23 mattresses and one voice

The huge population of sandals outside the door meant the fisher folk had stayed the night.

I’d seen them in the conference room the previous evening. 23 coastal villagers, each with a dignified, quiet presence, sitting cross-legged on the floor. There were adults and elders. Men and women. Each person was invariably thin. One older woman was missing an eye. They dressed well. They were clean**. They looked like people on the cusp, for the first time, of gaining objective self-confidence.

They are called the Yanadhi tribe. Their livelihood is in crab picking, shrimp, and small fish farming. Most of them will own two, maybe three outfits over the course of their lives. Their living conditions, Sivaji (co-founder of this NGO) tells me, are minimal and extremely poor. They came by bus to discuss their rights and participate in a workshop about Community Based Organizations and self-empowerment, one of many in which they had participated over the past three years. They stayed the night in the thatched roof building that I had recently vacated.

On what did they sleep? I doubt this place has 23 teacups – let alone 23 mattresses.

Nonetheless, the morning came and they were still here. Their meeting commenced around 8am, so they were up early. A few of the men were seen brushing their teeth in the hallway sink at 6am outside Karen’s door.

Karen is a short-term AJWS volunteer serving here for two months. Today is her birthday. There was talk around the office about getting her a cake, and people were getting pretty excited. I walked past a colleague’s computer and saw that he had Googled birthday card images. Seems he hadn’t yet heard of eCard...on his screen was a solitary purple rectangle with a white cake, candles, and fireworks. It read Happy Birthday Gino.

Around 11am word came that we were to meet downstairs for cake. I put down my laptop and stepped out into the conference room. Except for an evenly spaced semi-circle of notebooks and personal items, the room was empty. What happened to all the villagers? I asked. I turned to Joseph. Oh downstairs they went to cut the cake, he replied.

Sure enough, all meetings and workshops had been put on hold, and everyone in the office – including the 23 Yanadhi villagers – sat on the floor awaiting Karen’s arrival. The men sat in the front left. The women sat in the middle back. The NGO staff sat on the right. Karen joined the group and sat front middle, accompanied by a shy younger woman in a purple saree who had agreed – nervously – to sing a traditional song. She began, and soon the rest of the tribe joined in. It was moving, but also it was remarkable. Remarkable that in the course of three years, a people’s confidence could swing from a low point - where historically they would not even reach out to neighboring communities for fear of harassment - to such a high, wherein they represent themselves at a workshop, and share their traditions with foreign visitors.

**I asked Vani (NGO co-founder) how one would tell that these people came from a “scheduled” caste (meaning the most neglected – poor, illiterate, forgotten). She said that a lot has to do with their physical presentation and the quality of their clothing. Three years ago, she said, when outreach to this tribe began, the people were literally unclean and they smelled awful. Upon arriving here, they would report that passengers on the bus had refused to sit beside them, or would stand up and change seats. Vani explained it to them in simple, fair terms: Before issues of discrimination could be addressed, they had to respect peoples’ right to protect their own health. The tribe made the change accordingly. So when I say they were clean and well-dressed, I point this out as a mark of advancement and a step towards overcoming actual systemic causes of discrimination.

New Photos @ the bottom of this page

Scroll down to the very bottom of this page to have a look at some recent photos from Mussoorie, the train ride south, and my NGO. To see a description of the photo, simply click on it during the slide show.

Vijayawada

I’ve arrived in Vijayawada, Andhra Pradesh – my home for the next 9 months. Hello Mudda…Hello Fawdda…Here I am in…Vijayawada. After 48 hours of traveling – one taxi, three trains, two ‘official’ changes in language – the train pulled around a slight bend to reveal modest homes painted in rich colors: Pinks, oranges, yellows, and sherbert greens, set against the backdrop of a slouching mountain. Palm trees, thatched-roof huts, and a creek. Albeit a creek with toxic looking foam around the edges – but a creek nonetheless. Besides, there were children playing in the toxic looking foam. If the children play in the toxic looking foam, the water mustn't be so bad. Right?

That last detail aside, the nickname for Vijayawada “city of fire”, and the belly laughter with which some north Indians responded when I told them where I’d be living, had evoked, say, a harsher image in my mind.

So I’m here. I’m settled. Well, sort of.

Over the past five weeks I’ve seen my fair share of sub-par living conditions. Dirt floors. Concrete pillows. Children romping through sludge-bubbling water. Blue tarp tents, rural, trackside. You know?

Actually, I read a great passage on the train ride down from Arundhati Roy’s book of political essays, The Algebra of Infinite Justice, (thanks Sam) a passage which I’ll post in full later on, saying something to the effect of: Of course India is a microcosm of the rest of the world…wealth and poverty existing side by side. The difference is that in India, your face is smashed right up against it.

So anyway, I’m very happy where I am, and am very fond of the NGO where I'll be staying. It’s certainly a matter of perspective, when it comes to living conditions, and I’ve seen far, far, far, far worse. That said, I had to vacate my initial room here, on account of my own discomfort/paranoia. I need to be healthy to work – and the five bug bites I received the first night, after preparing for bed in a room with only bars and wooden shutters for windows, made me worry, perhaps excessively, that I was on the fast track to acquiring Malaria, Dengue, Japanese Encephalitis, “Chick”, or one of the other gifts the local mosquitoes have to offer.

The people here have been more than accommodating – kind and concerned – and though it sounds worse than it is, for the last two nights I’ve slept in the conference of the NGO (it’s right next door to the founders' house – nearly attached). Tonight I’ll be moving into said house. I’m flexible, for what it’s worth.

On another note, I now have a phone. Here’s the number: +91 990 860 9590. If you use Skype, it's something like 15c per minute to call my mobile. Would love to hear from you.

I’ll post the story about actually getting that number next time…

Not Yet South

The air in Delhi is heavy, hard and thick. Breathing is a chore. Sweat pours from the forehead, forming salty-clean streams through a layer of tire grime and road sludge. I took to wearing a bandana on my right wrist to wipe the shit from my face. Unfortunately, something resembling a boil has emerged on my forehead – I’m not sure why, but if I had to guess – it’s from inadvertently drying my face with Delhi-dirt. I’ve been told the air is not nearly as bad as it was three years ago, before the dirty city busses were replaced with a cleaner alternative.

* * *

I spend a lot of time wondering about normality and adjustment. How long can a new place instill awe? You might see a mother and her malnourished children slumming in dirt and trash beneath a bridge; a dozen times in a ten minute rickshaw ride. Does this eventually blend into the background, like familiar architecture?

* * *

In the back of a rickshaw with two other Fellows, I’m soaked with sweat, breathing fumes, waiting for the light to change. Two filthy-ragged children, too thin, approach my side. A boy and a girl. The girl wears a makeshift drum, string-slung across her chest. It looks like she’s done this many times before. Her eyes convey mechanical resignation. Her hands daintily tap each side of the drum. I see it but I hear nothing. She looks directly into my eye and does not blink. The boy now has sat down on the hot asphalt and has pressed his knees to his chest. In his hand is a small metal hoop, a foot in diameter at the most. I watch as he squeezes it over his shoulders, around his arms, and down past his hips. He does it again. Again. Again. If there was a right response or appropriate action to be taken there, I could not, did not, think of it.

* * *

There are 16 Fellows with me in India. Six of us will work in southern India. The rest will be placed in various cities throughout the north. Last week, we were supposed to split along these lines, the southerners traveling to Hyderbad for Telegu lessons (the language of Andhra Pradesh), the northerners returning to the mountains for coursework in Hindi. The eve of our departure, two bombs exploded simultaneously in the Hyderbad. 40 were killed in two separate parts of town. We were scheduled to board a train for this city in less than 24 hours.

The television images were far more graphic than what we see it home. What I saw was sickening, and naturally, I couldn’t help but think what could have been, had we left a day earlier. Later in the week, six of us crammed into a one-bedroom apartment, we learned that 19 additional bombs had been found; had failed to detonate. I’m under no illusions that I’m totally safe in India, but the threat of terrorism hadn’t crossed my mind.

We never went south, staying instead for four days in the small apartment, in a situation that could aptly be called the Real World Partners Fellowship. See what happens when people stop being polite…

So the five girls and I rejoined the rest of the group up north at an idyllic language school. We’re learning Hindi, which will serve no purpose in the south, but will surely pay off as India continues its rise to prominence in the coming years.

* * *