Claustrophobic bus rides, beautiful Indian children, and living in paradise. October 24, 2008

First things first, I’ll be leaving my site in less than a week so hold off sending any mail until I post my next address.

 

I would say the only thing I’m not going to miss about RUHSA is the bus ride into Vellore— our closest “town” where the main sister hospital, CMC, resides. Everything else is wonderful. My project in its final stages. I’ve interviewed 121 members in 91 households. I have the stack of surveys right next to me and will start putting everything into Excel later today.

 

Why, you might ask, do I hate the bus ride into Vellore so much? This is my average, typical, every day experience.

 

First of all the buses are made of tin, that as I said before resembles my dad and brother’s race cars (dented and creased… have these buses rolled, or been t-boned or what?), and the seats are less than appetizing. They’re more like two pieces of wood assembled with iron and a cushion barely large enough for two people to fit entirely. So, climbing on I don’t feel like I’m stepping on what I would now consider a luxurious average American school bus but rather a huge welded tin box with a loud engine.

 

When I think of a full city bus in America, it would be one where everyone has a seat, at worst; three people would be crammed into a seat and maybe a few standing. Not in India. A bus isn’t full until every seat has been filled and the people are standing three or four thick in the isles. And then twenty more crowd onto the two steps leading into the bus and five hang out of each door resembling suave amigos in a cheesy movie. When school gets out it is even worse. Every child in Vellore uses the mass transit, along with every adult getting off work. The children overflow out the doors like bushels of grapes. I’m not kidding. Children hang onto other children that aren’t even on the bus. It scares me half to death.  So, thanks India for teaching me how two-hundred or more people can fit onto, or spew out of, a bus.   

 

Now picture being in the middle of the bus, cram packed tighter than sardines in a can. Everyone smells. Everyone has bags, or crates, or lord knows what else. One man even brought his parakeet on board one day. So live animals and all, we all fit happily (or not so happily in my case) onto the bus. Sometimes I just want to yell, “No! There is no more room. Please, please, please wait for the next one!” But that would be a lost cause. That is just the way things are in India. There are so many people. Everywhere. All the time. I never guessed that the term “my space” would literally mean the space that my physical body takes up.

 

And the India music is equally as bad. If only you could all have the treat of hearing it. A man and woman usually sing in the highest key humanly possible in the whiniest, most nasal sounding voice. A tambourine or wood block usually accompanies. And the buses have the most wonderful idea of playing it, full blast while everyone smashes in! It’s a combination that could kill. Literally.

 

As amusing as it may sound, I absolutely loath the bus ride. My hour and a half trip in wears me out more than running four miles. And I’ll be darned if I don’t need a shower after I pry myself out.

 

But I can easily say that is the worst part about my experiences right now. I have fallen in love with my translator’s family and know that I will miss them more than anyone in India. She has two nieces, Priya (13) and Pravie (8), and one nephew, Ballaji (10), that I would pack up in a suit case and take home with me if I could. Every time they see me they run and give me a hug and little Pravie gives me kisses on both cheeks when I leave to go back to RUHSA. We make shadow puppets by candlelight when the power goes out. We blow up my latex gloves and pretend they are cow’s utters. We dance in Radhika’s two room house. We sing English songs. They’re adorable. They rub my arms like white skin is the most radiant thing they’ve ever seen and little Ballaji even asked me if he could have some of my “whitening cream.” I have so many memories with them after one month’s time. It will be extremely hard to tell them goodbye.

 

Last weekend Rebecca Dyer, Kate and I visited the city of Bangalore. We walked on wide sidewalks, didn’t see one bullock cart, stayed in a hotel, and ate at Ruby Tuesday’s. We visited Bangalore’s Castle that was advertised to resemble Windsor Castle. Well, India missed the mark on that claim… but it was interesting none-the-less. The Lalbagh Gardens were lush and beautiful. It was a great weekend trip. (P.S. I can’t believe that Olaf’s global group spends all their time (in India) there!! Bangalore is not real India!!)

 

Tomorrow I’m taking the few-hour trip back to Chennai. I’m going to regretfully be a pro at the train system before I know it. It will just be an overnighter to bring some things back to put in storage. I’m preparing myself for the Diwali Festival and holiday. I hear it’s a crazy occasion in India.

 

My experiences (even if I am sometimes squished and walking through cow dung) are timeless. My frequent walks or bike rides through the countryside never fail lend a new sight in a village or take my breath away from the surrounding paradise landscape. I can’t wait to see what the next half of my semester will bring. I miss you all and sometimes find myself missing all my comforts (and safety!) in America. I can’t wait to hear from you all!

Kodaikanal… my vacation from India while still in India. October 13, 2008

On Friday I got up early, put on my sari, and headed to the village of Chennakuppam, where I go everyday to do my study. The village has somewhere around 475 households and only a few streets. The people recognize me and welcome me with flowers and little kids always find me to say “brush, brush” knowing that I may have brought a couple toothbrushes to give out. Friday was hot, easily over 100^oF. I got a deep red sunburn and ate my continuous gifts of groundnuts, dried by the sun, all day long.

           

That night I got on a train; I had no idea what I was getting myself in to when I climbed into a general seating women’s cart. My nine hour train ride ticket cost me somewhere around five dollars—you can imagine that white tourists usually don’t opt for anything other than preferred (reserved) seating—so oh boy, the old toothless women were animated when I sat down. One woman promptly handed me a thick photo album of what I would assume to be her family (does she carry that thing everywhere?). I laugh at Indian photographs because the people don’t smile. There is nothing more fun that paging through a photo album where no one looks like their having a good time…

           

They all began asking questions. Tamil is a language that, well, I have no understanding of, at all. My vocabulary is limited to hello, thank you, how are you?, what is your name?, have you eaten?, mother, father, big sister, come with me, and I’ll be back later. Ten phrases usually results in about ten seconds of quality conversation. But, you must believe me when I tell you that I talked to these old women for something close to three hours. They relentlessly asked questions and told me stories and on and on. I can honestly say I didn’t understand a word (or really speak a word)… but what an experience. They retired (from their job of inquiring in any way possible about me) early in the night and laid around the train cart anywhere there was room. It amazed me how these women had no problem sleeping on a floor that was filthy; probably dangerous to walk on without one inch soles on my shoes. (And hey, please know that I make that last comment even after the fact that my whole understanding of “dirty” has changed while I’ve been here.)

           

Between busses and trains my total travel time was around fourteen hours. I dozed maybe an hour of that but mostly just took in the culture (to the extreme), wrote letters home, and listened to the lovely blasting train horn whistle (right outside the open, barred windows as frequent as every two minutes).

           

On the bus up the mountain I was the only person with my window open. Everyone was shivering—we passed men on their motorcycles with parkas and stocking caps—and I was just as happy as a girl could be with the cool breeze on my skin. Let me emphasize “cool breeze”… The weather here is somewhere around 60^oF, and the Indians walk around bundled up like I was in Itasca’s -40^oF conditions. You’d think they would turn into an ice cube on the spot (which wouldn’t have been too far off from our actual experience in Itasca).

           

With the cool air, the dense flora and fauna and the stone cottage that welcomed me, I would think that I was at a cabin in the mountains at home. And, I got to see Shoshana and Rebecca Rand (whom I miss severely). I’ve relaxed all weekend. I slept in front of the fire in the kitchen last night. I have my American normality of drinking plain green tea (a rare find in Southern India) multiple times a day and we even whipped up grilled cheese for lunch on Saturday. It is such a nice break from the exhausting India that I have been living in for the past seven weeks.

           

I have, unfortunately, had to learn an invaluable lesson during my time here. Yesterday we went to a small bakery on the main road for breakfast. There was an Indian man sitting there, probably in his late twenties or early thirties, who asked if we were from America. As with anyone that I encounter here, I gave him a couple minutes of my time. He turned out to be a fascinating character. He had so much knowledge about America and an interesting perspective on American politics and we talked for awhile. Anywhere I go in India people offer their phone number in case I’m in their area and need a helping hand. So, naturally this man did the same. We left but then saw him again about an hour later at the market. He asked if we’d like to grab coffee later, he was traveling alone and seemed innocent enough, so we agreed to meet him. This is when my story gets mucky. It is true that we got too comfortable talking to him and telling him of our plans in India. After all, this guy was so educated and had such good English and could answer any of our questions about the country. Somewhere along the way it was revealed to him that I was traveling back to Katpadi alone today (and no it wasn’t me who offered this information carelessly) and this seemed to spark his interest. This morning I got a text from him telling me the train time. Then another telling me the bus to the train time and that “we” (meaning him and I) could catch it at 4pm today. As a series of texts from him buzzed on my phone I also got one saying that he’d booked us sleeper class tickets and we could pick them up when we arrived at the station.

           

Whoa, whoa, whoa. We? Why was this man, who knew nothing about the train in the first place booking tickets for me and him to travel together? I had bought my tickets a while back and had never told him that I needed any help. He didn’t even need to travel in my direction. It would be no problem for me to take another train except that the train from here to where I live only runs once a week, on this Monday night and I need to get back to do my research.

           

His information also didn’t line up for us to “meet and take the bus at 4” to the train station. I walked to the station to check for myself and found out that there was no available bus at that time. I think back on it now and there are so many things that didn’t add up. Why did he know so much about America? Why was he so interested in me? Why is he at this very touristy destination by himself? Why on earth did we give him the information that we did?

           

So, sorry Mom for calling you in the middle of the night, crying, to ask if I should bail on my already-paid-for train ticket. Tony, Shoshana, and Rebecca had to leave early this morning for their research so I just wanted Mom’s verdict as I am here without peers! I’m safely sitting in Kodai International School writing this post and I’ve decided to take a bus tonight to Chennai (my well known city) and then a train from there. It’s a round about (and much more expensive) way but at least I’ll be safe.

           

It’s terrifying to be traveling, alone, for long distances in any foreign country but if I ever choose (or rather have no other choice) to travel alone—the fact that I’m doing so will not be known by curious lurkers. So, thanks again India, lesson learned.

           

Anyway, I’m safe. I’ve got my head on a swivel (as a hockey coach would say). I’m doing well. My research is really coming along (I’ve already interviewed 70 people) and I’m excited for travel break (and to see Tate!) in just a couple weeks.

           

Hopefully my bus ride tonight is cozy and those 12 short hours fly by.

My dental project is underway! October 10, 2008

Well, low and behold, today I begin my seventh week in India!

 

My dental project is underway! I learned very quickly that I must be persistent if I want anything done. And, everything that has been done is solely because of my constant reminders to people and refusal to believe that ‘getting this’ or ‘doing that’ is impossible.

 

 

 

I have hired an adorable translator who knows just enough English to make my project a success and to have short fun conversations. Her name is Radhika, she’s 19, just graduated high school last year, and is a little spitfire. We get along like two peas in a pod. Everyday I go to her thatched roof house and she helps me tie my sari and puts flowers in my hair and a bindi on my forehead. I am absolutely stumped at how she knows any conversational English at all. From what I understand, she went to a government school (in India government schools are the worst… and they have holiday at least once a week) where it would have been impossible to learn English. The only possible way… is for her to have watched television and to teach herself. She’s amazing and her ambition to learn really motivates me!

 

I am so thankful that I have a reliable sidekick! I’m very tired of all the unorganization in India. I had to sit down yesterday and write down all of my frustrations and then make a list of what India has taught me so far.

 

A few from the list of, ‘I’m tired of…’

worms in my apples.

everything smelling like a foot.

water from a jug.

my Flintstone broom (seriously it looks like it is from the cartoon).

men peeing on the side of the road (or grass, or onto the sidewalk, or absolutely anywhere at any time).

no air conditioning.

 

And believe me, the list goes on.

 

But now, I am happily going out into the field to collect data. It is invaluable for me to have dental tools in my hands and to be looking into people’s mouths. There is so much more to write but it is time for me to gather my things and get out the door.

 

Be prepared to hear about my adventures this weekend. I’m going to Kodaikanal to see Rebecca Rand! It’s a nine hour train ride and I’m going solo… in general seating class. Sometimes I think I’m out of my mind!

 

Hope everyone is enjoying the fall weather and colors, wherever you are in the world!