Jaipur Calling: July 2005

Monday, July 25, 2005

Untitled

To: My loyal and healthy readers
From: Yours truly
Status: Sick

Many apologies for the length of time since I last wrote. I come, at least, bearing good excuses. After smugly declaring to Michelle that I was yet to become ill in India, I became ill. My poor body had to forget its fear of vomiting and do the deed twelve times in twelve hours. The silver lining, at least, is that the fear has now been eradicated. But no sooner had I recovered from my love affair with the toilet did I again make another smug declaration: I was not getting bitten. “My repellent’s better than yours”, I would secretly think as the others itched away. However, there must be something to that karma thing, as shortly afterwards I was inundated with bites myself. Big, itchy bites that at least deserved to be scratched. But the itchy and scratchy fun soon turned sour, as my foot got infected and doubled in size. It was so painful that for some time I could not walk and I have been hobbling about ever since. The doctor put me on antibiotics and bucketfuls of hot, salty water, which seem to be doing the trick. Nonetheless, just as I am able to shop again do I find myself with a cold. How such an ailment is possible in this heat I do not know, but trust me when I say that it is. Today has been no more eventful than sniff sniff sneeze sneeze, a game that I am already tiring of, and I have become far too good at virtual pinball and solitaire. Perhaps my religious friends can pray for a speedy recovery, as I’m pretty certain that my own requests are being ignored. (I reckon God no longer buys that I’ll live by him if he helps me out “just this one more time”.)

Due to my aforementioned (don’t you just love that word) status, this entry will be shorter than others. I do feel up to writing a little more, though, so I will explain about my work at Pratham. My time is currently divided between teaching, project devising and some much loved online surfing. I visit one of the slums each morning to teach English to children, an activity that I am growing very fond of. I never thought that I could teach, but I must admit that my sweet, eager pupils deserve more credit than I do. Discussing their motivation with Anuj, a colleague, he laughed and said that all children react that way to school. I told him that few children in England share such a passion for learning, and that most would have run a mile from extra language classes. He did not appear to understand why this was so.

My classes start with a review of the previous lesson, which they (thankfully) seem to remember each time. I then start with the very basics of what I have planned (I am following an excellent English course from about.com). For instance, in the first lesson I taught them to say I am [name], he is [name], she is [name]… and then is he [name1]? No, he is [name2], etc. I include a lot of repetition which they seem to thrive on – their chants, such as “SHE IS RENU! SHE IS RENU!” seem to grow louder as each class progresses. I was bemused one day, though, when I stood with a little boy and asked the children to repeat: “He is Manish, he is Manish …!” They copied, but with the words: “She is Manish, she is Manish!” I stopped them and said a clear no – “Manish … boy! He is!” Their teacher hurriedly pulled me aside and started to giggle. “Manish is girl, Samanta!” Oops. I quickly got them going again with “She is Manish, she is Manish!”, praying that they would have missed my hideous blunder. (In my defence, though, the little girl really did look like a little boy.)

Right, off to bed now for some serious sleep. Leave a comment with your thoughts and news – I really enjoy reading them all.

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

A bull charge, searing heat and a marriage match website

My mosquito net feels especially protective tonight.

I just returned from eating dinner with friends. On the walk back, we slowed our walking as two cars passed each other, with several cows also taking claim to the road. This didn’t concern me – cows are a common sight here, and they are very docile. I was walking at the back of the group, and I suddenly looked up upon hearing a scream: Siri, a Swedish girl, had run across the road in terror. I saw one of the cows almost jumping towards her, and just assumed that it had become playful with the cars trying to pass them. Then I saw that this cow had horns.

Bulls are not a rarity here, and I often pass them with no worry at all: they are as calm and indifferent as their female friends. After tonight, though, I realised how naïve I had been. Yes, these bulls are frequently surrounded by people and so are not easily agitated. But they are still bulls. Once I realised what had happened, I stood back and refused to walk past the bull. (The majority of our group, Siri and Michelle aside, had already safely passed.) As it was dark though, and we weren’t sure of any other route home, I had to go forward. Still I refused, until Mart, an Estonian trainee, stood in the road with his bicycle between him and the bull for protection. He told us to walk behind him. The bull moved a little towards Mart, who bravely stood firm. I crossed the road to walk behind him, moving quickly – not sure if this would agitate the bull, but knowing that I couldn’t stand to walk any slower. The bull was looking directly at me, which filled me with anxiety. I averted my eyes, praying that it would do the same. I walked swiftly behind Mart, clutching the other girls. Siri was crying. So much for Himanshu’s motorbike being my greatest concern.

I would prefer to move on from what just happened, and so will now write a short account of my weekend. The AIESECers and the trainees had parallel conferences running in Jaipur. To travel to the venue, we had arranged a bus. A quick calculation told me that there were twenty seats available and about twice as many people preparing to go. Feeling smug (if a little mean), I chose to seat myself by a window whilst the others engaged in idle chat outside. Once all had got on, those standing could not move: we were quite honestly packed in like sardines. Himanshu, who had the privilege of travelling by motorbike, simply laughed and agreed that two buses would have been better. This is very reflective of the slap-dash attitude in India.

I was reminded that the journey would take forty minutes or so, and cursed at having packed my book in my main luggage. The smell of sweat was strong and repulsive; I fervently wished to get off the bus. Yet upon arrival, I soon longed to make the return journey. Perhaps it was the conference location, far from the centre and in the middle of nowhere, but the heat last weekend was unbelievable. I have become accustomed to sweating (as revolting as that may sound), but in the places one would expect: face, underarms, etc. However, at the conference, constant tickly sensations in my arms revealed that my forearms were actually dripping. The worst thing too was that this experience was inside and directly under a fan: there was no respite from the heat. The actual temperature was recorded at 37C or so, but the humidity from the monsoon forced it to feel like 42C. And I wasn’t even afforded the luxury of a sweet slumber. Yes, I went to bed late (after getting very drunk – my usual safe quantity had some very strange effects [far worse than your 21st, Chris!]), but after just half an hour or so the electricity cut – for the third time that day – grinding the fans to a halt. I would say that I tossed and turned, but I would like to coin a new phrase and instead declare that I “slipped and slid”: for all I knew, I could have been sleeping in a sweat bath, and achieved no sleep from that moment to the ridiculously joyful shouts of “MORNING PLENARY!” at 8:30am. The silver lining, though, is that I am now blessing the heat in the city, and never again will I moan about British summers. (You can hold me to that.)

I will now recount a conversation I held with one of my colleagues at Pratham. Sitting next to me in the office, she asked if I would like to read her profile on the website she was on. I said of course, and asked what the website was for. She simply said that it was for people to create profiles. I teased her, and asked if it was a dating website. She looked at me in horror, declaring that Indians do not date. I believed her: Indians are very conservative about love and romance. Reading through the website, though, I came across the following slogan: “Find your life partner here!” I wondered why she had not told me the truth; to me, it was clearly a dating website. I probed further, and once again she denied all charges: “it is not for dating”. She continued, though: “– it is for marriage”. Incredulous, I asked her to go on. She said that her profile was an advertisement for marriage, and that she had so far had 97 virtual proposals. She informed me that she wanted to marry soon, and that this website was a good way of meeting new prospects. I told her that in the West, no men that I knew would voluntarily sign up to such a website. She looked at me strangely, asking how that could be so.

Catching up with her again the next day, I asked how her marriage-matching was going. She told me that she had met three men in person, who were all very nice. “Hopeful, then?” I asked her. She shook her head: “They are nice, but their finances … no good.” I laughed – she wasn’t so dissimilar from Western women after all.

Thursday, July 07, 2005

Nursery rhymes, mosquito nets and another tikka massala

My first entry written in relative comfort. I am tired of dirty internet cafes, and have no plan to try out next door as Michelle has found both lizards and mice (not the computer type) lurking in their grim quarters. So I am writing away in my room, enjoying the refreshing air from the water cooler. I will publish this tomorrow.

Work at Pratham is going well, although I find myself physically tired often. Probably due to the nature of this week’s work – we have been visiting the slums that Pratham holds classes in (hence the earlier photographs). Seeing them was a mixed experience. They were very dirty, but then even the rich areas of the city are plagued with litter here. I saw many flies, so hygiene standards were obviously poor. But otherwise, the children were well clothed and dressed, and we were told that they bathed daily. They were not in rags and they did not look starved. This was pleasing, but the issue of child labour still remains; parents are reluctant to send their kids to school, as the family income will fall. Pratham’s only option therefore is to work with the system, running schools for just three hours a day – so that the children can still be educated, even though they must work.

The pupils were initially shy when meeting us, but soon became more responsive. My understanding of our visits was that we would sit in on the classes, and then report on the conditions back in the office; I did not, however, realise that we would be asked to contribute to them (keep reading). The pre-school teacher asked us to teach the children some rhymes, with a smile far too warm to refuse. I looked meekly at Stephan (another trainee), only to be told that he didn’t learn nursery rhymes in English (he is German). Following this revelation, all eyes turned to me. I muttered some excuse about not being able to remember any – I honestly couldn’t when put on the spot – but they insisted that I must know something (as indeed I should). Think, Sam, think. Hmm … a sheep. A black one? Oh yes – that wonderful little song Baa Baa Black Sheep. Now, for those that have had the unfortunate experience of hearing me sing, you will know that I have no natural talent in this area. Yet as the only one who knew the words, I was forced to lead the class. I sang one line, they repeated, I sang another, and so on. I was glad that the ordeal was soon over: however, upon completion, I was asked to share another rhyme. Stifling a sigh of embarrassment, I again racked my brains. I suddenly thought of Old Macdonald, and felt very chuffed with myself; surely all children know animal sounds. And indeed they did, but it soon became apparent that the animals in India make different noises to the animals in the UK. Dogs do not woof, but make a piercing screeching sound. Cows “maow” and don’t “moo”. Cats go “me-ahhhh!”, not “miaow”. I ended up foolishly trying to imitate these sounds, and failed miserably.

The monsoon has arrived in Jaipur, and so I decided to put up my mosquito net. It is self standing, and looks very impressive. It is a shame that I can no longer jump onto the bed and just crash out when I come in, but instead have to unzip the net and very carefully climb onto it. (Failure to be gentle leads to the net falling down.) It is also strange when Michelle is here and I am within the net – it is a little like talking to her from behind the bars of a prison cell. Although, I do not so much feel trapped as I do feel safe and protected; I wonder whether I will feel exposed when I return home to an uncovered bed. However, I now have a far more pressing need to be protected in the bathroom, as several days ago I fell and sprained my wrist (sympathy please). A small wall separates the main bathroom from the shower area, and I was within this shower area washing my feet. (When it rains here, your feet become unavoidably muddy – it really is quite unpleasant.) I soon noticed a great big beetle, and with my fear of anything small and moving, was not pleased at the prospect of sharing the shower area. I climbed over the wall and lent down to catch it with a bucket; however, my wet feet caused me to slip and, in a panic, I put my hand out to stop my fall. It bent backwards and was very painful. I bandaged it for two days and my hand is still slightly sore, but feeling much better now. (My showers though, annoyingly, take twice as long now for fear of a repeat incident.)

Other than that I have been keeping well, and even got to eat some meat yesterday. (A large proportion of Indians cannot eat meat for religious reasons, forcing most restaurants to be vegetarian.) Yes, I had another chicken tikka massala! So excited was I at finding my beloved dish. And yes, it was very tasty, although I should have known that it would not be as mild as in England. (Nothing here is – I once ordered what was advertised as “French fries”, only to be presented with chips ruined by spices.) So I am managing to survive in India; I am keeping healthy, I have not yet been run over (although there have been some close calls) and I can effectively bargain with rickshaw drivers. I consider this a small success.

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Photo: Me with Class

Me sitting with the Pre-School Class children.

Photo: Slum Girl

A young slum girl.

Photo: Slum Children

A photograph of children living in the slum. They are nearly all bare foot, as they cannot afford shoes.

Photo: Girl in Class

A young girl in another Akhar Setu class.

Photo: Children in Class

The Akhar Setu class at Pratham's community centre in one of the 76 "bastis" (slums) in Jaipur. The Akhar Setu classes are for working children, to allow them to still get some education.

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

Photo: Children Waving

Children waving at the roadside near our conference location. A very poor area.

Photo: Jaipur Market

Jaipur market at night. Ridiculously frightening - cars and motorbikes everywhere!

Photo: Cycle Rickshaw

Me and Tessa in a cycle rickshaw.

Photo: HOPE Group

A photo of the HOPE group, along with some AIESECers. Tessa is second from the left in the middle row, and Himanshu is on the back row.

Photo: Greeting

Being greeted by a child at the Orientation Conference (and given a bindi!).

Monday, July 04, 2005

Exhaustion

Typing this from a very dirty internet cafe near Tessa's house. We have finally moved into trainee houses, but we are living separately. Such a shame as we have become very close in the last few days. I feel quite sorry for her, as her room is small and her toilet ... is not a toilet as we know it. I have really been quite lucky. My room mate (Michelle) is only in Jaipur for another month and a half or so though (we think), so Tessa can come and live with me when she leaves.

We are finally left alone without the AIESECers. Tessa is with me, along with Stephan (who I am working with). We plan to drop me home in an auto rickshaw, and then they will return in it to their house. We have never caught a rickshaw without an Indian accompanying us, so I wonder how much they will try to charge us. We are tough now, though - it may seem strange, but being rude has become the norm. You bargain and you shout and you ignore, and all this just to keep us sane. The only thing that I am still afraid of is crossing the road: so far, Himanshu has had to hold my hand on every occasion. How embarrassing (but how so very necessary - failure to hold Tessa's hand left her turning circles in the middle of the road).

So, having now been here for almost a week, I can now make a more accurate comment on the heat. In Delhi, I finally realised what it was that it reminded me of: a sauna. A sort of stifling, short of breath sensation. This was relatively mild though in comparison to here; the monsoon is yet to arrive in Jaipur (as Rajasthan, Jaipur's state, is desert land), which means that the sky is clear and freely allowing the sun to shine on us. It is not terrible though, as nearly everywhere inside has fans. Fans are not as good as air conditioning, but they are better than being in the sun. The few occasions that we do venture out are uncomfortable, but thankfully short. I bought some light cotton trousers in the market a few nights ago, only to wear them today and find two 2-inch diameter holes located in the crotch area. Not ideal. My denim cropped trousers were difficult yesterday, but I am proud to say that I survived the 38C heat in them. I will have to find some others soon. (I did buy two pairs of the cotton trousers, but I am wary of the second pair incase they are destined to the same doomed fate.)

My other complaint (excuse this never ending list today) is that of time in the Indian culture. I read in my guides that life passes slowly here, and that Indians never seem to be in a rush. I misunderstood this - to me, India might well have been a relaxing break away from the hustle and bustle of Oxford. However, I instead find their concept of time most infuriating. Take Himanshu. Tessa has rather amusingly decided that Himanshu and I have a love-hate relationship, finding that we resemble an old married couple. The reason for this is that he has a heart of gold but, at the same time, drives me crazy with his time keeping. He tells Tessa and I that he will return in half an hour, and takes two hours. He tells us "hurry, hurry, hurry, we must leave in eight minutes", only to infact take a further thirty minutes. (Thirty minutes is precious when you've only had five hours of sleep.) This is not unique to Himanshu though, so I cannot place all the blame on him - this culture is everywhere in India. His sister had planned to take us shopping one afternoon, but instead slept through it due to the heat, deciding that it would be better to take us in the evening. (Shops are open here until 9-10pm.) However, she had failed to tell Tessa and I this, so we stayed in Himanshu's room all day waiting for her to wake up. When she finally did, she found it most odd that we had not napped ourselves.

I must stress though that these complaints are minor. Yes, things can be tough here, but I would not wish to be home (yet). I have made a wonderful friend in Tessa, and find myself fascinated by our education project. (I have not started work yet, but we had an orientation conference this weekend as an introduction.) The other AIESECers are very friendly, although I very much wish that I had not disclosed my identity as an AIESEC member myself. (I am also involved in the running AIESEC, as opposed to being merely a participant on the exchange programme.) This tiny slip of the tongue led to a flurry of well known AIESEC jives with yours truly as the star dancer. However, it does allow for a thoroughly interesting comparison with my own local committee at home, and I find myself happily chatting away about this outstanding organisation when it would be acceptable for me to not think of it again until October. The children here (when not begging for food) are the sweetest little people I have ever seen; just today, across the road from where we were working, were a group of tiny youngsters joyfully shouting and waving at us. The food is excellent, although I still have to use two hands to tear my chapatis. (This is not, though, the wicked taboo I first thought it was.)

I start work tomorrow, so I must end this entry here. Do pray for our journey home in the auto rickshaw.

I'm spending my summer in Jaipur, India. I'm working for Pratham Rajasthan on education development projects for slum children.

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