Long Live India

Meeting a Prostitute in a Taxi

2008-08-13T09:00:00.000-07:00

Only one hour before jumping into the taxi, I had been eating a delicious meal at a home for girls from backgrounds of abuse and neglect. The home is run by a Nepalese family who work for a Christian organization called Word Made Flesh which is dedicated to serving Jesus among the poorest of the poor.
I was walking back to my hotel, but it was slightly drizzling and the roads were extremely muddy, so I called for the first taxi in sight. There was a young girl sitting in the back seat so I sat in the front. I asked the driver if this was his daughter. He said no. I asked if it was his friend. He said no. She reeked of alcohol and seemed a bit dirty, but I couldn't figure out why she was in the car. The driver hardly spoke any English, but he did no one phrase: "For Fucking."
I was shocked. "How old is she?" He couldn't understand. "I am twenty-three", I said, using my fingers. "How old is she?" He understood this time and asked her.
"13."
Again I was shocked. Should I get out of the car immediately and just let him drive away with the girl?
I stayed.
"Mother? Father?"
"No," he said.
"This is a problem"
"No, no problem"
I asked how much he was paying her, but he thought I was asking how much it would cost to have sex with here.
"1000 Rupies"(USD $15)
I couldn't believe this. Before I realized it, we had arrived at my hotel and I had to pay the taxi driver and that money would soon end up in the hands of this little 13 year old girl.

Or maybe he was driving her to her next customer. I'm not really sure what was going on.

An Olympic Outrcry with a Himalayan Backdrop

2008-08-09T05:26:00.000-07:00

After an overnight train journey from Kolkata and a 4 hour jeep ride that took us up a mountain, through a few clouds and next to some amazing waterfalls, Ali and I reached Darjeeling, known in India as the "Queen of the Hills." From our hotel balcony, we had a majestic panoramic view of the surrounding green hills and tea plantations (this small city produces 25% of India's tea). The best part about the view was that this morning, while I was sitting on the balcony reading about Fyodor Dostoevsky, I looked up and saw the Himalayan Mountains. Because of the monsoon season, the clouds usually cover the mountain range during this time of year, so it is not very common to get a clear view. So I felt pretty darn lucky.

What was more exciting than the Himalayan Mountains, however, was the hundreds of Tibetans walking through the streets of Darjeeling last night in protest of the Olympics. The procession was led by five young guys carrying the olympic rings and dressed like blood-stained mummys. They were followed by a large group of Buddhist monks carrying a photo of Gandhi, the Dalai Lama and waving Tibetan flags. Then came the boys and young men, followed by the girls, then the women, and at the end came the Tibetan men. They walked slowly through the streets singing beautiful songs and holding up their anti-olympic signs(I walked next to the girls for a long time because their voices were angelic). Since Darjeeling is very near to their borders, there are many Tibetans, as well as Nepalese, in this city. After spending some time walking with the protesters (Ali was even given a candle to join in the procession), we went to our hotel and watched some of the opening ceremony. I couldn't have thought of a more appropriate place to be in India for the first day of the olympics.
***
Currently, we are stuck on the India-Nepali border (we're on the Nepal side). We were supposed to be on a bus to Kathmandu right now, but due to some weird event that I'm not too clear about, a group of bus drivers decided to go on strike today, so the road to the capital is closed for the day. Since nobody is sure whether or not things will get fixed by tomorrow, we've decided to take a plane to Kathmandu. But for tonight, we're sleeping on the border.

This is truly an adventure.

Kolkata: Missionaries of Charity and a New Light in the Red Light District

2008-08-06T04:11:00.001-07:00

Last night, after a eating a fantastic plate of Thai food, a beggar woman with a child in hand came up to us speaking surprisingly good English and asking us not to give her money, but rather to buy some baby formula for her little boy. The bottle of baby formula only cost US$5, so we bought her the bottle and sat down with her just to talk and find out a little more about her situation. Within a few minutes, two other mothers had joined our group. One was offering henna and the other was asking for us to buy her rice and oil to cook for her family. After a nice conversation, we went our way.
Then a few hours ago, we attended a volunteer information session at Missionaries of Charity, Mother Theresa's NGO, where one of the main instructions given to volunteers was not to give anything to beggars or even buy anything for them, especially the ones on Sudder Street, which is where we had met the women last night. Apparently, many of these women have homes, but come to these streets to make a decent living by getting money from tourists. Some of the children aren't even their own. They are rented from nearby slums and the stuff they ask us to buy is usually sold back to the shopowner so they could keep the cash. I hate to think that all begging is phony, because i still do believe that there are some people who get to a place, a truly difficult place, where they have no other choice but to beg. I hope this idea could be proven wrong, that it could be shown that some of these people really do have other options which they are willfully rejecting, but until that is proven to me, I will find it very hard to shun beggars. It's a struggle that I've encountered in every third world country I've travelled to. However, I do realize that if any change is to happen, it won't happen through a tourist's money, or through short term volunteering but rather through local NGOs that are committed to serving the poor in their community.
In Kolkata, we've had the privilege of getting a tiny glimpse into two such NGOs. The first, which I've mentioned above, is Missionaries of Charity. Two days ago, after being scammed out of a few dollars at a temple next door, we walked into Mother Theresa's Home for the Dying. Inside, were about 40 patients on their death bed who were being given a chance to die with dignity. Although we weren't able to spend time with the patients since we weren't volunteers, it was still a great experience to see what's being done here. Missionaries of Charity also runs a number of other programs in the city working with children and adults. We were planning to spend a day volunteering with them tomorrow, but Thursday is the volunteer day off, so it looks like it's not going to happen.
The Home for the Dying is near the Red Light area and this brings us to the next awesome NGO we checked out. It's called New Light (http://www.newlightindia.org/) and they work primarily with the children of the prostitutes, providing them with a number of services and support (check out their website for more info). We stopped by there yesterday evening and spent a few hours playing with some kids this afternoon.
After spending the past few weeks in selfish touristy travel, seeing these NGOs has reminded me of what I really love to do. Seeing cool places is nice for maybe a few days, but gosh, it get's tiring. I had no desire to come back to India until I came to Kolkata. Now I definitely would love to come back here and learn and grow in this city. I met a young couple that just got married a few months ago and immediately came to India where they've been volunteering with Missionaries of Charity. That's so awesome! I wanna marry a girl who would do that...

TAJ MAHAL and new delhi and the beginning of another adventure

2008-08-03T00:13:00.000-07:00

So everyone who goes to India has to go to the Taj Mahal, right? Of course. So since I'm here, I went. And it was good.
Actually, it was pretty amazing. I can totally see why this palace continues to inspire awe in visitors, even after being so hyped up around the world. The coolest part about it all was that the entrance to the Taj, which is usually Rs 750 for foreigners, was free that day.
***
I also spent a few days in New Delhi with some fellow Yalies who were on the last week of their summer internships. Delhi was a pretty sweet city. Nice monuments and old buildings, and a pretty nifty subway system (and I even went into a Sikh temple)
***
But now, things are getting exciting and adventurous again.
I've now joined up with a fellow classmate of mine, Ali Rodriguez, who just completed an internship in New Delhi with an NGO working with street children. So until August 15th, the two of us will be exploring some of Northeast India and we'll finish with Nepal.
***
Yesterday, we spent the day in Varanasi which is where many Indians go to burn their dead in order to scatter their ashes along the Ganges River. It was crazy to see so many bodies being burned on the edge of the water.
This morning we arrived in Bhodgaya, the city where Buddha attained enlightenment. This is the first time I've seen Buddhism in India. Although Buddha was from India, there are only a few pockets of Buddhists left in this country.

I'm a bit tired right now (there was a big group of kids/teenagers on the train who wouldn't shut up. They were extremely obnoxious). So please pardon the straightforward, non-descriptive tone of this post.
Tomorrow we're heading for Kolkata (formerly known as Calcutta) so that should be awesome.

Yay!
THe end.

Bad Luck in Bombay or Bye Bye Beautiful Hat

2008-08-02T23:53:00.000-07:00

Bombay or Mumbai (same thing) was a wonderful city. I thoroughly enjoyed walking the crowded streets (I stayed in an area that seemed to be 99.9% muslim) and standing in awe of the British architecture (some buildings even looked like Yale), but unfortunately, I lot of bad things befell me while I was there, and for that reason, I was so very glad to leave that place.
So here's some of the bad luck I had:
-Taxi driver ripped me off BIG TIME on the ride to the YWCA Hotel.
-There was no room at the Y and everywhere nearby, so they graciously let me stay in their luggage room for the night.
-I never met up with the people I had planned to meet up with there.
-It rained everyday.
-It took my taxi driver nearly 10 attempts to find a hotel with a vacany.
-I left my small backpack in the taxi that night. Everything inside was replaceable except....
-My peasant scarecrow felt hat (those of you who know me, know this hat)was in the backpack. That thing was older than me and now I will never see it again. I will miss that hat.
-I had diarhea the whole time and I had to use a shared bathroom in my hotel.
-I was offered a lot of drugs.
-There was a bombing in India and an email sent regarding the bombing was traced to an apartment in Mumbai.
-I spent was too much money on a plane ticket to New Delhi because I was so desperate to get out of that city.
-Since I didn't bring my student ID with me, I had to pay Rs 300 instead of Rs 10 to go into a museum.
-I feel like there was more stuff, but I can't remember it right now.

The Carvalhos of Goa

2008-07-25T09:44:00.000-07:00

Since Goa was formerly ruled by the Portuguese, most of the native Goans have Portuguese names and a lot of the older ones speak Portuguese. So one of my goals in coming to Goa was to meet at least one Carvalho and speak some Portuguese.
After day one, I spoke in Portuguese with a shopowner at a music store who appeared to be in his 50s and who, in his youth, had been a member of the first choir in Asia to ever sing in the Vatican before the Pope. He told me that for a lot of the older Goan crowd, Portuguese is the language they use when speaking among friends. This was confirmed a couple of days later when I was in store standing next to some older adult (is that the politically correct way to say it?) and some other guy his age came in and they started speaking Portuguese to each other. When I started talking to them, one of them got really happy (the other one didn’t really seem to care)…and that’s the end of my story on speaking Portuguese to random people in Goa (although I did speak with a lot of others, one of them forthcoming).

Now for the Carvalho quest. As I was thumbing through one of the Goa Dept. of Tourism Guides, I saw on the list of different petrol pumps, one that said “Carvalho Petrol Pump” and it was in the city where El Shaddai was! (read the El Shaddai post if this reference doesn’t make sense). I decided to go there on my motor scooter before visiting El Shaddai. Luckily, the very first gas station I went to was a Carvalho one, but unfortunately, it was now called Mapusa (name of the city) Service Station and they had nothing left that said Carvalho for me to take a picture of : ( . The guys at the gas station didn’t understand my excitement and subsequent dismay, but it’s all good, I’m still glad I found the place.

THEN…(here’s the big one)..after the visiting the El Shaddai children’s home, I took a different route to get back, and I stopped somewhere to see something and I turned around and BAM! There before me was a sign for CARVALHOS RESTAURANT. It was attached to a house with barking dogs and it seemed like it hadn’t been open for a long time, but I was so happy to find it. So after 5 minutes of taking pictures from every possible angel, the owner came out and after I told him I too was a Carvalho, he invited me to sit on his porch and have some tea. He told me (in portuguese) that his parents were Portuguese but that he had been born in Mozambique and moved to Goa as an infant…and we talked and talked, and talked..and then it got late, and that’s why I ended up driving in the dark that night.

The following day I saw a M/S CARVALHO BIKE SHOP, but the owner, who didn’t speak Portuguese, wasn’t as excited to meet me as I was to meet him, but at least he gave me his card..

And the next day I saw two Carvalho’s in the Obituaries.

If Public Urination were a Crime in India, All Men (including me) and Some Women would be in Jail

2008-07-25T09:17:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I've had to use the restroom at some place, and they ask me "number one or number two?" and when it's 1, they just point to the wall.

Hampi!! (the most beautiful and peaceful place I’ve seen in India thus far)

2008-07-25T09:16:00.001-07:00

Before going to Goa, I went to another AMAZING place. It’s called Hampi. You should google-image it and you’ll see how AMAZING a place it is. It’s mostly old ruins and rocky hills and a river runs through it.
I met a Taiwanese girl/woman (I don’t know how old she was..maybe 30?) who was traveling alone (brave girl), so I spent most of the day walking through the ruins with her. After talking with her, I realized how much I prefer Chinese-English over Indian-English. The Chinese (Chinese and Taiwanese are virtually the same…just don’t tell a Taiwanese person that) people who learn English well, space out their words more and sound them out clearly, whereas Indian people who speak English well, talk really fast, so it’s still hard for me to understand them.

But anyway, back to Hampi.
When you guys go to India, you have to visit this place. I actually thought of my brother a bit while I was there. Joshua, you would’ve loved to climb these rocks and ruins.
Now to the sad part… (read the next post)

The Worst Bus and Train Rides I’ve Ever Taken and a Revelation on the Importance of a Good Night’s Rest

2008-07-25T09:15:00.001-07:00

I went to Hampi on an unreserved ticket, which means, first come, first served and if seats run out, you’re screwed. So on this trip, I got screwed.
By screwed, I mean I had to sit on the floor, stand up, sit on the edge of the door of the train with my feet sticking out and some Indian guy’s arm around me, and try to find comfort in a million other ways. Every time, the unreserved train car situation(this was my 3rd time doing it) has been different. This time, there was one car for guys and one for girls. The guy one was impossibly full, so I got lucky to go with the girls (although I was still surrounded by guys). Me, six other guys, and about 8 ladies –oh! and one infant, gender unknown - spent the the entire night in the small aisle in between the train doors?). In front of me sat a very refined woman who spoke English very well and had an MBA. She had bought her reserved ticket for the wrong date, so she had no option but to go unreserved. This was her first time going unreserved (and I bet she hopes it was her last). Anyway, I didn’t get a lick of sleep on that trip, but I did arrive safely in Hampi and through some miracle, I had enough energy to explore the rocks and ruins. So going on an unreserved ticket to Hampi was my first bad travel decision.
My second bad travel decision (which I still kind of regret), was attempting to leave Hampi that same day and head on another 12 hour journey to Goa. To get a bus to Goa I had to first take a bus to a city 4 hours away called Hubli (how I disdain that name now). There I would be able to find an overnight government bus to Goa (or so I thought). So I hopped on the bus, and little did I know that this would be the worst 4 hour bus journey of my life. If you’ve ever been on a bus that shakes and tilts and bounces (and makes you bounce) you may know what I’m talking about. Well, being the unwise traveler I am, I sat in the back seat (worst seat ‘cus that’s where the wheel is, so when the bus goes over bump, you jump). I could’ve moved –the bus was relatively empty- but my frustration at having left Hampi coupled with the bumpiness of the bus left me too tired to get up. So there I was, unhappy and distressed, sitting on the back of this bus for four hours and thinking about how I could possible last another 8 hours of this to arrive in Goa.
I finally arrived in Hubli and low and behold, there were no more buses to Goa, but I had already decided at that point that it would be literally insane for me to take an overnight trip to Goa because I had received this wonderful revelation as to the importance of sleep (to quickly conclude, I spent the night in a very nice $5 hotel in Hubli and the following day –it was a Sunday- was a very pleasant and well-rested day).

So here’s the revelation. It’s actually not a big deal, so I shouldn’t use that word, but..whatever..

So (I begin a lot of sentences with “so” ‘cus that’s how I talk) last summer, I went on a 10-day detox/fast inspired by the one and only Heather Short (a good friend of mine) and her annual Master’s Cleanse (that’s the name of this torturous detox thing). For what was supposed to be 10 days, my dad and I only drank water with sea salt in the morning; an interesting-tasting juice throughout the day made with lime, maple syrup, cayenne pepper, and water; and a gross laxative herb tea at night. That’s it. It’s supposed to cleanse your intestines. It really does. Within a couple of days, your’s pissing out of your butt (sorry for the graphic detail).
Well, back in my days of teenage discipline, I would’ve had the willpower to go through with this thing. But I was 22 when I did this (that’s kinda like an adult, right?) and my mom had made some pao de queijo (Brazilian cheese bread) on the eighth day. So here’s what I did so I wouldn’t betray the fast/detox: I got a pao de queijo and chewed and chewed and chewed. I let my taste buds absorb every little bit of that piece of heaven...and then, I spit it out. And I did it again with another one…And then the following day, I just ate one and swallowed it…and so my fast/detox ended on the 9th day
Why did I swallow? Well, lack of willpower. But why wasn’t the tast of the glories of Pao De Queijo enough for me? Because, I realized that swallowing and digesting are essential parts of the eating process. (Another important part of eating is not being full, because if you eat when you’re full, first, it’s not good for you, and second, you won’t enjoy it as much[or at least I won’t enjoy it as much] if you eat when you’re full. But I only mention this second point because it will be useful for the following analogy).

So here’s the revelation (I know I said that in the very first line, but this time I mean it):

I realized that trying to have a fun-filled day without having had a good night’s rest is like eating on a full stomach, and having a fun-filled day but not concluding it with a good night’s rest is like chewing your food thoroughly but not being able to properly swallow and digest it. And doing both – trying to have a fun-filled day without having slept and without sleeping the following night-- is suicide.. and it ruins the memory of your fun.

See? That wasn’t really a revelation, but it did mean something to me at the time. It was that revelation that made me decide (although I would’ve had to make the decision anyway) to spend the night in Hubli. And thus, my great day in Hampi was partially saved.

El Shaddai

2008-07-25T05:10:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while, my Lonely Planet India guide book busts out with some super awesome thing to do or place to see. In the Goa section, there was a tiny quip about an NGO that rescues street children. This could've been just another struggling NGO that is trying to help people, while begging for money from abroad. But after talking to one of the top guns at their main office(which happened to be the cleanest most sanitary office-they had toilet paper in the bathroom!- I've been in since coming to India), and visiting one of the childrens' homes, I was convinced (yes, i'm easily convinced) that they are really doing great thing here. As some of you can tell from the name of this organization, El Shaddai is a hardcore faith-based group (for some of you this is a good thing, for others it's not so good). Since 1994, they have started a number of children's homes and daycare and nightcare centers. They also have a school for the kids(since many have been out of school for a long time, it's difficult for them to return to normal school).
I visited a beautiful home out in the countryside surrounded by green hills where 50 boys, between the ages of 5 and 13 live (they have another home for teenagers). All of these kids are children of migrant workers who came to Goa seeking a better life (Goa has the highest per capita income in India) but only found more poverty. So these kids became beggars, and El Shaddai found them on the street and rescued them (of course, parents are involved in the process and everything is super legit).
But ya, I don't know if I've mentioned this before in my blog, but I've been running into a lot of street children begging for money. It's always difficult to know what to do. Once, a little girl saw me, and started doing cartwheels in hopes that I would be impressed and give her something. It makes me really sad, but it also makes me happy to see a group in India that is doing something about the problem.

I can say a lot more but I highly recommend you check out their website at www.childrescue.net
I don't know if it's possible to make an online contribution, but if it is, it would be money well invested.

Motorscooter Diaries..

2008-07-23T09:03:00.000-07:00

Highs and Lows of Goa:

Highs-
renting a motor scooter for the past two days.
Finding a "Carvalhos Restaurant" in the middle of nowhere and having tea with the Portuguese owner (whose last name is Carvalho)
Finding a "Carvalho Bike Shop" today.
Spotting 2 "Carvalhos" in the obituary section of the newspaper
Visiting an awesome children's home called El Shaddai(http://www.childrescue.net/) that works with street children in Goa and other parts of India (they had an issue of Charisma magazine in their main office)
Speaking Portuguese to a bunch of older people (Goa was a portuguese colony until 1961)

Lows-
Falling off my motor scooter while doing a U-Turn (i was fine...no injuries)
Nearly running into a suicidal cow that suddenly dashed in front of my while I was driving my motor scooter.
Driving the motor scooter in the dark last night, while my body shivered. I felt sickness coming..
Getting so sick that I honestly felt like I was going to die (i had the highest fever i ever remember having)
Thinking how sucky it would be to die alone
Asking the guesthouse manager to take me to the hospital (thankfully, he just hung out with me for a little bit, and told me i would start feeling better)
Vomiting (for the second time in my life) and then no longer feeling like I was going to die.
Waking up every half hour through the night to use the toilet.(i think i may have had food poisoning)

I'll elaborate on some of these highs and lows in a later post..but i gotta go now. tomorrow morning i'm taking a train to Mumbai (Bombay)

Dancing with sweaty Indian guys in Goa

2008-07-21T08:51:00.000-07:00

Over 500 years ago, the Portuguese found a piece of paradise on the west coast of India. They liked it so much, they took over it and made it a nice little colony which they ruled over for the next 450 years. During this time, Indian people learned to speak Portuguese and Portuguese people learned...umm...i don't know what, but they must've learned something. But once the Portuguese got kicked out in 1961,it seems like their language dissapeared with them.

When I went to Macao (a former Portuguese colony in China) I found so many street signs and words in Portuguese, but I only found one Portuguese speaker (and she was Brazilian). But here, it's the other way around. Most of the Portuguese language signs have been replaced by another imperialist tongue - English. However, among the 50+ crowd, there are still plenty of those who still speak Portuguese. I met at least 6 of them today. It was so crazy to be in India speaking Portuguese with Indians named Antonio da Costa and Ivo Fernandes.

So..I'm here alone, which is okay for a few days, but I would never be able to simply travel alone. I think I would get really lonely..
But ya...so I jumped onto a 1-hour sunset cruise boat a little while ago. It's just like the ones in Miami except more ghetto and a lot cheaper ($3). And there was a DJ and alcohol and traditional Goan dances, and some funny things happened which are very telling of Indian culture.

First, the MC guy asked for all the couples to stand up, and only 5 out of maybe 15 couples stood up. When the MC asked them to come to the stage, only 3 went up, and then when they put on the music, only one couple stayed up and danced (they were pretty good..full out bollywood style.) Then the MC asked for the guys to come up. At first only one guy came up, but within a minute the small stage was crowded with at least 20 guys dancing the night away. I thought it was weird to dance w/ a bunch of indian guys so i just took pictures. Then the MC asked for the girls to come up and NOT ONE went up...it was sad, but that's how Indian are. So then he asked everyone to stand up, push the chairs away, and dance to the music...and once again, only the guys danced. After I saw some old guy with a big beard and a turban dancing, I couldn't resist. So I joined in with these sweaty, inebriated Indian guys and I had a really good time...
Yep..that's my Goa story. I'll be here for a couple more days, and I really hope to speak some more Portuguese.

“God’s Own Country” and Jew Town

2008-07-18T07:09:00.000-07:00

This past Monday, after spending 12 long hours in a train and a full lovely day on the beach, I met up with a group of very cool people whom I would be spending the next few days traveling with. I only knew one of them –a student at Yale Law School who is doing a legal internship with International Justice Mission (www.ijm.org …look them up if you haven’t heard of them) –and the rest were complete strangers, who turned out to be pretty fun. We were in the state of Kerala where the motto is “God’s Own Country.” Although this state has a large number of Christians (it was here that Saint Thomas arrived when he came to India), and although it boasts one of the highest literacy rates in the country, the Communist Party, which everyone I spoke to complains about, is currently in power. Everywhere we went, I saw Communist symbols and the image of Che Guevara painted on walls. But this is not what we had come to see.
We had come to discover the “Venice of the east” –the Keralan backwaters. On the first day of this adventure, we spent eight hours on a 2 bedroom/2 bath houseboat fully equipped with TV, surround sound, and a really good chef. It was like some sort of tropical looking yacht.
The following day, I woke up at 5am to go with Becky (the law student) to attend a 6:30am mass at St. Mary’s Church. This church, which was built by the Portuguese about 500 years ago, was constructed atop the remains of one of the few churches that Saint Thomas himself founded when he came to Kerala. The men sat on the left and the women sat on the right, and the mass was conducted in Malayalam (the local language and longest palindrome ever) in a sing-song fashion. It was a sweet, sweet sound.
Later that morning, we took a couple of canoes and paddled through small canals that brought us up close to beautiful riverside village homes.
We spent our final day in Fort Cochin, a small European looking port city. The highlight here was Jew Town, a tiny area with an active synagogue (where only 7 families attend weekly services) and a super old Jewish looking lady (last name Cohen) who we saw sewing yammickas (I don’t know how to spell this).

Now I’m in the city of Bangalore. Yesterday I went to Mysore (the palace city) today I walked around Bangalore, and tomorrow I’m going to Hampi, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. O…and last night, I slept in a one-room dormitory with 30 beds and a loud TV that turned off at midnight and turned on at 7am.

“You know Amsterdam…coffee shops…marijuana??…we have here the same”

2008-07-18T07:08:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I traveled alone to a beautiful city known for its huge palace built by the British for the nobility of the land. It was the nicest palace I’ve ever seen in my life, the type of place my mom would’ve loved to see. While I was on a horse carriage heading towards the palace, a young man with excellent English told me about a local “coffee shop” like the ones in Amsterdam, where I could get weed. I declined his offer to take me there, and went on with my day.
Later on, after I had seen the palace, and walked down one of the eight sacred hills of South India (I had gone up the hill by bus), I was met by another young man who started walking beside me and making casual conversation. He was only 17, and his face still spoke of some innocence that had still not been lost. So we walked together for a couple of miles to a gothic cathedral. He said his home was in this direction, so I thought it nice to have a companion for the hour-long walk. During our walk, he brought the Amsterdam coffee shop, but he made no invitation for me to go there, so I didn’t find him to be the least bit suspicious.
After I had seen the cathedral, he told me about an “uncle” of his who makes incense and oils and who could show me how they are made. Since I had time on my hands, I went with him to see this place. To get there, we walked through the most Muslim neighborhood I’ve ever been to. The streets were littered with stores selling burkahs and most of the women wore all black and revealed only their eyes. Before taking me to see his uncle, my newfound “friend” took me into a two story warehouse where old men were rolling tobacco into tobacco leaves (or some other type of leaf). The old man I sat with was really kind and he even let me roll a couple of leaves.
While I was in the warehouse, my “friend’s” “cousin” walked in. He was an auto driver who was going to take us to see the incense guy. I had felt a bit sketched out about going into the warehouse at first, but after seeing the old men, my heart had been softened. So I had no qualms in accompanying these two strangers to see some “uncle” who makes incense.
But then (and this is where it gets really sketchy) we get to a residential neighborhood and pull up to a big green metal gate. The gate opens, the auto drives in, the gate closes, and now, I’m stuck. At this point, they could steal my digital camera, kill me, bury my body, and nobody would ever find out.
And then we walk in to a dimly lit room, where this middle-aged uncle tells me to sit down (my friend and the auto driver sit next to me) and hands me a list of the different types of oils he makes. Then he told me about his cannabis oil (that’s marijuana!) and some other type of special oil. He asked if I wanted to smell them. I refused.
I suddenly felt very, very vulnerable to the situation. For the first time since arriving in India, I felt as if I had stepped into something beyond my control. Perhaps this “cannabis oil” was some weird chemical that would cause me to faint, and then they could cut out my organs and sell them on the black market (or, they probably could’ve just stolen my stuff and dropped me off on some faraway corner).
But nothing bad happened (and maybe nothing bad would’ve happened) because I refused (yay!). While I sat there, they kept speaking to each other in their language and they seemed a bit upset. So finally, the “uncle” said “So what do you want” and I said, “nothing”. So he told me to leave, and these guys dropped me off somewhere else (there was a little more sketchiness later on, but it’s very minor)..But ya, I think I’m going to be a little more careful as I travel alone for the next 4 days (On the 23rd, I’m going to meeting up with some super awesome people in Mumbai who are filming a documentary on human trafficking).

2008-07-18T07:08:00.000-07:00

12 hour train ride for Rs48 ($1.10)

2008-07-13T05:11:00.000-07:00

I didn't buy the cheapest train ticket just because I'm cheap, but rather, since I like to do things on the fly, the nicer, more expensive train tickets were already booked by the time I decided to take the train out of Madurai and into the neigbouring state of Kerala, a state with a lot of Christians, a high literacy rate, and a communisty party in power.
The cheap train ticket is referred to as the "unreserved" ticket which basically means, once the train arrives, you crowd in front of the door (or if you're able to fit through one of the windows, you jump right in) and you claim your seat and guard it with your life. As I shoved my way into the dark train (I think the conductors, for the sake of their own enternainment, like to keep the lights off during the first few minutes of boarding) I was followed by a little old lady, who shoved me and barked at me to move forward. I could hardly see a thing and all I heard was people yelling at each other. I thought I found a seat, but then, to my dismay, a guy sitting on the row pointed to the empty seats and said "ladies". So I guess saving seats was fair game in this struggle. My backpack was to big to allow me to move around in search for a seat, so I just waited next to this man as he waited for his "ladies". Sure enough, five women, four children, and one guy who was wearing a rosary and who had clearly just gotten some yellow stuff on his bald head at a hindu temple, came and sat down in the seats that had been saved. But, lucky me, there was one extra place. So for the next 6 hours (this family got off at an earlier stop), I felt blessed to be sitting face to face with a super cool, happy indian family. They asked me for my name, but after that their english ran out, and my tamil wasn't much better . So although there wasn't a lot of verbal communication between us, sitting by these people certainly made the train ride a lot quicker and quite enjoyable. Of course, I couldn't help but feel bad for the older people who, because they didn't have anyone to save a seat for them, had to sit on the floor. I think Jesue might've given up his seat for an old lady, and I wondered if Gandhi would've done the same (I had visited an incredible Gandhi museum earlier in the day) but I didn't feel like Jesus or Gandhi last night. I was just happy to have a seat..and it was a window seat too!

After checking into my hotel this morning, I went to a nearby beach with amazing cliffs (that's where I am righ tnow ). It reminds of the cliffs in Palos Verdes, California..
this place is beautiful.

Homestay!

2008-07-11T22:07:00.000-07:00

After a 12 hour bus ride, with a self-appointed DJ sitting behind me who used his cell phone as an FM stereo, I arrived in the ancient city of Madurai. It is here that Gandhi took up wearing the dhoti (long white loincloth). Later today I will be going to the Gandhi museum where a piece of the bloodstained loincloth he was wearing when he died is on display.
I spent my first night in the home of one of the hotel workers I had befriended in Chennai. He was here for the week visiting his family and dropping off some money for his older sister's college fees. His home has three rooms. The kitchen is in the back, the TV room is in the middle, and the "bedroom" is in the entrace to the home. It's not really a "bedroom" by western standards because the bed is simply a raised metal platform with a straw mat on top. Since I was the guest, they were so kind as to give me this bed. The rest of the family: mother, father, sister, brother and uncle all slept on the hard floor of the tv room and bedroom. We ate all our meals sitting on this floor "indian style".
My first meal here was fish curry..

Yuvaraj's mother(Yuvaraj is my friend's name) always seems to have a smile on her face. She went out into the streets for a few hours to sell some of the fried snacks that her husband makes at his job. She does this about three times a week and usually returns with Rs 100 to Rs 150 ($2.50-$3.75). Her husband, who just started this new job two months ago, makes Rs 120 per day. This is not enough to support the family, so that is why Yuvaraj feels the need to go to Chennai and work at Hotel Assai where he earns Rs 4000 per month. (Hotel Assai is the hotel I stayed at for the past two months)

On the way home from watching a Tamil blockbuster movie in which the main actor plays the role of 10 different characters (George W. Bush being one of them) Yuvaraj told me that his dad has an eye probelem. Since I was volunteering with an eye clinic in Chennai, many people simply assumed that I must be a doctor or a doctor in training. When we arrived in his home, I looked into his father's eyes and low and behold I saw the only thing I've learned to see during these past two months: cataracts in both eyes. I immediately called one of the people from Uma Eye Clinic who gave me the contact info for a hospital in Madurai that provides free cataract surgeries to those who can't afford it. Yay! I really hope he visits this hospital when he has time.

The following day, I went with Yuvaraj and Anand (another worker from Hotel Assai) to Anand's middle-of-nowhere village, about an hour outside of Madurai. He made the 10 hour bus journey for the sole purpose of dropping off some money for his 21-year old pregnant wife and their 10 month old daughter. After spending one night with his wife, he will return to Chennai to continue working.

Last night Yuvaraj took a train to Chennai, and I checked into a super ghetto and awesome hotel room in downtown Madurai (US$5 per night). I've been so amazed by the hospitality shown to me the past couple of days. I did't have to pay for one bus ride or water bottle while I was hanging out with Yuvaraj......
and now i'm tired of writing...

"Hello Dears..."

2008-06-30T05:32:00.000-07:00

One of the guys who work in the hotel we are staying at gave me the following letter. I read it to the group of volunteers and hopefully we’ll be able to do something for him:

Hello Dears,
I am Robert Leo. J. I am 21 years old. I have one brother his name is Robin Leo J. My father and mother died. They died in my age of 17. We are staying with our grandfather who is 88 years old. He can’t even walk. I am a Roman Catholic Christian.
I have finished my BSC (Bachelor of Science) Computer Science. I studied in Caussanel College…which is running by Sacred Heart Brothers. There I paid Rs 5000 per semester. I work part time job like everyday morning 4 o’ clock. I distribute milk packet and newspaper…In that I got Rs 3000. So I paid my semester fees and also my brother’s study.
Now I want to study MCA (Master of Computer Application). Which takes lots of money. We have to study three years…Rs 30,000 per semester. Now I am working in Aasai Chattinad Restaurant in Chennai. I will get salary (monthly) Rs 3000. After finishing my MCA I just help the poor boys those are like me. This is my ambition. So I need your helps.
I think you are all kind hearted people. So you will help for my studies. If you help me I will see our Lord Jesus in your faces. Please help me. Without your help I am not able to study. The college will open on August 15th. I have to pay Rs 30,000 in that date. I got Rs 10,000 from my salary. I need Rs 20,000 very immediately.
Please help me. If you help me I will keep you in my heart as my parents. Please make my life bright. If you help I will never forget throughout my whole life. Please help the poor boy.
When I meet Mr. Daniel he said that I will surely tell to my people and I will help you. So I have to thank him. I believe that you will all help me. Whatever may be how much you can give please give. It will be the most useful for my studies.
I will always remember you in my daily prayer. Our Lord Jesus Christ will keep you with good health mind and body. You just remember me in your prayer. Please help me. And pray for my brother also.
Please I am seeking your help…

Your loving son,
J Robert Leo

“JEHOVAH SHALOM: THE LORD IS PEACA”

2008-06-30T05:14:00.000-07:00

Our daily eye camps are usually held in community centers or schools. Once we even had it in a temple. But a few days ago, we held an eye camp in a place I wasn’t expecting: a church. The ceiling of the church was painted with proclamations of “JEHOVAH….” and the wooden pulpit had a bumper sticker that read “Delight yourself in Him: Jesus Christ.” A few patients walked in proudly holding their Bibles. I worked on registering the patients with a 16-year old girl named Mercy. Her father died a few years ago, her mother is a housewife, and there are no other boys in her family, so she was explaining to me that someone from the U.S. sponsors her education.
While I was walking around the church, I heard loud voices coming from somewhere nearby, so I walked to a building behind the church where a group of church members were fervently praying. (I couldn’t tell if they were just praying in their language or if some of it was in tongues).

Earlier that week, I had been to my first Sunday church service in India. It was at 7:30 am and there were thousands of people there. (the church claims to have 25,000 members). Although I was sitting next to the speakers that were blaring into my ears, I was still sort of able to enjoy the service. Everything was translated into English and I was with the guy I had randomly met a week before who had given me a ride on his motorcycle….

So…ya….that’s my church story…..I hope you are all doing well...

"Obama likes our god..."

2008-06-25T05:55:00.000-07:00

So the other day, I was shopping for Veshties(white man skirts) with a few other volunteers, when one the salesman asked us if we liked Obama. After replying in the affirmative, I asked him his thoughts on our future president. His reply was a a bit surprising: "Indians like Obama because Obama likes our god."
I didn't understand what he meant by this, so he explained to me that Obama carries a small figure of Lord Hanuman, the monkey god, as a good luck charm.
I didn't know whether or not to believe this, but then today's paper published the following article:

2008-06-19T06:09:00.000-07:00

Tsunami Village

2008-06-16T07:26:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, we did an eye camp in my dream village. It was a small, beachside fisherman's village of only 665 people, of whom we saw 90. I was surprised by how well-developed it was. Everything seemed so new and colorful. After talking to a fisherman helping me with registering the patients, I found out why.

The 1994(?) tsunami had completely destroyed this village. There was only one casualty, but everyone had to leave their homes and their livelihoods, and for two years they lived in government shelters built for tsunami victims. With funding from a nearby hospital, the village was completely rebuilt and two years ago, everyone moved back. Lined up along the shore, I saw a number of fisherman boats that had been donated by NGOs (a lot of them came from World Vision). This was pretty cool....

I wish I could have stayed in that village forever and ever (wel..not that long..but I could definitely have stayed there for the whole summer). But too bad for me. Instead of sitting on the beach, I'm sitting here in an internet cafe sweating beads...seriously... it's sooooooo hot in here...

A glimpse of Hell and a story of Heaven

2008-06-14T05:08:00.000-07:00

“My heart had stopped beating….I had overdosed on drugs... something inside me was calling out…I hated Christianity…Jesus was a foreign god to me… but He came to me and I was saved.”
***
Since coming here, our group has gotten around the city on auto rickshaws. Everything is so far away, and traffic isn’t too friendly to pedestrians, so it’s always safer to take a rickshaw. But the eye camp was cancelled earlier in the day and a gentle breeze was blowing, so I decided to take a walk to a park a few miles away. The city seemed so much more alive as I walked down the streets, making an occasional stop at fruit vendors to buy a banana. At one point, while I was going over a bridge with a view of a slum below me, I was overcome by a stench so foul that I honestly felt like weeping. There were children playing in the shit below. They shouldn’t be playing there, I thought, yet that is where they live. A few days ago, the Times of India had an article on the slum population of Chennai. The government supposedly has a plan for relocating many slum dwellers to a new housing development, but until then, these people will continue living in this hellhole. I could only stay on this bridge for a few minutes because the smell was unbearable.

As I continued my walk through an empty alleyway, hoping I was still heading in the right direction, a young man on a motorcycle pulled over to ask me where I was going. Apparently, I was going the wrong way and I was still a bit far from the park, so he offered to give me a lift. That’s when he shared the story of his conversion to Christianity that I quote at the beginning of the post. His name is Stephen.

Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous

2008-06-07T07:35:00.000-07:00

Two floors above my air conditioned hotel room (equipped with cable tv and a western toilet), there is a large space in the rooftop terrace where 40 men -young and old- from different parts of the state of Tamil Nadu sleep every night on straw mats laid out on a cement floor. These are the workers who keep the hotel and the adjoining restaurant running everyday (waiters, cooks, hotel staff, etc.). The young men (many of them younger than me) who manage the front counter where I buy my 1 liter bottle of Aquafina (for only 18 cents!) every morning, work 11 hours everyday, 7 days a week ( I think...I have to check if it's 6 or 7 days). As part of the work package, they don't have to pay for the cement floor they sleep on. Food is also included in the deal along with a whopping salary of Rs 3,500 per month, or US$81.79/month (according to the current exchange rate of Rs 43 to US$1). That's slightly over US$3/day (assuming a 6 day work week). Some of the guys are working so they can have money to finish up their schooling, others are making money to provide for their families back home. One young man, for example, is returning home to his family tomorrow (five hours away). His daughter just turned one, so he will be taking her to the temple where she will have her ears pierced and her hair shaved off, according to some Hindu custom that I don't know much about. The best English speakers in the group are two brothers about the same age as Joshua and I. Whenever I see them, I can't help but think how different my life would've been if my brother and I switched places with these two...

My mention of their salary means absolutely nothing unless one knows how much Rs 3,500 can buy you in these parts. To give you some idea, here's a quick snapshot of where my money goes everyday. Every morning, after buying my Aquafina (Rs 13) I walk across the street to get some of the best-tasting tea ever (4), a piece of bread or cookies (2-4), two bananas (4), and a newspaper (2). Total cost for breakfast: Rs 14. Lunch is generally provided for free by the people organizing the eye camp that day, but it generally consists of Chicken Briyani (which is basically Arroz con Pollo), and this can be bought for about Rs 30-40. We also end up paying around Rs 100 everyday for transportation, especially when we go out. It's this "going out" part that has been troubling me a bit, and which has inspired me to write this post.

Every night we eat a super fancy meal. It's not necessarily by choice. It's just that the group I'm with (all of who are wonderful people) place a lot of importance on eating at restaurants with A/C and with meat. It turns out that most of these are fairly nice, some more than others. So last night, I had my most expensive meal yet. We went to a Thai place, recommended to us by some French lady we met earlier in that night. I shared a plate and an appatizer, in hopes of cutting my costs but it still came out to Rs 240 (~US$6). As a proof of the poshness of this place, when we walked out, we spotted two Tamil moviestars in the restaurant parking lot stepping into their Mercedes Benz. A few days before this, we went to a rooftop terrace restaurant where I had Beef Stroggonauf (this was my second time eating beef since being here) and hookah (first time doing hookah). It seemed like we were surrounded by Chennai's rich young people and I didn't like the idea of that. It's not that I don't like rich people, because from a global perspective, I think that every American is rich, nor have I become so frugal that I think US$6 is too much to pay for a meal. The qualm I have with my current lifestyle is that last night, one meal cost me the same amount that the guys upstairs make in 22 hours of work. Also, I feel that this air conditioned life further separates me from most people in this city. Of course, there is nothing I can really do to bridge the differences between me and the two brothers who work in the hotel, for even if I were to buy a mat and sleep on the floor with them , I would still be packing my bags to go off on my backpacking journey throughout India (a privilege reserved only for the elite of the world -those with the option to choose what life they want to live). Thus, while I can never really understand what it means to live a life severely limited by a lack of options, I want to make sure that I don't spend my time in India living in an air-conditioned bubble, taking advantage of the favorable exchange rate to rub shoulders with the elite while forgetting the poor.

“My name is Ebenezer... I am a Christian.” Rough Thoughts on Religious Identity

2008-06-03T07:07:00.000-07:00

The first eye camp we went to was in a faraway village out in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. Most of the patients were elderly people who didn’t speak a lick of English. When we were about to leave the camp, a group of guys about my age came up to me and introduced themselves. It was so refreshing to talk to someone in English. All their names were very hard to understand except for the last guy. His name was Ebenezer. When I repeated his name to make sure I had heard correctly, he said, “Yes, Ebenezer. I am a Christian.” Then the other guys next to him also said they were Christians.

A few days ago, we attended the graduation ceremony for a group of about 60 kids who had just completed a summer camp run by an NGO in one of Chennai’s slums. At the end of the program, a group of tweenage boys came up to me to say hello. The first one introduced himself by saying, “My name is Paul. I am a Christian,” and then the three other boys standing next to him proudly said they were Christians as well.

All around this city, I see signs of Christianity. Posters for evangelistic crusades on random walls, “Jesus Never Fails” stickers on cars and busses, rooftop crosses marking another church in the city. There really seems to be no escape from the Christian presence here. A couple of minutes ago in the internet cafe, a cell phone started ringing to the tune of “God will make a way, where there seems to be no way….” Even on TV, Christianity has made its mark. Two nights ago, while flipping the channels, I saw Todd Bentley (a healing evangelist) on GodTV. Earlier today, I saw Joyce Meyer (another Christian big wig) on Daystar (another Christian channel) and, to top it all off, AngelTV had an episode of “Touched by an Angel.”

In the US, it would be a bit odd if someone were to state their religion the first time they met you, and you wouldn’t expect to see a city cluttered with crosses and JESUS signs outside of the Bible Belt. But the Christians in Chennai apparently like to make themselves known, and I have a hought as to why that is.

Everyday, walking around the city, I see white ashes and red dots on people’s foreheads. By taking a quick forehead tally, it becomes very clear that Hinduism is still the dominant religion here. The Muslim population, though not as large in Chennai, also has its means of proclaiming its presence. From the mosque across the street from our hotel, a call to prayer is sounded five times a day, and occasionally I’ll see men with their big beards and little hats or women fully covered from head to toe.

With red dots and big beards, Hindus and Muslims can easily wear their faith on their sleeve. But, unless Christians wear cross necklaces, (which I haven’t seen here) they have no way of competing with that. So instead, their faith becomes apparent for all by their Christian names and their bumper stickers.

Cataracts!

2008-05-26T04:45:00.000-07:00

For the third time since I've been here, I spent my morning watching cataract surgeries at a local hospital. Watch this Youtube video showing the procedure. It's absoluting amazing.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=RpPucnVB2Bk
I also watched a LASIK eye surgery today, but that wasn't as exciting.

Liposuction!

2008-05-26T04:36:00.000-07:00

I started reading another book a few days ago (Mountains Beyond Mountains was amazing. Everyone should read it). In the novel, one of the main characters is a surgeon, and his profession is described as follows:

“Surgery takes the basic imperative of the medical profession [to spend one’s life involved with human bodies and all they entail] to its outermost border, where the human makes contact with the divine. When a person is clubbed violently on the head, he collapses and stops breathing. Some day, he will stop breathing anyway. Murder simply hastens a bit what God will eventually see to on His own. God, it may be assumed, took murder into account; He did not take surgery into account. He never suspected that someone would dare to stick his hand into the mechanism He had invented, wrapped carefully in skin, and sealed away from human eyes.” -Milan Kundera in The Unbearable Lightness of Being

*** *** *** ***

When I walked into the surgery room this morning, I was welcomed by the sight of a naked obese woman lying on the operating table and weighing in at about 120 kg. It was not a pretty picture.

But today was a wonderful day for this patient. For the low price of US$1500, she was going to have liposuction, losing between 10 and 20 kg within two hours, and I was going to watch.
I’ve never watched a full surgery on The Learning Channel (TLC) so this world of blood and guts was all very new to me. Here’s what happened:
The surgeons began by slicing the woman open across her lower abdomen and digging into the fat. Fat is really ugly. After a lot of cutting and burning (they had some shock device that made some sort of incision) they managed to pull back about a foot of her stomach. They then split this thick layer of skin and fat into two pieces, making a cut down the middle until reaching her belly button. Now they were ready to cut out these pieces of the stomach. One of the pieces was placed in a container about two feet away from me. I thought about how much I enjoy eating the pieces of fat on a juicy steak, but this fat was just gross. The surgeons then grabbed the remaining chunk of skin on her stomach and pulled it down to meet where the original cut had been made. The two pieces of skin were then stapled together.
After sticking in some tubes into her body that sucked out some weird looking stuff, the surgery could have been done; but then she wouldn’t have a bellybutton because the skin had covered it (a bellybutton looks really interesting when it’s only blood and guts). So they had to make another hole in her stomach -it was funny watching the surgeons discuss about where the hole should be- and fish out the bellybutton. After stitching the bellybutton onto the skin, the surgeons wipes their bloody hands (and some of them wiped off their feet from the blood had squirted onto them) and the surgery was done.
I never want to do surgery, but it was an amazing experience watching these guys in action.

p.s. I'm not sure I explained this very well, so I would recommend watching a lipo surgery on TLC (I couldn't find anything good on youtube).

shopping

2008-05-24T04:03:00.000-07:00

I saw her again.
Last night, standing outside of an enormous clothing store. Her outstretched hand and pleading eyes, calling out to every shopper as they walked away after having spent hundreds, maybe thousands of Rupies. The words coming out of her mouth were different, but I swear to you that she had the same needs as some of the old women I saw in Pondicherry.
Wait.. maybe she was different, because she was not that old. Maybe the age of my mother, or younger. Perhaps she had children to feed.
But I didn't think about that right then. I just filed passed her with the crowd of busy shoppers.

Afterwards, I enjoyed a five star meal (for only US$2.50) served on a banana leaf. I'm sure the Zagat rating people would've loved it.

Today I am wearing the lungie I bought last night (it's a super cool male skirt) and I don't know where she is, but I'm sure we'll meet again.

Bloody Eyes and Bloody Legs

2008-05-22T05:45:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, I went into a bookstore and bought a backpack for Rs 365 because I "needed" one. As I walked out of the store a frail man, maybe in his mid-30s, was waiting for me with his "Antiretroviral Record Booklet". He opened the pages and with surprisingly good English, although still quite hard to understand, told me he had HIV and pulled out a letter certifying the fact. His bloody eyes were fixed on me as he asked for Rs 175 to get a bus to God knows where. My created "need" for a backpack could not compare to his desperate need for a bus ticket. In an attempt to not lose my humanity that day by increasing the gap between my heart and his, I gave him Rs 200. That's US$5 --more than I ever give a random stranger.
But it didn't stop there. He then pulled out another sheet of paper with a list of what seemed to be school supplies and text books that he needed for something. I really couldn't understand what it was for, but all I knew and what he did a very good job of communicating through his bloody eyes is that he really needed this, and it cost money that he lacked and I had.
I said sorry and hopped on my bike (I rented a bike for a couple of days)

It's much easier to pass beggars when you're on a bike. They still look at you and stick out their hand and maybe make a sound, but you're on a bike, and maybe there's a car behind you and you're trying to get somewhere, so you don't stop. But then, when you get to where you're going and there's another beggar with his family, what do you do?

I got off my bike to go into a huge Catholic church where Christ's suffering for the poor and downtrodden has been ironically memorialized with silver and gold. I was greeted by this beggar and his family, and this beggar's bloody leg. It wasn't bleeding but it was red, or pink, or white ( I couldn't stand to look at it for too long). Something was wrong and money was the only consolation he wanted (and the only I could give). So I gave him some insignificant amount to quiet my conscience.
The following day, as I was walking towards an internet cafe, a young man, sitting about 20 yards away began walking on his hands in my direction. He had legs but they did not move. I noticed that the internet cafe wasn't open, so I was stuck, and still the man continued drawing close to me while making strange sounds.
My bike was around the corner, so I turned around and walked away from the man. Since he wouldn't leave my mind, when I saw him later that day, I gave him something.

I think what I find most troubling about these beggars is not that they want my money, but that my money will not put an end to their suffering. I wish it would, but it just won't. The HIV man may have gotten to where he needed to go that day, but I'm almost certain that he is now waiting outside of another store waiting to make someone else feel guilty for how much they've spent while he was outside in his misery. And the family outside the church --they're still there. I saw them the following day. I think they may live there --outside the church. And somewhere else in Pondicherry, a young man is still walking on his hands, and hoping that someone will have pity on him and give him money.
I wish money could solve the world's ills. But it takes so much more than that. I think sacrifice, on our behalf, on my behalf, is an essential element. So I ask myself, what am I willing to sacrifice or what should I sacrifice? I don't know the answer to this (sigh)..

For those who may still be reading, please pardon my incoherent thoughts. I'm sorry I'm not writing about the magnificent beach I visited or the spicy Indian food I've been eating. Those things are nice, and they make for fun stories told over a casual meal. But the food I eat or the sights I see will not change me on this trip. What will leave the most indelible mark on me during these next few months are the people I encounter and thus far, it's been these beggars that can't seem to leave my mind.

Mangoes and Polio

2008-05-18T00:16:00.000-07:00

Walking along the shore of the Bay of Bengal, I was tempted by the mango man selling a slice of his precious fruit with a sprinkle of chili powder. I thought I could handle the spice, but moments later my mouth was burning and I was forced to buy some mango ice cream (it was soooooo good!).
As I continued my walk, an elderly woman came up to me asking for money; I gave her nothing. I tried to smile apologetically and politely make my way to the pay phone that was supposedly a few blocks down. I needed the small change I had to call a few guesthouses in hopes of finding a cheaper place to stay for the next few nights. I arrived in Pondicherry, a former French colony, at 5am lathe night before, after being in transit for over 24 hours. The only place that was open at that time was a small hotel for 400 rupees a night, or US$10. According to my Lonely Planet guidebook, there were places in this city for 100 rupees a night (US$2.50). I wanted to find them.

To make sure I was going in the right direction, I asked a young man where the pay phone was. He pointed straight ahead, but then he tried to start some small talk and said that he had seen me the night before when my bus had pulled in from Chennai (after a four hour journey that cost me 55 rupees). In fact, a friend of his had been the one to drive me to the hotel in his auto rickshaw. He then pointed to his left leg, smiled, and said “Polio.”
His leg was purely skin and bones, literally. He was only able to walk because of a plastic brace that kept his leg straight. But he still owed 75 rupees for the brace, and his heart was set on one day buying a steel brace that would last him much longer than this plastic one. He didn’t know how much a steel brace would cost.
* * *
On this trip, I’ve been reading Mountains Beyond Mountains, the story of a crazy, selfless doctor named Paul Farmer who works among the poorest of the poor in Haiti and Peru. He believes that it is unjust for poor people to be denied quality medical services simply because they are poor. He talks a lot about liberation theology, which sees Jesus not only as the Savior, but also as the Liberator of the oppressed. Along this same theme, earlier in the day I had read the Book of Amos in which God tells Israel that he could no longer tolerate their songs and festivals. What he wants is for justice to “roll down like a river.”
* * *
We hopped into a bicycle rickshaw, driven by an old man that looked like a guru, and headed to the brace-maker. After taking a few measurements, the brace-maker quoted me the price: 450 rupees (US$11.25). This actually felt like a lot for a few seconds, but then I remembered that I had briefly considered moving my stuff to a beachside hotel with a balcony overlooking the ocean for 400 rupees/night. And yet, for only 50 rupees more, this man now had a new brace for his polio-stricken leg.

Giving up on my phone search, I left my newfound friend to continue looking for a cheap guesthouse. On the way, I stopped for another amazing mango experience. Wiping my slobbery hands and face on my shirt, I walked into a super ghetto guesthouse –100 rupees a night for a super hard bed and a shared bathroom and shower. This is exactly what I was looking for.
Later that night, on my walk home from a traveler’s bar where I had some mango juice, I walked passed dozens of people (mostly women) sleeping in front of the Government Maternity Hospital. I think they were waiting to be helped.

I wonder what Paul Farmer or Jesus would do with these people.