Demoted

As if my walks about town were not hazardous enough already, I’ve decided to add another challenge into the mix. For the last month or so, I have been considering buying a bicycle. I have had enough with the bartering game where it relates to mobility. This would make me, however, the lowest common denominator on the street.

Buses and trucks, being the biggest and, therefore, most able to obliterate all others, have priority on these streets. Oh, wait…excuse me, CATTLE have priority: buses will screech to a halt for those sacred (and grande) animals. I have yet to decipher if it’s based on beliefs, or rather the understanding that the cow could do a whole lot more damage to the vehicle. Buses are good to steer clear of unless you are jumping onto one as it pulls away from the curb: people indiscriminately spit out the windows. I pity the non-helmet-wearing scooter driver caught next to one in rush hour! And trucks are so colorfully decorated that, at first glance, one may think she is witnessing several dedicated parade floats, that couldn’t stand to miss taking part in festivities, despite the loads of rocks to be delivered. Just yesterday, I noticed a solid looking diesel truck. I knew it was diesel thanks to the intricately scripted word “diesel” bordered by lovely, pink, chalk flowers. I love it!

Then, in the chain of command, come all cars. Now, by all cars, I am only speaking of a small, select few. For instance, when hiring a car for a weekend trek, one can choose by size. There is no range of economy, compact, mid-size, standard, or full size to order from; we go with big or small. And depending on the request, an Indica or a Tavera will show up. For REALLY large groups, one may hire a Tempo Traveller...These are the makes of the cars (not another language for small, medium, or large) one sees most regularly on the road. There are also the occasional (I have now seen two) Mercedes, which I find truly laughable. Why any sane person would think bringing a Mercedes onto these streets is a good idea is beyond my mostly-sane mind…it would take all of 30 seconds off the lot, if the owner is lucky, before the car acquired a scratch or dent in it. I had friends visiting this week, and everyday they would come home with stories of how many “accidents” their driver was in that day alone.

Next, come those popular two-wheelers: These are the “big kid” kind, with motors and everything! “Bikes” (motorbikes) or “scooters” are the preferred mode of transportation. If one owns a vehicle, it is most likely a two-wheeler (because who can afford a car??). Families make the two-wheeler work for them because the idea of upgrading to a minivan is preposterous. I imagine my poor father, the insurance agent, passing out at the regularity with which I see a father driving a bike with his wife sitting side-saddle behind him holding their baby or toddler on her lap. There are the occasional families of four, where, if you look closely, you see another small child wedged tightly between the two adults on the seat (“Oh, look! There IS another one!”). Or, my favorite: a fifth child balancing between the drivers legs. The most impressive load I’ve witnessed firsthand was five adults squished onto a scooter. I don’t know how they do it! Oh, Daddy, perhaps you shouldn’t visit…

Below the two-wheelers, in the hierarchy of the streets, come autos, our formidable three-wheeled taxi. The motor-run rickshaw is how we are ripped off daily, as it is our primary mode of transportation. In the grand scheme of things, we pay very little for our ride. It is the fact that because we are unmistakably not locals we are, therefore, fair game for being coerced into paying for all kinds of extra fees. For instance, “today there is much traffic!” = add $$. “But sir, everyday there is traffic” means nothing. OR, “the petrol bunkers are on strike; you pay me more” (okay, please note, the fees for petrol did NOT rise). OR, my friends’ driver who pulled into a gas station and told them to pay 2 times what they’d agreed upon for his gas…because he did not have anymore. Oh, the games are endless. In every other major city, we have been assured, the autos use their meters. Not here. Oh, no. That would be too easy.

Sometimes I have fun with my drivers. “Oh, sir. That is not a fair price. We go this way every day; it is less than 2 kilometers,” I will say, as I point at the fare painted on the side of the vehicle! The good-natured driver will laugh as he realizes I know the scam, and shoo me into the vehicle. There are others who find it fun to argue for a time before giving in, and I have been assured that this is preferred by many (which I just don’t get). I’ve learned a lot of patience, however, and am able to remain calm-even when one driver was so appalled by my only paying slightly more than fair price (he was asking for about 5 times the regular amount) that he told me the police would come and arrest me. When he refused to laugh with me, I waited calmly, asking him to verify how many kilometers we had gone, so I could be sure to give him the fair price. He refused to answer, until he finally accepted my fare 5 minutes later. Oi, vey.

And finally, pedestrians do not have the right of way. If one is foolish enough not to move when a vehicle alerts him/her of its presence, no pity shall be bestowed upon the resulting broken foot. A benefit of being “unmistakably not local” is that I am more easily seen by moving vehicles; and as people generally seem curious about my presence, traffic frequently slows down, offering me a chance to dash across a crowded street unscathed. An example of this from the other day was when two of my flatmates were crossing a road, one as white as me reminded the other, of Sri Lankan birth (though she would call New Zealand home), to stick close to her “because they won’t stop for you, but they will notice me.” My Kiwi flat-mate, realizing the truth of that statement, readily complied.

More typically, however, pedestrians are fair game for any moving object…except for the bicycle. The bicycle is expected to swerve or stop for all else to pass. There is just no respect given there. The lowly “cycle” is tooted and beeped out of the way of everyone. Yes, I did say “tooted”-the autos have these enormous clown horns that still make me giggle. These horns are most often fist-sized blue bulbs that are squeezed by the driver and make a high-pitched, almost nasally/hiccup sound….it’s very hard to describe. It’s more something that just needs to be experienced.

Bartering for price aside, I have regularly been with auto drivers who were completely high (reaction time is KEY on these roads, so we have learned to keep walking when these drivers approach) and those who “bump” into other moving vehicles/people resulting in fights. The final straw was my driver a few weekends ago, who knocked a man head first off his motorcycle…and kept driving (we quickly jumped out at the next light-the motorcycle rider was fine, though his bike was not).

Basically, while I have acquired a new level of composure with the auto drivers (they are simply trying to earn a living), I’ve grown weary of the energy I expend to, say, get to the closest grocery store. It will not be possible to avoid taking autos (and I would feel like I was missing out-the drivers have been great teachers of both language skills and local culture), but ideally, I will have more patience to negotiate when necessary. Plus, I will not stay home simply because I do not have the correct change (that is another scam to be aware of: “no change, madam”) or because I am not exactly sure how best to direct my driver to a location. Though it is not necessarily safer, my hope is to regain an ounce of freedom by owning a bicycle.

Wish me luck!

Operation

As a child, my family owned a game that would stress me out to no end. A man’s fleshy outline splayed on the top of a red box, littered by little holes lined with metal. Each hole was in the shape of the slightly smaller, plastic body part it contained. The object of the game was to extract as many of the plastic pieces as possible, using metal tweezers. If the tweezers were to connect with an edge, there would be a loud buzz and it would feel as though the player had been shocked. Hence, an immense amount of anxiety resulted from what was supposed to be an enjoyable past time.

An “operation” for us here is the actual extraction of families from bonded labour, with the hope of acquiring official release certificates, which then make the individuals and their families eligible for particular benefits from the government. In early December, I was able to participate in my first Operation. Handheld radio with earpiece and all!

[Note: this is NOT an action shot! We're not as slick as we'd like to think we are-it was taken purely to have a photo that could be approved!]

Interesting how, while a stretch, working on one of our “operations” is much like playing the game Operation: There was the nervousness of trying to remove the parts (Game: "Don't let me get buzzed! Don't let me get buzzed! ;" Reality: "Will everyone get out of the facility safely? Don't let the owner stop anyone!"); the waiting (Game: "Will they get the piece I plan to take??;" Reality: "Will they receive their release certificates??"); and the elation felt after a successful extraction (Game: "HA! Eat my dust, suckers!"-for the highly competitive 7-year-old; Reality: "HA! Eat my…" just kidding-it was more like "YES! Praise God!!!"). While the game should really only last an hour (if the nervousness truly takes hold), the reality was that it was almost a 23-hour work day, from the time I left my house to meet the team until the time I entered my apartment again the following day. The amazing part was that it didn't feel that long.

Okay, so really, they aren't even close to the same. Sorry. But, getting to spend the majority of my time with the families, fending off reporters (don't get me started-the freedom of the press here is revolting when it comes to human rights), and laminating the 19 (woohoo!!) official release certificates, when we'd hoped for at least 15, was enough to energize me throughout that long day. The highlight for me was the opportunity to bond with the families in a way that would not be possible in an afternoon of home visits. I found my own piece of heaven when a small child reached for me through her tired tears, and stopped crying as soon as she was in my arms (sigh).*

Despite work seeming to fly by for me, the day could not have felt longer for some of those rescued. The 2 patriarchs, of the 8 families released, and their wives had been bonded since their youth. Now, as much older men and women, to step into a new life must be terrifying. They remained stoic throughout the ordeal: silent, contemplative. What I wouldn't give to have been able to hear their thoughts! For them to trust us with the fate of their lives was a testament to how bad life in the mill must have been. As they waited for their official papers, they must have been wondering "what next?" They had no guarantee their homes would still be in their villages, that their neighbors would embrace them, that they would be able to find jobs…that is our role in Aftercare: to assist with the next steps. But these men and women were purely taking our word on faith, they had no way to know we would follow through with our end of the bargain.

The faith of these individuals is truly admirable. Their grandchildren, who joyfully played with us throughout that day, trusted us; but they have their entire lives ahead of them: their youth, their strength. For the elders in the group, they were taking a huge risk for the sake of the younger generations. I see their leap of faith as a sacrifice made so that their grandchildren could know more than the walls of that rice mill, could know what an education means, could know what it is to make decisions, and could hopefully see justice come to their abusers.

While there are moments when what we do here does not quite feel real, the reality is, we are playing a huge role in the lives of these oppressed individuals. We are encouraged to do our job well from day one, because people entrust their lives to us. Praise God that it is not solely up to us. That we are not extracting the pieces on our own: Praise God for the team- the entire staff, our families, and other incredible supporters back home. For those who keep us accountable, and remind us that our work, our decisions impact much more than what we see on a daily, weekly, or even monthly basis: thanks for playing well!

*A. whispered, "We will be delousing you when you get home, by-the-way"- Luckily, so far, no lice to be seen! Phew! Even if I did have to deal with lice later, it would have been worth every minute...

Intrusions & Swarms

My apologies for the long silence. The following is an email series sent over the holidays from my flatmates to another flatmate, who was in the U.S. visiting her family for several weeks. It will give you a little insight into how the last two months have gone, and into the cleverness of my flatmates. I must apologize: 1) to all of those who love insects and do not approve of the treatment described below, and 2) to all those in the military for the completely inaccurate use of all terminology...All the red printing was added for clarification sake:

"Dear N.,

Our battle against pesticism continues. This evening, we have waged war on two fronts. One, the proliferation of cockroaches in The Penthouse [We do not live in a penthouse apartment, this is just our nickname for our home, which is explained or, at least, will be in another post] and two, the proliferation of termites in The Penthouse. A mommy and daddy cockroach had a "special" hug. As a result of that hug, vast numbers of mummies (thanks A.) [A. is our flatmate from New Zealand] and daddies have intruded on our kitchen. Over a series of evenings, Colonel B. has conducted a series of offensives against the mummies and daddies. The mummies and daddies were resilient and have continued to spawn making their defeat much more difficult. After acting on intel from Brigadier Chicken [A nickname for a local friend-I couldn't tell you the origin], heavy artillery was acquired. Tonight, we deployed our WMD's upon the enemy and the body count is seriously rising.

Alas, the same evening, yet another enemy approached and struck from the south*. A swarm of termites using guerrilla warfare tactics, have infiltrated outposts on all levels and sides of the region**. The Kurta and Sari people [not really people, no worries! These are my clothes and other belongings] were in desperate need of rescue. After a quick and thorough evacuation by Sargent Shoebox [Shoebox is a nickname for our Kiwi roommate] and her troops, the area was secured and the people relocated. Sargent Shoebox returned to the area and successfully dropped yet another WMD to secure the area.

We are currently waiting in a secure location*** for the area to clear of toxic fumes. Our fear is that the guerrillas have gained strongholds that we are incapable of identifying and extinguishing on our own. Only Superman can save us now.

And here ends another day in the trenches. Send our love to ma and pa and dear sweet Peggy Sue and Bobby Jo. We miss you all and are continuing the fight for freedom. Freedom from pesticism of the intrusive and swarming nature.

*the western closet of K. and C.'s room
**the entire closet area
***B.'s room
_____________


Blast! Superman to the rescue?! Have you tried offering sips of the "milk" to the cockroaches? It is under the sink if you decide to get into the mass-poisoning business.

Fight the good fight. Finish the race. Go for the gold. Come away with the W.

Wish I was there?

N.

______________

N.,

Alas, we returned to the front lines this evening with high hopes that the pesticism would be over. Despite significant damage to their troop base, the cockroaches are still a present force and engaging in hugs non stop. The Penthouse Platoon however, has full confidence that we will win on that front.

The more difficult battle lies with the termites. Despite the WMD dropped last night, they are still alive - however less out in the open, hiding in their bunkers [drawers I didn't even know I had!]. The Platoon has not tried the "milk" as we fear losing fingerprints or fingers and we'd rather not damage our nervous systems by being in close proximity to the lethal agent orange. We considered it but given the fact that we don't know how much power it contains - administering it incorrectly could be dangerous.

Colonel B. called Superman this evening and he readily agreed to send reinforcements into the war zone with the serum in the afternoon. He was agreeable and I think due to Corporal H.'s amazing peace talks at their last meeting [in the negotiations over our washing machine], there were no complaints or arguments. We will await his reinforcements.

Thanks for your support back home, we couldn't do it without you. We miss you N.

The Penthouse Platoon"


Happy (belated) Holidays!!!