One Memorable Walk at Exactly Two Months Time

I never believed I would be this excited to make a twenty minute walk outside the gates for something so materialistic. Not a very materialistic person in general, a huge grin took over my face as I received that phone call from our on-site supervisor this morning. The minute I hung up the phone I threw on a cardigan to cover my shoulders and walked out of my room. It was the late morning and I already had my one class for the day. I decided to preoccupy some time by reading the newspaper and cutting out a couple pages to mail to family.

When I walked out of my girls’ hall, the security guard happily greeted me like every morning. I passed the gravel/dirt pathway onto the cement road, passing the other girls’ hostel. The road is surrounded by many different green trees, rising high above and gently falling over the people returning from class, passing through, riding bikes, and the occasional rickshaws that pass by. As I turned right, many more Indian students came into view as I passed the outside “common area” of campus. While still much green around, palm and coconut trees, there is a very large courtyard of orange dirt, with benches, and a couple food stands. Students, men and women, mingle in groups, couples and individually in-between classes. Being the only white person around, I stuck out.

The walk for about fifteen minutes is very peaceful in comparison to the center of Chennai, or even the outskirts. Campus is quite green and quiet. I passed a couple deer hiding in the trees. There was the occasional man or woman on a motorbike or bicycle that passed me by. Other than that, only slowly did the noise of horns come to my ears. As I walked out the gate and turned left the brick wall surrounding campus was seen on the road. I walked a fast walk, keeping a pace, and only thinking about what was now quite near to me. There were the usual cows and stray dogs feeding in the garbage or palm trimmings. Along with, there were many beautiful women wrapped in saris and the smell of chai tea slowly consuming those senses. It was about time to climb up those few stairs. I did not care about the heat in the usual nineties or the humidity. I rounded the corner to go inside only to wait in line. Compared to some instances, the line was relatively short and quite fast. Thank goodness, because once I saw the package of about half a square foot, I smiled. I patiently showed the employee my parcel pick-up slip I was given this morning after the phone call. Packages, envelopes, people, desks, paperwork, and little cubicles to store information surrounded me everywhere. No matter how busy it was, people were friendly, able to speak English or not; a woman showed me in the right direction and a man who took my package slip right away.

I never thought I would be that determined to get back to my room only to open that package. Mom and dad, thank you so much! In many ways, I do not like to admit it, but I think it is only natural to miss certain things from home, certain comforts of home. I walked back to my Indian home with so much determination I don’t remember half the things I saw or the people that passed by me. I only tried to hold back my excitement as I walked back onto the green campus, under the trees, pass the students in the common area ordering fresh grape, mango, or pineapple juice, and back pass my security guard into the girls’ hostel.

I never thought I would be this happy to see freshly ground coffee beans and mini coffee filters. Most of all was the scent; as soon as I opened the package, the scent of coffee absorbed the room. As much as I love the tradition and culture of milky tea and coffee here, sometimes I have that craving for something a bit less milky and sweet. Everything in the package was excellent. It was a bit of home for me to have while here in India. Tomorrow morning before I put on my kurta and scarf, leave for my field placement, walk to the train station, and sit with many Indian women, I will make myself some coffee.

From Chai, Horns, and Cows, to Price Negotiations and a Popped Tire

How can I explain to everyone the excitement that appears when using transportation in India? Every trip is an adventure; it may be an eight hour, overnight train ride to a Hindu temple city or an hour long bus ride standing, holding on to the medal bars as you brace yourself feet spread apart. The adventure wouldn’t fall short of the quick train ride to the city center. Even in the women’s compartment, vendors hop on and off as they please, awakening everyone as they shout out the samosas, bananas, or guavas that they are selling. If I am looking for something to do, an exciting day would be right around the corner, simply by taking the fifteen minute walk to the nearest train or bus station. But most exciting of all are the rickshaw rides.

This could be either the individual auto-rickshaws located right outside of our campus gates or it could be the share-auto which I find in the outskirts of the city on the route to my field placement. The adventure could start anywhere from meeting people happily smiling at you as many, many are shoved into the vehicle to having a newly made friend follow you off to your internship because of language miscommunication. It could be the popped tire on the rickshaw after only one-hundred feet. Most of all, the adventure and excitement comes from gazing out the window, or rather the open side of the three-wheeled vehicle. All senses are appealed to after the price is bargained with the driver and the engine is started relatively loudly.

Today Jess and I decided to go for a little brewed coffee. Café Coffee Day was the destination for this Sunday afternoon. The driver of the rickshaw which pulled over for us was quite happy to take us, although as we soon discovered, his understanding of where we were going did not match up with ours’. Nonetheless time was preoccupied by the smell of a mixture of diesel, rain, garbage, and chai. As we picked up speed garbage on the side of the road started to zoom by quicker and quicker with people coming in and out, along with stray dogs and cows. We could hear the chanting or recording of the nearby temple we were about to pass. My eyes fell upon the diverse arrangements of roadside shops, all connected, yet customized. Refreshing juice stands stood next to sweet shops. The smell of chai came as traffic slowed because of the traffic light. Cars, motorbikes, and city buses rode up next to and behind us. As we waited pedestrians faces were draw to us, the only white women sitting in any rickshaw probably within miles.
Once again, horns started blowing as the light turned green and there was a mad rush to weave in and out of each other like the game “Frogger.” If passing any car on the right or left, the driver of the rickshaw beeps his horn. If turning in any direction he will beep his horn. It is the way of notifying all other fellow drivers what and who is surrounding them. Many people passed us as we tried to explain to the driver without any communication that what we thought we bargained for was a little further. It was the first time I saw a family of five on a motorbike. They slowly zoomed by as many other motorbikes did; yet, this was the only one with what I guessed was a mother, father, teenage daughter, and two younger children all squeezed on as he controlled the handle bars and she took up the rear riding the common side-saddle technique because of her sari.

We sped pass the little gas station, through some road puddles; passed several little restaurant/bars serving curry and paratha cooked right on the spot. Numerous colors, including orange, green, yellow, and red filled our sight as we passed a man sitting patiently near the fruit stand. Men were sitting and conversing as motorbikes pulled off the side of the road for a quick snack at the snack bar.

After fifteen minutes time we arrived to our endpoint. We were able to figure out a price and thanked the driver very much for driving us. It is one of my favorite forms of transportation here. You can learn a great amount about the culture and city by just observing who and what you pass by as the driver tries to speak English with you and happily takes you to your bargained destination. While today our destination was a relaxing Café Coffee Day, last weekend it was to the famous St. Thomas Mount, with much Portuguese influence, and then to Marina Beach, one of the longest beaches in Asia and in the world. Our rickshaw rides have been back to college from the vegetable market and out to a restaurant for lunch or dinner. The possibilities are endless. No matter where you want to go in the city, it seems a knowledgeable driver will know where you would like to go, and if you’re lucky he will give you a little tour of the city as you pass landmarks and notable, historical buildings!

Devotional Coal Walking

I do not intend to analyze or act as an expert on the Hindu religion or any religion in India. While saying that, I also do believe that I have witnessed and learned a great amount about religion in India. Originally, I wanted to save this topic for a later time in India, learning and absorbing as much as possible. However, after the effects of last night I thought it would be quite all right to write a bit now about the devotion, no matter what religion, I have noticed in many citizens of India.

The night was a perfect declaration to the Indian pace of life and relaxation that is evident. The past week our social work professors have been encouraging us to observe a Hindu ritual/ceremony on the full moon. It so happened that the full moon was last night. As we slowly walked around away from the city concrete buildings slowly dispersed to be replaced by palm trees one by one as green consumed a larger amount of the hills appearing in the distance. Little huts popped up on either side of the narrow tar road when we slowly walked and listened to our professor explain to us the history of the village. One family, with the traditional Indian hospitality quickly came out of their house with several chairs for us Americans as we guiltily and unexpectantly waited for them to return from their neighbors of fifteen feet with more chairs. There we were given a tour of their home. The homes in this village, a rickshaw drive away from the college, had foundations of concrete with a rooftop made of coconut leaves. Quite cool inside under the fan, there were only two rooms, one with cooking utensils and the other with a bed, tv, and some cabinet, housing a couple with maybe two children. We were served hot chai and biscuits while we waited for the hot coal burning ceremony to start.

The ceremony is very important for these people. Of the couple we met and talked with through translations, they were extremely proud to know someone participating in the ceremony. It is an honor. At six pm we were started making our way to were many people of the community were gathering. The decorations put on all the participants were beautiful. It was relatively easy to pick out who would be walking across hot coals by the yellow that they were wearing and the paint on the faces and body. It was easy for us foreigners to react with concern when we saw several young children decorated for later that evening.

Little did we know that seeing children participating in the ceremony would eventually consume the least of our thoughts. As cool and calm as the night started out, it felt as if the temperature soared as we patiently awaited the activities among a large crowd surrounding a mound of fire and hot coals. Within this waiting period, we made conversation with people, but more importantly simply observed everyone. It was not a laughing, happy manner, but more within the realm of a devotional service. It was apparent that people were anticipating and focused on their neighbors, husbands, wives, friends, and fathers to take this initiative, to become a god for that moment. As we learned there, it was not just a one night deal. These people had fasted in one way or another for forty days prior to this night. Now it was their time; after walking through the coals, they were to become a god for that moment. That is what they believe. Those who were able to walk through the hot coals without a significant amount of physical harm were seen to have the god within them. Once the participants started lining up, the atmosphere and air seemed to become more serious, as if a priest just announced the opening hymn in a Catholic mass. One by one men, women, young, and old walked slowly, quickly, step-by-step, some carrying children, walked through the path of hot coals and into a step of water. There was no clapping; only drumming, shouting, and yells of approval. Although not a Hindu, the devotion and passion everyone had here for their gods, for their religion, for something powerful to them was quite contagious. I have never seen so much dedication and belief in a group of people. This has been a quite consistent observation of mine through my time so far in India.

The most extreme part came, as I turned around to see who else was in line. My eyes immediately were caught by a thin metal rod, horizontal to the ground of about five feet. It was not miraculously suspended through the air; instead it was pierced through the cheeks of a middle-aged man. It went in one cheek, through his mouth and out the opposite cheek as if his skin were paper with a whole made simply by a pair of scissors. This was not just one extremely brave soul; it was the beginning of a trend of that evening. Many walked through those coals with a similar piercing. What was more: he danced, a devotional dance before slowly walking on the coals.

It was a silent walk home around 9:00 that night. Many thoughts were streaming through my brain. As foreign and crazy as it may seem as you read about this, it was extremely real and inspiring. Yes, it was a bit scary to see children walk through coals and to know that humans were destroying parts of their body. Regardless of the lack of knowledge I have of the religion (even after living here for a month) and the spirituality I have of my own, I was in awe at how spiritual these people were. I thought when able to soak it all in, would I be that devoted to someone, to my religion, to participate in a ceremony like that?

I must say, I am content just watching J

Saree Encounters

Throughout this week, I have discovered what I originally thought would become relevant to me right away while in India. As an American woman in India studying social work, I have a subconscious special treatment of what business-like attire I must wear. While all the other social work students must wear their sarees to field placements on Tuesday and Thursdays, we American’s must wear a kurta above some full-length pants. For those of you who are not sure, sarees are what you may have seen women wearing in pictures or in films: it is a piece of long fabric in which their body is wrapped in an elegant way. What I must wear is something also tradition, but maybe a bit more casual for Indians.

I am explaining this to you, only so you have a better picture of the excitement and fascination store officials had towards us American girls as we did a few days of saree shopping. We were invited to a wedding in the southwestern most state, Kerala. It is supposed to be the greenest, cleanest state in India. Several people have asked me whose wedding we are going to. It has not been an uncommon response for people to be a bit confused when I told them that it was a friend of a friend. A friend of a friend has a sister getting married next weekend. Because she knows some of us, she wanted all of us to come. We were a little unsure at first. I did not want to be the overeager American to barge in on the wedding. That was not at all the vibe they gave us. There will be over 1000 people there, which is quite normal or average. Although these celebrations last for one week or so, we will only be there for a long weekend component. This is the reason we went on several adventures to buy sarees. The condition was that if we went, we must wear the sarees. None of us women had ANY problem with that.

First we went to the nearby mall, much nicer than any mall back home. It took a few stores to finally find a decent price range, in which there were shelves and shelves of fabric, all to make the sarees. It was a great thing that we had two of our Indian friends with us able to tell us which material to buy. Thank God they were there because, who would have thought that one material, which we would describe as silky, is actually considered casual rather than formal.

Our saree encounters did not stop there. The next day was a Monday, which was by chance the Social Work party day. The Social Work department here is quite literally amazing. It is like one huge family. Several members of the “family” including the professors informed us that it was a retro party. I never guessed I should have packed retro for India. It turns out retro for us, being the sixties Greecer/biker chick, the hippy from the sixties, or the eighties side pony-tale girls was quite different from the Indian retro. These girls were in brightly colored sarees, including one of hot pink. Their hair was up and puffy. The men were in tight pants and button up shirts. If I felt like I stood out while walking down the streets of India, that was just a taste for how different we felt in this circumstance. This only caused entertainment and conversation. It was a really fun time.

Finally for the week, our destination was one of the most well-known streets of Chennai, in which shops and vendors are everywhere. The street was of course packed full on a Saturday. Our objective for the day was to get a skirt fitted for underneath the saree along with a blouse stitched. Every woman wears a long skirt underneath her saree which has the purpose as being support for the all of the material. Above that, each woman wears a short blouse, above the midriff where the saree weaves elegantly around. It was quite easy to find someone to stitch our blouses and take our measurements. After all, we were the only white people of the hundreds of people on the street.

Now the anticipation begins for the trip to a beautiful state (from what I’m told). An Indian wedding is awaiting us!

Beginning Weekly Routines

Just as if I were at home on a vacation to some exciting destination, such as San Diego, Minneapolis, Dubuque, even Pembine, Wisconsin, returning to wherever I am calling home at that moment can be quite difficult for me. It is not the idea of home that creates this melancholy feeling, but rather the idea that I am leaving something new and fascinating, only to start back into the same, familiar routines. Life is like that. Although, a thirty-three hour plane trip away, Chennai felt like that home I was going back to after having such a great excursion in Kodaikanal and Madurai. It is interesting that I am already considering certain things “routines” and “familiar” about Chennai, certain things that no longer seem as new and exciting. They are becoming habitual, just as I was at home.

It was a good thing to start off the beginning of a routinely week with an exciting trip to the cinema or movie theater, only to see the famous, worldly Harry Potter. I surprised myself with the amount of excitement I had looking up to the movie. Like I mentioned in a previous blog, the theater I had been to is much better than any in the States. Many of us were looking forward to that time in which we could sit in a lounge-like-chair, eat nice, buttery popcorn, and be completely immersed in a different, fantasy world, with an intermission to only make the experience longer and more enjoyable. Never has the movie theater been filled with so much discussion and excitement about what was happening in the film and what was yet to come. The movie finished to be followed by a typical journey back in a rickshaw and train ride.

The days that followed the movie this week have been the start to my normal weekly schedule. Classes, or “papers” as they are called here, are on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday with field placements on Tuesday and Thursdays. Classes are in similar formats to that in the United States. Nonetheless, here, each class is at a different time depending on the day. The Social Work department here at MCC is quite phenomenal. All of my classes and such are within that department with the MSW program. To me it is remarkable how close the twenty to twenty-five students are to one another. They have most of their classes together, plan many outside class activities, have a weekly prayer group, and are currently organizing an international conference regarding the Millennium Development Goals to be held on campus. The professors are also fantastic. A pretty equal ratio of men and women make up the faculty, all of varying ages. My favorite part of the week was in the presence of my teacher of Social Legislation and Policy in India. It was a joke that made me laugh as well as the rest of the class. He was quite happy that the foreigner laughed and understood his joke. The joke was one regarding the Indian culture and the use of the left and right hands, and how those uses should not be interchanged in specific cases. Who would of thought a person would quickly replace his right hand with his left when it was about to get chopped off?

Other than class, my field placement has started this week! I am working outside of the city, a beautiful train ride plus rickshaw ride away. The two days of placement have not been extremely eventful, but have really participated in my education for the week. Being surrounded by greenery, a few hills, and palm trees, with grazing cows and a breeze is a nice change of pace from the honking horns, vehicles all over, and the auto rickshaw drivers approaching you for business. There are a few villages to visit which are much different than a rural community in the States. It has been a week of mostly shadowing and translating from Tamil to English. Nonetheless, the excitement I bring to children in a one-room schoolhouse is irreplaceable. It is incredible how much they would like you to sing to them, or how much they would like to practice their English, or how excited they are to see you drive past them on the street. It was a bit challenging to travel to and from, but it was one-hundred percent worth the minuscule struggle.

As difficult as it is to return home from a trip, it always has its advantages. As soon as the routines do start, it is quite easy to forget those feelings only to be thankful to be in one’s own bed, with familiar pictures of friends around, friends asking you where you were and how it was, and even the idea of having lessons with classmates again.