Happy Birthday, D’Anne!

We’re back in Bangalore after spending a few days at the newest Bangalore project, The Potter’s Wheel. The current plan is to head south to a town I can’t for the life of me remember, and spend some time with Freedom Firm. I could give you a blurb about what I think they do, but I’d rather wait until I really Know.

Life is good, there’s a place downstairs from our hotel that has grilled jam sandwiches (don’t knock it till you’ve tried it) and fruit smoothies. Or milkshakes, the terms “milkshake” and “smoothie” seem to be interchangeable, I’m never completely sure what I’m ordering. But who’s complaining.

So happy birthday to my darling beautiful supportive sister D’Anne, without you I would shrivel up and die from boredom. And much love to you all.

It apparently costs $20 US to have someone killed in Bombay. So good to know.

“India is beyond statement, for anything you say, the opposite is also true. It’s rich and poor, spiritual and material, cruel and kind, angry but peaceful, ugly and beautiful, and smart but stupid. It’s all the extremes. India defies understanding.” Sarah Macdonald, Holy Cow.

I’m getting into travel narratives and Indian writers. If anyone has any suggestions for what I should pick up next, they are most welcome.

I spent the morning with the girls learning tailoring and English. As I checked my facebook they asked to see pictures of my family, how many brothers and sisters, what age, is married? I showed them pictures of my sisters who were all proclaimed “very nice, very pretty. Look like you!” They also asserted that my hair looks better straight (it hasn’t seen a blowdryer or straightener in over a month, and the humidity is taking its toll).

They never tire of the question, when you marry? They want to know if I’ll have an arranged marriage or love match. They told me they’d all have arranged marriages around 20. I asked if that’s what they wanted, if they’d like a love match. They reacted strongly, ”No, no! Man will stop loving you, love match no good. Arranged marriage is much better. Our families will decide. You should have arranged marriage.”

Rachel and I are re-thinking the next few weeks, there isn’t much for us to do in Bangalore. Maybe the border of Nepal, back to Bombay, or to Calcutta early.

A lot of the romanticism or excitement surrounding being a “modern-day abolitionist” and dedicating your life to freeing people is being stripped away. This is difficult, tiring work with tons of paperwork and setbacks every step of the way. I have great respect for the people who do it and do it well.

This week we were followed by a flirty transvestite who kept trying to give us advice, young men and families swarmed us excitedly in the park on sunday asking to have their picture taken with us (I was scolded for not standing where they wanted me to), and I heard the ancient Indian proverb “if the skin is white, it’s love at first sight.” Finally, a place where my skin tone is appreciated!

Strawberry cake, it’s creamy. Like you.

So on our last day in Goa the manager of our hotel (who kept telling us he Loves Americans, they are superb) drove us to the airport on monday. He blared Pink Floyd as we drove through the forest and villages. It was a very interesting mixing of cultures, listening to Money while we drove past women with pots on their heads and indian cows pulling carts.

Bangalore is a cleaner more western city than anything we’ve seen. We don’t get stared at nearly as much. Where i’m sitting details the difference between Mumbai and Bangalore: to use the internet in Mumbai we found a tiny humid room down an alley where our feet got eaten alive by mosquitoes. Right now I’m sitting in a large brightly lit Coffee Day (Indian starbucks-type place that doesn’t serve drip coffee, just espresso. whatever) with music I recognize playing, in what appears to be the Times Square of India.

The cultural differences have lost their novelty, it’s beginning to wear on me. People tend to repeat things faster and louder when we don’t understand. I’m getting great at creative listening. I can feel all the discomfort give me better coping skills, get over myself a little more.

I got sick on our first night in bangalore, i guess my stomach misses home a little, too. I figured it was going to happen at some point. we found a place that had tomato soup and I slept all day, feeling Much better today.

We met with Prakesh today, who seems to be the head of the bangalore office. It was great to hear about all their projects, I’m so excited to have a purpose and begin learning more. we’re here for 20 days, so we’ll be able to settle in a little bit and get to know the area. Rachel and I have begun to answer questions in unison, a mark of spending every moment together. She has been a great comfort, I can’t imagine making this journey without a companion. Anyway, much love to you all.

End note: The title is a direct quote of what a waiter said to Rachel while she perused the pastry display in a cafe. This trip is not without it’s amusements, for sure.

no one here wears shoes. so interesting.

There’s a used bookstore down the road from where we’re staying that buys and trades. I’m not sure anyone knows how happy I am. I’ve already traded in one, attempting to muscle through a few more by sunday so I can have new reading material for the plane.

What I’ve learned this week:

• eating too much food makes me feel gross, even if it’s delicious food
• complaining makes everything worse
• if I put too much effort into remembering a place, I forget to soak it up while I’m actually There
• bucket baths are only fun and exotic for about a week
• staying hydrated is Really Important
• 15 dollar massages in developing countries are pretty shady

Nothing crazily profound. I am moving and I am learning.

Everyone here thinks we’re German or Canadian

After spending the weekend in Purnata Bhavan (House of Wholeness) in Igatpuri, we’re in Goa, the Hawaaii of India. 

Purnata Bhavan was really peaceful, surrounded by green hills, waterfalls and mist. The compound is home to women and children who are either infected or affected by HIV. We stayed in one of the houses with 2 house parents and about fifteen kids. The kids are so adorable, they called us Didi, Hindi for older sister, and the women showed us how to make chapatti (flat Indian bread). It’s hard watching kids in the later stages of AIDs, but incredible how they support each other.

Goa is unreal, it’s feels like the setting of a fairytale; gypsies sell jewelry on the beach and call you darling, there are big houses painted bright colors with gated courtyards next to huts with palm leaves for roofs almost swallowed up in ivy. I think i was attacked by a spider in my sleep, there are 50 red bumps up one arm. Last night at dinner a local looked at my arm said ”I know how to make that better” and ordered tamarind. He took my arm and smeared the pulp over all the bite marks, saying it would stop swelling and itching.  Pretty awesome.

The issue of begging is really kicking me in the face. Do I ignore it, say it’ll only make the problem worse, give to everyone, give only food, give to children, give to who I think deserves it? None of the answers seem to fit, they all seem either impossible or selfish. I’ll continue to wrestle with it, let you know if a light shines down and deposits some profound wisdom into my lap.

Long story, feel free to skim

I’m not sure where to begin. I feel like I’ve lived a year in the last week. We visited the Oasis halfway home, the girls were very cute and loved having visitors. On monday we visited the Save the Children anti-traffking program. The girls are on the top floor protected by a metal gate and a gaurd. They looked so young, it was hard to reconcile what life has handed them so far.

Tuesday was the final day of the festival for the idol Ganesh, the city was in an uproar. Entertaining, a little intimidating… we didn’t venture far from the retreat center. Yesterday we visited the drop-in center for prostitutes and went along to visit the brothels around 4pm. I’m not sure I can fully explain.

Walking through a darkened low doorway up unstable staircases, we sat in a small room with two girls. Behind me was a 8×5 room holding a bed, a foot of floor space between the bed and the door. The girls were fidgety and self-councious; they were in their early twenties, but their mannerisms reminded me of middle school girls. They spoke rapid Hindi, some was translated for us. We learned that one was a madam, she managed all the girls. A black cord encircling her neck signified her “marriage” to the pimp, who wore the same cord. The younger girl spoke to us, our guide translated. ‘you can go anywhere, do anything. my life is over now, I am done. I’ll be here forever.’ I gave her a hug as we left, wishing i could communicate. Walking out, I saw that the doors bolt from the outside.

The second brothel felt like a war-zone. We made our way down endless concrete hallways barely wide enough to walk through. Barred holes in the concrete served as windows where men sat smoking cigarettes, watching the girls get ready for customers. Sheets hung to dry from the ceiling. We climbed over piles of rubble where parts of the ceiling had collapsed. Everyone watched us with unconcerned, mild interest. The air was heavy and dank, but smelled of incense and perfume. There are 5 floors, 25 main rooms per floor, 3 or 4 girls to a room. We went into the sitting rooms right off the hallway, but no further, staying on the peripheral of the building. We were told that the underage girls are housed deeper inside the brothels; 9 and 10 yr-old girls are kept locked in higher bunks. None of the girls are allowed to leave without the madam’s permission. 11 and 12 year old boys sat on the staircases, they’re brought from villages and run errands for the girls. They all call the madam Maa, Hindi for mother.

The women we were with chatted with prostitutes, invited them to the drop-in center, asked how they were doing. Some girls asked us questions, where are we from, what do we do? The head madam asked if she could come visist California, we laughed and said yes. The girls ranged from seeming shy, sweet, desperate, nervous, bored, cold, superior, curious. All of them seemed on edge, careful not to betray too much. My feeling at the moment is that prostitution is one of the saddest things ever.

Anyway. We leave tomorrow for Igatpuri, it’s supposed to be beautiful. A welcome change after overcrowded chaotic Bombay. And everyone who has been praying for me, dhanyawaad (thank you).

all i want is a grilled cheese sandwich.

Good morning. For me, anyway. Today is our third day in the Oasis office helping out with a project called South Asia Center for Missing and Exploited Persons (SACMEP). Everyone in the office is wonderful. There’s a British girl, Abbi, who uses wonderful phrases like ‘brilliant’ and ‘toss it,’ and a darling Indian girl called Divya who speaks with a slightly British Indian accent. They’ve all been great in helping us to navigate the city and learn a bit of Hindi.

Last night Rach and I took the train (there’s a ladies only compartment) to a market. We both bought bags (walking around with northface backpacks felt like we were asking to get ripped off) and a salwar kameez (traditional Indian dress.) As we chose and bargained, a large crowd of men gathered to watch us. The man we were buying from was loving it, showing off. It was too funny.

Tomorrow we go to stay in the half-way home for women who have been rescued out of brothels. It should be an experience.

Thank you so much to everyone who has been emailing me! It’s been so comforting, I can’t even explain. Until later, Namaste.

I’m using someone else’s computer. I have to be fast.

yesterday I had my first rush of desire to adopt several Indian children. We were in a rickshaw stopped at a light (this happens rarely, driving in a rickshaw feels like we’re on a racetrack) when about seven small children swarmed the open sides of the rickshaw. A girl no older than six gently tugged my elbow and spoke in Hindi, trying to sell me a wilted flower, while boy around 5 stared at me shyly, making motions to his mouth. Children on the other side offered Rachel gum and outstretched hands. Watching these children’s skinny arms and huge eyes was gut-wrenching. I’ve been told that giving directly to street children is the wrong way to go about helping, it encourages begging and will only cause a riot of thirty children asking for handouts. We smiled at them and said nahine, no.

We’re a novelty to most of the locals, which can be entertaining when we’re in high spirits, irritating when we’re tired. Driving through crowds, people yell out to us in suprise (I have no idea what they’re saying), wave, laugh and point.  People unabashedly stare at us everywhere we go. It takes some getting used to.

Quite quickly

goodbye, goodbye air conditioning and water heaters, I will miss you. today we check out of the Y (which has felt pretty comfy and luxurious) and into a Catholic retreat center, or something of the like. I’m not quite sure what to expect, but it sounds interesting.

This city is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. It’s part British, part Manhattan (Mumbai is known as the New York of India), part jungle, part a world I never knew existed. Rach and I spend the better part of yesterday walking around. the thing I find fascinating is the large communities of people living on the street. they’re EVERYwhere, cooking food over makeshift fires, playing in the streets, sleeping under tarps. I am a bit in love with the city, but could never imagine living here. I’m seeing so clearly how comfortable my life has always been. I don’t have any conclusions to draw this morning, only observations. I miss you all. I do not, however, miss peet’s coffee. the chai here is the most wonderful thing on the planet.

Morning #1

I’m here! After roughly 28 hours of travel, Rachel and I landed in Mumbai. The moment we stepped off the plane, the air smelled sticky salty and sweet, like food I don’t recognize. When we walked out of the terminal, ths smell of spices immediately clung to us.The first ten minutes of our drive reminded me of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland: every block presented new sounds, smells and varieties of people. We both spent most of the drive staring out the window, taking it all in. We were driven to a YWCA by a man whose name I can hardly pronounce, save spell. It’s 8:22 am, and after a breakfast of cornflakes and tea, we’re going to explore Mumbai! Everything is going well, we are healthy and rested. More to come.

Much love.