I Heart India

There comes a time, in each girl's blog, when she writes about leaving something behind. Relationships, houses, jobs, useless cars, old habits....countries. I've been reading the most incredible book ever, Shantaram, recounting the true story of an Australian criminal who escapes from a high-security prison and ends up living in the Bombay slums and joining the mafia. He says that India may not be the country where love was created, but it is the country where love was perfected. ...

There is something disarmingly innocent and playful about this great country's people. It seems that anytime someone looks at you, they are sifting through all that is malice, guilt, fear and hate, to uncover, probe, tease and expand that shining lotus of a heart that they know you have. In India, your heart is poked, ripped, and smashed. It is resurrected with the food of smiles, it is sculpted with the sweet trills of Tamil. But then sometimes it grows as heavy and as unwieldy as a boulder and there you are, bending over, struggling to wrap your arms around it, lift with your legs not your back until you are again standing straight, pressing that bulk of stone back into the appropriate place in your chest. It is then polished over and over with every sight of a child carrying his baby sibling, a puppy following your footsteps in complete trust of the direction you've chosen, the almond shaped and deep eyes of a plodding cow, the gentle gait of a group of women heading to the village well. Sometimes you feel that you are slapping your heart, trying to revive it from a stupor, and then sometimes you want to wrestle it to its rightful place, so often it seems to have appropriated the position of CEO in your life. And then, maybe it's just the sight of a man standing so perfectly straight, staring into the endless dust and thorns of the Tiruchuli fallow lands, that makes your heart break into pieces so small you think you can't ever find them, that they will be blown away by the one tree that holds station by your cement room. You walk down the trash filled roads, and find in your short trek all those torn heart pieces being glued back together with the stick of sugar rich teas and the calm of incense smoke, pressed and shaped by the hands of the hundreds of people who only just met you but see that heart as you and you as the heart that needs mending. India is a country where you will never lose your heart, but where it will never know such turmoil and transformation, where everyday you walk forward with the full weight and meaning of its pulse, where you can never forget that you have one and where, besides, no one around would give you the breathing room to forget it. Where some mornings you wake up and it seems that the heart is a river that has captured your entire body in its rush to the ocean and you step out onto your porch as the sun pours onto the world and you can't believe you ever thought to leave.

Roger boy!

When I was little, I promised that I would become something like Dr. Doolittle who was my fictional childhood hero. I remember plotting how I might construct a squirrel playground in the woods by our house, and can only imagine my parents' relief when I became distracted by other activities. Such as playing "Rescue Rangers" with my friend Amelia (saving our stuffed animals from uncertain peril on the living room rug RE: stormy ocean while scooting around in child-sized plastic cars) or solemnly burying dead moles with my friend Alyson because we couldn't stand to see their bodies left to wild animals. Even if cows are holy here, I didn't think that I would reconnect with my great affection for animals while living in Tiruchuli.

Two weeks ago I was walking to the office and saw something very odd ahead of me by the school. A little moving something by a fence. It looked a bit like Gollum stuffed into a pink body the size of modest handbag, or some squirmy creature hailing from the red planet. Upon closer inspection, I realized that it was a very skinny, very sick puppy who had contracted such an awful skin rash that he no longer had any fur and spent the better part of his existence practically nibbling his tail off. His skin sagged off of his starving body and his baby eyes looked at me with terror. The next day I brought him a fried ball of dough and pointed him out to the Director.

"Oh look at the poor thing" I said, feeling slightly guilty that I cared about quite possibly the world's ugliest puppy while I lived in a district where people's daily wage has plummeted below a dollar. The Director couldn't help but smile at my concern for the "thing" and promised him some free medical care.

I started sharing my lunch and dinner with the dog, the staff initially watching in horror. It was if they were all Frenchmen, watching me squat down in the Paris metro to share my nutella crepe with a sewer rat. Mon Dieu. As the little guy trotted behind me one day, I looked back and decided in an instant that he would be named "Roger."

Sunday I was sitting in the office when I heard the taunting voices of adolescent boys and the squealing of some animal. I don't know if I've ever had a true motherly instinct before, but I shot up from my chair, bolted outside and was horrified to see a group of boys surrounding Roger. He had a thick twine tied to his neck and while one boy tried to pull him via the very effective "if you don't follow me you will choke to death" ploy, another was viciously whipping his back with a stick. The Manager of the biodiesel plant stood just feet away from them, reading the newspaper. "Oh stop!" I cried. The Manager looked at up at me quizzically. "Why are they doing this, ask them to stop." I pleaded. He muttered a few words to the boys, glancing back at me as if I had lost all my marbles and slowly explained that they were trying to take him to the vet but didn't want to have to touch him. Roger was having none of the treatment and finally ripped the twine from the boy's hand and shot off down the road with the boys screaming after him. Ha. I was sorry to see that all the food I'd given him would be burnt up in his energetic flight for freedom. I also thought "This is one tough puppy."

Instead of allowing the boys to pursue the cruel "vet" treatment, I have been applying Neem oil produced at our biodiesel plant to poor Roger's skin and with great success. But not enough for one of the staff members to not note the other day, "That is an ugly dog." But when I look at him I have all the blinders of a mother on, and think he's just the most delightful, beautiful little pup. And everyone here is now calling him their "friend."

Frangil Rock

American, Tamil and French conversation via the English language, otherwise known as Frangil.

Setting: ODAM office.
Who: Phoebe, Elango (Executive Coordinator), Claire (French volunteer)
Topic: Village Festivals

E: The villagers be honoring their village guard.
C: What is this thing called a guard?
P: A guard is sorta like a policeman.
E: Yes. He be protecting the village.
P: (after some consideration) Oh! You mean a GOD.
E: Yes. That's what I be saying. A God. They make him offerings.
C: How is a Policeman a God?
P: No, no, the God watches over the village.
E: Yes, the people be giving him rums and drinking it themselves.
C: Rhume? (French word for the flu)
P & E: Alcohol. Rum.
C: Ah.

Quintessentially India.

If you're wondering, because you just might have been, the answer is "No." No - you have no control over anything when you're in India. No - you can not decide for yourself here. No - it doesn't matter how hard you try, things will just be the way they darn well feel like being. India, you see, is a sari-wearing, sugarcane stick-wielding dominatrix. She knows all of the rules, and I was so wrong when I thought I'd found the book of regulations. A couple weeks back, I was sure I had the riddle solved. If I simply maintained very, very long lists of even the most mundane of things to be accomplished, and read and re-read the list over the course of the day, then I could get things done, be efficient, beat India at her game. Oh. But she is very competitive.



By a Thursday, I was congratulating myself on almost finishing a report on Fair Trade. My lists conquered all! The next day I fell ill. My whole body ached, I felt faint, I didn't dare eat anything, and I was quickly brought over to the "hospital" where I was told that I would need a needle in my arm. To pump saline drips into my veins. Baptiste had succumbed to the treatment, and I had maintained some unsavory visions of his battered arm. I managed to escape this fate and found myself left alone in a white, cement room, the sort of space either made for crazy people, or a place that makes one crazy. I was left with water and no company. The monsoon kicked in and I could practically hear it pulverizing the road outside. I stared at the ceiling and then slept on my bed covered with thick brown leather, just glad that there wasn't a nurse popping in every 15 minutes to check my vitals and force feed me cheap jello pocked with fruit bits.



By Sunday, I was considering reverting back to my lists, but forgot to as I rushed to the office, in a hurry to send out a job application and prepare for a trip to the Araku Valley. My legs were still wobbly and once I made it to the office, the power went out. I sat staring bleakly out into the garden. The Director approached me.

"You be going to meeting at 11 am."

It was Sunday and the last thing I wanted to do was go to a meeting, one that would be entirely conducted in Tamil. I acquiesced, however, and while I thought I might be off to a meeting about eco-tourism, I instead found myself surrounded by 80 senior citizens, gathered for reasons that were never fully disclosed. I came in late and was asked to sit in a row with other speakers. Someone was giving a speech, and in hushed tones the Director tried introducing me to a little man.

"This is Phoebe."

"Veepee?"

"Phoebe."

"Bee-pee?"

"Phoebe."

"Pheevee?"

"PHOEBE."

"Oh."

I was prompted to approach the stage, where someone donned a bright red and yellow plaid towel over my shoulders to honor my presence. Upon returning to my seat, the little man said "Now you be giving speech. You be speaking about old peoples in America, the meetings they have together in your cultures." I couldn't believe it. How inconsiderate! I needed to give a speech at an event whose purpose was never made clear, and I was to discuss senior citizen gatherings in the US. I didn't think Bingo night would count, and couldn't seem to think of a single thing other than retirement communities that brought people in their 80's together. I smiled, albeit weakly, and slowly made my way over to the microphone. My "interpreter" coughed out about 20% of what I said, and people nodded quizzically as I chortled on about my work in Tiruchuli and the need to respect one's elders, all very boring and cliche. The Director spirited me out of the hall once I finished. Someone brought me lunch in the office and I looked at it with apprehension. Alone. I ate alone. And tried not to cry. The electricity was still out.



Later, as I prepared to finish packing, the monsoon hit. One of the staff members was directed to bring me to my room, but the only vehicle left in the driveway was a miniature truck of sorts, a glorified auto rickshaw, something that a kid misplaced from his Lego collection. The wheels spun in the mud, and the driver got out, barefoot, stepping into 6 inches of rain to shove the toy contraption into the road, where we chugged off at a not-so-inspiring pace to my room. We returned with my luggage for the trip, pulling into the now runny-nose of a driveway filled to the brim with rain.



I had promised that I wouldn't leave on my trip without handing over the Fair Trade report that I had so diligently been working on. I went to add the finishing touches, only to find that because of all previous power failures, only half of the document had been saved. I mouthed an expletive.



And later, as I was whisked off in the night train to Madras, preparing for yet another adventure , I wondered, "Does it really matter? these lists? these accomplishments?" I know India is competitive, and maybe I've been a sore loser. But I also think I've got it all wrong. Maybe, just maybe, India is a great friend, the one who doesn't tell me what I want to hear, the one with something closer to an answer than I've found for a very long while.

Biodiesel-ing

Last night, one of the staff members found me alone, typing in the office. He said "Oh, Phoebe lonely. Volunteers all gone." He started gesturing with one hand, raising it to his mouth and leaning his head back with his lips slightly open. "If you need, you tell me." From this I understood that if I wanted alcohol, he could supply it for me. As a woman in Tiruchuli, it is strictly forbidden that I buy anything to drink. Once he had furtively brought me a huge, warm, poorly brewed 40, a kind gesture of cultural sensitivity. I took one sip and poured it down the drain after he left.

"Yes, a bit lonely." I stated, still typing but looking over to him.

"You need a beer?" he asked "I go and buy for you."

I didn't dare mention that the thought of drinking a fizzy and tepid "beer" in my room while sweating and listening to the roar of the fan probably wouldn't do much to make me feel any less alone. If anything, it would only amplify my solitude. I wanted to say "While you're at the store, why don't you pick me up a volunteer, preferably one with cold snickers bar, a supply of gum and maybe a mini-fridge for said beer that we could both share on my balcony." But I just mumbled oh, no thank you, I am all set. I returned to my work, which was the best remedy I'd found for blocking out the absence of others.

I have become fully reliant on work as a great balm for letting the hours pass. The computer is my buddy, and if I'm not on the computer, I am usually found joking around with the staff or drinking chai. Today, however, challenged my happy status quo. A power failure hit at 9:30 am. "Tirichuli no have power all day" stated the Director's son. I winced "But" he continued (and my ears perked up), "the biodiesel plant be having the electricity." I nodded, relieved, and asked if we couldn't make soap at the plant, to which a generous display of nods and head bobbles followed. I idiotically (or hopefully) took this to mean 'of course. '

I was joined by three individuals from an NGO in Chennai on a 'fact-finding' mission. The other day, one of them had given me his business card, which clearly stated the NGO's interest in everything health care related. This did not explain their interest in the biodiesel plant, and though I had politely probed for an explanation, all I unearthed was something about women and crops and children begging in Delhi. Three ODAM staff members were busy testing a new round of biofuel production, and the remaining 4 of us sat on plastic chairs. We were soon joined by a chemist from Madurai who had a fancy belt and a funny way of leaning over the machines to see just what was going on. Although the group from Chennai was purportedly in Tiruchuli to gather learning about biodiesel production, they did a great job of wandering around outside or staring in complete silence. I didn't see a notebook or camera amongst them. For some reason, all the coverings of the machines had been removed, and we watched the steady whir of belts and pulleys and metal wheels. In our chairs, I felt like we'd suddenly become complacent directors on the Bollywood set of Charlie Chaplin's "Modern Times."

"Cut!" I wanted to yell "Time to move to the soap production scene."

I waited and waited and started reading a book, made some useless notes. Outside three adolescent goats were busy eating some of the seeds used for biodiesel production, and I wanted to pat them. I approached, they pranced away. Later, I saw a bird happily twittering away on the back of the smallest goat, and was miffed that she got to sit there while I couldn't even kindly rest my hand on the goat's scruffy little head.

Three hours later, a minor soap experiment took place. After heating some black and unrefined glycerin on a camping stove, adding an unmeasured amount of NaOH and stirring the mixture with a sugarcane stick, we had a little vessel of nubby, brown soap which bore a disturbing resemblance to something you'd find in the very dirty part of a pig farm. I sighed. Lunch arrived and I found myself, again, eating off of the bed frame of a cot, this time joined by the NGO crew and the professor. I ate an omelet that had enough salt in it to make another sea dead. I choked it back with a slimy mixture of rice mixed with curd. I thought how very un-spiritualy advanced I must be to care that I had spent the better part of my morning glued to a dirty plastic chair. I won't lie, I haven't discovered the seven wonders of the inner world here, though I have much advanced my knowledge of how to eat sauce with my right hand.

When we were finished, I rolled up my palm leaf. The Director waved for me to throw it away in "that direction", somewhere eastward by the back of the plant where the goats had all but murdered a little set of trees with their munching. Back inside I watched the man from Chennai cleaning his teeth with a sewing needle. I prayed that he would not produce another from his pocket to share with me.

I left at three, graciously attempting to hide my relief and delighted to hear that the power was back up and running. Work, I resolved, is a true gift.

The Office.

Sundays in Tiruchuli. Just when you thought that doing nothing had reached its apex around, say, Wednesday, Sunday is a day when residents move seamlessly from doing nothing, to really, really doing nothing. I, on the other hand, rise at 6 am, buy "coffee" to be put into a carrying tin I keep, and mix in the precious store of chocolate powder offered as a farewell gift by one of the volunteers. After consuming my very unsophisticated cafe mocha, I rush over to the office and get to work. When I'm in Tiruchuli, I work seven days a week, as boredom is the only other alternative, but Sundays are most conducive to being productive. Most of the staff stays at home, or just drops by to take a bath in the garden watering tub. This means: no heated Tamil chattering, constant phone ringing, or forced participation in a very involved and time-consuming game of musical computers.

Despite my newly gained efficiency, the office becomes just that - an office. It is stripped of its character, safe possibly for the crusty towels that cover all of the equipment, or the very scary saber knife that the director has kept by his desk ever since Rambo and her puppies were transferred to protect the biodiesel plant. Otherwise, I could be anywhere, doing research for anyone, on any day. And that's when I start to hate the computer and the sticky keypad. I leave to go back into town. I buy sweets for two old ladies and drink a tea. On my way back, I stop to pat a herd of goats, at least one of them unwittingly voyaging to their doom. Sunday is official goat-cuisine day, and they are making a beeline for the butcher.

I am invited to one of the project manager's homes for lunch. The director and three other staff members join. They are concerned that there is no dining table, and while I make an attempt to explain that I don't mind sitting on the floor, they rush into the bedroom, fold the flimsy mattress in half, and set up my palm leaf (RE: my plate) on the metal surface of the bed frame. They pull up a chair for me and I eat rice and meat and a large pile of onions mixed into curd. I graciously decline "tomorrow's egg eaten today" - a mushy ball taken from the inside of a slaughtered hen. Everyone else watches TV in the adjacent room, and I stick around for ten minutes to watch a real winner of a direct-to-video movie that Reese Witherspoon stars in. Afterwards, I go to my room. It is hot and I sweep. I sit on my bed. I listen to the second song on the Dirty Dancing CD that a volunteer just left me. I pour bleach all around my bathroom, which is presently being invaded by ants. They appear to materialize out of thin air and I'm ready to refute all scientific knowledge about procreation by documenting their spontaneous generation. All the clothes in my cement room are folded neatly. My books are arranged, the bed made, the bathroom situation covered, my work well on its way to being deemed work. And it is only 3 pm.

It is the Great Crossroads. I have the opportunity to say either "hey, today is really boring and I'm all alone because the other volunteers have escaped to destinations with ice-cream that isn't spotted with large ice crystals and I think I'll just sit here to contemplate this," or "Whoo! I love Tiruchuli and the people here and the work I do and it's time to get moving." Which I do. Back to the office. To this blog. And because I still have access to the computer, to drafting an all new proposal on climate change and sustainable livelihoods. Tiruchuli has this going for it: working every day means that one can never lament the end of a weekend.

Getting away from that place I initially got away to

I am writing this from a wonderfully comfortable couch in a luxurious apartment in Abu Dhabi. The (almost illegal) caffeine content of my latest double espresso shot mocha latte grande frappi drinky thing (code for something from Starbucks, which all you Fair Trade groupies can detest me for, but I swear, no other options out here!), while making typing a bit of choreographically challenged exercise, has inspired me to once again clog up the internet arteries with some more musings. While I thought that I might gain some major perspective on the great India adventure during my time in the Emirates, I have instead found that it has become more of a Major Blur. Which makes me wonder if I'm not in a state of Major Denial about going back, since the week's lifestyle that has included a steady diet of fresh fruits, exercise and the much needed presence of a dear, dear friend (xox Alex) has turned my otherwise friend and vitamin and sleep deprived world upside down. If India has been a true opportunity for personal inquiry, it has not been nearly as kind on my physical well-being. I took trips to the village doctor, trying to understand a plague of headaches, sleeplessness, weight-loss and weakness. Oddly enough, the prescription to eat more goat, throw back some vitamins and take a longer afternoon nap didn't quite do the trick. Maybe because the staff seemed to be confusing chicken with goat. Or because the vitamins not only looked just like M&M's, but were M&M's.

Nadine, (another volunteer) and I, started swapping sleeping horror stories "Hey, last night I slept 2 hours! And got up at 4:30 am! And I've had five fake chicory root coffees since! and I can't remember my name!" The ever-important work, once a passion, was morphing into a terrifying and insurmountable chore. During a typical night of insomnia, I miraculously developed a 6 week action plan for a Fair Trade cottage industry soap program. I handed it over to the staff after drinking enough faux cafe to give me the jolt I needed to make it over to the office. They seemed delighted with it. The next day, at 5 am as I was driven to the airport to make the great-escape to health-land (RE: Abu Dhabi), Semai (staff member of the century) remarked "We spent an hour discussing your plan. We will do all we can to help you with this initiative." I thanked him, and (not kidding) thought "Wow, when I'm away, I'll probably do a bunch of work on this." But I haven't spent a moment on the project. I've been working on the more important task of physical rejuvenation, realizing that what I for so long took for granted - my body's well-being - had been effectively eroded in a few short months and with it went many other things as well. Between the intense heat, and a diet based on white rice and spicy yet, frankly, nutrient deprived sauces, not only was I getting physically smaller, but my motivation, was corroding around the edges. I felt a crisis of conscious ebbing my way. From being a woman who constantly defined herself by her ability to "work hard" I was becoming a couch potato with no television. And no couch. I was turning into my own worst nightmare, and although Baptisite and I would simply joke saying that we'd adopted a new way of working that seemed to reflect the relaxed demeanor of those around us, I still wanted to point an accusatory finger and wasn't scared to direct it at myself. And, well, that's what going around the world can do for a girl. The conditions around foist upon you mise en cause of your sense of self. You're one of those snow globes that suddenly gets a vigorous shake after many years of sitting still on a forgotten shelf. Displacement has literally rattled my every fiber, and each flake in this globe of mine represents all those things I thought I'd tamed and tucked away. And there they go, blurring my vision.

A Day at the Gauntlet

In India, you will often find yourself both incredibly exhilarated and excruciatingly uncomfortable. Somewhat akin to watching Borat. With someone you just met. This was the case when Illivaranso escorted Baptiste and myself to a remote and tiny village to watch the 1,000 year old tradition of the "bull race." The excursion was a welcome break for the two of us, as it fell on a Wednesday afternoon when we would otherwise have been dejectedly staring at a computer screen trying to make yet another Excel macro application behave. The village was a forty minute drive from Tirichuli, and added all new meaning to rural as well as to my understanding of what comprises a road. Aside from the short description "bull race" I had no idea what the event was about, so when we turned a final corner in the jeep and I saw - on what would otherwise have been barren fallow land - a crowd of 5,000, I knew that something particularly exciting had to be happening to convince people to give up their sacred three hour afternoon nap.

I noticed a good 100 bulls lined up by a cement building, each thoughtfully painted with fluorescent colors, sprinkled with sequins and sparkles, donning flowers and woven grasses. People gathered on either side of a narrow 1,000 foot strip of sand that was to be the "gauntlet" and stood on makeshift wooden slats that resembled something like bleachers. Soon, it was question as to whether the attraction was the "races" or me and Baptiste. The villagers, wanting to graciously welcome us, insisted that instead of pressing ourselves into the overflowing bleachers, that we climb up to the stage overlooking the gauntlet where all the action began. I looked up to the stage, a good 12 feet above me and shuddered. The contraption looked about as stable as the tree house I tried to force my brother to make with me when I was nine and he was four. The one we abandoned after a fruitless hour of trying to tie dry twigs together with twine. The one that fell down over the course of that very evening. However, not only would I have been very rude to refuse the prime "VIP" spot that awaited me at the top, but there was no choice but to clamber up the thing as 100 hands started grabbing at me. I cursed the moment that morning when, standing in contemplation before the one shelf in my room that houses my meager supply of clothes, I had opted for a skirt instead of pants. A skirt that has a tendency to billow, and the wind was already proving itself mischievous. Bravely, I put one hand on a wooden bar above me, and the other looked to somehow pull at my skirt in just a way to make me decent as I ascended. The next three minutes were a comic display of my fear of heights, my acrobatic skills now severely impaired by the ensuing lack of mobility thanks to my vigilant efforts to not flash a crowd of thousands, and my attempt to reduce the number of splinters in my one climbing hand from fifty to ten.

As I reached the VIP pinnacle, a deafening roar boomed from the crowd, nearly enough vibration emanating from below that I thought the stage just might disintegrate. I looked around, expecting to lay eyes on an exceptionally large bull, for example, that would have elicited such enthusiasm from the masses. There was no bull and as I gazed ahead, I saw all eyes on me. Upon closer inspection, I also noticed that there was not a single woman within in a mile. Suddenly, I knew just how those few courageous men who decided to take a class at Smith must have felt when they first encountered a room of love-sick and sleep-deprived Smithies - completely and utterly terrified. I gave a little round of waves, blushing. I then pretended to be very interested in my splinters.

I sat on a pile of towels, handed out later as prizes, on a narrow plank, and looking through the thin slats that comprised the stage, I could see a bull holding pen bellow me. It could only hold one animal at a time. I began to understand that this was not a race between bulls, but something much more dangerous; the gauntlet's path, once devoid of people, now had one hundred plus men racing down it to press right up to the holding pen's gate. I wasn't sure whether they were brave or each missing the brain lobe that registers both fear and reason, or whether, possibly, they had been promised a shorter prison sentence if they dared to stand directly in the path of a very annoyed bull. There were men of all ages shoving up against each other, including some pre-pubescent boys who seemed barely able to manage the throng of their own kind, nevertheless the well-aimed kick of a peeved and bewildered bull. The announcer stood right above me, and I was glad that, unlike me, he had elegantly mastered the art of decency with his own skirt. His voice became increasingly excited, and I knew the games were about to begin.

Down in the holding pen, I saw a small bull, maybe a year or two old. When I looked behind the holding pen, I saw a line of bulls extending towards the horizon, they were arranged by size, and by the end of the queue there were beasts that were so bulky they had surely been fed a steady diet of peanut-butter laden chapatis. The men in the gauntlet began getting agitated, waiting for the first bull. The young animal below was getting an awful beating - the rope in its nose, usually used to gently guide the beast home at dusk, was being pulled vigorously, brutally chaffing the inside of its nostrils. Its owner punched its head and its bum was whipped with a branch. Men outside picked up handfuls of sand, and when finally the bull was released, surging forward it was greeted by sand in the eyes and a crowd of men smacking its rear. The "braver" men attempted to ride the animal as it tumbled down the gauntlet to safety, shaking its great head and horns.

As each consecutive bull passed, the crowd's fever increased. The trick, I realized, was to latch on to a bull and hold on for dear life until about 300 feet down the gauntlet you passed a dirty piece of polyester string raised to the top of the bleachers. Depending on the size of the bull and its capacity for rage, and if you made it to the string, you would win a towel or a tin bucket and somewhere between a whopping $3 and $5 - maybe enough to cover your medical costs or a grave plot. Last year, two men were killed.

It was getting hard to tell if the crowd came for the bulls or for the WWF mini-matches that took place on the gauntlet's grounds. While at the beginning of the races, men were playfully smacking each other as if to say "hey loser, you stepped on my bare foot," the mounting tension, the increased size of the bulls, the need to be forever glorified as that guy who held onto a bull's rump for five seconds, took over. Once friendly shoves turned into punches, turned into a face off of the divided village hood. The six policeman on the stage looked on, immobile. One was sending text messages, another was intimately acquainting his finger with his left nostril. The announcer shouted himself hoarse.

After many minutes, many bulls and many pictures, I decided I would also have one too many appointments with the village chiropractor if I didn't evacuate the one millionth of an acre I'd carved out for myself. It took a good five minutes to convince those around me that it seemed a good time to leave. Getting off the platform proved easier to do than getting up it, in part because I decided to live on the edge and plummet the last seven feet to the ground. A round of applause politely followed. I smoothed out my hair, and found Baptsite and Illivaranso gorging on sweets and soda. We prepared to leave.

"This is no game" Illivaranso offered as we inched our way down the village road, only stopping once for the unlikely pair of a cow and a dog. The cow stared at us, solemnly chewing her cud and the dog, much more insolent was far more interested in attending to his nether regions than taking his business somewhere less public. Many rounds of the beeping horn persuaded them to edge off to the shoulder of the road. "This is lifes and dead," he added. And I nodded in total agreement, remembering the aggressive and angered faces of the men in the gauntlet, wondering if the next day they would turn to great each other nicely as they regained the normalcy of their lives, pushing aside violence for the next year.

Chips 'n Soda

The other day, I have to go to the Post Office to mail a letter. But because every building here looks as though it could potentially be a house, I'm really not even sure if one exists in town. Luckily Illivaranso was ready to help out, and Baptiste, quite sick of sitting in the stuffy office, decided that he too wanted a ride in the jeep. We find the post office, I mail a letter and although we take off in the direction of the ODAM office, I find that we've taken not a short cut, but a long detour.
"Factory, Factory," says Illivaranso, as he stops the jeep on a dusty little road lined with small houses, a tiny store, a batch of kids and the requisite piles of trash. I look out the tinted window towards where he's pointing. I see another squat house. Baptiste steps out into the heat. I follow. Illivaranso starts talking to a woman who has a shrill but happy voice, and before I can ask about the "factory," Baptiste and I are being shuttled into her house/room. It is dark, though not cool, and Baptiste and I sit on her cot. A puppy tries to bite Illivaranso, who, without second thought, kicks it. The woman laughs and leaves. The puppy follows only to return a little more peeved a few minutes later.
"Qu-est-ce qu'on fait la?" asks Baptiste.
"I don't know what we're doing here." I respond, attending to a bug bite on my ankle and staring at her carefully folded saris.
She returns with two Indian sodas, which Baptiste and I had been quite keen on trying the day previous. Although we are touched by this very generous act, knowing how much soda costs in India, our enthusiasm for the syrupy soda quickly wanes. Baptiste tries not to laugh after taking a first sip. Warily, I try it and marvel at how it has managed to maintain any sort of market presence. A mix between a generic brand of cough syrup and smelted Laffy Taffy, the soda surely begins turning my blood so sickeningly sweet that every mosquito from here to Bombay is presently yahoo-mapping the address of my cement room. I look at my already chewed up ankles and wince.
The woman is part of a microfinance group administered by Odam, and between obligatory sips of crazy-soda I ask her questions about her experience. She has bought a rice grinder with her money, and sells her product to local families who make a sour dosa (crepe) from it. She shows us pictures of all the women in her self-help group, and tells us too about her children. Illivaranso finally gestures for us to leave, still muttering something about a factory. Baptiste and I sport grins while downing the rest of our drinks, making nice sounding exclamatory remarks in French "Comment ils boivent ca??" Although we are loath to admit it, this may be the most exciting thing that's happened to us all week.
Once outside, we head across the road, to the squat house. I am hardly prepared for what I find inside. There are fifteen woman, surrounded by clouds of flour, sitting on the floor, each holding a tiny, 4 inch long metal baton which they are using to smooth out small circles of dough. A man is punching away at a wad of yellow dough, flies in his wake. Another man, shirtless and sweating, greats us. He is the owner of this "chip" operation, and he brings us through a hallway to another room. I step over a naked child fitfully snoozing away in a pile of flour.
"Our women can make up to 80 rupees a day ($2)", he explains, pointing to another woman who is loading the little pancake like forms into a splintered wooden crate. "Each can make up to 75 kilograms in a week." I nod, unsure if this is impressive. I certainly couldn't eat even 1 kilogram in a week, and especially don't want to now that I've spotted another hoard of flies heading for an especially slick looking pile of chips. "We ship this to Madurai, and big companies buy them for manufacture. Follow me." We return to the other room, the women stare and smile. I'm probably doing the same. The man pushes some pungent spices into my face so I can smell the special ingredients that go into his chips, he even goads me into tasting a bit of baking powder which he had ever so wily convinced me was salt. It doesn't settle so well with the taste of soda that will linger for the next ten hours on my tongue. "Thank you." I offer. And we leave.
At lunch, I am presented with one of the chips. I eat it.

Soft Rain Voyage

One day, Baptiste and I go for a tea break at our favorite chai stand. It has a block of cement you can sit on and a palm leaf roof for shelter from the sun. Plus the man who makes the coffee serves it out of a large, shiny copper vat, which is somehow much more visually appealing than the standard tin ones we see in town. Upon our arrival, we find two staff members who have escaped as well for a break, and as they pass us the world's hardest "sweet" - a combination of peanuts and sugar packed into a tight cube - I decide to wow them with my newly acquired Tamil skills. "I am a woman." I state. Encouraged by the display of grins amongst the tea drinkers, I say, pointing to someone, "He is a man." I continue on "I love Rainbow the dog. Rainbow is a dog." Baptiste, who had been mastering the fine technique of keeping all his teeth and eating the nut dessert, only just tunes in. He wants to talk too. "I am a dog (nay)." he proudly says. Everyone roars with laughter. "Aan" (man), I offer gently, "You are a man." He nods, looking a bit confused, turning the peanut mass in his fingers. I don't insist.

Upon returning to the office, the Director's son, Illivaranso, 33 years old, approaches me. He worked in the entertainment industry in Chennai (Madras) for ten years, then moved back to Tirichuli, married his cousin, and is now enjoying the "jolly" family life he's established. He never puts his cell phone down and is the proud driver of the Ambassador car.
"We go see soft rain." he says, gesturing like he's driving.
"Ok." I say, smiling, waiting for more info, because I've heard there is a trip in the works, but I'm not sure if "soft rain" qualifies as a destination.
"Fall" he says.
Talking with only the use of verbs has become standard for me, so "fall" potentially has many meanings. It is maybe the rain that falls, or someone he knew fell once, or because of the exhaustion of another day at the office, he is concerned that I will fall. I keep nodding, waiting, biding my time.
"We go to falls. Mountains." Now I understand.
"When" I ask?
"Saturday." This is good.

Of course, a Saturday departure quickly becomes an impromptu Friday afternoon departure, and, because I want to have some control over my destiny, I ask in the one hectic hour I have to pack, where, exactly, I am going. From each of the five staff members I ask, I hear something different; I am able, not to distinguish a word, but a single consonant - "K". I look up every possible destination in Tamil Nadu in my guidebook as I throw an assortment of belongings into a small backpack. Nothing seems to match both waterfalls and the letter 'K', so I give up, per usual, the sense that I have any idea what is going on.

Baptiste, Illivaranso and Chandru and I head out in the jeep, bouncing past hogs, cows, and five people crammed onto a motorcycle. After two hours of driving, there is a sudden flurry of cell phone calls, and Chandru and Illivaranso are gleefully shouting back and forth. Where we were once beeping our way down the "highway" at an unsettingly rapid pace, we have now bumped our way onto the shoulder and pulled to a halt in the middle of nowhere. Across the road, another jeep has done just the same, and a stream of men pile out of it, rushing towards us. Apparently, they are friends from Tirichuli who I haven't met yet, so I get out of the jeep, immediately stepping onto a large juliflora thorn that slips its way through my flip-flop and into my heel. I yank it out, check out the local flora and pick a particularly beautiful purple flower. I show it to the group of men and they start waving their arms frantically, pointing to a white substance pouring out of the stem. "Poison!". I drop the flower, quickly wash my hands, and wish I had just stayed in the van like Baptiste. Soon we are back on our way, approaching mountains awash in clouds, and Baptiste and I are wondering out loud, in French, just how cool the air will be.

I consider that this is primarily a scenic, peaceful excursion of sorts, maybe involving a quaint hike, some photos, a picnic of curries and rice balls; I am surprised to find, as we pull into the main town of the "Five Falls" attraction, that this is hardly what is in store. This is India, after all. The "parking lots", really, are just place holders, with no rhyme or reason to them. Everyone does just as they please, regardless of how everyone else is going about the tricky business of cramming their vehicles into a swell of ditches, mud, and ill placed trees. Buses, which play songs when they go in reverse, are screeching into the lots, narrowly escaping tragic fates then reversing out to try again. None of the "reversing" songs match and one has the acute sense of being at an amusement park gone terribly awry. Buses get stuck in any number of ditches that have developed over time and some drivers don't even bother to dig themselves out, shutting off the engines and heading straight for the falls. People peer out of the windows, dropping mango rinds and newspaper bits to the ground and when, or rather, just before, their bus comes to rest, they rush to the bus doors and tumble out by the hundreds, tossing babies, packages of hot sauce and bottles of shampoo between them; ice-cream vendors weave through oxen and dogs. I cautiously get out of the van, hear the roar of one of the falls, and have an immediate craving for chai.

After simply looking at this particular waterfall, and seeing the hundreds of tourists lining up to stand underneath them, we retire to our hotel, and change for the "bathing." It is now late at night, the blue moon hanging above the clouds, and the boys are ready to move. When we get to the next waterfall, things have quieted down a bit. "Soft Rain," offers Illivaranso again, pointing to the sky where, indeed, a light rain is sprinkling on us. Before I can even answer though, I am being pushed past a large tree by a group of women. "Follow them!" says Chandru, pointing down a rocky slope to the "women's" section of the waterfall, and I obey, scuttling down the rock face towards a crowd of women standing, fully clothed, directly underneath the water. They push me right into their midst, and I can't see a thing from the heavy fall of the water. One of my bangles snaps in half, I can barely hear anything either except for the occasional "From what country come you?" that this woman or that, shoved into the tight space between rocks where we are all huddling, inquires over the deafening roar of the falls. I push my way out, gasping for air, only to be lathered up with soap and tossed back into the fray. Some of us are laughing, some women are frowning intensely, their eyes clasped shut, meditative. In the chaotic rush to the falls, I haven't been able to remove my towel from my waist and so it gets just as soaked as me. But this is India, and everything dries up right away, back to the way it was minutes before, just the pressure of the falls leaving its traces in the frayed edges of my clothes.

Open Heart Surgery

Tirichuli has no stoplights. Luckily, however, there are children in abundance, and though I live about 10 minutes from the ODAM office, the number of times I am brought to a complete halt by an onslaught of youngsters has made my journey long - I never leave the house without a due supply of water to get me through the haul. It works like this: In a morning daze, as I pass the local vendors, I turn onto a long dirt road. I am usually aimlessly wondering if the bug bites on my ankles will disappear, or if I'll develop another blister from my sandals. Sometimes I'm fretting about the state of my sari or hoping that today I will digest breakfast, when suddenly I will hear a single lone cry "PHOEBE!" And a speedy domino effect takes place. When I lift my head, where there was once a single child 50 feet in front of me, there is now a cluster of 25 charging in my direction, each screaming my name, holding out his or her hands; there is no escape. Although they all repeat my name with a host of variations "veebee, peevee, fifi, beefee and veefee" as they rush towards me, once they are close enough to touch me they scream "Mam, what is your name?! What is your name!" I drag them along with me, somewhat glad for the workout in a country where I seem to otherwise be eating every 5 minutes or recovering from what I ate, and I tell them my name, and my father's name and my brother's and my mother's, until satisfied that, once again, I have told the truth, they let go, and disappear, where to, I have no idea.

I had thought the stampede of children was confined to the roads. I had also thought when I embarked on this journey that I would encounter color, spice, communication barriers and goats. Little did I know that there are no limits in this country, and that as private as my heart may have been - did I not control, after all, how it functioned? - that it would no longer be mine, but in the care of each Tirichuli resident. I was not prepared for my emotional open heart surgery, though, apparently, I had made the appointment. The other night, 3 children rush into my room. I do not recognize a single one from the streets. They are laughing gaily, they pull me from my bed, they explore every inch of the room, gleefully exclaiming at my small flashlight, turning my water bottle in their hands with amazement, fixing my hair into a tight braid and smearing a very, very bright lipstick onto my face. Their attention and care and lightness of heart is infectious so when they insist that I put a long dress over the one I'm already wearing, and pull headphones over my ears I am ready for the next and most ridiculous order. And there I am, in true clown fashion, draped in two dresses with a line of red as bright and as thick as chili peppers adorning my lips, and when the music starts (their choice of "I would walk 500 miles"), which they can't hear, they scream "DANCE! DANCE!".I start an impromptu Irish jig, my braid braving the whir of the fan and the stomp of my feet, and those three, precious children can barely sit they are laughing so hard. And I am laughing too like I haven't in years and there is no yesterday or tomorrow, but just this.

What is this place I've come to? Nothing here is mine, we are all sharing together, and when you share your heart....oh, how big it is.

Why sleep when you can be on a bus?

There was once this 24 hour bus ride I took from London to Poland. About 12 hours into the trip, while trying to decipher both the thick Scottish drawl of the very drunk man next to me and the gestures of the Polish drivers' "assistant", I promised myself "Never again." Well, India, you win.

The Director here at ODAM is well connected with the government and is close with Tamil Nadu's Member of Parliament, a woman who fully supports the microfinance work that the organization implements. So when her daughter was to marry the son of another MP, she graciously invited ODAM, plus 350 women from the micro-finance self help groups (of a possible 12,000). So in many ways, I was in the right place at the right time, because I too was invited to attend. When I was told that 5 buses would be driving us from Thirichuli to Madras (Chennai) a generous 10 hours away at twelve on a Saturday, I was preparing for a noon departure. But make that midnight. And then make the buses almost 3 hours late. When we finally started off at 3 am, I had high hopes for some rest; little did I know that Indians never sleep. I put my yoga skills to good use, curling up in a Popple-inspired bundle, ready to doze off, when, at 4 am, the bus suddenly stops. I think between the heat, the tiny seat I've been allotted, the hour and the fact that I hadn't slept the two previous nights (thank you malaria tablets!), that things couldn't really get "worse." If the bus wasn't outfitted with a new air conditioning system, this was simply because any extra funds had been appropriately allotted to the installation of a television screen and some very, very loud speakers. The bus driver went ahead during the break to purchase a whole library of DVDS, and so began the 4 am Bollywood marathon. Accepting my sleepless fate, I watched couples toss around terms of endearment such as "my little chinese finger trap" and "my favorite water sack." I wondered how one unlikely hero, outfitted with a sickle, a lemon and an errant moustache, managed to take on Madras' violent hooligans single handily. But he does, and the sound effects of the punches only further validate his determination.

At 6 am, we stop at the side of the rode, all 50 women I'm with pouring out of the bus, slipping down a lush path to do their business, while making my "business" theirs as well. I'm cranky and tired and can't believe I'm awake and everyone takes turns pointing at me, plenty of the women initiating conversations in Tamil and I just keep nodding. Everyone is brushing their teeth with their fingers and a powder and buying tea and squishing back into the bus. The bollywood initiation continues as we drive to a temple. The temple is packed, you can barely move, and there is a long line of pilgrims waiting to enter its very center to make prayers and offer up plates of whole coconuts, lotus flowers, and bananas. By now, the pace of the entire trip is set: there is to be no sleep, we move from one temple to another and back to the bus. There is waiting, and you never know quite for what, except it doesn't matter because there is the bus window to look out, tepid water to drink and an enraged Indian woman throwing golden bangles to the ground on the screen.

I quite think, by our arrival in Madras late Sunday, and after a two and a half hour group walk on the Marina beach that at last there will be sleep. I understand that the wedding is at 7:30 pm, and so when I finally get into bed at 12:00, I am shocked to receive a text message from Baptiste. "We need to get up at six." I shed a tear alone in my bed, set my alarm, and pass out. The wedding is at 7:30 am, and there is not a single woman in the hotel to help me put on my sari. All the self-help group women stayed in a large concrete complex, sleeping on mats with their children, and although Baptiste and I had asked to stay with them, the Director brought us to the hotel. I rifle through my belongings. The only clothes I have are the dirty, handy-me-down skirt I wore the day before and my Dean's Beans Organic Coffee t-shirt. I stare at my saris wrapped in newspaper, well aware that I could never get one on alone. I feel a great wave of shame sweep over me. How am I to go to the wedding of a government member wearing a dirt-encrusted skirt and a crumpled t-shirt? Baptiste and I get on the bus, we're driven to the wedding complex, a gorgeous, white building with great columns and a garden. I'm shuttled through a metal detector, then stopped. "What is this you are carrying?" the guards want to know, pointing to my bundle of saris and newspaper. I show them. Everyone looks confused. I don't even try to explain my plight.

We all enter a large dining hall, sit down at long tables, eat a wedding breakfast, while I desperately search for someone to help me with my sari. Finally, one of the staff members brings me into a bathroom, outfits me and we join the rest of the group in the balcony seating of a large room. One staff member turns to me "This is a VIP wedding," she states, "See, that's a famous movie director and an actor, and the Chief Minister is coming, and that is...." she continues on, pointing out all sorts of people, all the women glittering with gold jewels, the men in simple white shirts and khaki pants. I switch on my automatic nod and keep on lookin'. The actual wedding ceremony is short. So short I don't even realize it's happened, and then 20 speeches are given by various guests. When this interminable bit is over, people rush in a great, swelling crowd, to the downstairs, where ice-creams and fresh fruits are being served, and yet another meal and I wonder how their hasn't been a causality yet with all the stampeding. In a haze I search for water, keeping cool with a fan that has pictures of the bride and groom on it.

The trip goes on for another 48 hours - a sweaty excursion to a zoo where the peacocks won't open their tails, a 4:30 am wake up call, feet burning on hot stones at a temple, the consumption of strange, thick balls of sweets, a stop to watch a plane land in the Madurai airport, a new wave of bollywood films sans subtitles, never ending laughter at it all....I am grateful to be back in Thirichuli when we finally make it back. My room is quiet and warm and I bath with a tiny pail. Just one week here, and I am home.

First-ish impressions

I feel like it's a bit my blogging duty to let you all in on life in Tiruchuli. The only problem is that, much like everything I see, nothing has a unifying sense. There is no "story" to tell about my coming here and not even really one about how the last week has unfolded. So in no particular order, here is some of what I've seen:
Almost all men wear light cotton, plaid printed shirts, and the shirts are sold in abundance in just about every store I pass. The women from the microfinance self-help groups crowd around me and exclaim that my hair is too short and that my earrings are very fine though not made of gold. Some wonder, because of my retainers, if I've lost all my teeth. This rumor subsists for a number of days, only to be stamped out for good once I give a short demonstration of their removal to a few interested staff members. I thank God I don't have braces on here. I could never explain them. One day, as I choked on a curried pea at lunch, one of the staff members gave my head 5 impressive, yet gentle, slaps. One must not wear shoes into the Hindu temple, but cell phones left on "ring" are ok. I asked one of the staff members what his favorite color was, and he replied "Rose." There is a mutt at the office who could rival any of the dog fighters in Amores Perros. She is all rough and grunge and just what Eminem wants you to think of Detroit and what you hope, deep inside, Paris Hilton doesn't encounter in jail. Sometimes, staring at her from a safe distance, I wonder if she's not Cerberus searching for her other two heads. Her name is Rainbow. But the way it's pronounced here, it sounds like Rambo, and that's what I say as I skirt around her. Yesterday I went Sari shopping. I left my shoes outside the shop, shuffled in past rows and rows of saris stacked to the ceiling, stretching down a single, fluorescent lit hallway. I sat on the ground and a man tossed one sari after another at me, leaving me no time to decide which ones I liked. And you can't decide what you like. There are too many and if you express interest in one, 20 more that slightly resemble it are tossed your way until you think you might drown in a sea of plastic and sequins and silk. "You like?" he asks. "You like." He asserts. Apparently enough. I bought 2 cotton saris, a thinner "synthetic" one, and a silk one for the wedding I'll be attending, as well as my own weight in cloth for the tiny belly shirts that all women wear underneath their saris. Today, I was brought to a house on the main street where a woman ushered me into her sewing room so she could measure me for the shirts. Four Indian women stood around, gaping at the size of my arms, and the seamstress kept darting out of the house to find a prototype shirt that would fit me. She must have ran all over town looking for one, banging on the door of the largest woman she could find after I practically ripped the first one she had me wear. Only after three tries, showers of laughter at the width of my shoulders, and much head wobbling and general commotion about my very non-Indian size, it was decided that the shirts could, against all odds, be made.

The days are simple and ripe and full of laughter. As one staff member describes the office life "Each day is being a holiday. Each day is being a work day."

-Phoebe

Bad Mango. BAD!

HA. The irony. Mangoes are my favorite fruit, and ever since Trader Joes started selling them in small, frozen chunks, they had become one of my staples back in America. So you can well imagine why I chose Southern India as a destination. There are mangoes everywhere! Unfortunately, the mango that was once my friend, recently became the instigator of some intense misery. I hadn't eaten a single piece of fruit since arriving in India, and although chapatis and curry sauces are great (breakfast included), I had a true craving for mango. I asked one of the staff members here if I couldn't get some, and he bought me three. We shared part of one. The next day, I woke up feeling worse than I have in years. The thought of food was revolting, and the thought of moving almost as bad. Being sick in India is beyond words. It's not even, somehow, the very pain of an aching body and a queasy, rebellious stomach, it is the power failure that makes the fan in my cement block room stop working. It is the sweating of my own large body of water. It is being alone in my room, not knowing what's wrong, visions of tropical microbes marching across the ceiling. It is the heat like no other heat. By 3 in the afternoon, I still hadn't eaten a thing, but there was a mango in my room, fated little chunk of fruit. Sure that my headache had to be due to the fact that I hadn't eaten, I decided that the mango was a real blessing. Having no knife handy, I ingeniously scalped my mango with tweezers, and ate a tiny portion of it, only to find myself, moments later, leaning over my Turkish toilet. There is no hanging onto the porcelain God here.

Luckily, I have stumbled upon a group of incredibly kind people here in Tiruchuli. Three staff members drove me to the local hospital. And this is when I found out that eating mangoes during the drought season is a really, really dumb idea. I don't understand the specifics, but something about the "heat" of the mango can make people ill, and sometimes they are also treated with a dangerous chemical. I had a very nice female doctor who prescribed lots of medicines plus a meal of a water rice drink. As we jostled back down the thin paved road back from the hospital, beeping at every moving thing (the rule here is: beep at something if it moves, regardless of whether or not its on the road and whether or not it obviously knows you're coming. You can also beep at large holes in the road, if only for your own satisfaction in telling them what's up), lurching and swaying past herds of goats, piles of trash ransacked by hogs, tea houses and bikers, I was sure that I had never felt so awful in my entire life. And that's kinda India for you. One day you are in love with everything you see, and the next day, the thing you loved the most makes you as sick as a dog.

-Phoebe

Out in da' Field

Well, I'm willingly diverging from the theme of 4 am musings, in part because I can, and in greater part because after so many nights of 4 am "musings" since I've been here it's all become rather tedious. Some of you may be wondering what it's like where I live. What I eat, how the people act, how big the mangoes are and if there really is 4 heaping tablespoons of sugar in a tiny cup of chai (yes). Well, I promise more of that later, 'cause right now I'm feeling rather passionate about something I just saw, and something that I will most likely be spending some time working on in the coming months. ODAM (Organization for Development Action and Maintenance), where I volunteer, has been working on setting up a bio-diesel plant for some time now. Initially when I arrived here, this seemed a great idea in terms of a) diversifying income streams and b) creating renewable energies. After today, however, I see that the need for this is even more important than I had originally suspected.

Back in the late 1950's, a strange little bush/small tree from South Africa was introduced into Tamil Nadu. The government believed that it would provide a new source of fuel for local residents, and provide a new source of income. As with any number of development projects, little research was done on how the plant would affect the local landscape, and the government sent planes, full of seeds, and sowed the seeds across hundreds of miles. Today, the plant is found everywhere. It embodies all the awful characteristics of a weed. It has extremely thick, pointy thorns, tougher and uglier than those on a rose. It's roots reach incredibly far into the ground, and have sucked up an inordinate quantity of water, which weakens other local crops. And unlike other plants that can give shade, if you walk past this one, you can feel heat pounding off of it. It runs rampant here, and even the goats, of which there are many here, and who will eat anything (I've seen it. It's true), will not go near the bush. In recent years, poor farmers in the area (the average monthly salary here is $45.00) have started making charcoal from the plant. This is a very involved process, which I had the opportunity to see up close. First, hundreds of bundles of the thorny sticks are collected and brought to an open field area. They are then formed into a large dome, much like a very large sweat lodge. Only a tiny opening is left at the top, where the fire is made. It takes 2 weeks to collect the wood and make the dome, which in its final stage must be covered in clay, sand and water to trap the heat from the fire. During this time, farmers reinforce the bottoms of their sandals with pieces of tire so that the thorns won't pierce them.

The most dangerous stage then begins - "the burning." A small ladder is made that scales the dome, and a fire is lit inside of it. The dome must be watched for 7 days, 24 hours a day, so usually a small team of men and women will set up a small tent and wait. We visited a group of 4 men who were 4 days into the burning. We sat in the middle of a large field, covered with the nefarious weed, and they were happy to answer all of the questions I had. I call this part of the work dangerous because of its potential consequences. Sometimes, because farmers become so tired, someone will fall into the hole at the top of the dome, and burn to death, often without others knowing as they work in shifts. In addition, the charcoal smoke is wretched smelling, and is a leading cause of throat cancers in the area. It also can lead to eye problems, and it can disturb a woman's hormonal functions. Even after having breathed it in for 20 odd and ill-fated seconds when the wind shifted, I could see how over time it would take a toll on the body.

The most devastating part was finding out how farmers, against their better interests, continue this practice. One farmer, though he didn't know the term, described how global warming has so shifted the monsoon season (up to three months from when it's supposed to hit) that his agricultural yields and crop quality have vastly diminished. In addition, because of the water hungry weed, crops have further suffered. While at one point, he would only make charcoal in the drought season, he now pursues this all year long. For each ton of charcoal he makes, he will receive under $100, of which a large portion must be given to a middleman who will pay for its transportation. And this represents 3 tireless weeks of work.

So! The bio-diesel project represents a better, healthier way of life. It is made from the seed of a native tree that has shallow roots, and who's leaves, when fertilized, will help regenerate the soil. ODAM's hope is that it will bring a new form of economic viability to the region...

-Phoebe

4 a.m. Musings

So, it's not four in the morning, but, it is raining.

When I went on a long walk in the woods this afternoon, everything smelled green and ripe. The air and the earth were all sweetness, packed atom by atom with dampness. It's been a hot and humid week here in the western half of Massachusetts. Halfway down the trail, movement happened out of the corner of my eye, and I turned in time to see a giant crane, lifting off from the river. We played a game of catch-up for another mile--the crane would stand in the water, moving the muscles in its cheeks rapidly, inflating and deflating, while I'd walk forward. When I was about fifteen feet away, it would take off into the air again, until I lost it around a bend.

The rocks were a jumble down by the sharpest curve, still flood-disordered. I am here surrounded by tumbling small rocks, whose roundnesses are of different sizes, their colors soft but separate. And Phoebe is in India, buffeted about by traffic, riding rickshaws through the night. Awash in new scents.

My four a.m. thoughts these days are all about memory. Things steal in through the open window at night, and become other times, other places, other sleepless beds I've lain in. I think about how something coming to me on the dark air will translate itself into a trigger, and how, on some future early summer night, I might recall this particular pause that I had when I was twenty-six. These places where our thoughts snag, the small back-currents, when we share them, knit themselves into some greater sense. I hear about the scents of a distant city, and those things fold themselves over into the wild honeysuckle in the woods this afternoon, and are carried off into the future on the silent wings of a large white bird. Off around a bend, where they disappear.

I know we'll find them later, when we least expect it.

4 a.m. Musings

4 am Musings.

Sarah generously allowed me to choose our first of many blog themes which we intend to subject you to.

I have been in Chennai for less than 48 hours. Twice I have found myself wide awake at 4 am, and while I have nerdily attempted to tame my restlessness with some Greek mythology a la Edith Hamilton (Yes. I know. I thought I was being very noble when I packed this particular selection, and have hence reassessed this sentiment. Last night, it was either that or read the Chennai section in my guide book for the umpteenth time), I have also watched some astonishing music videos, and punched my pillows into 50 different shapes. And I have done my fair share of musing. There I lay last night, thinking "does every driver in Chennai feel that to propel their vehicle forward, they must press down on the horn? Yes, fruit does look better on a mat when stacked in pyramids. In the US, why don't we also have little vessels of warm water and lemon to dip our hands into after eating? What time is it in the US. Can I call and bother someone?" I did. I called home, but no one was there. It was Friday night after all. I returned to my mythology. I quickly stopped, though I did wonder what the Hindu take would be on the plight of Io, who is transformed into a heifer. "Hey!" I thought, "I am free and awake!" Then I made the mistake of flipping through my guidebook, only to feel overwhelmed by the SIZE of this country and how, really, I can't even visit 2% of it, or know the names of all the sauces and rice varieties and deities and I may never really be capable of saying anything substantial in Tamil. A typical 4 am moment. But then I reassessed. I felt tingly and alive. I even had a bit of compassion for the cockroach in my room. I thought about the things I was told before I left, and how, at the time, I didn't realize that even in less than 2 days, a place can start weaving itself right into your mind. And nostrils.

Before my departure, many exclaimed "Everything will smell so different!" At 4m, I finally figured out, indeed, what Chennai smells like. Imagine a rather large trunk, kept in an attic for many, many years, filled with old leather shoes. Then, one day, out of curiosity, you bring it outside and let it bask in the hot sun, but you forget about it. A rascally child opens the trunk, and leaves a large, steaming vat of dumplings in it for two days, which spills everywhere, at which point you say "Hmmm! What's in that trunk anyways!" And you open it up.

The air here is pungent and alive, like it has lots of legs and is running down the streets with the auto-rickshaws, coursing its ways through sari and bangle shops, past the place where phone cards and lighters are sold, punching its ways into the finest hotel, resting little. I like this air. It is muscular and audacious. It has verve. And no misgivings. It knows what it wants from us. Like the small girl in the hotel this morning who said, at the breakfast buffet, "No mommy, I don't want this!" (pointing at something that I couldn't identify) "I want guava." Indeed.

I liked how I felt at 4 am. Normally, being awake at this hour because I can't sleep is a true curse. And yet so far, despite what I could have predicted, my thoughts have been my dearest companions.

I am leaving Chennai today to fly down to Madurai, and will meet with the program director of ODAM. The next time I write, I hope to tell something of my time in tiny Tiruchuli!
- Phoebe

Of Departures, Mangos, Madurai, and Muffins

So. Here we sit, at the historic 1880 house on a beautifully clear, sunlit morning, in Orange, Massachusetts. Sarah's car is freshly inspected, Phoebe has finally managed to sleep despite her malaria medication, and a man walking by Sarah's car this morning while carrying a banana let out a burp that signalled that all is well with the world. And it is! Phoebe is embarking on a glorious, sweaty, possibly gastro-intestinally disastrous adventure in India...or she will be, as of four thirty this afternoon.

Which brings us to this here blog. When contemplating being separated (it's happened in the past, and we both usually get hives and write long-winded drunken emails detailing how gin is far less satisfying when consumed solo or in the back of a tired Paris taxi), we kept wracking our brains for a way to continue to share our magical friendship. Sarah had recently started her own blog, and we had one of those classic 'ah ha!' moments. A blog! We'll keep a joint blog! Therefore, we can delight not only ourselves, but, a massive, stupefied audience! (hi moms and dads). And, in addition to this, we can finally share one of our favorite jokes that doesn't translate to anyone else's sense of understanding or humor. Quoth Phoebe:

One bright afternoon, while turning a rapid corner in Esmeralda (car) in an attempt to make my way to Wendell, land of freely growing plants, I saw the world's largest rooster strutting around on the side of the road. I immediately called Sarah and exclaimed "You won't believe what I saw! This rooster is so big! It's like....20 avocados!"

End of story.


Well, end of that story, anyway. But! Just the beginning of this one, where we will laugh, cry, tell tales of having to poop in pits at dawn in India, and continue to measure things in terms of how much they make us giggle, and, how many avocados they might be made up of. Bonne voyage! Bonne avocado!

-P and S
former roommates, forever friends