The India Chronicles: Schools and Child Labor Rally! Letter #6

Thursday, June 26^th, 2014

            Yesterday we went to a bridge camp. It’s a school for girls who had previously been in child labor situations to help them accelerate what they’ve missed academically so they can jump into regular school. The girls are outrageously adorable. They flocked around us white women. Mobbed us even. We didn’t speak their language, they didn’t speak ours, except to ask, “Excuse me, what is your name?”

Here, with kids I go by, “A. Like the letter of the alphabet”. Averill is difficult enough among English-speaking people, let alone Telugu, but they can all pronounce “A”. they all repeat it with glee, “AEh? AEh!” and bobble their heads left and right. We tried to teach them “here comes the sun” with a call and response system. It was a semi-disaster, but the girls absolutely loved it. I tried something a little less tonal—a clapping call and response. I ran out of rhythms faster than I’d like to admit. Plus we couldn’t think of any other simple songs that could work. The only thing that came to mind was “once there was a snowman” but I was pretty certain that wouldn’t translate because they’ve never seen snow…

Any ideas for songs for our next visit?

They fed us lunch at the bridge camp, and I got to experience for the first time the Indian tradition of eating rice and hot curry with no utensils, just fingers. There's really an art form about it. The Indians are much more efficient with their experienced fingers; I, white person, was really struggling. (I have since gotten better!)

 At some point in your life, try eating curry and rice with no utensils, please. 

           

The day before last, we went to a rally starting at 6:00 am to catch a bus. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but India doesn’t run on any sort of strict time table. So in order to find the right bus port at the right time, there’s a lot of pointing and saying the name of the city we were trying to get to with slightly different emphases or pronunciations, “Sangareddy?” SANgareddi? SanGARetti? Singaraddi? Saunguredy?” in the hopes they might point back in a helpful direction. Which they eventually did!

When we finally arrived, we had no idea what a big deal this rally was. Over 250 people showed up to walk a kilometer in support of anti-child labor, and anti-child marriage movements. It was a pretty incredible sight to see, and cause to support. We documented the rally and speeches in the hopes of creating a video for awareness. Listening to the speeches was an amazing experience: Passion transcends language barriers. The feelings, the stirring emotion, the belief in the cause, the call to action was obvious even though I didn’t understand one word directly.

Though an unimpressive small group of white people, people took notice of us. They even asked us to give a speech, that was translated, next to all the government dignitaries, judges, members of courts who were there.  Everyone wanted their picture taken with us. We felt both extremely unqualified, and honored. I guess some of the service we offered was just being there, giving them some excitement to have a new face supporting their same cause. Maybe? I guess I’m tying to justify our (ridiculous) celebrity.  (more pictures to come)

Our afternoon plans fell through to go back to the women’s shelter, (because without a translator our presence is next to useless) so we explored a local bookstore. Most of the books in English were the classics, which made me feel a little piece of home to recognize the titles. I bought a book of Ghandi quotes, a cheesy Indian love story entitled “Love Story”, a dialogue about the future of humanity, and George Orwell’s 1984. I thought it might be a good idea to wait to read 1984 till I get back; I’m trying to build my faith in humanity, not question it.

 Last night, after dinner, we went to an ice cream shop, “Oh So Stoned… the Ice Cream Joint.” Clever, no? We sat around and talked about the pranks my team members had pulled on me: Abby coming out in a wedding dress making me think she was certifiable, convincing me that the two team members who had been dating for 7 months were cousins, and that two unrelated team members were fraternal twins. I tried to pull one back on one of the “twins” by saying, “Matt, are you ok? Your eyes are super blood-shot, and your skin looks really pale” the others at the table played along for a bit, but I couldn’t keep a straight face. 

Some moments I wish we were living in a real third-world environment. Go all the in, you know? (and some day I really would like to). But we live in the nicest area of town—meaning we have running water. (Not a microwave, nor suitable furniture, but running water.) And then I come home, dirty, sweaty, exhausted, and sore from various public transportation rides, and that running water seems unequivocally lovely.

There aren’t dumpsters here… there are trash piles. Well, there’s really trash everywhere, but sometime by de facto piles sort of build up eventually they burn the pile and start again I guess. I carried around a banana peel for at least 30 minutes before finding a receptacle bin, and when I finally did, there was more rubbish littered around the bin than in it, but I felt a small development victory by properly tossing my garbage away. Of course the man who “takes out the trash” will probably just throw it in a trash pile somewhere anyway.

The power goes out here frequently. Everyone just sort of continues about his or her business. If it’s during the day, we just get a little sweatier because the AC’s turned off for an hour ish. The darkness is only slightly inconvenient when taking trips to the bathroom. When the power went off two nights ago, we had a flashlight dance party in our living room. It was warm. but great. 

This weekend we're going on a backpacking trip to bring some supplies to a very remote village. I'm sure there will be interesting stories yet to come. 

Hope you all are doing well!

Love to you and yours, 

-Averill  (or just A)

The India Chronicles: Letter #5

Good morning friends and family!

I’ve discovered that 11.5 hours away is a really big time difference. A frustrating, difficult, big time difference. But there are some blessings to that—I have resolved myself to be here. Always a good idea when in a foreign country, don’t you think? I didn’t realize how much I was not until I decided to be. Funny how sometimes you don’t realize what you’re feeling until a week later when you’re not feeling it any more, or feeling something different.

Like the roads here: when I first arrived, I didn’t even realize how terrified and secretly appalled I was my the Hyderabad hi way system, but now I can tell how differently I feel. I’ve more than gotten used to it, I’ve accepted it. The masses of chaotic traffic, the continuous, loud horns, the constant fight to pass the vehicle in front of you; the frenzied disorganized road at first looked like a muddled, confused mess, but now I can see the system, and in its own way it works. I’ve learned to kind of ignore the superfluous noise, and just soak it in. I’ve made a goal to appreciate all the things I won’t see again when I go back to living in the first world. So death-walk to cross the street? Bring it on.

Yesterday we met with our biggest partner, SAPID. A local NGO run by two firecracker Indian women. They’re both no larger than 5’ tall, and at first glance they’re quite frail, but in reality they’re just dynamite. Their hard work was the cause of turning that several-thousand-people slum into a government-recognized community. They organized community leaders, brought water into the slums, and got rid of every reported case of abuse, along with many many other powerful and impressive changes they’ve brought to the third world to raise them up out of the depths of poverty. All I’ve done here? Complain about the food.

After our meeting with them, I was inspired to go DO something. Hudson and I went to a women’s shelter to see what we could do to help them. On the way, we took an auto.

Autos are yellow cars with no doors. Picture a three-wheeled rickshaw, driven like a motorcycle. One haggles the price before getting in, and we usually get ripped off cause we’re white. (We have to remind ourselves we’re fighting over 10 rupees, which is less than 20 cents. But it’s still annoying.) Another thing about Indian people, they will give you directions even if they don’t know where you’re asking about. They’re so thoughtful and trying to be helpful!

So we’re riding in an auto, trying to get to the landmark “Ghandi Statue” which we were told everyone knows its location. Our auto driver stopped to asks a few people for directions. It wasn’t looking good. We were hoping to meet our translator right at 6:00 and it was getting close, Hudson was worried. I said a really short prayer, half to make Hudson laugh. “Dear Heavenly Father, please let us get to the Ghandi statue.” Then I added, “Safely. Amen.” Literally 10 second later we pull up next to the ghandi statue and the women’s shelter. Prayer works! 

We met a translator there: another firecracker Indian woman. She’s in her last year at law school and met us through doing an internship with another NGO. Really neat lady.

When we got there the women collectively wanted to learn English. So Hudson and I scrapped up a beginning lesson of asking questions, “how are you?” “where are you from?” “what do you like to do?” “what is your favorite____?” and responses, “I am from ____” “I like to _______” “My favorite _____ is ______.” Learning a new language is painful, slow, and difficult. Most of the women we were with had some education, some even quite impressive credentials. But they can’t get a job without English. I have all the resources in the world at my fingertips, and I can’t learn another language. They have none and are desperate to. I so desperately wish I could snap my fingers and give them the same opportunities I have had in my life—they’d utilize them better.

Any ideas on how I can help them more?

--Averill

The India Chronicles: Sunday. Letter #4

Family plus,

I’ve been here 4 days, and written 4 letters. I’m really excited for the days when I’m so busy working and serving people that I don’t have time to write these lengthy letters. But for now I’m just getting acclimated, and I have the time, so here goes letter #4.

Sunday. We went to church! One serious advantage to being Mormon: every church building in the entire world has the same wifi password (Pioneer47). Metaphor for stability in life? I think yes! Everywhere you go in the entire world has the same exact wifi password, the same exact service, the same ordinances, and the same hymns. The doctrine is the same universally and being half way around the world, it is a wonderful slice of security. Stepping into that church building was stepping into a haven: familiar building structure, familiar paintings, familiar feeling. Even seeing the customary lettering outside the door “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints: Visitors Welcome” was like a personal welcome sign from God saying, “you are not alone.”

The members here are incredible. They live by extraordinary faith. A lot of them are converts, and have given much up to be members: jobs, homes, familial ties, if nothing else, most of them gave up cultural upbringings. One man I met in Sunday school trekked to the church building every week for 15 years, having to wake up at 3:30 in the morning, so he could receive the sacrament. He went with faith every week as his home teacher told him to continue in his journey and God will bring him closer to the church. Recently, the man got a job in the city and moved to a house right next to the church building. I don’t think his home teacher knew how literal his advice would prove!

Everyone is so kind and friendly. During relief society I stepped out for a moment, and met the most charming woman. Her name was Loalitta (just like in Bride and Prejudice!) she kept offering me food: little dried rice noodles, and banana chips, “these aren’t spicy, so don’t worry.” And “More! More! Have more if you’d like!” Because I could understand her English, and she understood mine, I felt like I finally connected to a piece of this world. She even taught me a little Telugu! I can now say “thank you” and “you are beautiful.” The moral of the story is that wonderful things happen to you when you skip Sunday school.

Kidding!

But I wasn’t sorry I got to talk with her. She invited all of us to come to her daughter’s baptism in the early evening.

So at 4:30 I went back to the church building with Hudson (a nice friend to sacrifice his Sunday afternoon to go with me). We were a few minutes late, and still the first ones there by about a half-hour. In India, time runs a little more fluidly. The baptism was lovely. The people here are inspiring with their love of the gospel, the love for their children, and the support they show one another.

I had a really embarrassing moment at the baptism.

Here’s the situation: this congregation cannot sing.

Not even a little bit.

Everyone’s in different keys, in different tempos, pronouncing different words. It sounded awful. (apparently that’s a similar phenomenon in all of Asia.)

Now normally, I would not laugh at other people’s misfortunes or lack-of-musical talent. But during the 3^rd or 4^th hymn, when Hudson gave out a small chuckle next to me, that was the end. I could not control myself. I had a giggle fit. Not just like “ha ha oh that’s funny”… but shaking, sobbing, desperately attempting to stifle uncontrollable giggles. It was worse than that Nauvoo show where I tried to make it look like my character was crying. This time I couldn’t very well pretend like I was crying… it was a baptism. Also, nearly everyone in the room was looking at me, cause I’m white. It was bad. Luckily I caught my breath before the end of the song, sort of, so I could be semi-reverent for the remainder of the ceremony. We congratulated Loalitta and snuck out the back.

I think I’ve mentioned this before, but I want to say it again. Indian children are SO STINKING ADORABLE. They have these gigantic brown eyes, and the largest, sweetest smiles.  In India there is a cultural head bob, it’s in between nodding “yes” and shaking “no.” It’s like an ear-to-shoulder side-to-side back-and-forth thing. It’s the perfectly expressive equivalent of “eh.” When the little kids do it—oh man, it kills me! I think I’ll marry an Indian man just so I can have Indian children. (Then we can have a platform and a shower of rose-petals too!) It’s decided.

OH! The best part of the day! The airlines brought my bag! Finally, gloriously reunited! We laughed and cried and danced. There were fireworks. I feel complete.

Hope you’re all doing well over there on the other side of the globe.

Lots of love!

-Averill

p.s. I have a horrifyingly itchy bug bite on my foot. So it begins.

The India Chronicles: the market experience. letter #3

Dear family plus,

I guess we don’t work on the weekends! So yesterday (Saturday) we went to a market called Charminar. I think this will be my new euphemistic expletive. Quashqueema may be replaced. It also fits the sentiment more: I love the land that Nauvoo was built on, Quashqueema, but I felt a little differently about Charminar. Go ahead, try it out: “Oh Charminar!” Getting there we took a bus. Earlier, I forgot to mention a fun fact about the buses: they don’t stop. You have to be on your spidey-game and jump at the right moment. Sometimes they’ll sort of slow down. It’s very considerate.

            Charminar is a public market. There are thousands of people. You can’t even see the street for the feet. Everyone is moving, trying to buy something, trying to sell something, trying to avoid getting hit by a car, or just trying not to be overwhelmed with sensory overload (me). Again with colorful India: scarves, dresses, henna, saris, and prayer rugs, shoes, bangles, earrings, wedding dresses, ribbons, food, fried pastry things, fresh fruit, everything is colorful. The people buying things are from all kinds of religions. The streets were full of everything from jeans and t-shirts to full-body burkahs and hijabs. There’s lots and lots of noise. If you can hear anything through the hundreds of horns honking over each other, you hear street vendors shouting “excuse me, Ma’am!” or “look look!” or “Miss? Maam? Come here.” Of course I always look.

This large thing behind me is Charminar

 I did manage to walk away with one outfit. (Which I was exceedingly joyful about because my clothes were starting to rot on my body.) A kertis which is like an oversized shirt, and a pair of the world’s most unflattering pants. You think I’m joking—but I’m not. They’re loose starting mid-hip, flare in a big swoosh until the mid-calf where they are suction-cup tight until the ankles. But they were much more comfortable to sleep in than my jeans.

We went to a small museum that used to be a palace. It was a gorgeous little palace with a lot of lovely history. The Hyderabad rulers were for the most part charitable and beloved. The people had a lot of respect for their royalty; even though it wasn’t large, it was intricately beautiful. There was this darling cute Indian woman and her family who followed me around the museum. They are so fascinated by us. We’re so different. There’s so much history associated with the white-faced people. Personally, I have done nothing to contribute to their adoration, but I want to compliment it for the next white people they meet. The two of us kept trying to talk to each other, but all we could do was smile a lot. I’m trying to learn some key phrases in telagu so I can communicate with the people at least a little bit. Things like: “you are so beautiful”, “your dress is lovely”, or “this is the only thing I can say in telagu, but I hope you have a wonderful day!”

That sort of thing.

Apparently Hyderabad is the world’s capital for spicy food. For those of you who know my eating preferences, you know this is a challenge for me. Imagine if you will, eating at Bombay House for lunch and dinner every day. Then make everything 2975% spicier. I’ve been trying the “taupe diet.” Someone told me if things are white or taupe they’re not spicy. This is a) false and b) the causation of potential naan overdose. (by the end of this I will have either lost 10 pounds from not eating a lot, or gained 100 from the naan.) Last night we got pizza—chicken and cheese.

I thought I was safe from spice.

I was not. 

The entire team was laughing at me. “That one’s not even a little bit spicy!”

I’m going to die.

I then I got a drink at the market that looked interesting: it was a purple round plant thing, I assumed plum, and lemon. Turns out it’s black pepper.

What is this place?

I have discovered a new game I like to play. It’s called the temperature game. You see, everywhere has fans, but is still hot. And one room has real air conditioning: our bedroom. Here’s the game: Get sweltering warm, then go into the bedroom. First relief, then a slow decent to freezing, eventually put on a sweater. Get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, sweat, take off sweater in jungle heat, come back to bedroom. Repeat.I’m getting to the master level, I think pretty soon here I’m going to beat the game.

Love you all!

--Averill

p.s. I was just kidding about the clothes rotting thing. I’ve been borrowing clothes from my kind team members, but I will be so happy when my bag gets here. Arrival impending indefinitely. If you want to pray for something, pray for that. I think I’ll feel much happier in my own pants, and with my own toothbrush.

The India Chronicles: letter #2

Family plus,

I found out that HELP India is the hardest to recruit for. It’s not glamorous like Africa or Thailand, it doesn’t have a beach like Fiji or Belize, it’s just a hot, dirty, problematic third world. I wish I’d known about the other countries… just kidding!

But these circumstances lead to a specific group of people who end up on the India team: they have all been abroad before, and are serious about development. They are also very funny. My first morning, one girl came out to our morning meeting in a wedding dress. Full-on, head-to-toe white flowing fabric. No one else acknowledged it, and I didn’t want to be rude so I didn’t say anything. I later heard from different stories about how this girl just wears the wedding dress when she misses her boyfriend too much. She’ll just break down if anyone mentions anything about him. So I was to avoid referencing a “Josh.” One guy on the team even told me he didn’t think Josh was real at all… So here I am thinking Abby is a little… well, what would you think?

Plus my first friends, the two first people I met, someone told me they were cousins. Their project sounded the most interesting, so I jumped on with enthusiasm for creating an entrepreneurship class for women.

Turns out those two are actually dating. So I’m buckling in as my professional third wheel status. Also turns out they were playing a prank on me with the wedding dress girl—they don’t know that I know it was a prank. So Abby and I are trying to figure out how to get them back for that one… any ideas??

We went to an orphanage, and while our lesson didn’t really get anywhere, I met the most incredible man who was our translator, Vasanth. He was a convert to our church, 6 years ago, and said, “I’m a product of the church.” His job, his language skills (which were awesome) and his community he said he owed to the church. He was so incredibly nice. Even though he was Indian, he felt like a little piece of familiar home.  

The third world is a difficult place. Everything is frantic, chaotic, and messy. Not only the city but also the problems. No problem here has “a solution” or “the answer.” Everything is complicated. There have been a lot of passionate people who have come through here trying to solve things that are basically unsolvable. All I can hope for is to try and do some good, I suppose. Even if it’s not a large impact (which I’ve come to accept it won’t be) it will still be good. It’s also incredibly humbling—I’ve never been so grateful for the simple things I take for granted. Like not spending 4 hours a day to get semi-clean water to use to wash things. Or having a home that I’m not afraid will get bulldozed by the government at any moment. Or being able to read. I look at my advantages in life completely differently.

It is beautiful and colorful here. Sometimes we’ll come by a really phenomenal smell, and sometimes we’ll come across a really colorful one in another direction...  The clothing here is so colorful. Most women wear traditional clothing every day, and it’s all so bright and bold. Even in the slums. Like I’ve mentioned before, I think their faces are stunningly beautiful.

Last night we went wandering through the streets of Secunerabad following the sound of drums. We stumbled across a wedding. They pulled us onto the dance floor—a mess of beautiful, decked-out young people trying to teach us a dance (Indian dancing=not my strong suit). We wandered back through this veil of white flowers and chandeliers, into a traditional Indian wedding. We were the equivalent of rock stars. People wanted to take pictures with us; they wanted their children to take pictures with us. Ashley got handed a baby at one point. Everyone was so welcoming. The father of the bride (we think) insisted on us coming in and eating. (We’d already eaten, but they were happy with us at least eating ice cream, which was delicious). The celebration was incredible—they had food buffet tables set up filling an entire garden, with different cuisines from around the world, and professional chefs in every corner. Fruit bars and ice cream stations and lot of stuff our Indian friends insisted we try, that were very very Indian (some of them actually inedible). There were flowers everywhere. The groom rode in on a horse, picked up his striking bride. We were fairly certain it was an arranged marriage because they were both a little stiff. But they still looked so happy. They stood in the center of a platform as it rose up and hundreds of pink rose petals showered them, while a million pictures were shot. The intricate henna patterns on their hands and arms complimented the complicated jeweled beading and jewelry. They were beautiful. We met alovely young woman named Mythri, (pronounced mytree) who wanted to practice her English with us. She became our tour guide and asked if we could be best friends, I of course agreed. We’re now facebook friends.

Also, my bag still hasn’t come. I think my clothes are starting to mold on my body… But it doesn’t smell any different than anything else here, so it’s hard to tell. Half the fun of living in the third world right?

Love you all,

-Averill 

The India Chronicles: Hello from Hyderabad

Family and friends,

I feel like I’m writing a mission letter. Greetings from the other side of the world!

 Let me paint you a picture of Hyderabad, India. Imagine, if you will, a large city. Huge buildings that all look like apartment complexes. Flatten all the roofs, take out window panes, add bars on the windows and those metal pokey pigeon-perch-preventors. Color everything with a pastel green, purple, blue or pink, then add 50 years of wear on the façade. Add a lot of dirt, make everything dusty. Place trash everywhere. I mean everywhere. (I never thought wastebaskets would be a luxury I’d miss). Then top it off with an oppressive, humid heat and you’ve got inner-city Hyderabad!

            These are the rules I’ve figured out when walking across the street: 1) keep a steady pace. Don’t get scared by the masses of oncoming traffic and run. 2) try not to die.

            The traffic is even better when you’re riding on a bus! If you have motion sickness, you should get over that really quickly. There’s a loud cacophony of horns, every vehicle blaring to try and pass the one in front of it—even the buses. The driver of said buses is driving a manual vehicle; his 4-foot stick shift sits 2 feet behind him. I had to stop watching.

There is a happy ending to all of this. We got off the bus in the slum. Truly the most wonderful place I’ve ever been. The slums here are not what you might think of. Some might be I guess. Frequently the government will bulldoze slums made up of tarps and tin roofs. However this particular one proved they were an organized community and came together to appeal to the government, and became recognized as a legitimate community. Now they have permanent cement walls, and permanent dirt roads, and they are the nicest people I’ve ever met. We mostly met women and children. The women are so welcoming, friendly, kind and incredibly beautiful. (Indian people arebeautiful. A lot of the city center advertisements are western women wearing traditional Indian clothing. I do not understand because the people here are just stunningly beautiful in their own right). The kids kill me. The children here are SO CUTE. If I died today, having experienced nothing else besides playing patty-cake with the three adorable wide-eyed little Indian girls, I will die happy. Yes, there was a bit of a language barrier. We had a mild translator, but for the most part we didn’t really understand each other. Even so, we LOVED one another. Something you can’t really describe, but it was a wonderful feeling. If I experience nothing else besides this feeling of love, I will deem this trip a success.

are they not just darling?!

         

seriously the cutest. right? 

Some other fun facts about my current state:

The time difference is not that noticeable. Hyderabad is almost exactly the same time as Utah, I looked at my watch I was only ½ hour ahead. Well 11 ½ hours behind actually. After 28 hours of traveling, 2 days have passed.

It’s hot here. My hands are covered with a nice moist layer of moistness. Moist. 

The airline lost my bag. Luckily all my valuables were in my backpack, except my camera.  But the airline gave me a toothbrush! So I’m really living the dream out here with only one outfit. For a while I wasn’t worried, but now I’m beginning to think I’d enjoy a clean shirt. And I would really really enjoy wearing something other than jeans and sneakers. Did I mention it’s hot here? Socks don’t exist on anyone else in the entire country besides me.

Also, thanks to the most wonderful phone carrier, I can text! So if you want to text me, you can! I'd seriously love to hear from you.

Love you all! 

-Averill