This is my crazy life. September 16, 2008

I’ve already been here almost three weeks. I’m falling into routine and finding myself more comfortable here every day. Between how much I’ve explored and the many lectures about Indian society, (everything from health care to poverty to the economy to gender issues) I’ve decided that my experience in India is going to be very, very good for me.

 

I’m sitting at the Central Train Station here in Chennai. This internet place is a huge step up from my hole-in-the-wall by ICSA but unfortunately doesn’t haveSkype… so as India goes, you give a little, and you take a little. Today was also my first experience taking the public bus. (Dad and Kris, you’d laugh if you saw the stock-car like tin that the buses here are made of.) And will probably be my last. I’m getting to be quite the rickshaw junkie. We travel everywhere in those things!

 

I’m also getting used to the heat, believe it or not. Of course, I still sleep with a cold rag on my forehead at night but my skin is sun kissed and I’ve realized it’s only normal to sweat every hour of every day (and even more when I eat spicy food). As another attempt to blend in with the locals Rebecca and I got our noses pierced. You might think I’m crazy, but let me convince you… I’d be crazy not to have one here. Every woman on the street has one, sometimes two and they always put those god-awful huge gold medallion-looking-things in them. Rest assured I settled for a little blue stone. And it matches my eyes, and looks lovely. (And the piercing place was very clean, and it’s been almost two weeks with no sign of infection.)

 

And I’ve had some very cultural experiences… such as visiting the slums, meeting with the Islamic Community on 9/11, having a article written about me (and two of my guy friends) in the best selling newspaper in Chennai, making friends with a ninety-some year old man, and finding that I really do have a sympathetic heart at one of the Indian hospitals.

 

Our slum visit was one-hundred percent opposite of what I was expecting. Instead of being greeted with horrible smells and terrible sites, we were greeted with flowers and dancing. The people in the neighborhood prepared more than you could ever imagine for our visit. Children danced for over thirty minutes, we had a question answering session with the women of the slum, and played and took pictures with the children (for those of you that have facebook, my profile picture is from here). Indians have such a rich sense of community and it was so much fun to be a part of.

 

As far as us meeting the Islamic community on 9/11, that was weird… but only a strange coincidence. Our schedulers didn’t even think twice when they penciled us in. No worries, it was a wonderful experience. It cleared up so many of my personal stereotypes and doubts about the religion (and its extremists). I can only shake my head that I walked away with a “gift” of a copy of the Quran, and think… what a strange life I lead.

 

About a week ago two of my guy friends, Ian and Matt, and I went to a field hockey game just as something to do for the night. I didn’t think we would attract more attention than even the professional players on the field… I sometimes forget that I’m foreign, and white, and a girl (although it doesn’t take me long to remember). A reporter approached us as we sat down just for a moment but let us enjoy the game and then approached us again afterward for an interview. The whole series of events at the game cracked me up and I laughed that instead of serving ice cold beer, they serve steaming hot chai tea, and instead of popcorn and candy, it’s rather a weird corn curry dish. So we answered a few questions after the game and the journalist gave us his card and said he had a story brewing. We were completely surprised when we opened the Deccan Chronicle (one of the most popular newspapers in India) the next day to see an article completely devoted to the three of us… and you’d laugh when you saw our three individual pictures… and laugh even harder when I told you that we didn’t pose for the headshots, or even know then were being taken because they’re absolutely perfect. Tricky. One guy on the street even recognized me from the article. Oh India. We went back for the finals last Sunday night and watched a great game that ended in triple overtime and a sudden death shootout. Indian field hockey is a lot different than my ice hockey at home! 

 

Let me tell you about Harold. On a visit to Little Sisters of the Poor, I was first drawn to Harold because he was a little old Indian man wearing nearly ½ inch think glasses hunched over writing in English. I thought he’s writing in it, he’s got to know it! So I said hello (and just startled him a little). He jumped up and grabbed a whole stack of index cards out of the front pocket of his shirt and fanned them out (I thought it was some sort of card trick) and told me to take one. So of course, I did and then, as instructed, I read it. He was just this cute little fidgety man and was tickled pink that Kate and I had stopped by to chat. But he ran in his room (not before switching to a different pair of ½ inch think glasses) and brought out pictures, and letters of recognition, and so many other odds and ends from his past. Harold never married. He obviously modeled (I would assume from the black and white photographs of his oiled body), and was quite the carpenter. He had amazing stories and I can’t imagine how obscene his life in India would be now, let alone probably sixty or seventy years ago. We also learned from Mary Louise that he used to write love letters for his friends to their girlfriends, and she laughed when she said that “the girls never knew the difference!” I was only there for a couple hours, but my memory of Harold just might stick with me forever.

 

 And then, my world turned upside-down last Friday. What was simply a visit to a local hospital turned into me gaining so much appreciation for America that tears came both for gratitude and sympathy. It was very hard to see the hospital conditions here, and how the people are treated in comparison to those in any hospital in the U.S. I truly believe that every person in America should see the hardship that people in developing countries face. It’s extraordinary, and will make you cry and wonder how was I lucky enough to be born in the United States of America?

 

 The worn off henna on my feet is a sure sign that I’ve done some walking here. I love the Indian Ocean that I find myself frequently going back to and the rich culture (even though I could use a break from the food) but overall I am doing very well. I miss you all at home, and I’m thinking of you often.

 

 Thursday I’ll leave Chennai for rural orientation… I’m about to step off the edge of the world, once again.

 

I apologize for not having my address with me, I’ll post it soon.