Christmas this year was not traditional, which actually seems to be the tradition for me. In the last 5 years, I have spent only one at home with family, which was in 2008. Before that I spent Christmas in Beijing, Xinzheng, Manila, and now India. My roommates had never spent a Christmas away from family, so we decided to go on a trip to distract ourselves and Mumbai was the perfect destination for four days off.
We boarded the train on Christmas Eve after working a full day and woke up in Mumbai at 5am. The train ride from Surat to Mumbai should be about 5 hours, but we took the slowest train imaginable and the trip took a lengthy 12 hours (one way was 99 rupees; about $2.00). We found a taxi and headed towards Colaba, one of the most popular places in Mumbai, in search of The Salvation Army Hostel. It was too early to check in so we hung around the dining area and while we waited we witnessed a small Christmas gathering of the workers and got to sing some Christmas songs and listen to the Christmas story. Then, we all filed downstairs to check in, which is when I realized I had made a huge mistake.
As I was packing for the trip I was hesitating about bringing my passport, and then, at the last minute I decided against bringing it. As a traveler, your passport is the most important item. A lost passport can be devastating, so if I think I don’t need it, I leave it locked up at home. Other teachers had told me that they had stayed in hotels in Mumbai with no passport, so I thought I would be okay. This was not the case for me. When the gruff front desk man asked me for my passport my stomach dropped. I did have a black and white copy of my passport and visa which I handed to him. He was looking them over when I realized that the visa copy was of my OLD visa which had expired on November 14th. I had neglected to photocopy the new visa I received in October. My stomach jumped.
“This is expired,” he said in a rough tone.
“I’m sorry, I left my passport in Gujarat. I do have a new visa,” I managed to say.
“You cannot stay here without a passport and visa. Go to the police station and ask for a letter,” he replied flatly, handing the copies back to me.
When I entered the Colaba police station several officers turned as I entered and gave me a hard look. “What can I do for you?” the sergeant asked.
“I, um, I need a letter to stay at The Salvation Army. I, uh, forgot my passport,” I stammered as I handed him my passport and visa copy.
“Sit and wait,” he barked back and I obeyed.
I sat for about 45 minutes while he dealt with four Indian women and their grievances. The longer I sat, the more nervous I got. I started to run through my options if I was not given the letter that I needed. I decided that I could give my bags to the other girls for safekeeping inside and that I would wrap myself in my sheet and sleep outside. It wasn’t too cold, and if no one saw that I was a foreigner maybe I could survive two nights sleeping on the streets of Mumbai.
Finally, the sergeant finished with the women and it was my turn. Before I even sat down in front of him he swept all the papers from his desk, including my only copy of my passport, balled them up, and threw them into the corner. Not good.
“So what do you want from me?” he asked.
I repeated my story as he looked at me, clearly not happy that I was there.
“How can I write you a letter?!” he said, folding his arms across his chest, “I don’t know you. Go back to America and get your passport,” he said.
“I have my passport, but I left it in Gujarat. I’m sorry. I made mistake and left it in Gujarat,” I replied, shrinking smaller by the minute.
“Go back to Gujarat! Get your passport, and then come back to Mumbai,” he growled.
“I can’t, my return ticket is for the 27th. I am only here for two nights, for Christmas. Today is Christmas,” I managed to say through the growing ball in my throat, and I felt it coming; tears.
Till this point, I had not cried in India, but this was too much. It was Christmas Day and the irony of not having a place to stay was too much. I bit my lip and my eyes spilled over as a few tears slid silently down my cheeks. He picked up the phone and began a lengthy conversation with someone while watching me.
He slammed down the phone and said “Do you know what Whagwalla means?”
“What?” I sniffed.
He began to write the word on a scrap of paper. “Whagwalla! It means Tiger Killer. Say it! Tiger Killer.”
“Tiger Killer?” I said in a questioning voice, totally confused as to what was happening.
“You go to Salvation Army and ask for the Tiger Killer,” he said as he slid the paper across the table. “I have just spoken with him. You tell the manager he is the Tiger Killer. Maybe he will let you stay,” he said.
“Uh, okay, um, Tiger Killer? Ok, thank you,” I said as I walked out.
The manager at the Salvation Army was clearly not happy with the trouble I was causing by not bringing my passport. He was more Army than Salvation and he too gave me a hard time about not bringing my passport. I don’t blame him; it was a stupid mistake on my part, but it was Christmas! He snatched the scrap of paper I humbly offered and slammed it into his desk drawer.
“You stay only two nights,” he said in a tone of finality.
“Yes. Thank you. Only two nights. Merry Christmas,” I said as I breathed a sigh of relief.
After cleaning up, we hit the streets. Mumbai, also interchangeably called Bombay, is an island in the Western state of Maharastria. Our hostel was in prime real estate in the Colaba district and we were just a five minute walk to the Gateway of India and other sites of interest. The weather was perfect on this Christmas morning and our appetites were craving both good food and entertainment. We ended up at Mondegar Café for our Christmas brunch which included bacon AND sausage for me. After filling up on delicious food, we headed to a nicer part of Mumbai to watch Avatar in 3-D, which we enjoyed immensely. As we were walking out of the theater we literally ran into a famous Bollywood actor, but were too star struck to speak.
The next day we went to the Museum of Modern Art, did some shopping, marveled at the Gateway of India, admired the Taj Hotel, and got lost in the chaos of Crawford Market. We spent the majority of our time eating all the food and drinks that are impossible to find in our village. Before we knew it, it was time to head back to Bombay Central to board our train headed for home. After another 12 hours we arrived back in Madhi, the village Kirsten and I teach in, and jumped into a rickshaw bound for Bajipura.
We had postponed opening gifts until the 28th, which is when we celebrated our after-Christmas Christmas. I made some muffins (thanks to Shellie) and Dunkin Donuts coffee (thanks to Hannah) as a special treat and we all sat on mattresses on the floor as we exchanged our Secret Santa gifts between the four of us. Then we laid on the floor together and watched Elf and Love Actually. Even though we were missing our families, we were still able to have a good Christmas.
New Year’s came and went with barely a second glance from me. Running at 6am everyday makes me very tired and I try to be in bed by 10pm. As I was heading to bed at 9:30 Drew asked if I was going to stay up, and then I realized that it was New Year’s Eve. Going to bed sounded like more fun, so I missed the arrival of 2010.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Hit the Road!
Some of the Nanubhai Teaching Fellows are hitting the road, literally, in hopes of earning money for rural education. A group of 6 Fellows have set their sights on running a Half Marathon in January with the hope of earning money for every kilometer ran on race day.
After running my first marathon in 2006 I decided that I would either run one Full or two Half Marathons every year. I’m not sure how to explain my attraction to doing something most people would consider a punishment, but nonetheless, I continue to run even here in India. My roommates call me a masochist, and maybe so, but misery loves company and so I enlisted them to join me.
Training for a major race in America can be hard enough; running in India sometimes feels impossible. As we have already experienced, the obstacles can be great. Earlier in the year we were faced with extreme heat, punishing humidity, and finally, mass amounts of rain during the monsoon season. It has also been difficult to find good places to run; there are no jogger friendly trails here. The main roads are extremely dangerous and so we started scouting good routes on less traveled roads that cut through the thick sugar cane fields. Nutrition is now becoming a problem as our mileage increases. We are on vegetarian diets that don’t provide us with enough calories or protein to sustain all that we demand of our bodies. I am starving one hour after eating breakfast!
The idea of raising money through running has been in my mind for a while. When I traveled through Indonesia I met an English teacher who asked me if I could send his school some books in English. I promised that I would, but at that time I was living in China and it wasn't possible for me to fulfill my promise. When I returned to America in July of 2008 I vowed to make good on my word and I began to send boxes of books to Indonesia. I felt great about being able to help, but this was very costly for me during a time that I was unemployed. It was also during this time that I was training for the Seattle Marathon and an idea popped into my head; what if people donated money for every mile I run, and that money could finance the postage of books to other countries? I was really excited about this idea, but it never got further than my mind. Until now.
So here we are; 6 of us in 3 different cities in rural India. We are all training for the same race, all with the same hopes that running a few miles can make a difference in the life of at least one student. We have our own blog spot where interested people can follow our training, feel our pain, and hopefully get involved in our goal of providing assistance to a well-deserving student. Just like our students, we will keep our eyes on the future and continue to work hard despite all the obstacles and pain that we face.
Please visit www.21k4kids.com
After running my first marathon in 2006 I decided that I would either run one Full or two Half Marathons every year. I’m not sure how to explain my attraction to doing something most people would consider a punishment, but nonetheless, I continue to run even here in India. My roommates call me a masochist, and maybe so, but misery loves company and so I enlisted them to join me.
Training for a major race in America can be hard enough; running in India sometimes feels impossible. As we have already experienced, the obstacles can be great. Earlier in the year we were faced with extreme heat, punishing humidity, and finally, mass amounts of rain during the monsoon season. It has also been difficult to find good places to run; there are no jogger friendly trails here. The main roads are extremely dangerous and so we started scouting good routes on less traveled roads that cut through the thick sugar cane fields. Nutrition is now becoming a problem as our mileage increases. We are on vegetarian diets that don’t provide us with enough calories or protein to sustain all that we demand of our bodies. I am starving one hour after eating breakfast!
The idea of raising money through running has been in my mind for a while. When I traveled through Indonesia I met an English teacher who asked me if I could send his school some books in English. I promised that I would, but at that time I was living in China and it wasn't possible for me to fulfill my promise. When I returned to America in July of 2008 I vowed to make good on my word and I began to send boxes of books to Indonesia. I felt great about being able to help, but this was very costly for me during a time that I was unemployed. It was also during this time that I was training for the Seattle Marathon and an idea popped into my head; what if people donated money for every mile I run, and that money could finance the postage of books to other countries? I was really excited about this idea, but it never got further than my mind. Until now.
So here we are; 6 of us in 3 different cities in rural India. We are all training for the same race, all with the same hopes that running a few miles can make a difference in the life of at least one student. We have our own blog spot where interested people can follow our training, feel our pain, and hopefully get involved in our goal of providing assistance to a well-deserving student. Just like our students, we will keep our eyes on the future and continue to work hard despite all the obstacles and pain that we face.
Please visit www.21k4kids.com
So this is Christmas
Last week in my Spoken English class we spent a lot of time talking about Christmas, which seemed a little unreal to me. In India it feels nothing like winter, let alone Christmas time. I still think it is baseball season in America and that my parents, who are both teachers, are on summer vacation. In the Land of the Perpetual Sun, it is difficult for me to imagine people in America bundled up, building snowmen, Christmas shopping, and spending time inside with family and friends to take refuge from the cold weather.
Explaining and planning lessons around the Christmas theme made it a little easier for me to get in the Christmas mood. The students here all know about Christmas, but in our little village they have never had an opportunity to hear about it from a Western’s point of view. I have to admit that the more I talked about how Christmas is celebrated, the more ridiculous it sounded to me. When asked who Santa Claus was I first tried explaining about Saint Nicolas, the Patron Saint of Children, and how through the years he morphed into the Santa Claus we know today. This was of little interest to them; they wanted to hear about the red suit, red cap, and the bag of gifts they have seen in pictures. As I talked about how Santa flies around the world in a sleigh and enters every home through the chimney to deposit gifts under the tree and into the stockings hung by the chimney (with care) their expressions became more and more contorted into a face that seemed to be saying “Huh?”
In my class we made Christmas ornaments out of pipe cleaners and it was a lot of fun to see the students use their creativity. At first when I handed out the pipe cleaners they kept asking me “Teacher, what do I do with it?” “Anything!” I replied as I showed them how to bend and twist them into different shapes. As they caught on to the pipe cleaners’ possibilities there was no stopping them. Then, on Christmas Eve we made Christmas cards and chaos reined my classroom. I spent time the week before cutting out different shapes and preparing all the materials, which included some glitter that was sent from America (thanks mom!). The glitter was by far the most used material and the desks and floor of the classroom sparkled with the remnants of their creations.
The culmination of the Christmas lessons was our Christmas Party. The students took full control of the planning as they ordered food and a cake and talked to the Principal about wearing red clothes in lieu of their uniforms. I was not allowed into the assembly hall until everything was just perfect. They even managed to find snow spray and as I entered we were all covered in wet, foamy snow. As I cut my Christmas cake the students sang We Wish You a Merry Christmas before I blew out the candles. Then, every student fed me a piece of cake, and then smeared a little frosting on my face. I had a lot of fun celebrating with my students and I appreciate their efforts to make my Christmas a very merry one!
Explaining and planning lessons around the Christmas theme made it a little easier for me to get in the Christmas mood. The students here all know about Christmas, but in our little village they have never had an opportunity to hear about it from a Western’s point of view. I have to admit that the more I talked about how Christmas is celebrated, the more ridiculous it sounded to me. When asked who Santa Claus was I first tried explaining about Saint Nicolas, the Patron Saint of Children, and how through the years he morphed into the Santa Claus we know today. This was of little interest to them; they wanted to hear about the red suit, red cap, and the bag of gifts they have seen in pictures. As I talked about how Santa flies around the world in a sleigh and enters every home through the chimney to deposit gifts under the tree and into the stockings hung by the chimney (with care) their expressions became more and more contorted into a face that seemed to be saying “Huh?”
In my class we made Christmas ornaments out of pipe cleaners and it was a lot of fun to see the students use their creativity. At first when I handed out the pipe cleaners they kept asking me “Teacher, what do I do with it?” “Anything!” I replied as I showed them how to bend and twist them into different shapes. As they caught on to the pipe cleaners’ possibilities there was no stopping them. Then, on Christmas Eve we made Christmas cards and chaos reined my classroom. I spent time the week before cutting out different shapes and preparing all the materials, which included some glitter that was sent from America (thanks mom!). The glitter was by far the most used material and the desks and floor of the classroom sparkled with the remnants of their creations.
The culmination of the Christmas lessons was our Christmas Party. The students took full control of the planning as they ordered food and a cake and talked to the Principal about wearing red clothes in lieu of their uniforms. I was not allowed into the assembly hall until everything was just perfect. They even managed to find snow spray and as I entered we were all covered in wet, foamy snow. As I cut my Christmas cake the students sang We Wish You a Merry Christmas before I blew out the candles. Then, every student fed me a piece of cake, and then smeared a little frosting on my face. I had a lot of fun celebrating with my students and I appreciate their efforts to make my Christmas a very merry one!
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
An unfortunate coincidence
Today I was given a new name. Why? It’s a funny story that I will tell, but only because I have a tendency to be self-deprecating. Promise not to laugh too hard at my expense. Promise? Okay…
In Gujarati, Lyndi means . . . . ready for this? . . . . goat poop. Yep. Goat poop. You just can’t make that stuff up. Hilarious, I know. Okay, stop laughing! I almost didn’t believe Meghan when she came home from school and told me that her principal laughs hysterically every time my name comes up in conversation. She finally asked what was so funny and he replied “In Gujarati Lyndi is poop of the goat!”
I couldn’t believe it! Why people neglected to tell me this until my 6 month here (my 6th day would have been preferable) is beyond me. I went to school to ask the teachers I work with if it was true; surely they would have told me of this unfortunate coincidence. In the staff room I leaned in to the teachers that sit next to me and said quietly “So, in Gujarati my name means….” and they began laughing. “Who told you?!” they asked. Awesome, I thought. It is true.
Apparently people didn’t want to tell me, fearing that I would feel bad about sharing my name with a goat’s excrement. A valid reason I suppose, but in hindsight I feel pretty bad about walking around proclaiming that I am goat poop for the last 6months. I guess if anything, I’m not surprised at all. I’ve known since I was ten that my name is unusual and causes problems (“your name is Cindy/Mindy/Wendy/Lyndsey??). So now, this just confirms it. Again, thanks Mom.
From now I may be introducing myself as Lena, as suggested by an Indian teacher here. I like this new name, but I don’t know if I can embrace it. I still like my old name, despite its unfortunate meaning. I recently began teaching two new 5th standard classes and I hesitated before introducing myself as Lyndi, knowing that a 5th standard student’s sense of humor would capitalize on such an opportunity to laugh. After both saying and writing my name on the board I cringed, waiting for an eruption of laughter, but there was none. Perhaps they waited until I left the class to die of laughter, or perhaps, it isn’t that big of a deal. As a teacher at my school told me “Have no tension….don’t worry, be happy.” So, I will happily proclaim that I am, in fact, goat poop.
In Gujarati, Lyndi means . . . . ready for this? . . . . goat poop. Yep. Goat poop. You just can’t make that stuff up. Hilarious, I know. Okay, stop laughing! I almost didn’t believe Meghan when she came home from school and told me that her principal laughs hysterically every time my name comes up in conversation. She finally asked what was so funny and he replied “In Gujarati Lyndi is poop of the goat!”
I couldn’t believe it! Why people neglected to tell me this until my 6 month here (my 6th day would have been preferable) is beyond me. I went to school to ask the teachers I work with if it was true; surely they would have told me of this unfortunate coincidence. In the staff room I leaned in to the teachers that sit next to me and said quietly “So, in Gujarati my name means….” and they began laughing. “Who told you?!” they asked. Awesome, I thought. It is true.
Apparently people didn’t want to tell me, fearing that I would feel bad about sharing my name with a goat’s excrement. A valid reason I suppose, but in hindsight I feel pretty bad about walking around proclaiming that I am goat poop for the last 6months. I guess if anything, I’m not surprised at all. I’ve known since I was ten that my name is unusual and causes problems (“your name is Cindy/Mindy/Wendy/Lyndsey??). So now, this just confirms it. Again, thanks Mom.
From now I may be introducing myself as Lena, as suggested by an Indian teacher here. I like this new name, but I don’t know if I can embrace it. I still like my old name, despite its unfortunate meaning. I recently began teaching two new 5th standard classes and I hesitated before introducing myself as Lyndi, knowing that a 5th standard student’s sense of humor would capitalize on such an opportunity to laugh. After both saying and writing my name on the board I cringed, waiting for an eruption of laughter, but there was none. Perhaps they waited until I left the class to die of laughter, or perhaps, it isn’t that big of a deal. As a teacher at my school told me “Have no tension….don’t worry, be happy.” So, I will happily proclaim that I am, in fact, goat poop.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The Last Resort
After a beautiful three hour drive from Kathmandu we arrived at The Last Resort which is situated on the top of a gorge 12km from Tibet. After checking into our very cool safari tents we headed out for a hike up into the stunning hillsides. The hike was beautiful and we met the cutest kids on the way. We stopped off at a local house on the way down to try some homemade “beer” which tasted like a combination of stomach acid, corn, charcoal and dirt. After the hike we went to the sauna where I set my new sauna record of 40 consecutive minutes, exiting right before I thought my body would melt.
The next day we got up early to jump off a 450+ foot high bridge that spans a tropical gorge with the wild Bhote Kosi river raging below. Bungy was available at the resort but I wanted to try The Swing (http://www.bungynepal.com/swing.htm), something I had never seen before. This is the highest canyon swing in the world and the thought of jumping off the bridge both thrilled and terrified me, which is why I knew I had to do it. The canyon swing involves being attached to a rope that spans the canyon and is located about 90m in front of the bridge; once you jump off the platform you freefall for about 8 seconds before the rope attached to your waist pulls tight against the other rope and you begin to swing at 150km per hour through the gorge.
There were about 25 people signed up to jump and as I waited for my turn to jump I became incredibly nervous; at one point while watching someone else jump my knees became so weak that I had to sit down. If I had to name one fear it would be of extreme heights, which is exactly where I found myself standing on the bridge. One man who had signed up for bungy stood on the platform and then suddenly backed out. My stomach turned. I said a prayer for Meg, Kirsten and I and resolved to just do it. My heart was fluttering while the harness was put on me and I tried to focus on breathing. Finally they called my name; it was time to jump.
As I walked to the platform I started to feel very calm and I was ready. The crew member reviewed what I was to do; hold the rope with both hands and take a hop off the platform. He began to count; one…...two…...and I jumped! The only sound I could make was a guttural “Ohhhh!” I fell so fast that the wind rushed into my lungs making it impossible for me to make a noise. It was such a strange feeling to be in such a long freefall; it was enough time to formulate thoughts like “What did I just do?!” and “I change my mind!!” This is when I began to kick my legs. Then the rope pulled taut and I began to swing at such an incredible speed above the gushing water. As I swung I looked back up at the bridge amazed at what I had just done. I let go of the rope and relaxed my body to enjoy the swing. It was fantastic! (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C7urCnDRDXY) The rest of the day was really low key compared to jumping off a bridge; I read my book and thought to myself several times “you jumped off a 450 foot high bridge this morning!”
The next morning was our last day at The Last Resort. We had a great breakfast and packed up our stuff to head out to the river where we would begin our rafting trip. I had never rafted before and I was nervous that I would fall out of the boat. My fear was in vain and I had a fantastic time navigating the smoky turquoise water. While being tossed around the rapids I screamed more in shock of the icy water than out of fear.
We stopped on the bank of the river for a picnic lunch before heading back into the freezing water for the final push down the river. The guides directed us to a large rock on the bank of the river where we were able to jump and fall twenty feet before being plunged into the frigid water. It was a great trip and I am looking forward to my next rafting experience.
Our time at The Last Resort was amazing and I hope I can return in the future to try the bungy!
The next day we got up early to jump off a 450+ foot high bridge that spans a tropical gorge with the wild Bhote Kosi river raging below. Bungy was available at the resort but I wanted to try The Swing (http://www.bungynepal.com/swing.htm), something I had never seen before. This is the highest canyon swing in the world and the thought of jumping off the bridge both thrilled and terrified me, which is why I knew I had to do it. The canyon swing involves being attached to a rope that spans the canyon and is located about 90m in front of the bridge; once you jump off the platform you freefall for about 8 seconds before the rope attached to your waist pulls tight against the other rope and you begin to swing at 150km per hour through the gorge.
There were about 25 people signed up to jump and as I waited for my turn to jump I became incredibly nervous; at one point while watching someone else jump my knees became so weak that I had to sit down. If I had to name one fear it would be of extreme heights, which is exactly where I found myself standing on the bridge. One man who had signed up for bungy stood on the platform and then suddenly backed out. My stomach turned. I said a prayer for Meg, Kirsten and I and resolved to just do it. My heart was fluttering while the harness was put on me and I tried to focus on breathing. Finally they called my name; it was time to jump.
As I walked to the platform I started to feel very calm and I was ready. The crew member reviewed what I was to do; hold the rope with both hands and take a hop off the platform. He began to count; one…...two…...and I jumped! The only sound I could make was a guttural “Ohhhh!” I fell so fast that the wind rushed into my lungs making it impossible for me to make a noise. It was such a strange feeling to be in such a long freefall; it was enough time to formulate thoughts like “What did I just do?!” and “I change my mind!!” This is when I began to kick my legs. Then the rope pulled taut and I began to swing at such an incredible speed above the gushing water. As I swung I looked back up at the bridge amazed at what I had just done. I let go of the rope and relaxed my body to enjoy the swing. It was fantastic! (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C7urCnDRDXY) The rest of the day was really low key compared to jumping off a bridge; I read my book and thought to myself several times “you jumped off a 450 foot high bridge this morning!”
The next morning was our last day at The Last Resort. We had a great breakfast and packed up our stuff to head out to the river where we would begin our rafting trip. I had never rafted before and I was nervous that I would fall out of the boat. My fear was in vain and I had a fantastic time navigating the smoky turquoise water. While being tossed around the rapids I screamed more in shock of the icy water than out of fear.
We stopped on the bank of the river for a picnic lunch before heading back into the freezing water for the final push down the river. The guides directed us to a large rock on the bank of the river where we were able to jump and fall twenty feet before being plunged into the frigid water. It was a great trip and I am looking forward to my next rafting experience.Our time at The Last Resort was amazing and I hope I can return in the future to try the bungy!
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Lighting a path...
When I entered one of my 8th standard classes this week the students were poring over yellow cards that the teachers had handed out. I asked my co-teacher what they were and she told me that the students had received their result cards from September exams. “Are they happy?” I asked her. She gave me a smile that said neither yes nor no. “In this class 10 students have passed.” This is a class of 64 students. Confused, I asked “You mean passed their English exams?” This would make sense to me because this is one of the lowest classes; most of the students come from very rural areas and have received poor English training prior to entering Madhi High School. “No,” she replied “ten is the number of students who have passed all subjects.” I was floored. Here I am trying to teach English, and they aren’t even able to pass exams in Gujarati or Hindi, their native language. “These students have a difficult time learning” she added. I had suspected just that and now it was made evident.
I went on with class as usual but I couldn’t stop thinking about it; 10 out of 64! The common belief of the Indian teachers is that the students in C, D, and E classes are backwards and dull. To me that is unacceptable. These students are not dull, even though their test scores may tell a different story. If anything, these students are the victims of an education system gone bad; the cracks in the system have widened and more and more students are falling through them. I know my students are smart and capable; they just haven’t been given a chance.
The students must take the result cards home to show their parents, who must then sign the card in multiple areas so the school knows they are informed of their child’s progress. As the students handed them back to the co-teacher she scanned the cards to make sure all the signatures were there. On some of the cards there was no signature. Instead, there was a thumbprint; a sign of an illiterate parent. I was surprised at the number of thumbprints on the cards and I mentioned this to my co-teacher. “Many parents are farmers, they have no need to read, and therefore they cannot help with homework.” Again, I felt another blow.
This cycle of illiteracy has been spinning in some families for generations and it may continue to spin unless something is done to stop it. I have no illusions that in ten months I can overhaul the system, but I do know that I can make a difference, even if it is only one student at a time. What I hope is that I can slow the spinning down enough to give these students a chance to grasp something, to learn something that can pull them out of cycle and hopefully not only change their lives, but also the lives of their children.
On the wall of my room I have a small card with a quote by Buddha: “Thousands of candles can be lit from a single candle and the life of the candle will not be shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shared.” It reminds me of something my students in China told me; A teacher is like a candle; they burn themselves to give light to others.
I want to be their candle.
I went on with class as usual but I couldn’t stop thinking about it; 10 out of 64! The common belief of the Indian teachers is that the students in C, D, and E classes are backwards and dull. To me that is unacceptable. These students are not dull, even though their test scores may tell a different story. If anything, these students are the victims of an education system gone bad; the cracks in the system have widened and more and more students are falling through them. I know my students are smart and capable; they just haven’t been given a chance.
The students must take the result cards home to show their parents, who must then sign the card in multiple areas so the school knows they are informed of their child’s progress. As the students handed them back to the co-teacher she scanned the cards to make sure all the signatures were there. On some of the cards there was no signature. Instead, there was a thumbprint; a sign of an illiterate parent. I was surprised at the number of thumbprints on the cards and I mentioned this to my co-teacher. “Many parents are farmers, they have no need to read, and therefore they cannot help with homework.” Again, I felt another blow.
This cycle of illiteracy has been spinning in some families for generations and it may continue to spin unless something is done to stop it. I have no illusions that in ten months I can overhaul the system, but I do know that I can make a difference, even if it is only one student at a time. What I hope is that I can slow the spinning down enough to give these students a chance to grasp something, to learn something that can pull them out of cycle and hopefully not only change their lives, but also the lives of their children.
On the wall of my room I have a small card with a quote by Buddha: “Thousands of candles can be lit from a single candle and the life of the candle will not be shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shared.” It reminds me of something my students in China told me; A teacher is like a candle; they burn themselves to give light to others.
I want to be their candle.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Delusional in Delhi
On September 17th I returned from my trip to Delhi, and I couldn’t have been happier to be back in my tiny village. There were some highlights, but the trip to Delhi was mostly riddled with frustrations, difficulties, sicknesses and scams. Let me tell you my tale…
Our trip began on the Paschim Express, train number 2925 to Delhi. We left at 4pm on September 10th and arrived in Delhi on September 11th at 10am. The craziness of Delhi hit us as soon as we stepped off the train and didn’t let up until we boarded our train home 6 days later. Rain had descended on Delhi the day we arrived and the city was coated in a grimy film.
Delhi is a patchwork quilt of humanity and the vast disparity of economic status and social class collide in the bustling city of 12.8 million people. Delhi’s wide variety of people can be attributed to the turmoil of Partition when it became a refuge for many who were displaced during that period of history. The majority of people living in Delhi are not native to the city, one of the largest groups being the descendants of refugees from Punjab. In Delhi you can find the privileged and the disadvantaged, the over indulged and the ignored, the obese and the starving. The city was such a dizzying array of sights and smells that I often felt bombarded and over stimulated. If you aren’t prepared, Delhi will consume you; it sucks you in and spits you out.
Our first concern was finding a place to stay. The New Delhi Train Station is located in an area of Delhi know as Paharganj which is regarded by Delhilites as being a breeding ground for seedy activities, especially when night falls. Main Bazaar, across from the train station, is the heart of Paharganj and was where we headed to find a hotel. We price shopped several places and finally settled for a 400rupee ($8.50)a night room complete with cockroaches, no hot water, and a broken toilet. Home sweet home.
After showering and unpacking we hit the streets in search of a tourist office to plan some trips, a decision we would later regret. We ended up at a travel agency located in Connaught Place, a landmark shopping district laid out in concentric circles in the heart of New Delhi.I was skeptical of this agency but went along with the other girls. We booked three tours, our first being a day trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. The Agra tour was booked for the next morning and we were scheduled to be met in the lobby of our hotel at 6:15am. The other two tours were a day tour of Delhi and a day trip to Jaipur. After painfully handing over our hard earned rupees we headed to Café Coffee Day for a cup of real coffee before heading back to Main Bazaar to get ready for a night on the town.
Two other teachers from our foundation were also in Delhi and we arranged to meet at an upscale lounge called Q’ba in Connaught Place. After a drink we determined that we needed to find a more economically feasible place to enjoy ourselves and so we jumped into rickshaws and headed out to the Defense Colony, an area developed during the British rule. On the way we passed the New Friendship Colony and a sign that said “New Friendship Club (members only).” It seemed a little oxy-moronic to me, but that’s Delhi.
We settled into a more rupee friendly bar and enjoyed exchanging tales of our travels to Delhi. When the bar closed Meghan, Kirsten and I weren’t ready to head home so we talked to some locals and headed to an upscale club in a nearby neighborhood where we were the only foreigners. It was a little shocking to see so many Indians in a context we never see in our small village. These were the privileged; people with disposable income and with time to spend it. The Indian girls in the club were dressed in the same manner as can be seen in Western clubs; a drastic difference from the modest salwar kameez that dominates our area of India. Our night of dancing finally ended at 2am and we jumped into a rickshaw for the twenty minute ride back to our place.
We had only slept a few precious hours when our alarm woke us up; the Taj Mahal was waiting. We were in the lobby at 6:15 when a man entered and motioned us to follow him. He took us through the twists and turns of the confusing back streets and alleyways of Main Bazaar, and I hoped we wouldn’t have to ever navigate this area alone. Finally we popped out on the other side of Paharganj and were standing on a busy main road. We waited awhile before a rickety bus finally pulled up. We were told that we would arrive in Agra at 10am, but as the clock ticked away, so did my patience.
Finally, at 1pm we pulled into the heart of Agra and my excitement was growing when the bus suddenly pulled over and a man boarded. He looked at us, the only foreigners on board, and spoke in broken English saying that we should get off the bus and follow him. I knew something was up because none of the Indians on board were being asked to get off. The four other teachers started to get off the bus, accepting what he said without any questions. I hesitatingly remained in my seat until they had all jumped off the bus. At this point I knew we were being scammed and I was torn; should I get off the bus and risk not seeing my friends, or stay on the bus and risk running into problems alone? The girls started calling to me from outside and I hurriedly grabbed my stuff and reluctantly jumped off the bus. The scam was off and running and we were the unlucky victims, literally along for the ride.
There were two rickshaws and two drivers waiting for us. The drivers spoke good English; obviously, they have done this before. They explained to us that our tour bus was in fact not going to the Taj Mahal because it was an Indian tour bus and Indians were not interested in the Taj. They said they would be taking us around to the different sights, and that at 4pm we would meet back up with our tour bus for our trip home to Delhi. I was already annoyed with the drivers at this point and I could see where this scam was going; I had seen it before in China and other countries. Memories of being taken to the endless factories and shops on these types of tours flashed through my mind.
They zipped us around the city, whipping in and out of traffic. We stopped outside the entrance of the south gate of the Taj and were told we had about 1 hour and 30 minutes before we had to meet. At this point I was already in and out of arguments with the drivers. Early on I established that we had absolutely no intention of paying them anything at the end of the day. To this they responded with feigned hurt, as if they were offended. “Listen Madam! I am doing this for you! It is my job to take you.” I wasn’t buying it or letting up with my obvious annoyance. Later Kirsten told me that the driver kept asking why I was so difficult and it made me laugh.
We paid for our tickets and excitedly headed to the metal detector where I got an intimate pat down by an unfriendly female guard. The Taj is surrounded by a large wall that resembles the Red Fort in Delhi and it takes about a five minute walk through perfectly manicured grounds before even glimpsing the Taj. As I walked closer I could see the Taj looming in the distance and I caught my breath. My eyes were taking in the one of the most beautiful things in the world, but my mind couldn’t grasp it. The perfection made it look fake, as if it was a painted backdrop. The Taj is symmetrically perfect, as tall as it is wide, and I was awestruck. I stood for a minute just looking at it; I contemplated the immense undertaking of building such a structure without any modern technology and the kind of love that moves a man to build something of such beauty. Then I started my thorough photo documentation.
The marble used in the Taj is smooth and milky white but when the sun is setting it takes on a slight rose tint. It was so smooth and I liked the feeling of the warm marble on my bare feet. Throughout the Taj there are inlaid flowers made from a shinier, multi-colored marble and verses from the Koran are scripted onto the marble above the door and arch ways. Some of the marble is cut into intricate lattice work and is unbelievably detailed. The Taj is a spectacularly amazing work of art made quite literally with love.
We met back up with our drivers and the perfection of the Taj was soon forgotten as the scam continued. We drove for a bit and pulled up to two shops; a “marble works factory” and a leather store. I knew it! Now the drivers were going to get some commission for bringing us here and I was going to have no part of it. I was so annoyed that I marched up to the driver and said in an abrupt tone “We do not want to see a marble factory and a leather store. We want to eat lunch.” To which he replied “Why are you never listening to me!? Your problem is you never listen! We are not going to marble factory and leather store! We are going to marble factory!” Ugh! I refused to go in and spent some time in the parking lot counting to ten. We then piled into the rickshaws and pulled up to a restaurant; it was lunch time and again they would be making money by bringing us here.
The restaurant was very run down and there were very few patrons inside, not a good sign. I was now in no mood to really eat, but knew I had to eat something and here is where a crucial decision was made. The other girls went about ordering chicken sandwiches, vegetable tikka, and curry dishes, but I was skeptical. I ordered nan, a flat piece of bread, and a Thums-Up, an Indian cola; my best decision of the trip.
It was now approaching 4pm and I was very concerned about meeting the bus. The drivers didn’t seem so worried and stopped once at a “cultural handicrafts shop” and became very upset when we refused to go in. No commission there. They then drove us to where the bus would be meeting us, but of course, it was going to be an hour late. They suggested going into a sweet shop that makes a famous Agra treat to kill time. How convenient.
At 5pm the bus did show up and I happily said goodbye to our scamming guides and took my place next to the Bangladeshi man. “Where did you go!?” he asked with concern. He then told us that they had indeed gone to the Taj, and they spent more time there than we did! They also got to see other famous sights that we did not. I was so angry, but then I realized I had to just let it go. I had just seen the most magnificently breathtaking building and I should be happy with that.
The ride back to Delhi took a painfully long 9 hours! We stopped at two different temples along the way and made various other stops at roadside restaurants, which is where Kirsten started to feel sick. We boarded the bus and began to drive and she began to throw up out the window. As we continued on Meghan began to feel sick as well and she threw up into a bag.
Finally, we pulled into Delhi and the bus started to drop passengers off at their pick-up points. We said goodbye to the two other teachers and soon it was the three of us and an Indian couple on the bus. We stopped where we had been picked up, got off the bus, and watched it pull away. We were left on the side of the road to fend for ourselves; this is what I had hoped would not happen. The Indian couple quickly disappeared into the complicated alleyways and soon we were completely alone at 2am in one of the worst areas of Delhi, and we were lost.
We walked for a bit unsure of where to go until we saw a light shining from a doorway. We were so relieved to have stumbled upon a police station and two police men on duty. They called someone from another station to walk us back to our hotel where we collapsed, utterly exhausted, into our beds.
Even though I was not afflicted by food poisoning like the other girls I was still feeling very sick. My head was pounding, my body ached and it was radiating heat even though I was freezing. I slept from 3am until about 7am when I forced myself out of bed to call the agent and cancel the tour of Delhi slated for that day; we would not be going anywhere. The next day we took it very easy while we tried to recover. We met up with a friend and visited Old Delhi. We saw the Jama Masjid, the biggest mosque in India, took pictures at the Red Fort, saw the Lotus Temple and rode cycle rickshaws around the crazy streets. On our last day in Delhi we met our friend at a mall to watch an American movie and then he took us to his house and cooked us a delicious chicken dinner.
The next morning we packed and got ready to say a cheerful goodbye to Delhi. We boarded our train, settled in to our beds and breathed a sigh of relief as we left the chaos of Delhi behind us. This trip was not the enjoyable trip we had envisioned, but there were some patches of good hidden among the bad. I’m willing to give Delhi one more chance, which will happen next week. Hopefully that trip will show me the better side of Delhi.
http://picasaweb.google.co.in/lyndi.milton
Our trip began on the Paschim Express, train number 2925 to Delhi. We left at 4pm on September 10th and arrived in Delhi on September 11th at 10am. The craziness of Delhi hit us as soon as we stepped off the train and didn’t let up until we boarded our train home 6 days later. Rain had descended on Delhi the day we arrived and the city was coated in a grimy film.
Delhi is a patchwork quilt of humanity and the vast disparity of economic status and social class collide in the bustling city of 12.8 million people. Delhi’s wide variety of people can be attributed to the turmoil of Partition when it became a refuge for many who were displaced during that period of history. The majority of people living in Delhi are not native to the city, one of the largest groups being the descendants of refugees from Punjab. In Delhi you can find the privileged and the disadvantaged, the over indulged and the ignored, the obese and the starving. The city was such a dizzying array of sights and smells that I often felt bombarded and over stimulated. If you aren’t prepared, Delhi will consume you; it sucks you in and spits you out.
Our first concern was finding a place to stay. The New Delhi Train Station is located in an area of Delhi know as Paharganj which is regarded by Delhilites as being a breeding ground for seedy activities, especially when night falls. Main Bazaar, across from the train station, is the heart of Paharganj and was where we headed to find a hotel. We price shopped several places and finally settled for a 400rupee ($8.50)a night room complete with cockroaches, no hot water, and a broken toilet. Home sweet home.
After showering and unpacking we hit the streets in search of a tourist office to plan some trips, a decision we would later regret. We ended up at a travel agency located in Connaught Place, a landmark shopping district laid out in concentric circles in the heart of New Delhi.I was skeptical of this agency but went along with the other girls. We booked three tours, our first being a day trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. The Agra tour was booked for the next morning and we were scheduled to be met in the lobby of our hotel at 6:15am. The other two tours were a day tour of Delhi and a day trip to Jaipur. After painfully handing over our hard earned rupees we headed to Café Coffee Day for a cup of real coffee before heading back to Main Bazaar to get ready for a night on the town.
Two other teachers from our foundation were also in Delhi and we arranged to meet at an upscale lounge called Q’ba in Connaught Place. After a drink we determined that we needed to find a more economically feasible place to enjoy ourselves and so we jumped into rickshaws and headed out to the Defense Colony, an area developed during the British rule. On the way we passed the New Friendship Colony and a sign that said “New Friendship Club (members only).” It seemed a little oxy-moronic to me, but that’s Delhi.
We settled into a more rupee friendly bar and enjoyed exchanging tales of our travels to Delhi. When the bar closed Meghan, Kirsten and I weren’t ready to head home so we talked to some locals and headed to an upscale club in a nearby neighborhood where we were the only foreigners. It was a little shocking to see so many Indians in a context we never see in our small village. These were the privileged; people with disposable income and with time to spend it. The Indian girls in the club were dressed in the same manner as can be seen in Western clubs; a drastic difference from the modest salwar kameez that dominates our area of India. Our night of dancing finally ended at 2am and we jumped into a rickshaw for the twenty minute ride back to our place.
We had only slept a few precious hours when our alarm woke us up; the Taj Mahal was waiting. We were in the lobby at 6:15 when a man entered and motioned us to follow him. He took us through the twists and turns of the confusing back streets and alleyways of Main Bazaar, and I hoped we wouldn’t have to ever navigate this area alone. Finally we popped out on the other side of Paharganj and were standing on a busy main road. We waited awhile before a rickety bus finally pulled up. We were told that we would arrive in Agra at 10am, but as the clock ticked away, so did my patience.
Finally, at 1pm we pulled into the heart of Agra and my excitement was growing when the bus suddenly pulled over and a man boarded. He looked at us, the only foreigners on board, and spoke in broken English saying that we should get off the bus and follow him. I knew something was up because none of the Indians on board were being asked to get off. The four other teachers started to get off the bus, accepting what he said without any questions. I hesitatingly remained in my seat until they had all jumped off the bus. At this point I knew we were being scammed and I was torn; should I get off the bus and risk not seeing my friends, or stay on the bus and risk running into problems alone? The girls started calling to me from outside and I hurriedly grabbed my stuff and reluctantly jumped off the bus. The scam was off and running and we were the unlucky victims, literally along for the ride.
There were two rickshaws and two drivers waiting for us. The drivers spoke good English; obviously, they have done this before. They explained to us that our tour bus was in fact not going to the Taj Mahal because it was an Indian tour bus and Indians were not interested in the Taj. They said they would be taking us around to the different sights, and that at 4pm we would meet back up with our tour bus for our trip home to Delhi. I was already annoyed with the drivers at this point and I could see where this scam was going; I had seen it before in China and other countries. Memories of being taken to the endless factories and shops on these types of tours flashed through my mind.
They zipped us around the city, whipping in and out of traffic. We stopped outside the entrance of the south gate of the Taj and were told we had about 1 hour and 30 minutes before we had to meet. At this point I was already in and out of arguments with the drivers. Early on I established that we had absolutely no intention of paying them anything at the end of the day. To this they responded with feigned hurt, as if they were offended. “Listen Madam! I am doing this for you! It is my job to take you.” I wasn’t buying it or letting up with my obvious annoyance. Later Kirsten told me that the driver kept asking why I was so difficult and it made me laugh.
We paid for our tickets and excitedly headed to the metal detector where I got an intimate pat down by an unfriendly female guard. The Taj is surrounded by a large wall that resembles the Red Fort in Delhi and it takes about a five minute walk through perfectly manicured grounds before even glimpsing the Taj. As I walked closer I could see the Taj looming in the distance and I caught my breath. My eyes were taking in the one of the most beautiful things in the world, but my mind couldn’t grasp it. The perfection made it look fake, as if it was a painted backdrop. The Taj is symmetrically perfect, as tall as it is wide, and I was awestruck. I stood for a minute just looking at it; I contemplated the immense undertaking of building such a structure without any modern technology and the kind of love that moves a man to build something of such beauty. Then I started my thorough photo documentation.
The marble used in the Taj is smooth and milky white but when the sun is setting it takes on a slight rose tint. It was so smooth and I liked the feeling of the warm marble on my bare feet. Throughout the Taj there are inlaid flowers made from a shinier, multi-colored marble and verses from the Koran are scripted onto the marble above the door and arch ways. Some of the marble is cut into intricate lattice work and is unbelievably detailed. The Taj is a spectacularly amazing work of art made quite literally with love.
We met back up with our drivers and the perfection of the Taj was soon forgotten as the scam continued. We drove for a bit and pulled up to two shops; a “marble works factory” and a leather store. I knew it! Now the drivers were going to get some commission for bringing us here and I was going to have no part of it. I was so annoyed that I marched up to the driver and said in an abrupt tone “We do not want to see a marble factory and a leather store. We want to eat lunch.” To which he replied “Why are you never listening to me!? Your problem is you never listen! We are not going to marble factory and leather store! We are going to marble factory!” Ugh! I refused to go in and spent some time in the parking lot counting to ten. We then piled into the rickshaws and pulled up to a restaurant; it was lunch time and again they would be making money by bringing us here.
The restaurant was very run down and there were very few patrons inside, not a good sign. I was now in no mood to really eat, but knew I had to eat something and here is where a crucial decision was made. The other girls went about ordering chicken sandwiches, vegetable tikka, and curry dishes, but I was skeptical. I ordered nan, a flat piece of bread, and a Thums-Up, an Indian cola; my best decision of the trip.
It was now approaching 4pm and I was very concerned about meeting the bus. The drivers didn’t seem so worried and stopped once at a “cultural handicrafts shop” and became very upset when we refused to go in. No commission there. They then drove us to where the bus would be meeting us, but of course, it was going to be an hour late. They suggested going into a sweet shop that makes a famous Agra treat to kill time. How convenient.
At 5pm the bus did show up and I happily said goodbye to our scamming guides and took my place next to the Bangladeshi man. “Where did you go!?” he asked with concern. He then told us that they had indeed gone to the Taj, and they spent more time there than we did! They also got to see other famous sights that we did not. I was so angry, but then I realized I had to just let it go. I had just seen the most magnificently breathtaking building and I should be happy with that.
The ride back to Delhi took a painfully long 9 hours! We stopped at two different temples along the way and made various other stops at roadside restaurants, which is where Kirsten started to feel sick. We boarded the bus and began to drive and she began to throw up out the window. As we continued on Meghan began to feel sick as well and she threw up into a bag.
Finally, we pulled into Delhi and the bus started to drop passengers off at their pick-up points. We said goodbye to the two other teachers and soon it was the three of us and an Indian couple on the bus. We stopped where we had been picked up, got off the bus, and watched it pull away. We were left on the side of the road to fend for ourselves; this is what I had hoped would not happen. The Indian couple quickly disappeared into the complicated alleyways and soon we were completely alone at 2am in one of the worst areas of Delhi, and we were lost.
We walked for a bit unsure of where to go until we saw a light shining from a doorway. We were so relieved to have stumbled upon a police station and two police men on duty. They called someone from another station to walk us back to our hotel where we collapsed, utterly exhausted, into our beds.
Even though I was not afflicted by food poisoning like the other girls I was still feeling very sick. My head was pounding, my body ached and it was radiating heat even though I was freezing. I slept from 3am until about 7am when I forced myself out of bed to call the agent and cancel the tour of Delhi slated for that day; we would not be going anywhere. The next day we took it very easy while we tried to recover. We met up with a friend and visited Old Delhi. We saw the Jama Masjid, the biggest mosque in India, took pictures at the Red Fort, saw the Lotus Temple and rode cycle rickshaws around the crazy streets. On our last day in Delhi we met our friend at a mall to watch an American movie and then he took us to his house and cooked us a delicious chicken dinner.
The next morning we packed and got ready to say a cheerful goodbye to Delhi. We boarded our train, settled in to our beds and breathed a sigh of relief as we left the chaos of Delhi behind us. This trip was not the enjoyable trip we had envisioned, but there were some patches of good hidden among the bad. I’m willing to give Delhi one more chance, which will happen next week. Hopefully that trip will show me the better side of Delhi.
http://picasaweb.google.co.in/lyndi.milton
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