were marooned at was really a resort on 50 acres which included a pool, a walking path and a massage center but we hadn't really come to the area just to stay there. But it honestly wasn't that hard for me to settle into the rythmn of doing nothing for the day and by the end, I felt reenergized and ready to tackle the rest of Kerala, and, unfortunately, the chaos of New Delhi and Agra the next week...
Monday, January 9, 2012
Brotherly Love
Now that my self-imposed holiday from blog writing is over, it is time to get back into the swing of things, at least briefly. I will avoid all the of New Years clichés of writing about my resolutions (of which I don’t have any) or reflecting on the past year because, well, I think pretty much all I do in this blog is reflect so I’ll spare you the worst of it. However, I will discuss one of the biggest events in the month of January for me which will be the arrival of one of my best friends from home and our subsequent trip down to Kerala and to see the Taj Mahal in Agra. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of stories for you in a few weeks time so just sit tight. However, the prospect of someone from the US who has never been to India arriving has given me new perspective on this country I have called my home for six months.
For one, I am disappointed that my friend will not be able to see my school. It is midterm exams now, which means that my effectiveness at school has decreased exponentially and that my students and teachers will be on holiday for the majority of the month of January. It is nice that my holiday will coincide so well with that of my school but this also means that February is completely full. I will be running the spelling bee at my school then, working on constructing our library and raising books for it, trying to start a reading program at my school, and basically sprinting around all month since it is perhaps the last chance for me to make any impact in my school.
So school aside, another thing I am curious to see is my friend’s reaction to the Indian psyche. By now, ambiguous head wobbles, yes’s when people really mean no, staring and interrogation about your life to the point of rudeness and interference are all an accepted part of my reality. I have to say I hold a sort morbid curiosity to see how my friend will confront the challenges of being in India. But at the same time I also feel a bit of protectiveness. Yes, I can complain as much as possible but I’m a “foreign resident.” I live here. Only I can make fun of India.
All that being said though, I do really look forward to the next few weeks. I remember when I was studying abroad in Spain and one of my friends came to visit. At that point, I was fed up with Spanish lateness, their piropos or catcalls in the streets, the way nobody was rushed to do anything, or the way no one was ever concerned. But seeing Spain in the eyes of someone who hadn’t lived there for a few months and who was new to the place made me see it in a new light and really fall in love with the country all over again, the way I had when I first came there. I wonder if the same thing will happen in India.
You see, a person’s feelings towards a country or a culture are like those of one person towards another person. I have come to realize I foster a living, breathing relationship with India as I have with the United States, Ecuador, Spain and Mexico. This relationship changes and matures with time but it is still there. For instance, I picture the United States as I picture my relationship with my family - stable, understanding, always there for me, but I don’t have to physically be around them to know it is there. Ecuador was like my first crush – the first foray into the unknown, feeling acutely the anxiety and the giddiness and immaturity that comes with it. Spain was my first love and one I will always hold dear to my heart. Mexico was a short acquaintance; a friendship with a gregarious person that you just met, at times beautiful and fun, and at others awkward and a bit lonely. Yet finally there is India. My relationship with this country continues to grow and evolve on a daily basis but I have to say it is like an antagonistic brother. You love it because well, you have to. But it can drive you crazy and sometimes you just need space from it or to complain to Mom about it. Yet it will all of the sudden surprise you and remind you why that love is there in the first place. Once you have been here, India is a part of you forever, and not by choice. It just is.
But of course, who better to judge your current relationship situation than the friends who know you best? I can’t wait to see how my own perspective changes over these next few weeks with the benefit of an outsider’s viewpoint. So here’s to a few weeks of adventure, newness, and hopefully, rejuvenation. Stay tuned for the real story.
For one, I am disappointed that my friend will not be able to see my school. It is midterm exams now, which means that my effectiveness at school has decreased exponentially and that my students and teachers will be on holiday for the majority of the month of January. It is nice that my holiday will coincide so well with that of my school but this also means that February is completely full. I will be running the spelling bee at my school then, working on constructing our library and raising books for it, trying to start a reading program at my school, and basically sprinting around all month since it is perhaps the last chance for me to make any impact in my school.
So school aside, another thing I am curious to see is my friend’s reaction to the Indian psyche. By now, ambiguous head wobbles, yes’s when people really mean no, staring and interrogation about your life to the point of rudeness and interference are all an accepted part of my reality. I have to say I hold a sort morbid curiosity to see how my friend will confront the challenges of being in India. But at the same time I also feel a bit of protectiveness. Yes, I can complain as much as possible but I’m a “foreign resident.” I live here. Only I can make fun of India.
All that being said though, I do really look forward to the next few weeks. I remember when I was studying abroad in Spain and one of my friends came to visit. At that point, I was fed up with Spanish lateness, their piropos or catcalls in the streets, the way nobody was rushed to do anything, or the way no one was ever concerned. But seeing Spain in the eyes of someone who hadn’t lived there for a few months and who was new to the place made me see it in a new light and really fall in love with the country all over again, the way I had when I first came there. I wonder if the same thing will happen in India.
You see, a person’s feelings towards a country or a culture are like those of one person towards another person. I have come to realize I foster a living, breathing relationship with India as I have with the United States, Ecuador, Spain and Mexico. This relationship changes and matures with time but it is still there. For instance, I picture the United States as I picture my relationship with my family - stable, understanding, always there for me, but I don’t have to physically be around them to know it is there. Ecuador was like my first crush – the first foray into the unknown, feeling acutely the anxiety and the giddiness and immaturity that comes with it. Spain was my first love and one I will always hold dear to my heart. Mexico was a short acquaintance; a friendship with a gregarious person that you just met, at times beautiful and fun, and at others awkward and a bit lonely. Yet finally there is India. My relationship with this country continues to grow and evolve on a daily basis but I have to say it is like an antagonistic brother. You love it because well, you have to. But it can drive you crazy and sometimes you just need space from it or to complain to Mom about it. Yet it will all of the sudden surprise you and remind you why that love is there in the first place. Once you have been here, India is a part of you forever, and not by choice. It just is.
But of course, who better to judge your current relationship situation than the friends who know you best? I can’t wait to see how my own perspective changes over these next few weeks with the benefit of an outsider’s viewpoint. So here’s to a few weeks of adventure, newness, and hopefully, rejuvenation. Stay tuned for the real story.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
All I want for Christmas...
Enjoy your Indian “Christmas.” The quotations are not my own but rather those of a friend of mine in a recent Facebook message. I have to agree with that. After all, celebrating Christmas in India is kind of like someone in the US telling you about their pilgrimage to Mecca. We’re all familiar with it, understand it’s a big deal, but don’t quite get the details or the whole picture. In fact, I’ve had Muslim and Hindu students ask me if Santa Claus is actually a real figure that only distributes gifts to American children. I wasn’t sure if I should keep the mystery alive but decided I would just confuse them so I spilled the beans. First time I’ve seen a child told there is no Santa Claus and I haven’t seen them cry.
Anyway, this doesn’t mean that it is impossible to find Christmas here. Alongside of the palm trees and the ever present sunshine (like all Oregonians, I reveled in this for about a week before assimilating to the Indian preference to avoid the sun whenever possible) there are pockets of evergreen. I mean, a small, fake Christmas tree must count, right? And of course most bakeries in town have Santa cut outs in the window and a few of the western-style coffee houses play Christmas carols and offer Christmas cake.
I think that here I should insert a note about Christmas cake. Apparently Christmas cake is a big deal here. All Indians expect me to know how to make it and to offer to make them some myself. I guess this must be a legacy of their British heritage. But they fail to realize Americans aren’t so big on this tradition. I’ve hardly ever eaten Christmas cake before, let alone made it. Something like fruitcake that can possibly survive a nuclear holocaust doesn’t quite appeal to me like a gingerbread house. Yet in India, people travel for miles, regardless of their religious beliefs, to grab a loaf of Christmas cake at Karachi Bakery. They also have never heard of a sugar cookie or a candy cane.
While being home for the holidays is of course atop my list of things I want for Christmas, don’t worry too much. Fist of all, on Christmas Eve day, I am attending a teacher’s picnic at Oceanfront park, wherever and whatever that is… Seeing as we are smack dab in the middle of the country, I’m thinking it can’t be that great. But still, it’s better than being in school. Then, as any good Ex-pat group, we have arranged our own celebration away from home which entails going to a nice classy hotel restaurant and drowning our holiday blues with turkey, all the trimmings, unlimited wine and eggnog. Should make for an interesting IDEX Christmas. Not to mention our haphazard Secret Santa. I can’t wait to see what I get.
But perhaps one of the best Christmas gifts I got was a bit of a reminder of why I’m here. Without waxing too cliché, life is series of ups and downs here. The ups are just as euphoric as the downs are depressing. But one major bright spot in the last few weeks has been the success of my penpal program at school. Shamelessly exploiting my mom’s employment at a local Oregon elementary school means that I have a classroom of fifth graders back home who are exchanging letters with sixth and seventh graders here. We recently received the first batch of letters from the US and the students were so excited. They were pouring over the letters, marveling at the blonde and red hair of most of their penpals, and couldn’t wait to write back. Definitely a major win.
And so, here's my Christmas list this year... hope it makes for good reading:
1. World Peace: Yes the old standby. I've already been cliche so what the hell.
2. A good job that utilizing my skills and passions next year: Be that back in the US or wherever, I'm sure something will turn up.
3. To make the most of my time left in India: I'm already over the halfway point and time is flying by!
4. To never be sick again: Oh India, you've had your fun with me so just leave me alone!
5. A new computer and Iphone for when I get home: Just because I'm in India doesn't mean I've shunned the material world!
6. To figure out who the heck I am/ what I should be doing/ and who I should be doing it with: Job, life... I have no idea what's in store. But if you can't do a little soul searching in India, then where can you?
7. To never take for granted my friends and family again: You don't realize what you have until it's not there anymore.
So I will sign off here and let you all get back to your festive celebrations. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to everyone. I hope that the season finds you well! Peace and love, Jenny.
Anyway, this doesn’t mean that it is impossible to find Christmas here. Alongside of the palm trees and the ever present sunshine (like all Oregonians, I reveled in this for about a week before assimilating to the Indian preference to avoid the sun whenever possible) there are pockets of evergreen. I mean, a small, fake Christmas tree must count, right? And of course most bakeries in town have Santa cut outs in the window and a few of the western-style coffee houses play Christmas carols and offer Christmas cake.
I think that here I should insert a note about Christmas cake. Apparently Christmas cake is a big deal here. All Indians expect me to know how to make it and to offer to make them some myself. I guess this must be a legacy of their British heritage. But they fail to realize Americans aren’t so big on this tradition. I’ve hardly ever eaten Christmas cake before, let alone made it. Something like fruitcake that can possibly survive a nuclear holocaust doesn’t quite appeal to me like a gingerbread house. Yet in India, people travel for miles, regardless of their religious beliefs, to grab a loaf of Christmas cake at Karachi Bakery. They also have never heard of a sugar cookie or a candy cane.
While being home for the holidays is of course atop my list of things I want for Christmas, don’t worry too much. Fist of all, on Christmas Eve day, I am attending a teacher’s picnic at Oceanfront park, wherever and whatever that is… Seeing as we are smack dab in the middle of the country, I’m thinking it can’t be that great. But still, it’s better than being in school. Then, as any good Ex-pat group, we have arranged our own celebration away from home which entails going to a nice classy hotel restaurant and drowning our holiday blues with turkey, all the trimmings, unlimited wine and eggnog. Should make for an interesting IDEX Christmas. Not to mention our haphazard Secret Santa. I can’t wait to see what I get.
But perhaps one of the best Christmas gifts I got was a bit of a reminder of why I’m here. Without waxing too cliché, life is series of ups and downs here. The ups are just as euphoric as the downs are depressing. But one major bright spot in the last few weeks has been the success of my penpal program at school. Shamelessly exploiting my mom’s employment at a local Oregon elementary school means that I have a classroom of fifth graders back home who are exchanging letters with sixth and seventh graders here. We recently received the first batch of letters from the US and the students were so excited. They were pouring over the letters, marveling at the blonde and red hair of most of their penpals, and couldn’t wait to write back. Definitely a major win.
And so, here's my Christmas list this year... hope it makes for good reading:
1. World Peace: Yes the old standby. I've already been cliche so what the hell.
2. A good job that utilizing my skills and passions next year: Be that back in the US or wherever, I'm sure something will turn up.
3. To make the most of my time left in India: I'm already over the halfway point and time is flying by!
4. To never be sick again: Oh India, you've had your fun with me so just leave me alone!
5. A new computer and Iphone for when I get home: Just because I'm in India doesn't mean I've shunned the material world!
6. To figure out who the heck I am/ what I should be doing/ and who I should be doing it with: Job, life... I have no idea what's in store. But if you can't do a little soul searching in India, then where can you?
7. To never take for granted my friends and family again: You don't realize what you have until it's not there anymore.
So I will sign off here and let you all get back to your festive celebrations. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to everyone. I hope that the season finds you well! Peace and love, Jenny.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Ridin' Solo
The public bus never really gets the attention it deserves. I mean, how often do you think about it other than “thank God I have my car and I’m not that sucker waiting for a bus out in the rain.” Well in India, as with most things, transportation takes on a life of its own. I’m not going to brag about my ability to barter with auto drivers or the skills I now have in jumping on and off a moving bus or riding one-handed on the back of a scooter. But I am going to talk about what it is like to travel around, day in and day out, in Hyderabad, and most importantly, what it is like on a public bus.
Half of my Indian friends are still completely floored by the idea of me and my American friends actually getting on these things. I mean, they grew up with drivers and have been driving themselves around town just like the rest of us have been since we were teenagers (okay well I never had a driver but you get the picture). They have not even stepped onto a bus themselves. But when they cost about twenty cents to use, don’t require any bargaining, and you more or less know where they will go, it is kind of hard to say no. Although sometimes I wish I did. You see, there is something interesting about the bus system here in the city. It is that buses are as diverse as their drivers, and run the gauntlet from a clunker with a literal hole in the floorboard (yes on a recent trip I had to straddle said hole and hope it wouldn’t get bigger) to the bus I just took to this coffee shop which had air conditioning and a TV screen playing music videos. And it only cost three rupees more. The catch is as you wait at any given bus stop you never know what you will get, or really how crowded it will be.
Getting onto and off of the bus is an art form in itself. Most routes have stops that are marked or if not marked, at least visible by the amount of people congregating to get on them. But the real fun begins when the bus stops. For if you are getting on the bus, you are being pushed by the people behind you who also want to get on, at the same time you are being forced back by the people getting off the bus. I generally just wait until the last possible moment in back and then jump on as it starts to move. Saves my backpack from being squashed in the melee. On the flip side, if you want to get off the bus, you had better force your way through the women to the front and push them, poke them, yell at them, or do whatever, to ensure that you get off in time. It can be a long way between stops.
The bus ticket collector is also an anomaly. They wander up and down the aisle, often tapping, whistling and even pulling braids to get your attention so you can pay the fare. Sometimes if you don’t have change and they don’t have change they will hold up a finger, say “ek moment,” and twenty minutes later, assuming you haven’t already gotten off of the bus, voila, you have your change. They also have an uncanny knack of remembering exactly what stop you paid for, making sure you get off at that stop or else. I may not understand Telugu but I do get it when I am no longer welcome. On really crowded buses I have seen them hanging off the stairs, jumping out to allow passengers on and off and then running and jumping back onto the tiny bottom rung without missing a beat. It takes a certain breed of person to excel at this obviously and I have to admire their stamina and good sense of balance. Walking up and down a moving bus all day yelling at people has to get old.
Drivers tend to be in their own world, sitting up front, shifting with one hand while talking on their cell phone with the other. Shoes are optional as is any peripheral vision. I once was on a bus that somehow managed to be missing all the glass from the windows on the left side which happened to be where I was sitting. It was like riding in a half-convertible bus. Which was nice and breezy and fine until the driver veered left into a group of low-hanging trees. If I hadn’t ducked, I don’t think I would be writing a blog about buses after all.
Buses are not for foreigners. Oh no. I have realized that the reason why I never see foreigners walking on the streets but I see them in restaurants and in bars is because they don’t stoop to public transportation. But if you can get over the stares and learn which end of the bus you belong (men in back, women in front), it is really easy. My friends and I had a laugh the other day when our flatmate, who has taken the same bus to school and back every day for five months and never seen a non-Indian on board, watched a foreign couple get on her bus. And she stared just like everyone else did. I mean, you start to feel possessive about things here and your local bus definitely figures high onto that list. You are the token foreigner on that route thank you very much. You alone know the ins and outs of public transportation in Hyderabad. And you’ll be damned if someone else figures it out.
Half of my Indian friends are still completely floored by the idea of me and my American friends actually getting on these things. I mean, they grew up with drivers and have been driving themselves around town just like the rest of us have been since we were teenagers (okay well I never had a driver but you get the picture). They have not even stepped onto a bus themselves. But when they cost about twenty cents to use, don’t require any bargaining, and you more or less know where they will go, it is kind of hard to say no. Although sometimes I wish I did. You see, there is something interesting about the bus system here in the city. It is that buses are as diverse as their drivers, and run the gauntlet from a clunker with a literal hole in the floorboard (yes on a recent trip I had to straddle said hole and hope it wouldn’t get bigger) to the bus I just took to this coffee shop which had air conditioning and a TV screen playing music videos. And it only cost three rupees more. The catch is as you wait at any given bus stop you never know what you will get, or really how crowded it will be.
Getting onto and off of the bus is an art form in itself. Most routes have stops that are marked or if not marked, at least visible by the amount of people congregating to get on them. But the real fun begins when the bus stops. For if you are getting on the bus, you are being pushed by the people behind you who also want to get on, at the same time you are being forced back by the people getting off the bus. I generally just wait until the last possible moment in back and then jump on as it starts to move. Saves my backpack from being squashed in the melee. On the flip side, if you want to get off the bus, you had better force your way through the women to the front and push them, poke them, yell at them, or do whatever, to ensure that you get off in time. It can be a long way between stops.
The bus ticket collector is also an anomaly. They wander up and down the aisle, often tapping, whistling and even pulling braids to get your attention so you can pay the fare. Sometimes if you don’t have change and they don’t have change they will hold up a finger, say “ek moment,” and twenty minutes later, assuming you haven’t already gotten off of the bus, voila, you have your change. They also have an uncanny knack of remembering exactly what stop you paid for, making sure you get off at that stop or else. I may not understand Telugu but I do get it when I am no longer welcome. On really crowded buses I have seen them hanging off the stairs, jumping out to allow passengers on and off and then running and jumping back onto the tiny bottom rung without missing a beat. It takes a certain breed of person to excel at this obviously and I have to admire their stamina and good sense of balance. Walking up and down a moving bus all day yelling at people has to get old.
Drivers tend to be in their own world, sitting up front, shifting with one hand while talking on their cell phone with the other. Shoes are optional as is any peripheral vision. I once was on a bus that somehow managed to be missing all the glass from the windows on the left side which happened to be where I was sitting. It was like riding in a half-convertible bus. Which was nice and breezy and fine until the driver veered left into a group of low-hanging trees. If I hadn’t ducked, I don’t think I would be writing a blog about buses after all.
Buses are not for foreigners. Oh no. I have realized that the reason why I never see foreigners walking on the streets but I see them in restaurants and in bars is because they don’t stoop to public transportation. But if you can get over the stares and learn which end of the bus you belong (men in back, women in front), it is really easy. My friends and I had a laugh the other day when our flatmate, who has taken the same bus to school and back every day for five months and never seen a non-Indian on board, watched a foreign couple get on her bus. And she stared just like everyone else did. I mean, you start to feel possessive about things here and your local bus definitely figures high onto that list. You are the token foreigner on that route thank you very much. You alone know the ins and outs of public transportation in Hyderabad. And you’ll be damned if someone else figures it out.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
The Almighty Rupee
Working in the hybrid non-profit/ social business sphere, the dollar (well rupee I should say) is not exactly the motivating factor behind my choice of profession. Hopefully that much is obvious since the stipend I receive here reminds me of how good I had it at my part-time internship last year. Yet it is still a frustrating part of the job. Because, well, if I had unlimited funding, I could do whatever I want in my school and I could also travel, explore, and eat as much amazing food as my heart desires. And I wouldn’t have to waste precious energy worrying about how much I exceed my budget each month because, well, that budget would be a lot bigger. Yet I do have to remind myself that I am doing much better than the average person in India, so my own sob story about money stops here. This is about India’s money.
So back to the “average person” in India. As everyone is aware, India has one of the highest income discrepancies in the world (sadly the US isn’t doing that much better) with 42% of the population making less than $1.25 a day. And although the per capita GDP has skyrocketed to over $3500 per year from about $800 20 years ago, it is important to keep in mind that income inequality has also doubled in twenty years and that this is the average GDP, out of over a billion people. Suffice it to say there are plenty of people making much much less. In fact, the average teacher at my school makes a little over $30-$40 A MONTH. Yes, that’s right, a month. For working six days a week, all day. And yes, things are less expensive here than they are in the west but only marginally so. A liter of milk will still set you back a dollar or so in most convenience stores. In fact, inflation is at a high in India right now, devaluing the rupee and increasing the cost of living.
What am I getting at in this blog then? Well it’s a case of perspective. A case of my reminding myself that I may be hemorrhaging my money on dining out or trips but that I am still able to drop $15 on a nice dinner while this is close to half of most people’s monthly income. The story of poverty in India as I see it is a case of mixed outcomes. The economy grows, the middle class grows, people buy their smartphones and their designer jeans that are at least the same cost, if not more expensive, than those in the United States. But an extraordinary number of people remain left behind. One Australian consultant here shared the staggering statistic with me that there are more people living below the poverty line in only four states in India than the population of ALL of sub-saharan Africa. This is a very sobering thought.
When I said I was coming to India, people were very jealous. After all, we do see the India of stark poverty, on news reports and documentaries, and we can forget the incredible amount of wealth here. But we also see the Bollywood movies where everything is colorful, everyone is happy, and the star couple ends up together, smiling, at the end. So we equate this with a joy for living in India. We say that Indians have it right, valuing family first and being happy with what they have. Unfortunately, the feeling I have picked up most here was aptly described by my friend the other day. It is angst. Angst for something better and something more. Life is incredibly hard here. The day to day monotony overwhelmed by circumstance and hardship. Many people are not happy with what they have but they do not know any differently and feel they cannot change their situation.
And in my current profession, this feeling and these statistics are what keeps us going; the driving force behind social entrepreneurship. History shows that throwing money at the situation is not an answer. Instead people must have ownership in these initiatives to ensure sustainability and the continued success of poverty alleviation programs. That’s what social entrepreneurship and development programs like microfinance are all about. But what I am hoping as well is that India takes a stake in its own development. Before everyone jumps down my throat, I realize this seems hypocritical coming from a citizen of a country which blindly turns an eye to most of its own poor. And I also want to insert a caveat here that I have met an extraordinary amount of Indians who are concerned about the poor, who do support various causes, and who give what they can. Nevertheless, government initiatives to support development are mostly half-hearted, corrupt and do just throw money at the problem. As the recent case of the government shut-down of microfinance in Andhra Pradesh shows, the government is just as interested in making a buck as everyone else and the end result is it undermines the very programs that can help it to succeed.
But the problem, at least from what I have seen here is not a lack of money but a case of where the money is going, which is true in almost all developing countries where it is hidden away. Yet in India this misuse of funds is an open secret. And that has transferred to the individual. What takes precedence is a consumerism to rival that of any American Walmart and a hunt for the one item that will convey status. In India, caste status has given way to economic status. It is a matter of pride, and being confused with someone from the next lower strata is a hurt that one would rather not bear. We from the west know this story well as we participated in it ourselves and continue to. And look where it got us. So, India, learn from our mistakes. There is no massive, easy solution to crippling income disparity or massive levels of poverty. But irresponsible growth isn’t the answer either. You see it every day here – new construction replacing a former makeshift homeless camp, most certainly fueled by bribes to oversight committees and government officials in amounts that would feed and clothe these same homeless for months.
From what I can see, the story of India is a story of money. But money not necessarily well-spent. And it’s complicated. More complicated than I can understand and based on policies and practices that are part of the Indian identity. Yet if India is the country of the future (and I assure you, it most definitely is), it can only succeed by lifting those up who are left behind. The money is there. It’s just not in the right place
So back to the “average person” in India. As everyone is aware, India has one of the highest income discrepancies in the world (sadly the US isn’t doing that much better) with 42% of the population making less than $1.25 a day. And although the per capita GDP has skyrocketed to over $3500 per year from about $800 20 years ago, it is important to keep in mind that income inequality has also doubled in twenty years and that this is the average GDP, out of over a billion people. Suffice it to say there are plenty of people making much much less. In fact, the average teacher at my school makes a little over $30-$40 A MONTH. Yes, that’s right, a month. For working six days a week, all day. And yes, things are less expensive here than they are in the west but only marginally so. A liter of milk will still set you back a dollar or so in most convenience stores. In fact, inflation is at a high in India right now, devaluing the rupee and increasing the cost of living.
What am I getting at in this blog then? Well it’s a case of perspective. A case of my reminding myself that I may be hemorrhaging my money on dining out or trips but that I am still able to drop $15 on a nice dinner while this is close to half of most people’s monthly income. The story of poverty in India as I see it is a case of mixed outcomes. The economy grows, the middle class grows, people buy their smartphones and their designer jeans that are at least the same cost, if not more expensive, than those in the United States. But an extraordinary number of people remain left behind. One Australian consultant here shared the staggering statistic with me that there are more people living below the poverty line in only four states in India than the population of ALL of sub-saharan Africa. This is a very sobering thought.
When I said I was coming to India, people were very jealous. After all, we do see the India of stark poverty, on news reports and documentaries, and we can forget the incredible amount of wealth here. But we also see the Bollywood movies where everything is colorful, everyone is happy, and the star couple ends up together, smiling, at the end. So we equate this with a joy for living in India. We say that Indians have it right, valuing family first and being happy with what they have. Unfortunately, the feeling I have picked up most here was aptly described by my friend the other day. It is angst. Angst for something better and something more. Life is incredibly hard here. The day to day monotony overwhelmed by circumstance and hardship. Many people are not happy with what they have but they do not know any differently and feel they cannot change their situation.
And in my current profession, this feeling and these statistics are what keeps us going; the driving force behind social entrepreneurship. History shows that throwing money at the situation is not an answer. Instead people must have ownership in these initiatives to ensure sustainability and the continued success of poverty alleviation programs. That’s what social entrepreneurship and development programs like microfinance are all about. But what I am hoping as well is that India takes a stake in its own development. Before everyone jumps down my throat, I realize this seems hypocritical coming from a citizen of a country which blindly turns an eye to most of its own poor. And I also want to insert a caveat here that I have met an extraordinary amount of Indians who are concerned about the poor, who do support various causes, and who give what they can. Nevertheless, government initiatives to support development are mostly half-hearted, corrupt and do just throw money at the problem. As the recent case of the government shut-down of microfinance in Andhra Pradesh shows, the government is just as interested in making a buck as everyone else and the end result is it undermines the very programs that can help it to succeed.
But the problem, at least from what I have seen here is not a lack of money but a case of where the money is going, which is true in almost all developing countries where it is hidden away. Yet in India this misuse of funds is an open secret. And that has transferred to the individual. What takes precedence is a consumerism to rival that of any American Walmart and a hunt for the one item that will convey status. In India, caste status has given way to economic status. It is a matter of pride, and being confused with someone from the next lower strata is a hurt that one would rather not bear. We from the west know this story well as we participated in it ourselves and continue to. And look where it got us. So, India, learn from our mistakes. There is no massive, easy solution to crippling income disparity or massive levels of poverty. But irresponsible growth isn’t the answer either. You see it every day here – new construction replacing a former makeshift homeless camp, most certainly fueled by bribes to oversight committees and government officials in amounts that would feed and clothe these same homeless for months.
From what I can see, the story of India is a story of money. But money not necessarily well-spent. And it’s complicated. More complicated than I can understand and based on policies and practices that are part of the Indian identity. Yet if India is the country of the future (and I assure you, it most definitely is), it can only succeed by lifting those up who are left behind. The money is there. It’s just not in the right place
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