Stories & Evals from Belize

Hey guys-
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Brooke

12 days left until the longest day of my life

Yep, that's right. 12 days left in India. 6 days left at field. 4 days for one final excursion. And then the longest day ever. If everything goes according to schedule (which it won't) Chris, Michelle, and I leave Mumbai at 1:50am on the 30th and 32 hours later (via Amsterdam and Memphis) arrive in New Orleans at 9:20 pm on the 30th.

Let's just say the 32 hour trip is not one of the things I'm looking forward to when these 12 days are up.

Honestly, I can't believe that I have less than two weeks left here. Time started really slow, but is definitely now moving at lightning speed. These final days at my field agency are especially busy. November is Adoption Awareness Month and my agency chose this week as our specific adoption awareness week. There are different awareness meetings scheduled with doctors, and nurses, and events for the families that have adopted a child through the agency. It's really great work.

Not only is this last week at my field busy, but the previous week was full of new excitement. Michelle and I went to the Ellora and Ajanta caves and then we met up with some of the other international students in Tuljapur where the rural campus for TISS is and spent the week there.
I accidentally erased my camera's memory card (oops), but was able to recover most of the pictures (yay!) and Michelle let me have her pictures as well before the recovery happened.
The Ajanta caves are all Buddhist caves and some of them are painted. The view was definitely fantastic and we has a guided tour so met some other foreigners as well.

At the Ellora caves there are Buddhist, Hindu, and Jain caves. Definitely more variety and more stairs. Both caves were equally amazing in different ways.

The rural campus visit was definitely a learning experience. This picture is from a village we visited. The two students are from Sweden and the children were definitely not camera shy. We also visited with multiple NGOs and exchanged our social work experience in our countries with social work professors at one of the local colleges. We ended our 3 day experience with some sugar cane juice, which was delicious.


Once I finish my field work Chris and I are planning one last India hurrah in Rajasthan and it may involve a safari. Just 12 days and then you can ask me about it.

Scary porridge and Grapefruit-o-lanterns

Well, there I was feeling all homesick for some fall in the Midwest — pumpkins, leaves, jackets, football — or at least a little Halloween fun in New Orleans, when lo and behold, I walk into the kitchen and they’re all carving grapefruits. They did it just like a pumpkin: cut a little hold in top, reached in and pulled out the insides, then very carefully, using gigantic knives with no handles and teeny little fingers and grapefruits, carved out spooky little faces. Then they put a candle inside, tied some ribbon to either end, and hung them on the doorknobs to greet trick-or-treaters, who don’t come on October 31^st. They come on November 1^st and 2^nd for All Saints and All Souls days. They even have a creepy little version of trick-or-treat: Eshpasha pa la calabera, si no me das te da cagalera.

Translation: Special porridge for the skull, but if you don’t give me, it will give you loose stools. Usually, then, the villagers give the kids some porridge and sweets, sincerely wanting to avoid the loose stools.

On All Saints Day, they light little candles for the kids and babies who have died, and place the first plate of food they cook on the table next to the candles and wait for the steam of the food to go to the souls of the babies. After about half an hour, they say, “Okay. The souls are finished eating. Now it’s time to eat!”

They also place one plate of food and one little black candle on a chair for the anima soula: the lonely soul. Each person gets a plate of food, including kids who come to the door, and a special plate is always set aside for the lonely soul. The very next day, on All Souls Day, they do the same thing for adults who have died.

Also, we’re out of water again. The water went out Friday night, and by Sunday night — with no clean dishes, no reserve water in the drum and nothing to bathe with, people started asking around. Apparently a pipe broke. I suggested we try to wash some dishes with the maybe five liters of water we had left in the drum, but Antonia said it wasn’t clean. She said we have to be careful because these are the times when people, especially ones with babies, are desperate to use any water they can find to wash and cook and bathe, and people start getting sick from the unclean water. Point taken. Taking a shower now costs $2.50 in 1.5L of Crystal water:

Update: it poured all day. Everyone ran outside with soap and shampoo and bathed, right there in the front lawn. I really wanted to lay all the dishes out on the grass, too, but I didn’t think of it in time.

Indian Residents 10rps Foreigners 250rps

I just returned from a week long exploration of India. The journey consisted of taking a train to Agra, then one to Delhi, a bus to Manali, a bus to Delhi, and a train to Mumbai. The trip had so many twists and turns I have no idea where to begin.

The trip started off with an older man giving Robyn and I a safety and traveling lecture. No need to have parents in India, random train travelers will make sure we receive all the warnings we need before heading out. I wasn't feeling so well on the train, so as soon as I could go to sleep, I did. As for Robyn on the other hand...she stayed up late playing games with a very large family group. This family group was on their way to the village they were originally from in order to attend the arranged marriage of their daughter. Oh, and their son would also be getting engaged on this trip. I can't imagine having an arranged marriage.

Seeing the Tajh Mahal was wonderful. It was much bigger than I imagined and the grounds were more beautiful than I could imagine. While awing at the beauty random Indian tourists would approach Robyn and I and ask us if they can take a picture with us. I don't think I will ever understand this one. A large beautiful historical land structure is right in front of them and they want a picture of us. I have developed a cynical feeling about having my picture taken with random people, so I always say no. One group of boys didn't want to take no for an answer. Instead of moving along and leaving us alone they offered us money. After continuing to say no they tried to force Robyn to lift her head up. At that point we both became angry.



On the train to Delhi Robyn was sat on by an older man. Apparently he thought the people in the seat needed to move over, but instead of asking he just sat on her! I was shocked and appaled. Then he continued to talk to her even though she had headphones on and even though he didn't speak any English. Amazing!

Once in Delhi, we met up with Mano and his friend Jitu. Mano introduced Robyn and I to something neither of us had ever experienced before...shopping & bartering for a hotel room. We went to four different hotels, asked to see the rooms and then bartered. I tried to picture going to a hotel in the US and asking to see the room before I booked it. No way would this ever happen.

We went to Mano's organization the following day and learned a lot about an area of social work in India that I never knew about. SRUTI is a nonprofit agency that is not really an NGO nor is it really an organization. One of his coworkers explained to us that the agency is somewhere in the middle. They are working in 13 different states supporting over 32 different NGOs. It is the SRUTI employee's responsibility to go to the different NGOs, observe what is happening, and write up reports about the progress and the deficits. When at the site visits the SRUTI employees interact with the NGO staff members in such a way to find out what the needs of the NGO are. After evaluation the needs, SRUTI tries to find the resources to connect the NGOs with in order to fulfill the needs. SRUTI is like the middle man. I really liked this type of an organization and it seems so necessary in the type of social work India is doing. I am very thankful I got to go and observe and have people willing to explain the ins-and-outs of it to me.

Mano then took the next day off and showed Robyn and I around the city. We saw so many things and did a ton in one day. My favorites were the Lotus temple, making up stories about the Red Fort, the India Gate (which looks remarkably like the arc d'triumph in France) and street food. If you are ever going to go site seeing in Delhi beware of the 'foreign charge.' At every place we went to Mano and his friend, Jitu, would pay between 10 and 15 rupees. Robyn and I on the other hand always had to fork over 250 rupees each. Does this seem right to you? This is over 16 times as much!!!



The next day Robyn and I were left to decide our own plan around Delhi. Robyn had read about something called "City Walk Tours" in her travelers guide book. This probably was the highlight of my day. The tours are put on by Salaam Baalak Trust in Delhi. Salaam Baalak is the same agency that i work with in Mumbai. If I didn't really understand what the NGO does, who it serves, and the impacts of its efforts, I most certainly do now. The young man who lead our tour is a former SBT child. He told us his story, how he became a street child in Delhi and what he is doing now. He lead us around Delhi, showed us where the street children live, shower, hangout, and peddle. Some of the stark differences between this SBT and the one in Mumbai are that this NGO serves children who are on drugs and it has a more complete staff base. A doctor and a clinical social worker comes to the different NGO sites at least once a week. Many of the kids are able to receive counseling and medical attention.

In reference to learning so much about street children in Delhi, I saw the desperate need of the children as we continued our visit. One day I was walking around the town and I saw kids wearing heavy makeup and doing tricks with sticks, hoops, and acrobatics(somersaults) at stop lights. Our City Walk guide told us about different gangs that have the kids go into the streets and do such work and then bring the money back to the gang leader. It broke my heart. Another time I came first hand with the need was when Mano and I were sitting on a walkway waiting to meet his friends. A little boy came up to us, thin as a rail and wearing cloths that could fit two of him in them, and started talking with us. Mano attempted to play marbles with him for a minute. Then the boy asked Mano if he did drugs and if he had some. It was a wonderfully playful little boy.

Tim had joined us by the end of our tour around Delhi with Mano and it wasn't long before Tim and I left together for Himachael Pradesh. He and I had planned on going trekking for a few days: me for 3 days and he for 5. After a sickly bus ride (Tim threw up most of the way) we reached a little resort town called Manali. We booked a trek that required us to meet up with a young man from Germany who had started the trek earlier that morning. We got our gear and left. The hike was beautiful. I would have never thought I would be trekking through the Hyminalans. It was much colder up north! In fact we saw ice and frost and a little snow in the distance. Our guides were wonderful cooks and I think I had the best food on the trek!! During our journey there was one point when I felt like my calf muscles were being ripped off! I knew my legs would hurt for the next few days! It was definitely worth it though.

I left the trek early with one of the guides....you will have to ask Tim what happened after I left. You will DEFINITELY want to ask Tim what happened! It is a story that can't be surpassed!

I made it down the mountain, showered at a natural hot spring, and then headed to the bus station to get back to Delhi. On the bus ride, a young man ended up sitting next to me. At first I thought his travels were kind of cute. From his luggage and his body language you could tell he was on his way to the big city for the first time. He was nervous and excited at the same time. After trying to make small talk with him I realized he didn't speak any English. Since my Hindi is very limited, talking was out. After 4 hours of the ride the bus stopped for dinner. I have gotten used to fending for myself, so I went and sat at one of the patio tables. The young man immediately came and sat next to me. Two things ran through my mind about his sitting with me: 1) He didn't want me to look like a loner foreigner or 2) he didn't know anyone else and he felt like he had kinda made a friend in me. After finishing our meal the bus reloaded and we headed off again.

The nights are cold in Northern India and the young man I was riding next to pulled out a newly purchased blanket that could have covered eight people. Realizing that it was too big he offered to share some of it with me. This is where the story turns for the worst. Thinking twice about it, because I am an American woman in India traveling alone, I decided to accept and hoped I wouldn't regret it. Boy did I regret it...

During the night, even though he was sitting in the window seat, he would continually try to lay his head on my shoulder. After pushing him off and saying "get off me." I hoped it would stop. I moved as far away from him as possible and tried to get some sleep. Sleep was not going to be possible for this girl. I woke up and he was laying all over me! I forcefully jerked him off and sternly told him not to touch me. He definitely was taking advantage of the language barrier because I am sure he could hear my anger. I moved and he moved again laying all against me. I pushed him up and he finally got the point. At that moment I knew sleeping was not an option for me. I got out my phone, wrote a text message to Mano (who could yell at the kid in Hindi) and waited to send it. For some reason, a few hours later in the middle of the night, the young man took all of his belongings and went up to the driver. The man yelled something at the kid and he was never seen again. I was relieved and finally able to sleep.

Mano picked me up from the metro station when I arrived early in the morning. By the way, the metro in Delhi is one of the best metros I have ever seen. No joke. It was only a little over 2 months ago that I was on the metro in Paris and I think the one in Delhi may top it. So clean, air conditioned, not jam packed. Nice seats, announcements in every language and quite. A wonderful change from the grueling commute on the Mumbai local trains.

This new plan of visiting the students that came to Tulane in the spring is a wonderful addition! One thing I am happy I got to do was learn more about Mano's story. After being in India his story became more real to me. During dinner one night he told us about his journey to college from his small village in Assam. He told us about being first from his village to go to Delhi for school, the different parts of life between living in a Tribal community as to living in a city, and what it was like being the only person from his village to ever leave and go to the US. It was one of my favorite parts of the trip because it made me realize what life is like around the world, outside of the privileged US.

Being a tourist in my own city...

So. Things have been kind of busy and spectacular lately. Last last week, Dr. Gilkey came from the States to meet my supervisor and do a site visit. She was able to sit down with Arlette and the Mary Open Doors founders, a couple of volunteers, Antonia and the fam, and visit both Faith Nazarene and Santa Familia schools. She also went to PG for a day to find out about possible internship possibilities in the south. Everything went really well, and I think both sides (Tulane & Belize) are excited about the potential internship placements here in the future, which I will henceforth refer to as My Legacy.

We also finally managed to pull off my first training with the staff and volunteers at Mary Open Doors last Tuesday. We’ve been trying to arrange this for five weeks, and even though it was an hour late, it happened. Even a client from Mary Open doors sat in on the training and asked if she could come back next week to participate in the therapeutic activities, which I had just thrown in for good measure. I was trying to demonstrate how the program feels to the kids, but everyone accidentally got a lot out of it.

Also, I had a beautiful moment with an 8-year-old who hadn’t wanted to participate in the program at all to begin with — her dad committed suicide last year and she has been very depressed and withdrawn — but she agreed to one session, which I disguised as “art activities” and “games” and “little stories”. At the end of the session, she said she would come to one more session, but no more. At the end of that session, she agreed to one more session, but that’s all. At some point, she started asking which day I was coming back, and would I bring play-dough next time, and can she use the orange pencil case next time instead of the pink one, and can she bring a picture of her dad to show me how their teeth are alike, and could I bring gummy bears instead of chips, and do I want to come to her cousin’s party this weekend? It’s been fun to watch her grow and smile and play and open up a little, and I already feel anxious about starting the termination process. Lucky for all of us, my supervisor Arlette has been involved in these cases from the beginning and will be taking them over after I leave. She’s incredibly competent and caring and I trust that the kids are in good hands entirely.

(Her grandmother gave me permission to use this pic.)

Also... smile … Jeff came to visit. Inez gave up her room for a couple of nights, Antonia and Ricardo and Antonia’s parents welcomed him and then grilled him to death for incriminating information about me, the Chinchilla family took him canoeing and then drove us all to Spanish Lookout in the back of the pick-up truck for ice cream. We also walked up to Mr. Neil’s house, the tallest hill in the village, and Mr. Neil invited us in for a coke on his deck, which has the most spectacular views of San Ignacio.

After a weekend in the village we went to Cahal Pech (a village resort in San Ignacio) and spent a couple of days in town, and also lots of time on the cabana hammock. I introduced him to one of the founders at Mary Open Doors and went on a little walking tour of my day-to-day routine between the office and the school and the Ministry and the French Bakery and the juice guy and the bus stop, and all the other little places I like to eat and shop and check e-mail and sit. We also got to join a trip to Tikal, this old Mayan city outside of Flores, Guatemala. It has more than 4,000 structures, including the tallest one in the Mayan world, and more are still being excavated. We saw howler monkeys (which sound like a horrifying combination of chainsaws and dinosaurs) and spider monkeys and toucans and one snake, all in the wild. We had our own private tour of the grounds by a really interesting guide, and I’m still not sure how that happened, but it was great. Mayan Ruins aren’t even my most exciting to-do list items, but I’ve always wanted to see Tikal, and the views and history were amazing.

After a few days in Cayo, we headed to Caye Caulker and, thanks to Hugo, got a free stop at the zoo and lunch at Old Belize. The important thing to know here is we saw jaguars and at Pirate nachos.

We arrived at Caye Caulker via water taxi just in time for a panoramic view of the island at sunset, from the very top of our discounted low-season gorgeous hotel/condo, which was still being renovated since it just opened in July and tourist season doesn’t start until November. In all the times I’ve been to Belize, I’ve never gone on vacation. But THIS was one of the most spectacular places I’ve ever stayed, and we found it on accident! Two days before we arrived! And it was cheaper than the cheapest Holiday Inn Express! We had the building to ourselves, a sea-facing balcony with a hammock at sunrise, a sunset-facing bedroom over the other side of the island, and a rooftop Jacuzzi with a panoramic view of everything. Also, because it’s still slow season, the island was quiet and calm and sleepy and peaceful. Only a handful of places were open for business and the only sound we heard was an occasional golf cart, water lapping and some island music. It was a perfect recharge. With perfect company. And good food. (Except the cereal we bought from 2007. That was gross).

Anyway. This week I’m back to the real world. Trying to finish papers, find a job, counsel kids, train volunteers, and begin the process of leaving… one month and I’m home to graduate. Weird.

More pics of San Ignacio: here

More pics of Caye Caulker: here

More pics of Tikal: here

Hillside, PG and Snake Caye

So. After a 7-and-a-half hour ride on the non-express bus from Cayo, across the Western Highway, down the Hummingbird Highway, through the Maya Mountains and down the Southern Highway, through Belmopan and Dangriga and a bunch of little villages like Roaring Creek and Teakettle and Independence, I spent a surprise weekend with Jeff at the Hillside clinic in Punta Gorda.

Thanks to careful and sneaky coordination with the Brinkmans and Dan (one of the nurse practitioners) I got a pick-up from the bus terminal, homemade chocolate-chip cookies, an afternoon with Dan’s family, an introduction to the Jesuit volunteers, dinner with the doctors and a tour of Abby’s house.

Jeff and I got to stay in the Treehouse, and we lucked out on a little excursion with TIDE (Toledo Institute for Development and Environment). The TIDE trip was supposed to be a community event, but no one else showed up, so we had our own personal boat tour of the Rio Grande river, the mangrove Cayes, the TIDE lookout tower, and a burrito-pineapple-chips lunch with snorkeling at Snake Caye. It was beautiful and fun, and totally unexpected.

I may have spent more time on the bus than actually in PG — I haven’t added it all up — but it was a fun and sweet weekend. Thanks for all who helped!

Here are some pics of the weekend, and pics of Independence Day, because I forgot to post a link.

Not so brief report from Rwanda

Bon Jour, Readers!

I am writing you with muddy shoes from the Tulane University office in Kigali, Rwanda. I was delayed in arriving today because of the presidential motorcade of Paul Kagame. The fastest form of transportation here, besides presidential motorcades, is a “moto” which means riding on the back of a Japanese motorcycle. My moto driver saw the president coming our way and immediately drove us into a muddy ditch.

I've been in Kigali for a little over a month now. It is an exceptionally easy city to live in.The images in my mind of life in Sub-Saharan Africa are quite incongruent with my daily routine.I live in a beautiful house with a guard, cleaner/cook, and a gardener.The city is kept in immaculate condition by street-sweepers (actual people, not vehicles).Great pride is taken in wearing crisp business attire.

I spend my days in comfy internet-cafes and offices behind fortressed walls covered in flowers. Last night I had a hand-made pizza with capers, feta, basil, and smoked salmon alongside a glass of California chardonnay while watching 20-something Rwandese salsa dance. I had heard Kigali was the second most expensive city in Africa, but did not fully comprehend the cultural implications of that statistic… until I tasted the bruschetta and Mutzig at Republika Lounge. The quality of interactions with people almost always carries a sense of graciousness, warmth, and light-hearted humor. In the city of Kigali, it is nearly impossible to imagine what happened here 15 years ago.

With that said, I don’t wish to paint too rosy of a picture. Everyday I also pass houses with dirt-floors and children with distended bellies… and rural living is a much different tale. The evaluation project I am working on has revealed pretty intense data. I am evaluating an HIV/AIDS Case Management/Linkages Program in Nyagatare District (which is in the northeast corner on the Tanzanian and Ugandan border). Food security is an absolutely dire problem for many People Living With HIV/AIDS (PLWHA) and drives a lot of other quality of life indicators. The data revealed 75% of PLWHA in the district meet the criteria for clinical depression.

My social work training has kept me up at night trying to interpret the implications of the depression data. We have just finished designing a round of qualitative data collection protocols that include some questions probing at the depression. The current theory is something like this… HIV adds to biological causes of depression, combined with starvation, little possessions, financial burden, sick kids, PTSD, and a lack of connection to services in a country with minimal psychosocial capacity all makes it pretty hard to want to get out of bed in the morning. I guess I didn’t really need two graduate degrees to figure that one out.

I didn’t know this about myself, but I like to ask people about their family as a way of building report and establishing a warm connection. The way I discovered this about myself was by asking new friends in Rwanda about their family. I have since learned to establish connection in a different way. When asked about their family, many people (not all, of course) will say something like “I lost them in the wars,” or “My parents and siblings were killed in the genocide, but my cousin lives an hour away.” If you ever find yourself in Rwanda and want to make new friends I recommend asking someone what their Kinyarwandan name is, what it means, and how it was given to them. This is not to say that people don’t want to talk about the genocide. Most people are open about, if you ask them.

Over the next few weeks I will be spending quite a bit of time in the field. I am looking forward to the challenges of coordinating focus groups and meetings. This means mostly sitting in the Land Rover and hanging with kids while meetings are conducted in nearby buildings in the local language. After the meetings I look over forms that I can’t read to make sure they are properly filled out, answer questions that come up, and, of course, fulfill my racial stereotype by handing out cash.

This is long. Settle in.

I’m kind of embarrassed to admit this, but I guess it's part of the process, so I’ll disclose. Honesty and growth, make way. I’m coming.

I spent all morning looking at my classmates’ pictures from India feeling jealous and regretful. There are mountains there, and silk, and friends. Now most of them are back in New Orleans finishing out an easy last semester at places like The Rue and Superior Grill, which sound like heaven to me right now… and I’m still here. In Belize. Again. Still. (I know, I know — Belize? You feel real sorry for me. You know I’m not on the coast, right? I’m in the jungle.)

While familiarity makes things easy and comfortable here, it also takes the new and exciting back to ordinary and routine. The exotic fruits aren’t so exotic — although, coincidentally, I did just eat a guava for the first time today. Rice and beans are just rice and beans, not: Rice and Beans! Cattle stop and stare at me when I hang my laundry. I walk past iguanas and step over roosters and make tortillas and wait for electricity and stockpile water, and never ever wash my underwear with my socks, and brush ants off my bed and eat mangoes and catch parasites and hail bus drivers and sit on stoops and walk up and down giant hills from school to school for work like its nothing. Like those things are normal. If you know me, this isn’t me! My specialty is finding extraordinary things in every day life — unless you’re that crazy life-changing story lady. If you’re her, then, no, you’re right, I suck.

Anyway. India would have been new and exciting. And besides that, I don’t think I was ready to be done with New Orleans yet. When I return, graduation will happen and this part of my life will be over. Why did I decide to spend the last half of it in another country? The work I was doing in New Orleans was good and meaningful, and Belize is always gonna be Belize. Here my work seems like a drop in the bucket.

Then I started wondering: Why did I think these kids deserved this program more than the kids in New Orleans in the first place? Is it just because they live here and not there? Kids are kids. Need is need. Was I being selfish in wanting to do this? I could have stayed in New Orleans, gone to India for a month, learned a bunch of new things about a new culture, and then continued to help kids in the exact same way I had been, right there. Did I waste this whole semester on something I've already done, that doesn't even really matter in the big picture, when my heart really was in New Orleans all along?

I don’t know. But because I am a social worker, I have been knocked over the head with a variety of coping skills. I told myself there has to be a reason I'm here, and that I just have to trust God is doing something, somewhere, outside my view — that I may never even get to see. Maybe it's the family I'm paying $100 per week to stay with. Maybe they were having a desperate time with finances, and I was their secret answer to prayer or something. Or maybe there is one specific kid who really needed something this program offers, and for that one kid, all of this will be worth it. Maybe Mary Open Doors or my supervisor were overwhelmed and overworked and kind of just wanted a person to have a Sprite with at lunch to recharge. Who knows, but I decided to be okay with everything because a bad attitude would be like poison, and deciding that there is still purpose for me here even if there's not makes me feel better. Plus, there was that really undeniable string of events that happened in November… Everyone said: write this down, Brooke. There will be a time in Belize when you say: What am I doing here? and this story will be your proof. Hmm.

BUT.

Then I met the actual kids. Real-life little kids, shy and hyper and adorable and desperate: an 8-year-old whose dad committed suicide last year, four elementary kids whose dad tattooed his own birthmark on their faces, a 7-year-old who saw a knife fight between his mom and grandpa, a 15-year-old who dropped out of school after his friend committed suicide.

It's like my heart recognized something my brain couldn't catch up to. In New Orleans, there is a waiting list, a protocol, a budget and a set number of counselors. The same number of kids would have been seen with or without me in three months. But in Belize, there is only one social worker. One social worker for a hundred thousand kids in Cayo, who has never had any training or experience with grief and trauma. The seven kids I saw today and yesterday wouldn't have even been on the radar had Mary Open Doors not said — Brooke, these kids really need help, and had I not said — Arlette, these kids really need help, and had there not been this ready-made program for their exact need. The school system has to focus primarily on behavioral problems in the classroom. There's no time or manpower to waste on things like grief or trauma — even though the result of those things is behavioral problems in the classroom… but social work isn’t even a legitimate field yet. There are no standards, no associations, no practices, no codes, nothing. My supervisor keeps records for the Ministry of Education only because she wants to and because that’s how she was trained in the States. She has to constantly fight for confidentiality. She makes however many appointments per day she thinks she can fit in, and transportation is always an issue. No one has cars. The Ministry does not reimburse. She covers a hundred square miles, and we walk or take the bus or taxi on our dime. I see kids at three schools, and spend half my day walking up and down hills to get there. If she does home visits, she stays for a couple of hours because she knows it could be a couple of weeks before she gets there again. Her caseload is about 50 students. Every time she goes to a new school, she gets another list of 10-15 students she knows she may not even be able to see. Sigh. And yet she gives her absolute best to each family I’ve seen her with…

One thing I feel good about in this realm is that we’ll use the coping skills program I brought to train a team of six teachers in Santa Elena to respond to their kids, in addition to training the shelter workers. Maybe those six can feed 5,000…

Anyway. Some funny similarities between the kids in NOLA and the kids here —

• No kid wants to miss computer lab

• Every kid asks for a quarter

• Schools never have space, and finding space with privacy is next to impossible

• The schedule changes every day

• Other kids walk by, stop, and ask if they can come too

• Snacks facilitate anything and everything

In short long: I still really want to go to India. And I still miss my friends. And I still miss my little apartment and margaritas in New Orleans. But I trust that something here is happening outside my control, and I’ll gladly pour as many drops as I can into this bucket in the tiny amount of time I have here. Thank you for contributing to this trip if you did, and for believing in the project. I spent all these months convincing you guys this was important and almost completely lost sight of it myself. It turns out grass is everywhere, greener than ever…

So there you have it. The good, the bad and the ugly.

Brooke

Guardians of Garbage

When I first arrived here in India, I decided to travel for the first two weeks to see the south of India before heading up to Mumbai for my fieldwork. Traveling by myself in India offered many interesting experiences of discovery. Often, I would find myself in a position of cultural dissonance that would leave me feeling either greatly confused, highly frustrated, or newly insightful. One such experience offered me all three.

I was on my first Indian train going from a city to a small hiking town up in the mountains. The trains, like many public spaces, are organized hierarchically to define passengers by their membership in the social strata. I was in the 1st Class non/AC sleeper car. The presence or absence of air conditioning in one's life positions a person on the continuum of success and worthiness. A person is constantly being scrutinized by society based on a combination of their choices and ancestry.

"Are you Veg(etarian) or Non-Veg?" -- It is a question, laced with judgment, as to whether or not a person is Hindu or Buddhist and what is that person's level of dedication and spiritual depth.

"What religion are you?" -- The question doesn't refer to what your spiritual philosophies are, rather what your family's history is and how you should be treated accordingly.

"What languages do you speak?" -- If you converse in English, you are educated. You are a functioning member of the academic and professional class. If you speak Hindi, you are a populist. You are working class. All of these attributes are concrete declarations about a person's societal worth. They are articles in the constitution of one's being that define both a person's understanding of themselves and a person's space and trajectory in the caste-class based country.

On this train, I was sitting by myself for most of the ride. However, for the last hour or so, a well-dressed woman and her daughter sat directly across from me. They spoke excellent English. We chatted light-heartedly while I munched on a snack from the train's food vendor. When I finished my snack, I crumpled up the cardboard container and stuffed it into my backpack to throw away later. Upon doing this, the little girl started laughing and looked from me to her mother for validation. Her mother gave a brief laugh and then instructively stated "just throw it out the window of the train."
referring to my garbage.

"No, that's okay. I can just throw it out in a trash bin when I get to my stop," I said.

"No, No. Just throw it out the window. Nobody holds onto their trash." She said with a little less patience.

"Really, it's okay. It's not a big deal at all. I'll just throw it out when I get to my stop in a couple minutes."

"Just throw it out the window." She says as a final declaration. And then, without waiting for a response, she reaches into my backpack, grabs my trash and heaves it out the window of the moving train.

I would laugh about this later with my mom on the phone. We would discuss how funny it is to be in place where the customs are so different.
She says that she can't imagine just throwing a big wad of trash out the window of her car. We go on to talk about "the jerks" who recklessly throw trash out their car windows in her small town.

I've been here for over a month now and although I will never be able to understand India like a native, I am at least starting to get a glimpse into the "why" of people's behaviors. Today, we had a lecture about the lower castes --t he "dalits," or the untouchables. The lecturer talked about dalits as being the garbage collectors of society, the toilet scrubbers, the oppressed. They are oppressed by a fundamental belief of impurity, of inferiority. The belief runs so deep that it is as close to genetic as a belief can be. It is fashioned into the caste system as a token of heritage. The belief is that there is a section of society that is so irredeemably lowly that they are never to be seen or heard. They are lucky to be given the privilege of cleaning toilets for 50 cents a day.

This belief pervades all behavior and conduct in society. The belief is vindicated through constant questions about a person's definition -- caste, religion, language, etc. The belief seeps into the unconscious day to day happenings. The upper castes know that for every peice of trash that they throw on the ground, there is a dalit to pick it up. I think back to the well-dressed woman who threw my trash out the window. Was she enforcing that belief? Was my resistance to littering a passive attack at her position in society? Was she threatened by the thought that a person could be responsible for their own garbage? Was my holding onto my garbage a statement of dangerous equality? I could be, and probably am, far from understanding the social values that would cause a person to defend their right to litter a beautiful countryside railroad track. Nevertheless, I was impacted by the event. Now, I can't help but ask myself if I too function with the belief that someone will always be there to clean up the garbage from my privileged life.

--- Timothy van der Veken

The Goat on the Roof

OK so I needed to get this line of thought out of my head and onto some type of message because it just seems like the most poetic thing I will ever come up with in my life. Which is probably very sad but I thought I would at least attempt it.

OK so here is where I was earlier today (Saturday) at 5 p.m. I am sitting in the library of my agency (pretty much a small room) researching about advocacy and LGBT rights, etc. The desk I am using is right in front of the window that overlooks the Santacruz district of Mumbai. It's a tall building so the majority of what I see are roofs and alleyways and the pedestrians down on the streets. I stop reading and just look out onto this huge view filled with roofs, hung colorful laundry, antennas, etc. And I see this woman step out onto the large roof of this one building, a very posh looking building. She is walking around the entrance way near the glass doors and she is looking at her white sari in the reflection. I start to watch her and then I realize that part of the white floor that covers this roof is moving. I realize that it isn't the flooring, it's a white goat that blended in with the flooring on this roof.

For a second I almost just disregarded this goat on the building, but I could feel the old Chris from one month ago being like: "HOLD UP!!! That goat is on a roof!! This is weird Chris....remember when things could still be weird to you??" And I thought more about this goat that is chained up on this building that is probably 12 stories tall. And I just wonder so many things....how did he get up there?? Who decided the best place for this goat would be the roof? Why did this woman not even look in the direction of this goat? Did he take the elevator??

I ask the librarian why he thinks this goat is on this roof and he looks at it and just says "yes...a goat" "No, I know Rakesh...but why on the roof" "Better air?? He no like pollution....my eyes hurt down there too, better for goat" "I don't think he chose that though, Rakesh" "You can't be sure Mr. Krishna" You're right Rakesh...I can't be.

I let Rakesh get back to work and I realize that this is the perfect representation of Mumbai...of maybe even all of India. It's strange, it's confusing, and if you asked why it is...you will probably just get even more confused.

Just let the goat be there. Just go with it. The goat isn't hurting anyone...no one said roofs and goats can't be friends. Just let it all go Chris....just let it be there. Stop fighting the explanations. The goats there...deal with it. And so I am now thinking in my head every time I don't understand something, it's just the goat on the roof. Just let it be. Make peace with that goat. -- Chris