India Oddities

Today I continue with my segment known as India Oddities. There are so many moments that occur throughout my daily life here that leave me wide-eyed, shaking my head, smiling and appropriately saying “Only in India.”

In the States, one of our greatest assets is also one overlooked by almost every citizen of our nation. It’s not our shopping centers or skyscrapers or subways – it’s our clean and abundant availability of public restrooms. You don’t miss them until they are gone – trust me…

There are few public restrooms in India and those that do exist…well, let’s just say you are better off finding a bush. So in fact, that is exactly what Indians do. However, I don’t know if it is the years of conditioning to life without public restrooms, a convenience factor, or perhaps complete disregard for sanitary conditions and public health, but Indians use the entire city as a public restroom. Yes friends, they number one and two their way all around town. Granted, number one is more prevalent, but I would be fibbing if I said I haven’t seen people squatting for a deuce more than a fistful of times. Gross but true…

I think this seems hard to believe, so let me give you too much information, solely to state my case for this India oddity. Certain stretches of highway seem notorious as public restrooms for some reason. One day, for sheer fun or boredom, I counted within a two mile stretch the number of Honda Heroes and men pulled to the side of the road performing unhygienic acts. The lucky number was thirteen. Perhaps what is most unbelievable is that they do not hide nor care who watches them. You know you are too close for comfort when you can hear the zipper unzip. Apparently, there is no stage-fright in India as the whole city can see.

Being witness to urine arches minimally twenty times per day, I had to wonder where women use the restroom. In the name of gender equality, if so many men feel the urge, women must too. Are they more cautious to hide behind bushes? Do they dehydrate themselves? It was a burning question, so I brought up the taboo topic with a trusted female friend. She laughed. “Yes, women go too,” she admitted. “They wear sarees, so they can stand, pee and then just walk away as if nothing happened.” I just shook my head in disbelief. Being in Chennai during the dry season, one may at first wonder why all the puddles. Let me be the first to warn you, it’s not water…

India Oddities

Today I launch a segment I've appropriately named India Oddities. There are so many moments that occur throughout my daily life here that leave me wide-eyed, shaking my head, smiling and appropriately saying “Only in India.”

.

One of these Indian oddities involves public displays of affection. Affection is part of almost every society, albeit from touchy feely to intimate eye contact. In Spain, couples are seen smooching from the metro to the movie theater. In the States, couples hold hands and quick kisses don’t make anyone turn their head twice. However in India, the affection is not between couples - dating is still not main stream - it is between friends...and not the ones with benefits.

.

Affection between friends doesn't seem that odd, after all friends of both sexes embrace each other upon occasion. The oddity is that this friendly affection on steroids happens only between friends of the same sex. Girls walk arm in arm gently playing with each others' hair while boys stand with their arms protectively wrapped around each other at the bus stop or swing hands strolling down the street. The caressing between friends is so rampant that it appears as if half of Chennai youth is homosexual. After many months, the same-sex hand holds don't grab my attention, but the tender touches (especially between males) would leave many of us second guessing the true story behind the relationship...

.

My Indian oddity has nothing to do with the appearance of homosexuality. Rather, my oddity is the fact that Indian society is so socially shunning of homosexuals. So, overt displays of same sex affection provides the backdrop to a society basically intolerant of homosexuality. Now, that is just plain comical! In my opinion, legitimate gay Indians have the last laugh. Gay couples can comfortably grace the streets, walk hand in hand, exchange hugs and snuggle up in public as if they lived in San Francisco - all under the noses of communities and families who would spurn them if they ever emerged from their so-called closet. Friends, this is the first of many Indian oddities…

Chickens and Crabs

An Indian doctor once asked me if I knew the crab story. “The crab story?” I replied in a questioning tone, mentally preparing myself for a lame attempt at a cultural joke whose punch line would probably be lost in translation. “This is an internationally known story,” the doctor assures me.

“Once upon a time, in a land far, far away…” each word grossly exaggerated as it escapes his lips. At this pace the story could last for days, but the doctor chuckles at himself. “I’m just joking, the real story starts like this. All the countries of the world decide to hold a contest to see who has the best crabs.” The story already sounds silly, but I keep listening. “Each country gathers on a neutral beach toting a large wooden crate full of their finest crabs to the international affair. Each country has appointed a dutiful guard whose sole responsibility is to carefully watch over the crate, ensuring the prized crabs don’t escape.” He pauses to make sure I’m following along. "I'm still listening," I assure him. “First up to be judged is the United States. The American guard protectively minds the precious crate as he pulls a metal key from his pocket and unlatches the lock and lifts the heavy chains shrouding the box. As he slowly opens the lid to the wooden box, countless crab claws are already clipping at the top of the box to escape. The guard quickly slams the lid down to bar their narrow breakaway attempt." The doctor slams his palms onto his desk for the sound effect. He continues, "The judge is impressed, but moves on to the next country, France. The Parisian guard is also standing close to his wooden crate of Grade A French crabs. The judge asks him to remove the lid and the French guard unlatches his crate, following the judge’s request. Like the U.S. guard, the French watchmen pulls off the lid of the box and quickly slams it down as the crabs try to escape from their wooden prison. The judge nods approvingly and continues down the row of countries with similar reactions from all the countries’ top-notch crab-guards, until he arrives at his last wooden crate to judge. The judge notices the lid is already off the box, the apathetic guard is yards away, smoking a cigarette, hardly paying attention to the crabs crawling around in the open crate. The judge approaches the Indian guard with surprise. Aren’t you worried about your crabs escaping? No, the guard replies and laughs. We have the best crabs in the world! They won’t let each other break free. When one almost escapes, another one clips him with his claw and pulls him back in.”

I smiled at the doctor. I actually had heard this story before, except the story replaced crabs in a wooden box with chickens in a metal coop and was written by a breakthrough Indian author, Aravind Adiga in his premier novel White Tiger. (One of my suggested books for anyone looking for an interesting summer read.) Stated by an author and confirmed by an Indian doctor – some stereotypes are grounded in reality…

The story drew me back to a reality I witnessed only a week prior. I was in a living room, sitting on a white, plastic lawn chair under a dinky metal fan set to full speed. I was amidst a heart-to-heart with the mother of a young woman involved in the family counseling program with MCCSS. I had just enjoyed a lazy lunch with her family grazing on white rice, sambar sauce, green vegetables and boiled chicken. All the family had left the house after lunch, so I sat together with the mother for some coffee and conversation. I expressed gratitude to my gracious host for the food. I sipped my coffee and smiled at her. We started with small talk, but she soon opened up in earnest detail about her life, her experiences and her story.

The facts involved enduring an emotionally abusive husband for the past nine years and a broken marriage where not one affectionate touch had been exchanged for the majority of those years. The children, often used as tools of manipulation, were rewarded by the father for fighting with the mother, driving a wedge between their relationships. The husband refuses to contribute to the household, holding a job barely three months of the year, preferring alcohol and tobacco as opposed to a salary and responsibility. Yet she continues to support him. After all, he is the father of my children, she tells me. The mother recently dipped into her savings to pay a hefty dowry for her youngest daughter to marry, causing her to fall behind on motorbike payments, which her son now needs in order to obtain work to help support the family. The motorbike was repossessed in the middle of the night and the 25-year old son now spends the majority of his time playing cricket and loitering with the wrong crowd. Worse yet, the daughter’s arranged marriage failed after just three months – she was psychologically abused by her husband and in-laws. The young girl was forced to eat left-over food until she vomited, then eat more, while working as a slave in the home. She was physically locked inside with no escape and her breaking point came when the newlywed wife felt drinking a pint of poisonous cleaning solution was her only way out. Luckily, she survived and so grew the mountain of hospital bills it took to keep her alive. The mother, a school teacher by day, now stared into the face of the year coming to a close for summer break, translating to zero income over the next three months. “How will I feed my family? How will I find the money to pay for my motorbike which will allow my son an income?” It wasn’t a plea for my personal help. It was a plea for someone to listen, to share her burden, to hear her worry. She didn’t want money; she wanted a friend. I asked her if she had friends with whom she could talk, maybe ask for a loan or at the very least to lend a shoulder of support until she could overcome her troubling situation. We all need support during our personal vicissitudes of life. Isn't that what friends are for? "Things will get better," I attempted to assure her holding her hand, "But you surely must have friends." She shook her head. "You can’t tell people these things, or else they will use your situation against you. If I ask for help, they feel I am lower than them. They will gossip to other people about my situation and make things worse for me then they are already." "But, there has to be at least one person, a co-worker or someone to trust?" She just shook her head, “My people are different than yours.” My heart ached – not for her situation, but for her society.

Is this the real India? It's absurd and inappropriate to stereotype a population constituting one billion people, but it makes one think... This crab story wouldn't leave my mind, so I did some online research. It’s called crab mentality and by definition describes a way of thinking best described by the phrase "if I can't have it, neither can you." At times we all may feel a slight pang of envy toward a friend or co-worker for being granted an opportunity or promotion that perhaps we would desire for ourselves. I think this is normal. Crab mentality rears its hideous head when one uses this positive gain against them negatively. It is one thing to feel a jealous twinge, quite another to try and pull someone down from reaching their dreams and goals, quite simply because you cannot reach your own. It is an ugly mentality that I doubt is solely isolated to Indian crabs. After all, haven't we all heard the time old adage, "misery loves company?" One can only hope this disturbing mentality is only held in the hearts of the minority of humanity. If not, what might our world become?

Here comes the bride...

I have been fortunate to fulfill many roles here at MCCSS - whether public speaking at a rally, hanging posters, writing grants, interviewing case studies, being a resource person, hounding for publicity, discussing HIV/AIDS with a men’s flower cooperative or executing my latest role - impromptu wedding photographer. Ahhhh yes, non-profits sure are resourceful… .
.

Once upon a time, Sudha (soo-duh), a woman at the short-stay home, expressed her desire to enter an arranged marriage. So that’s exactly what happened. A few weeks later, backgrounds had been checked, families had met, dowries were negotiated and somehow during this discussion, I became a bargaining chip. With a few shouted words in Tamil, head nods and noises, I was nominated as the official wedding photographer. Could I really say no to this experience? Of course not, so the story begins here…

.

I was lucky enough to be included in on dowry negotiations. It is similar to the intense, nail to nail, tooth to tooth contract battles with suppliers I negotiated during my corporate days. This is no time to show weakness; Time to paint your war face. Automatically you are on the losing side if you represent the woman, so we already knew we were the underdog walking into battle. It seems all fun and games for an instant as the intense ambiance is lightened by occasional - at times inappropriate -laughter. The groom’s family begins by showboating an offering to the bride’s family. MCCSS played the role of Sudha’s pseudo-family, as she has no connection to blood family willing to act on her behalf. (Remember: loss of connection to family is likely not her choice. Women are ostracized for being victims of human trafficking, bearing children out of wedlock, abandoning an abusive marriage, etc.) The wedding offering may consist of various silk saris, beautiful fabrics and other tempting treats. The gift is carefully inspected and accepted; now the battle begins.

.

The smiles and photo ops of the accepted offering soon turn serious as the gift moves to the bride’s corner of the room. Now, the groom’s family demands begin. They require a meal for 300 people, non-vegetarian and they want the best cuts of beef. The wife’s family argues back, beef is too expensive for 300 mouths, they will provide the best chicken for 200 only. They spout back from the opposite side of the room, chicken for 250 people. Deal! The groom’s family now demands a photographer and videographer to capture the event. The wife’s family (MCCSS) fights back and barters down to solely a photographer – the white foreigner sitting in the red, plastic chair - me. Deal! This continues on covering every last wedding detail. At one point heaps of gold jewelry, cold hard cash and a motorcycle were sincere demands on the table. Why? Upon marriage the woman becomes property of the groom’s family. They will all share a home and the dowry is essentially a payment to the groom’s family to ensure they will take decent care of the bride. I rolled my eyes at the ridiculous demands. She is a woman from the short-stay home; she makes minimal wages; she barely has a family of her own and a non-profit surely does not have the means to fulfill these wild demands. These people are over the top…or so I thought.

.

Two days later, the wedding takes place. The bride and groom have never met…but they soon would. On the van ride to the wedding, I intently watched the bride. The sweet scent of the white flowers styled in her jet black hair delicately danced through the air. Her lace white veil lay over her face, covering all signs of emotion. She was silent, barely glancing out the window. What was she thinking? Was she nervous to marry a man she had never met? How could she entrust such an important decision to others? Were her best intentions at heart when the marriage was arranged? Would this man be kind? Was he an alcoholic? Was he jealous? Was this her escape from life in the short stay home? Could he become the man of her dreams? Would they be happy? Do they share the same ideals? Would this be the day she dreamed of? Or the biggest regret of her life? She would have to wait until after they were married to discover the answers to all these questions. For now she could only hope this would be a good decision, as divorce is still not a viable option in Indian society. If divorced down the road, Sudha would likely return to the short stay home – possibly with children and the stigma of a terminated marriage.

We pulled up in front of a Christian church. The couple was Hindu, but the groom’s family is Christian. So as a stipulation of negotiation, the Hindu wedding would take place outside of the Christian church. Whose wedding was this anyway? Not a single detail was decided by the soon-to-be newlyweds...not even who you would marry. The family planned every last aspect to their personal gain and benefit. The couple never once looked into each other’s eyes. However, no one else seemed to notice as the family ushered me around ensuring I took family portraits and photos of all the important objects to be used during the ceremony. After a few minutes, we formed a circle and a series of rituals ensued. To begin with, we all had to touch the pole in the center of the circle, haphazardly strewn with yellow string. A few camera clicks and that was captured. Shortly after, long garlands of colorful, fresh flowers were placed around each neck of the nervous couple and they exchanged garlands not once, but three times. Snap. Snap. Snap. I captured each exchange – though they all looked the same behind the lens, this apparently did not matter. Next, a coconut wrapped in ribbon adorned with a small, gold heart was passed around the circle before broken in half and the liquid poured into steel cups. The bride and groom were each handed a silver cup to drink the cool, coconut milk. I was finally able to capture some candid snapshots in this moment – frowned upon by Indians, but worth the risk. Then, flower petals were showered over the couple as they tied yellow string around each other’s neck, symbolizing the official bond between the pair. They were married…no turning back now.

Afterwards, everyone insisted on having their picture taken with the couple, not as much to commemorate the event, but to have their picture taken, period. To my western eyes, not a single moment of the entire ceremony had celebrated the bond between husband and wife. How could it though? They literally just met a few minutes before the wedding? Despite this fact, it still seemed so strange. After the twenty-five minute marriage ceremony - and over 300 photos - we loaded back into the vans to return to MCCSS. Of course the day couldn’t end pleasantly without a fight between the families. The groom’s side fought about who would get a seat in the MCCSS vehicles back to the reception hall - literally verbal altercations took place over these coveted spots. As I settled into my safeguarded seat as the official wedding photographer, I drowned out the noise and drowned in my thoughts.

.

This couldn’t possibly be more opposite of what I dream of a wedding day to entail. I’ve never been that little girl who daydreams of her big day – quite the opposite - but all of a sudden it became crystal clear how deeply I treasure my western tradition of choosing my own husband, not to increase class within a caste system, not for gold, cash and motorcycles and not for the sole reason to be married. I value choices – the choice to choose love, the choice to choose to marry or not to marry. Sure I may make mistakes in these choices...but they are my mistakes and I am responsible for them. I want my wedding to be based on love and mutual respect. It should be about the couple…not the family. A celebration of a conscious commitment shared between two individuals - not the assets they bring to the marriage.

.

An Indian man once remarked to me when questioned about arranged marriages of the east vs. love marriages of the west, “You see what happens in love marriages, you Westerners first find love and then marry after the love has already gone. In arranged marriages of India, we get married first and then we find love.” Interesting point as our divorce rate hovers around 50% - maybe there is an ounce of validity to his point. Nonetheless, I rather run the risk…

.

We returned to MCCSS for the reception. Everyone dressed in saris - as dictated by the staff and family earlier that day. The reception room barely fit all who attended, not because of the outpouring of affection for the newlyweds, but merely for the free meal – with meat – provided at the end of the evening. I was clearly instructed not to take any fancy pictures. (Note to all: fancy means candid, slightly imaginative photos.) All photos should be taken with a landscape orientation and with the full background. Okay, check. At one point, it was actually time to capture shots of the newlyweds together…imagine that! They were so scared of one another they could barely touch. No exaggeration. One of the caseworkers literally had to pose the couple placing their hands around each other. I can’t say I blame the bride and groom as they had just met, however they were supposed to consummate the marriage in a few short hours. Yikes! In Indian culture, a baby is expected within the first year of marriage or you are marked as a failure of a wife. The wife has no input on family planning choices, or her body for that matter as she must submit to the needs of her husband to be a good wife. Submission is key to a lasting marriage. Had I been born in India, I would be divorced before a marriage could ever be arranged given all these stipulations. I can barely follow societal protocol in the west, let alone the east. All in all, it was a day full of emotion for all involved. The family happily received a hefty dowry – with a motorcycle, gold and cash...guess I was the crazy one for assuming they would not receive their demands. Sudha and Sudhagar were now forged in a lifetime union – for good or for bad, in sickness and in health. I on the other hand, was merely an impromptu wedding photographer forced to re-examine her culturally-biased preconceptions of supposedly one of the happiest days of your life…

Part of the dowry gift included tons of steel kitchenware - and a picture of Jesus...

Simple sidewalk art, known as rangoli, is found freshly decorated along sidewalks every morning. Special occasions call for elaborate designs and the use of colored powder. One important point is that the entire pattern must be an unbroken line, with no gaps to be left anywhere for evil spirits to enter. Rangoli also has a religious significance, enhancing the beauty of the surroundings and spreading joy and happiness all around.

The chicken biriyani meal fed atleast 250. Pineapple ice cream was for dessert and it was all served on banana leaves for easy clean-up.

Where Love Resides - Round Two

Of course I couldn’t go too many weeks without a repeat visit to Prema Vasam. So here begins the continuation of where Prem resides…

.
Only a few Sundays have passed since my first visit to the beautiful orphanage on the outskirts of Chennai and I felt an overwhelming draw to return. The group of British volunteers I had originally met would be departing in a few weeks – a perfect opportunity to say good-bye and see the children. This time I opted for the public bus ($0.25) versus the luxury of private taxi ($8.50). The kind citizens of Chennai assured I hopped off at the correct stop, but not first without ensuring I was meeting someone as it is a “no good neighborhood” they said. No good neighborhood? I began wondering why they were so worried about this. In actuality, the neighborhood is not bad – much better than the slums I usually frequent and in reality, I have never felt unsafe in the slums. I reflected over this morsel of advice and it dawned on me - I have received the same commentary almost every time I request a bus stop within a poverty-stricken hood. It’s not that the slums are abhorrently unsafe – danger lurks anywhere. The issue stems from the uncommon nature of a westerner visiting these neighborhoods. Essentially, they are attempting to safeguard us from the scenes. This in fact is a common misconception even staff at MCCSS hold. They assume slum surroundings are too harsh for westerners to manage and shelter us by simply not escorting us into certain slums. Not all staff subscribe to this belief, and we are working to dispel the myth that we need to be babied from the real slums. Either way, I assured the overbearing bus passengers that I would be fine and jumped off the bus as it rolled to a stop.

.
I zigzagged through the neighborhood and meandered my way to the end of the road. When I walked through the gate, I saw no one outside. Where were the kids? I soon discovered the weather had become too warm in the early afternoon to play outside, so the children were forced to hibernate in the indoor playrooms for the afternoon. Unfortunately at an orphanage, playroom is a misleading word. There are no toys; instead four walls coop up too many children leading to unreleased energy and pointless punches, as nothing else is available to occupy their young minds. The volunteers attempted to combat this situation by purchasing coloring books and crayons, however in a society that never has enough, survival not sharing, is a trait learned at an early age. Crayons are hoarded and coloring sheets are shredded as little hands grab for everything. Orphanages are always fun and games the first time. After that, you remove your rose-colored glasses and learn what effort it truly takes to make them function.

.
After the coloring fiasco, it was feeding time. We resorted to the kitchen to collect lunch for the special kids. I carried up a plate of soggy rice and vegetables and was pointed in the direction of a new child this time. He was confined to a bed-ridden life on his back due to his disease. I positioned myself on the corner of his bed and balanced the hot plate in my lap. I couldn’t help but notice his out-of-place t-shirt that seemed more an unintentional cruel joke that read, “Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my mind the most.” I couldn’t even make this up if I tried. Sometimes in those situations, all you can do is laugh, shake your head and continue on. Humor is a god-sent gift in a developing country. I carefully rolled up small balls of rice and veggies and secured them in his mouth. He didn’t possess the ability to chew with his teeth, instead using his tongue to break down the food. He was incredibly more difficult to feed than the child I had tended last time…until I enacted my secret weapon – the airplane feeding game. With rice ball in hand, I maneuvered my hand around like a gliding airplane with sound effects and all. He laughed so hard, but between giggles would always open his mouth to accept the rice ball. I was hoping this newfound game wouldn’t wear out for a few reasons: I wanted him to finish his plate to fill his little belly and selfishly because his innocent laughter was irresistible. I soon found tears dotting the corners of my eyes as his contagious laugh made me double-over in laughter with him. By the end of the meal, we managed to find rice hidden in our hair, under our necks and inside our ears…well worth the extra clean-up duty.

After feeding time, it is time to nourish staff and volunteers and we all met downstairs to sit in a feeding circle for lunch. A huge pot of rice and spicy, sambar sauce is passed around the circle and you spoon the food onto your plate. No silverware is needed in India since they eat with their right hand only; the left hand is used for dirty duties. Before lunch began, the founder recited a small prayer of thanks and welcomed me back to the orphanage. Unbeknownst to me, they had purchased a small gift to welcome me back and show I was now part of their family. He waved to two small girls waiting in the doorway, whom excitedly skipped toward me, pulled up my pant legs and secured silver kosulus (ankle bracelets with bells) around each ankle. Almost all the women of India wear these and it was a symbol of my acceptance at Prema Vasam. The generosity of the South Indian people never ceases to amaze me. Consistently, those who have nothing to offer are always the first to give me the shirt off their back or the last serving of their meal…

After lunch I caught up with the UK volunteers who would soon be departing. It is always interesting to listen to the stories they have accumulated and the mishmash of feelings one encounters when departing. So many intense experiences happen on a daily basis when you push yourself outside of your comfort zone and into extreme circumstances. How do you describe all the emotions to friends and family? What will happen to the children? How do you find words for the powerful events you’ve witnessed? Why them and not me? Will there be food to eat tomorrow? What does the future hold? The truth is it’s difficult to return to the simplicity of our daily lives after seeing the daily struggle in others’ lives. You always wonder what more you can do…

.
After some afternoon reflection, we headed upstairs to gather some of the special children for a special outing. On my way up, I noticed the explosion of laundry hanging on the rooftop and I stopped. It was only another realization of the massive undertaking to maintain life at an orphanage. Remember, there are no washing machines or dryers at the orphanage or the majority of households in India for that matter. All this laundry is washed by hand and hung to line dry…everyday! I don’t know the last time you hand-washed, but imagine doing it for 170 children on a daily basis. Bucket washing is back breaking work. The special kids alone go through numerous outfits per day as diapers are unaffordable on a tight budget. It is barely possible to keep the children properly clothed as they grow faster than weeds and hand washing takes a toll on the garments. The problem is evident as I noted children running around with flooded pants, broken zippers and swiss cheese t-shirts. Yet again, in a society where there are never enough resources, you make do with what you can… a delicate art to comprehend.

We rounded up seven special children and headed out the front gate, but not before excitedly blowing kisses and waving good-bye to the gate keeper. The little ones walked barefoot down the hot, rocky roads and you can’t help but feel guilt. It doesn’t hurt their tiny soles, as after years of practice their feet have grown accustomed to this behavior, but somehow this doesn’t console your mind. We headed to one of the local shops and showered the kids with small candies, baby bananas, mango juice and other tasty treats. We didn’t spend more than $1.00 and the smiles were priceless. The villagers were surprisingly accepting of the unexpected behaviors special kids often exhibit and a few villagers even chipped in to buy a sweet snack or two. By the end of the outing, crumbled crackers, wrappers and mango juice ended up all over the floor, but the shopkeeper just smiled, shook her head and waved us good-bye. We held hands as we all walked home together. The first time I visited the orphanage, I didn’t quite agree with the term special kids, however, being able to spend additional time with this group made me realize they really are just that. They are special. It has nothing to do with their handicap or their disability. It’s the pure joy they find in the small things around them that is truly amazing and their ability to remind those of us who forget.

As the day drew to a close, so did my time. I needed to reach Chennai by dusk since the streets become full of shady characters after dark. I take my curfew cue from the local, Indian women who are safely tucked inside home well before 9:00 pm. I thanked Selvyn for another amazing day and promised him next time to sit down and more thoroughly understand the inner workings of orphanage life. With his hand over his heart, he bowed his head and welcomed me back anytime with open arms.

Prison + Graveyard

I'm well aware of my ability to write wordy blogs, at times scant of photos. Today I post the contrary - perhaps only to make you miss my meticulous detail and semi-amusing accounts. Honestly, I solely lack the exciting narrative for this daytrip so take pleasure in the temporary lapse of lexis and remember pictures are worth a thousand words…

A single cell.

The prison hosted 2500 inmates and 300 guards and closed in 2001. A shared cell.

The great leaders of India.

The mural has gods of all religions for prisoners to pray.

Drawing on a cell wall.

Luckily I didn't fall through, but it was a close call.Pictures of Hindu gods are posted on everything...even switchplates.

Tsunami Village

Unearthing planned activities and events at MCCSS can best be described as haphazard. On a good day, I discover an event a couple days in advance, sometimes the evening prior and other times within the hour. This all usually occurs through a chance conversation between staff and international students alike. The latter is how I stumbled upon an opportunity to visit a tsunami ravaged village which had been hard hit by the powerful waves of December 26, 2004. This remote fishing village suffered close to the worst casualties in Tamil Nadu, scoring national media attention and international aid. MCCSS staff returned to peruse the village and assess industry recovery five years after that devastating morning…

.

My morning started off as usual. All those departing on the trip would need to be ready at 7:30 am sharp when the transportation would arrive. Hence, myself and four other punctual westerners were waiting downstairs by 7:25. After an hour had passed, we grew slightly nervous we had been misinformed of the plan as staff had still not arrived. However, our nerves settled when a field worker zipped up on his motorcycle around 8:30 reassuring us the event was scheduled as planned. Finally by 9:00 we loaded into the mini-buses and headed off to tsunami village - only 1.5 hours late today.

.

One bumpy bus ride and two hours later we pulled up to a homely building in need of a facelift and a fresh coat of paint. Unaware, I soon discovered we would first be attending a leadership training session with various levels of the women’s self-help groups. This is why I often describe a day of field work as venturing into the wild - you literally never quite know what the day may hold….

.

All sessions begin in song. MCCSS believes this helps to bond staff with those they serve through harmony. The word harmony is used figuratively. Ha! Even though I don’t speak Tamil, it’s apparent who can reach the right pitch. The songs are generally about poverty and human rights and while I respect the concept, it still makes me smile to imagine beginning a work day with staff singing tunes. Working here at MCCSS has solidified the concept that you can always learn something…it usually is not what you planned on learning, but there is something to gain each day if you remain open to it.
As I sat sweating in the shabby building, watching sari-swathed women sit lotus-style on the floor, listening to Tamil flow in one ear and out the other I began to wonder when exactly we planned to visit tsunami village; after all that was the original plan, wasn’t it? It is futile to be somewhere physically if you aren’t there mentally, so I dragged myself back to the present and silently observed. The women worked in two teams, scribbling Tamil characters on an oversized sheet of paper. They were brainstorming qualities of a self-help group (SHG) and an SHG leader. Discussion bounced back and forth and slowly a few key leadership qualities emerged. A leader should first and foremost be literate – remember these groups are formed in slums with little education; some women can’t even sign their own name.

.

An SHG leader should also:
1. Be knowledgeable about empowerment
2. Maintain good relations within the community
3. Not want to lead for power, but rather for the skill set she possesses to do successfully

.

Why all this discussion about leadership? Through careful questioning and slurred Indian English I learned MCCSS was entering year two of a three year women’s empowerment grant. MCCSS has no control over the groups in regards to leadership election or removal, thus training is crucial to teach women to empower themselves. MCCSS purely disseminates knowledge and facilitates. The women must take matters into their own hands, basing decisions formed upon their own needs and wants. Mmmm, the sweet scent of self-sustainability….
.
Here’s how the women’s SHG movement breaks down: one self-help group contains 20 members, 20 self-help groups form one federation and three members of each formed federation are elected into a confederation. Confederations are the long-term goal of the empowerment grant. The breadth of the movement is directly correlated with the number of successful confederations. The goal is to have a 90 member confederation, so let’s do the math. Remember, each group consists of 20 members and 20 groups make one federation, meaning that each federation is touching 400 women. The goal is 30 federations, so 30 federations * 400 women = 12,000 women being empowered within three years. If I explained this well, you should be amazed! If I didn’t explain it well, just be amazed anyway…

.
The grant is three-fold. Year one focused on group creation (650+ groups strong), year two builds upon the SHG groups to focus on elections and federation leadership and year three will aim for strengthening confederations and the formation of a Central Committee to oversee the infrastructure after the grant expires. Never before in my non-profit years have I seen an NGO reach out and empower so many individuals, on so many levels. The grassroots outreach and empowerment found at MCCSS is unrivaled. Although I find this thoroughly exciting, undoubtedly this is boring for the majority of those not in non-profit, so i’ll move on…

.
The true highlight of the day was learning the story of one of the leaders of a federation and self-help group. Her name is Velakanni (velah-kah-knee)and I had met on numerous occasions - though she never shared her story with me before today. Everyone has a story to tell. Sometimes you discover it right away, but the sweetest stories are well worth the wait. Velakanni became a SHG leader four years ago under the direction of MCCSS. She took the role like fish to water. During one particularly harsh monsoon season, Vela’s slum was flooded in waist-high water. Homes literally washed away, food was sparse, everything was destroyed – all due to lack of storm drain funding for slum residences denied by the Tamil Nadu government. Velakanni had been trained on human rights in her self-help group through a previous MCCSS training. So, she stormed the streets collecting signatures for a petition to the state government to demand action for her threatened community. The first petition was ignored. The second petition was again ignored. The third petition was ignored as well. Knowing you can’t repeat the same action and expect different results, Velakanni changed her plan. She inspired an entire community and rallied them in a Gandhi-esque, transportation blockade in central Chennai. They stopped traffic for over an hour and honking horns quickly notified traffic police and government officials of the ensuing situation. They arrived to disband the protestors, but Vela and neighborhood residents refused to disperse until officials promised to visit their drowning community.

Government officials arrived by boat to the neighborhood the next day and upon seeing the condition of the ruined slum, immediately issued a 2,000 rupee payment per household ($40 USD) for storm drains. Victory! From uneducated housewife to empowered community organizer, she has become a powerful and respected woman of her community. You would never know behind those chubby cheeks and ultra-sweet smile that Vela is a force with which to be reckoned. Everyone has a story to share if you care enough to discover it. Do you know yours?

.

By early afternoon training had concluded and we were off to tsunami village. After all the interesting information from the morning session I nearly forgot about the village visit. The buses weaved through the narrow, sand-covered streets and we disembarked a few blocks from the water’s edge. Houses were half-crumbling, trash was strewn everywhere, building materials lay dormant on cemented foundations, mangy dogs slept on sand piles, cows grazed on discarded refuge and a billion scents wafted through the air from cardamom to sewage – but this is India; nothing seemed out of the ordinary from other towns.

The most noticeable difference was the lack of row boats and wooden rafts; everyone had a motor boat. I quickly learned the tsunami was a bittersweet memory for the village. In the wake of waves, international aid flooded the village tenfold of tsunami waters. In fact, so much aid poured in that building materials marked for recovery housing were soon sold on the black market for a quick buck. This is not to fault the people of the village. This aid setback resounds around the world from Ethiopia to Ecuador. The problem is only half-rooted in poverty and greed. The other half is rooted in foreign NGO’s misunderstanding of local needs and mindsets. Neither is this to fault foreign relief, however, there is something to say for international not-for-profits who funnel their money into local agencies to organize recovery. Who better equipped to manage social problems further complicated by a natural disaster than local NGO’s?

So back to the boats…a large cause for concern is the sudden overpopulation of outboard motor boats. Of course the fishing community is delighted to receive zippy boats, but the concern stems from the improved efficiency strain on the environment - not only in terms of pollution but overfishing. The livelihood of a fishing village hangs in the balance of fish. If there are no more fish, what then becomes of the fishing village? Efficiency is not always an ideal gift; in some cases it just may be the opposite. Hence, for those in local non-profits, understand your community. For donors in the international community, understand your non-profit.

.

We boarded two, shiny boats and motored into open water. There is a vacant island 30 minutes from the shoreline that forms a protective barrier between the river and the Bay of Bengal. This small island and the dense trees that dot the shoreline spared this tiny village from much higher numbers of death and despair the morning after Christmas 2004. We pulled up to the island and jumped overboard splashing down into the shallow, warm water. It was a sight to see grown women in their immaculate saris playing in the sand and surf like water babies. After an hour of sun and waves we returned inland. It was time to check the recovery of the fish market and village economy.

.

This wasn’t my first time to a fish market and I was fully prepared for the funk of fish as I stepped foot into the open-air, stone-walled market. What I did not expect was the slime, scales and flies hovering over, in, under, above and around every surface. I love seafood, but this surely made me question where mine comes from before it reaches my lips. It’s hard to see the flies, but check out the shots below for a feel of the fish emporium. Weighing fish and bartering the day's market price.
All in all it was a day to remember, just like yesterday was and tomorrow will be. There is always something to learn, whether from a uneducated, former housewife of the slums empowered enough to tackle government or bittersweet motor boats which may devastate a local economy. The important part is keeping your eyes and ears open for the lesson of the day…