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.