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.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Thursday, June 14, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, June 8, 2007
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
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
Thursday, June 7, 2007
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
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
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
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
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
Sunday, June 3, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
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
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
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