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