Open Arms

I sit on my bed. Sweating. Body sore from wretching all afternoon. Our makeshift curtain billows before a subtle, stereotypical breeze brushes my face - bringing with it the characteristic smells of wives cooking dinner with coriander, turmeric, and chili powder. Spices I will be avoiding for a time. Considering the inevitability of illness, I forgive my stomach for its angry and cruel rejections. Besides, it is another example of the two-sidedness that pervades here (and everywhere) – like how the tanner I try to get my skin so that I “blend in”, the blonder my hair becomes - but more to the point, how bad is accompanied by good.     

Since falling ill (the bad part), my phone has been ringing and the door has been knocking with people concerned about me (the good part). Making sure I’m drinking “electric water*” and insisting they can take me to a doctor. In America, the customer may be king, but here in Kachchh, there’s an expression that says, ‘Guest is God.’ The warmth and hospitality I’ve received as a newcomer living in Bhuj makes me feel like I do at the end of watching Rudy. Neighbors insist on feeding us and feeding us, our hunger levels completely irrelevant; friends take us under their wings and on their bikes for errands and escapades into the desert; co-workers include me in the laughs and clue me in on the plans. I’ve had to stop complimenting jewelry because twice, despite my firm resistance, the owners have taken it off and given it to me.

The Salt Deserts - I'm Far Left

So, with a pretty bracelet and ring on my hand, I think about the bad and good of being an outsider - how hard it is to be different, but how nice it is to feel special. And not just because of the jewelry. People so generously take care of us and include us. Although I don’t know exactly why, there are at least a few reasons I can surmise: a. the duty of being a good host is very important b. they want us to love their country (it’s working) c. because perhaps happiness, like everything under the sun here, is something meant to be shared.** From food to joyous occasions to personal space, the attitude is ‘what is mine, is yours.’ As an American, I may be stereotyped and stared at, but the eyes that open towards me are nothing compared to the arms that have opened for me.

* I believe they were referring to electrolyte drinks like Gatorade. Speaking of funny [Foer-like] mis-translations, I saw a sign for gift baskets : “Festive Hampers Available.”

** Generosity permeates the culture. On your birthday, it is customary not to receive gifts, but to give them. At work, any food brought from home is shared with everyone. Yesterday, our friend came over to our house (and all his friends’ houses) with sweets because his brother had a baby. 

Celebrating Holi with my Wonderful Coworkers

Bhuj from a Terrace as the Sun Fades

The Spectacle

My Side of the Room

Caveat #1: I’m finding that, as an American outsider, little is simple in India. So to write about life here is anything but easy. However, I will try to convey a small bit of what my first couple of weeks in Bhuj have been like.

Caveat #2: Talking about life in Bhuj is not the same thing as talking about life in India. Bhuj is its own unique place in the massive, complex country that is India. If you’re looking at a map of Texas, Bhuj is geographically the El Paso of India. It is tucked away in the deserts of the far western state of Gujarat. And Bhuj is as different from Mumbai or New Delhi as El Paso is from Houston or Austin.

                     

Our Street

Nestled cozily on a dirt road between colorful flats and wandering cows, Shulie (another Fellow) and I share a minimalistic room, kitchen, and bathroom in an area called Nootan Colony. The quaintness, however, is simply a facade for the circus of noise that happens every morning outside our door. Shrieking children, shouting mothers, barking dogs, revving motorcycles, clanking pots, and yelling milk men are just a few of the Nootan Colony Circus attractions. The greatest spectacle, however, has just arrived … Shulie and I are now very evidently the main attraction. We can tell by all the gazing eyes, gaping mouths, and giggling children. We are just so…white.

From our flat, I can walk almost anywhere I need to (although invariably I will be the only woman walking by herself on the roads): shops, markets, fruit stands, tailors, and some restaurants - of which our choices are Indian, North Indian, or Indian food. Compared to home, everything is inexpensive. To eat Gujarati Thali (famous local cuisine) at the nicest and fanciest restaurant in Bhuj costs 100 to 150 Rupees, or about $2 to $3.

Our Neighbor Waits Outside Our Door

I live in a corner of the world that has escaped the grasp of McDonalds and Starbucks. Off of the major tourist routes, there are few westerners in Bhuj. It’s part of the reason that Shulie and I get so much attention. I don’t particularly enjoy being stared at, but I find satisfaction in knowing that I’m not just a tourist – that I’m rooted here for almost a year. And soon enough I will be a familiar face in the Bhuj community. Already the gregarious man that sells us vegetables from his stand (who we like because he doesn’t rip us off) knows us and chuckles at my Gujarati, the local language. I’m trying to pick it up as quickly as I can because a little goes a long way on the lengthy road of cross-cultural communication. And until I can get the pronunciation down, I’m quite comfortable with people laughing at my expense. At least there’s laughing.

Overall, each day here at the circus has been an intense roller coaster of highs and lows, but the ride usually leaves me smiling. Because despite the staring, people have been incredibly warm, welcoming, and generous. And when it comes down to it, it’s exciting albeit exhausting, often hilarious, and at least educational to live in a place that’s so different from home.

A Day in Orientation

In Ahmedabad, India, nine World Partners Fellows spent a month-long orientation living in the Kocharb Ashram - a place where Gandhi once lived. It still operates according to Gandhi’s principles, and it is an oasis of calm in an otherwise chaotic, chaotic city. We are the first group of foreigners the Ashram has ever hosted. It is nearly impossible to sum up this intense, wonderful experience concisely. So below is an example of a day in the life…

WPF '09a in Kocharb Ashram

8:10am One of the girls I’m sharing a small room comprised of four cots, one window, one fan, and one light bulb shuffles out of bed. I ignore the wake up signs and keep sleeping.

8:45am I’ve now piled out of my cot, rolled up my sleep sack and mosquito net, and washed my face and teeth with some bucket water. I have to pee, but I can’t muster the motivation to walk to the outhouse and squat over a toilet hole.

8:50am Everyone is standing (because there are no chairs) around a table munching on a breakfast of bananas, stale white bread, and processed cheese.

9:05am We are now in Gandhi’s library for our first orientation session of the day. Sitting in hard wood chairs around a table, there is a portrait of Gandhi looking over us and his collection of books encircling us. I should have peed.

9:45am Sunita, the program officer (a.k.a. our Indian Mother), is giving us an overview of the Indian political system and national NGOs. We are wearing the Salwaar Kameez that Sunita helped us bargain for in the market.

10:30am We break for chai, sunshine, and stretching.

11:00am It’s our third session of the day and we are sitting on the floor discussing globalization and rights-based international development in small groups. Dave says, “Life is a struggle to resist complacency.”

12:30pm We are sitting outside, cross-legged on the grass eating lunch in a circle as we always do. With our hands as utensils, we eat white rice, daal, chapatti and a vegetable dish that is so spicy, mushy, and oily it surely can no longer be classified as a vegetable. It’s tasty.

1:30pm Another session has begun and we have an outside speaker talking to us about the (still in existence) caste system in India. He is the founder of an Indian NGO dedicated to Dalit rights, and he is incredibly inspiring.

3:30pm Sunita gives us a lesson on cultural dos and don’ts, and Lani, our program director, goes over ethical and responsible volunteering.

4:30pm Sessions are over, and we venture outside the Ashram gates into the pandemonium that is Ahmedabad to do some shopping. Dodging all paces of life in the forms of auto rickshaws, motorcycles, rickety buses, bikes, carts, cars, cows, camels, stray dogs, poop, trash, and the lone elephant, we cross a street which seems to have no traffic rules or regulations.

4:34pm We are still alive and can’t help but notice that every single person is staring at us. The staring continues incessantly and unabashedly everywhere we go. It becomes clear that our whiteness makes us very, very different. We smile.

5:45pm Every challenging aspect of accomplishing an errand is a reminder that India is quite different from home.

6:00pm Our friendly auto rickshaw driver talks to us, or at least the male in the group. After finding out we’re Americans he excitedly shouts, “Obama!” We excitedly respond, “Obama!”

6:02pm I smile remembering that everywhere and anywhere, people are people. And we at least have that in common.

6:30pm Back inside the gates, we recuperate from the venture by lying on the grass soaking in the calmness of the Ashram, looking up into the empty, blue sky, and doing a few yoga poses. I contemplate how it makes total sense that yoga was invented here – with all the chaos going on outside, one must find an internal calm.

6:35pm Oops. Our Indian mother has politely told us that in India women do not just lie on the grass or do exercise out in public and if they do they drape their scarves over themselves for modesty.

6:38pm I lament the cultural differences and all the “rules” for women.

6:40pm I adapt, get over it, and move inside to Gandhi’s study for yoga poses. We are pretty sure he’d approve.

The "Shower"

7:00pm I take a shower with a bucket of water, a pitcher, and a drain. (see above)

7:30 pm Dinner mimics lunch. As always, we wash our own plates.

9:00pm While our group sits and chats, I notice the young Indian men who are the groundskeepers of the Ashram playing a simple game with a whiffle ball. Although they keep their distance from us and I’m pretty sure I’m crossing some cultural boundary that I don’t really understand, I work up the nerve to ask if I can join. They look a bit taken aback.

9:25pm With a smile on my face and sweat on my brow, I am thrilled that games allow for cross-cultural interaction, especially when there’s a language barrier. All those hours I played paddle ball are coming in very handy.

11:00pm Despite the fact that we all spent most of the day talking and discussing and listening, the nine of us are piled in one room swapping stories. I’m loving the other fellows.

12:30am With the light of my head lamp, I attempt to write down all the lessons, experiences, and emotions covered in just one day here. I close my eyes, smile, and brace myself to do it again tomorrow.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ashram

The International Terminal

I’m 24.

I’m at the airport.

And I’m moving to India.

I’m waiting to board a flight to (literally) the other side of the world, and the weight of this decision, while two years in the works, is finally settling in. My head is in a million places - scattered like those little hand held puzzles where you try to get the ball in the hole but it goes around and forward and backwards and sideways stubbornly resisting settling in one place. I can’t seem to pick one emotion and hold onto it.

At the airport in the international terminal there are so many languages being spoken, so many differences to observe. It reminds me how big the world is. It’s easy to forget, especially when the world, as it sometimes does, revolves around you. It’s one of the wonderful things about travelling. One of many. You are part of something bigger than yourself. Bigger than your concerns or worries or joys or problems. Our lives are important, incredibly so, of course. But so are the lives of others – our families, friends, neighbors, and those strangers on the other side of the world. College graduates are forced to decide what it is we want to do with our lives. And the answer is so much bigger than the job - that’s just one facet. It’s about how we lead our lives. It’s about what we choose as important – what values, what choices, what guidelines, what relationships matter. The answers are personal. I believe I know what matters and what’s important to me. It’s constantly evolving, but whatever it is, it’s lead me to here. Right now. Witnessing my own microcosm of multiculturalism in the international airport terminal. Moving to India.

Through the American Jewish World Service (AJWS), I’ve received the World Partners Fellowship. AJWS is dedicated to alleviating poverty, hunger, and disease among people of the developing world regardless of race, religion, or nationality. The fellowship places me with a local, grassroots, Indian non-governmental organization (NGO) for one year. I will be working for an NGO that helps empower artisans to create sustainable livelihoods off of their traditional craft work. It is located in a small town named Bhuj in the desert of Western India. Bhuj will be my home for a year.

It’s difficult to answer exactly why I’m doing this, and the reasons are many and involved. But as I get served pretzels and wine on the airplane, I think about how luxurious my life is. I have everything I could possible need and a thousand times more. I’m not trying to run away from it, but I am attempting to remove myself so that I can better understand the world and the problems that need to be solved. I want to understand through experiences; statistics can only convey so much. I know that ultimately it will be me who gets the most out of this volunteer work, but hopefully along the way I can do some good for others.

* Postscript 7/29/09

I think my brother put it best when he said in response to this post, "Don't you think you're being a little dramatic, Jamie?" He's right. And even though I'm a tad embarassed, it remains since it's pretty much exactly what I was thinking and feeling at the time. Historical accuracy trumps chagrin.

http://www.khamir.org/

http://ajws.org/

http://ajws.org/what_we_do/service_and_travel_opportunities/world_partners_fellowship/