India: The Rest of Day 2 Through the Morning of Day 5

HOMESTAY IN INDIA: ABRIDGED

I took a sleeper train waaaay down South to the small village of Erode. Keep in mind that India had 1.2 billion people, so a small village for them means 2.5 million people. Let that sink in for a moment.

The sleeper trains are fun. It’s literally like a military bunker, except the place moves. I’m happy to say that I got the top bunk, and was not only the only Indian, but also the only female in my particular quadrant. This didn’t really mean much considering the proximity all of the SAS students to one another, and the fact that the “quadrants” were only separated by a think curtain that could be opened and closed at will, but I still felt cool for about five minutes.

We arrived in Erode, where we were taken to our new home. It seemed strange that there was a group of 11 of us, and we were all going to be staying with the same family. Looking back at my homestay in Ghana, the thought of 11 of us squishing into that little hut made me cringe a bit. When we finally pulled up at the house, everything started to make a bit more sense.

It was a mansion.

Yes, that’s right: a mansion. Turns out we were going to be staying with the village landlords. The place wasn’t too ridiculous-looking. It was like…you know how some mansions are five stories tall with gargoyles and columns and fireworks and guard dogs and stuff? This was more like a really, really long, one-story house. It was pretty, but not fancy. There was always a new part of the house to find once you thought you’d seen it all. A lot of it was open-air. Farmland surrounded the entire area, but the place itself wasn’t a farm. I guess the place was just…I guess…look, it’s difficult to explain.

But here’s the interesting thing: living in the mansion was possibly the coolest thing I could have done because it gave me such striking insight into the nature of income inequality in the country of India. In America, I don’t think I’m exaggerating to say that it’s pretty easy to tell which areas are poor and which are rich. Just look at Denver. We know damn well that we should avoid East Colfax street, and that that Cherry Hills is the place where all the people in the million-dollar McMansions live. In Erode, I don’t think it’s exaggerating to say that I lived in the only place in the entire area with access to electricity. Like seriously, I spent a lot of time lounging in the open-air villa sipping drinks and being waited on by a troupe of servants. Right down the road? Pretty much Tagorme Village. I’m talking huts, trash, and long-ass days of menial labor making sugar and rope in the sweltering heat. My hosts wore jeans while the rest of the locals wore next to nothing at all. Uma was an ex-UN worker while most of her neighbors could barely be classified as gainfully employed. Uma’s niece Aninya was 10 years old and obsessed with Pokèmon and the iPhone, while the kids next door were close to illiterate. The US enjoys its “separation between church and state”. What it often neglects to mention is the blatant “separation between rich and poor” via its gated communities and tall fences. I didn’t need to travel more than 5 minutes to see India’s inequalities at their greatest. At let me tell you, it’s pretty bad.

My activities were pretty standard. I got to see the process by which coconut husks were made into rope (and also got to fail at climbing up a coconut tree). I got to step into the steam room (and by steam room I mean the place where some Indian villagers melt something similar to sugar for 10 hours a day, every day), and enjoy the comforts of the local sweatshop. Oh, did I mention the sweatshop? Because there was totally a sweatshop. It was a little further into town, and wasn’t actually introduced to us in the typical “what you’re about to see may scar you, so be warned” type of way. No, it was more of a “Yo, these people have sheets. Let’s watch how their employees make sheets, and then buy us some sheets.” And to answer your burning question, yes, sweatshops are EXACTLY as the media describes them. I was actually sweating after being in one for a good ten minutes, and I wasn’t the one doing work. It’s kind of horrifying. I’ll show y’all the pictures when I get a chance.

During our time, we got to visit a good amount of schoolchildren. What’s interesting about India is the national obsession with modernization and development. This is pretty clear when you talk to the kids for about two seconds. Ask a ten-year-old what he wants to be when he grows up in America and you’ll hear the words “astronaut”, “movie star”, or “secret agent”. In India, you’ll probably get “accountant”, “doctor”, or “engineer”. Even the girls do this. I don’t understand how it’s possible for such a huge bloc of people to be so unanimously practical. I’m also not completely sure that I approve. It’s not that the country suppresses the arts at all. They have a vibrant Bollywood community, and there’s a humanities track that you can take in school. It’s just that, well…nobody seems to take it. Good for the children for wanting to succeed, but it’s almost unnerving that success does not necessarily correspond with happiness or lifetime dreams, but with an upper-middle class income. Doctoring as a noble goal I get…but who really wakes up one morning and says, “I feel like changing the world today. Where are Kumar’s receipts? I’m gonna proofread them a few more times! Living the dream, baby!”

We also went to a school for the physically disabled. I’m not sure what it means that India has schools specifically for the disabled. It’s either really progressive, or has such a large proportion of disabled to non-disabled kids that it’s actually essential to separate the two into different institutions. I don’t really know, but it’s worth looking into. I nearly cried when I saw the little faces looking up at me. Some of them were relatively normal-looking. Maybe they had a foot missing and that was all. But some of them were just…well, I don’t want to use the word “inhuman”, but my thesaurus is telling me that it’s the best word to use. I saw some kids that defied my reality of what it means to be considered handicapped. It was terrible. Nonetheless, they tried their damndest to put on a traditional Indian dance performance for us. I respect them for that. They really did tries their best, and for many their enthusiasm overshadowed the performance itself. We proceeded to do an impromptu performance for the little ones, which basically encompassed me being handed a microphone by my trip leader and being forced to sing the star-spangled banner with a chorus of my shipmates behind me. I’m not actually sure if the kids were impressed.

We were left alone with the kids for a little while. This was an iffy choice on the part of our host, considering we didn’t speak a word of Tamil, and most of these children spoke at most 3 or 4 sentences in English. I spent most of the time as I usually do: letting the kids play with my camera and look at all of my pictures. When that got old, however, I started to throw out random words/activities and hope the kids understood. “Swimming?” I’d say as I imitated a front crawl. “Yes!” they’d cry. “Football, running, tennis?”

And that’s when it happened. A little boy looked at me and piped up, “JOHN CENA!” That’s when I knew. I whipped out my iPhone and sped to my pictures, where I conveniently had placed pictures of my John Cena-themed bedspread, Sheamus shrine, and the live WWE event I attended in Cedar Rapids. We started having an in-depth conversation that pretty much went as follows:

“John Cena!” “Triple H?!” “Yes!” “You like Sheamus?” “Sheamus?” “Sheamus.” “Rey Mysterio!” “Yay!” “619!” “WWE!” “You can’t see me!” “Wrestling!”

I was forced to leave midway through that discussion. Dammit.

We took a sleeper train again, and I arrived back on the ship around 6am. I proceeded to pass out until Day 5 at noon. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the very abridged story of my 2 and a half day homestay in Erode, India.

 TO BE CONTINUED.

India: Most of Day 2

Maria, Gabriela and I woke up early and took a cab to Mammallapuram...or something along those lines. I can barely say it, let alone spell it. The important thing is that it's a really famous old Hindu temple carved out of stone and stuff.

The temples were beautiful and spiritual and stuff, but I can't really describe them sans my camera. I'll have to go into more detail at another time.

What I can describe, however, is the utter silliness of the temple tourist process. So we get to the entrance of Mammalla-whatsit, and the taxi suddenly comes to a stop. We look at each other and start to pack up our things to get out, when suddenly somebody ELSE comes IN. It was, I kid you not, our "tour guide". I glared at our nonchalant cab driver, then looked at Maria, who was considerably better-traveled than me. She told me to just go along with it, and that it was better to just let this guy do his thing than try to argue with him. So yeah. We got a tour guide without even looking for one. "You pay me anything you want!" he said. Yeah. Sure. I decided to worry about that later.

India gets a serious kick out of ripping off its tourists. Mamamamamamamalalalalalapuram is the best example I've seen of this. Here are the actual entry costs posted at the ticket counter:
Indian citizens = 10 rupees.
Non-Indians = 240 rupees.

I'm sorry, but whaaaaaaa?! I get that for me it's under 5 bucks and not a big deal to get in, but what if there was a tourist from Somalia or something? That's seriously not okay. Shame on you, India.

And, of course, just like the cab drivers, it appears that our "professional tour guide" also got some special rewards by bringing in tourists. We got dragged into some crazy expensive shops, where I decided to annoy the sales associates by asking for the price of every obnoxiously big item in the store, and then looking disappointed when I realized it was more than five dollars. Luckily, I did manage to get a pair of sandals for five dollars. Unluckily, they're a size too small for me. Anyone a size 7 who wants some cute sandals from India?

After the temples (again, I'll describe those once I can share pictures with y'all), we paid our tour guide. He demanded two and a half times what we gave him, at which point we rolled our eyes and told him to take what he was given and get lost...well, we THOUGHT that, but Maria put it in much nicer terms. She gave him a pen in addition to our pay, and that seemed to be good enough for him. Weird day.

Our cab driver dropped us off in front of a really classy Indian restaurant. We didn't want to go, so we went to the cafeteria-type place next door. A full meal there cost about 1 USD. We proceeded to spend $15 USD. The Indians across from us looked both alarmed and annoyed. Regardless, we ate everything and everything.

We got back to the ship early because we needed to part ways and pack for our respective overnight trips. The epic tale of my homestay begins that night at 9:00pm. It will commence shortly...

India: Day 1

Alright, folks:

I've got 2 days to write 6 days worth of India, so bare (bear?) with me if my posts are a little shorter than you'd like. I'm not gonna bother with tiny details, and only want to focus on the big stuff. Ready? Set? HERE WE GO.

Dalit Work Project:

OneWorld Educational Trust is a nonprofit in India that focuses on diminishing the educational gaps between the rich and the poor in India. This gap is pretty clear, especially considering that there's an actual debate in Indian politics regarding whether or not people of all income levels should be afforded the same quality of education. Let me repeat that: debate. Anyone who tells you that the caste system doesn't exist anymore has their blinders on.

Anyway, I worked with OneWorld for a day to help refurbish a dilapidated high school in the middle of one of the poorest neighborhoods in Chennai. SAS called this the "Dalit" work project because those are the ones who still inhabit that awful area: the descendants of the impoverished "untouchables" during the time of the Indian caste system. Like the DPS school system in Colorado, it's not uncommon for kids at that school to be provided free lunches, as the administration knows that it is likely to be the only nutritious meal that they will get for the entire day. So basically, mom and dad, think of me walking into East High School, except there's no air conditioning, no cars, no grass, and a horde of Indian children who mostly sit on the floor rather than at desks.

I loved this project because for once I was actually doing work. After the beautiful reception by the school, full of jasmine flower necklaces and traditional Indian songs, I was pulled away by a strict little Indian man to go be useful. He handed me a bucket of pungent black paint and a brush, led me into a sweltering class full of curious children, pointed at a gigantic chalkboard (basically a part of the wall that was painted a faded shade of black, but still just a bunch of wood) and said "go". As the little kids cheered me on, I painted about eight chalkboards over the course of two hours. I was so sweaty that my beige capris were dark brown by lunchtime. Also I was covered in paint, but that one was kind of a given.

For lunch we were served dhosa and chutney from an Indian fast food joint. I was amused by this, considering how terrified SAS was about us getting sick in India. "AT LEAST ONE OF EVERY FOUR OF YOU WILL GET VIOLENTLY ILL", they warned. It was funny to watch my peers poke nervously at their food and investigate it for signs of scary Indian poisons. One part of our meal was quite literally a bunch of soup in a plastic bag. It was really good. Then our guide came and told me, "don't drink that alone. Pour it in the dhosa. You'll get sick if you drink it alone". My dhosa was gone, and the soup was good. I chugged the rest of the soup to the horror of my friends. I'm still waiting for the violent vomiting I was promised a week ago. Sad day.

After working, I was mobbed by the kids. That seems to be a theme of this voyage. The fun part was, though, rather than going after my camera like they usually do, these kids wanting something else: my autograph. I think I must have signed at least 50. It was pretty wild. The best part, though, was when a little girl came up to me with a tiny cloth wallet and said "for you". I refused at first, not wanting to take her stuff, but she came back a second time and insisted that it was for me. I took it and thanked her. Then I looked at the wallet and almost cried: embroidered into the cloth were the words "I love you".

Dazzled and drenched, I returned to the ship.

At night, Maria, Gabriela and I hired a cab to take us to Spencer's Plaza, which is a mall and not Spencer Abbe's house, although for a second I was hopeful. It's important to preface that when hiring cabs or rickshaws in India, you shouldn't expect to get to your destination in one straight shot. The drivers get commissions and gas stamps from overpriced souvenir shops if they bring in new tourists. So, whenever you get in the cab, your driver will say "you want shop? I make two quick stops" or "you get discount 50 rupees and I take you 4 shops". Sometimes they'll even stop at a store without warning and claim it's where you said you wanted to go. You have to be very firm with them. Luckily, Maria was firm as hell. We got to the mall first try.

Indian malls are kind of awesome, mostly because they seem to be styled after Indian marketplaces. There's no rhyme or reason to them. There are stores EVERYWHERE. You can head down what looks like the path to a dead end and still find at least six more stores that you could have sworn were not there when you last looked. You can stop walking for a second, look around, and next thing you know you're being dragged by the arm into a shop by a suave guy insisting that "looking is free". You can ask for directions to the bathroom and be directed, that's right folks, into ANOTHER STORE. Even though the malls claim to have fixed prices, if you're smart and savvy enough, you can still bargain. Once you start getting ready to buy in a store, that's still not good enough. The associates will pull out at least five more things for you to try on and get upset if you say no. It's a crazy place, reminiscent only of the Buckle in Southwest Plaza.

The girls went crazy over the prices of Indian food court food and ordered way too much. I was not hungry at all, but naturally assisted them in finishing their delicious foodstuffs. Afterwards, we went out to a bar with our taxi driver Kumar. Don't worry, Kumar only had a soda. I pretty much did that too. My gin-and-tonic-related thing was about 90% alcohol and 10% edible. I had like three sips.

We went back to the ship very tired, full, and happy. Day 1 was a raging success.

SUCCESS

5 Straight Hours of Frantically Studying Japanese History: Check
4 Hours of Migraine-Troubled Sleep: Check
1 Hour of Japanese History Midterm: Double Check
Taking the Rest of the Day Off to Sleep and Celebrate: Commencing Now.

Dock Time

My dock time decision was reversed due to an "extremely unique set of circumstances," with the caveat that "a decision like this will never happen again". Oh, and it wasn't just for me. It was for everyone.

Marek: 1
SAS: 0

Frustrations. Advice, please?

Met with the executive dean today to discuss some concerns I had about the program, namely field programs not being given as advertised, the lack of compensation for failed field programs, and that whole dock time thing. She was a nice enough lady who said there was a possibility of a partial refund, at least on the awful trip on the first day in South Africa. Somehow, though, I got the impression that she expected me to forget about it and assume it would be taken care of. Clearly this woman has never met someone as obsessive and stingy as me before.

She got very slimy and used-car salesman-y when I brought up the lack of actual service on our service trips. You know how you should always read the fine print? Apparently, even though it’s never actually stated anywhere in the field program catalog, there’s a decisive difference between a “service visit” and a “service project”. I signed on for “service visits”, meaning I literally “visit” an organization that does a “service”, and maybe get to interact with people in the process. If I’d done a "project" like I'm signed up to do in India, I’d actually get to do things (we'll see about that). I was speechless at the blatant wretchedness of that explanation. It was as if they enjoyed manipulating me into spending money on what I thought was something else. Here’s a tip, SAS. If you’re going to get all high and mighty and tell me to “read the fine print”, maybe preface the fact that you actually HAVE fine print. I’m so frustrated by that. I wish I was my daddy right now. He’d scare them straight.

The dean denied a lot of my accusations of how they handled the dock time thing. I’m not going to get it revoked no matter how hard I try.

I just want to hit my head against the wall. How can an organization that’s giving me such an amazing opportunity constantly make me feel like they’re deliberately wasting my time?

Seriously?

OOH. One more thing before I forget.

I asked rich boy how he felt about seeing all the horrendous poverty in South African townships.

"Poverty? I didn't see any poverty in South Africa. What are you talking about?"

I guess some people's blinders work a little too well. Too bad this one actually has the money to help people if he'd just take the blinders off.