The Year of the Blog

The Stairway

2010-03-12T04:46:00.001-08:00

Time is passing far too quickly. Is it really March? This realization makes me shudder, as I compare it to how frustrated I get watching the upper echelon here allow everyday life to pass them by-not noticing the impoverished soul barely existing on their front stoop as they step over him, for example. As I am only here for a mere six months, I don’t have the “luxury” of just stepping over anything. How often do I ascend and descend the same set of stairs, or pass by the same lonely neighbor without really acknowledging the experience? Hence, the recent exercise described below…

This afternoon, I attempt to truly absorb my surroundings as I walk down the four flights of stairs leading from my apartment, willing my senses to fully engage. As expected, my sense of smell is the strongest. Within seconds of stepping out my front door, I am acutely aware of the smell of rotting trash (oh, South Asia).

Halfway down the first flight, I'm warmly met by the delicious smell of cooked fish (Mental note: invite myself over for dinner at that flat, pronto!) Around the corner, my deep inhale quickly turns into a gag-reflex as I am assaulted by the not-yet-cooked fish smell coming from another neighbor’s kitchen. Relief comes at ground level where the pungent fish smell is replaced with the intense
dust/smog/black air that I breathe in daily. That is the smell to which I am most accustomed. I don't even know how to describe it. It is just how we smell. Everyday. Even for weeks after returning to the States.

Coming home a few hours later, I make my way back to those stairs. This time, I choose to take in the sights and sounds, often just as varied as the smells. My neighbor, a kindly older gentleman, gives me his usual, heartfelt wave from his perch on a bench just inside our gate, where he sits conversing with a couple of aunties from our building (who wave, as well, though much less exuberantly).

A simple curtain blocks the entrance of the apartment at the base of the stairs. The room behind it is bustling with activity, as usual. Off to the right, I peek towards the door of the family with the yellow lab puppy, hoping to catch a glimpse of wiggly Bruno. No luck. Intent on trying to see my puppy friend, I almost miss the friendly wave of the sweet auntie, who watches the world from that curtained stoop. I hope she doesn't feel like an afterthought.

Back along the stairway, my ears meet with the clatter of dishes being washed as the sound bursts from several doorways. A range of musical genres, from South Asian women singing traditional, doleful melodies to the latest Western hip hop tune compete through other doors. Conversations in Hindi from a few different flats overlap, which makes me chuckle.

I unlock my door, still smiling – oh, so much character in this, my new home. I walk through the door and my smile drops, instantly. That smell of rotting trash I’d noticed earlier? Yeah…it’s my apartment. Whoops.

At "Home"

2010-02-26T00:43:00.000-08:00

A group of donors recently came through the city, and spent a week serving the aftercare homes (rehabilitation homes) where most of our clients live. More on that later, but for now, I just wanted to share a few photos from this sweet (and unexpected, for me) time with the girls, who are all survivors of forced prostitution. The photo above was taken by one of them.

For one project, the girls were able to add their own touch to a mural the visitors had created in an effort to liven up the Home's surroundings. The girls' owned it!

If she wanted to, each of the girls was able to paint at least one flower, which ended up as diverse as the artists themselves.

Annnndddd I’m back! (The “short” version)

2010-02-26T00:07:00.001-08:00

This past October, I was devastated to pack up my bags and say goodbye to my friends/coworkers in South Asia. Yes, living in a different culture, so far from my loved ones back home, was difficult. But the people I had come to know and love here, and the work we did together to see forced labor eradicated, were not easy to part from, either. Boarding my plane home, knowing there was an open invitation to stay, was painful.

They had asked me to stay on a number of times, and I had repeatedly said no, my mind full of excuses. Being away from family and friends (and Ben) is tough. Fundraising is tough. Incessant biting by mosquitoes is tough. But mostly, when I had originally decided to return home six months into my fellowship, I had been feeling as though my time in South Asia was coming to a close. I saw myself as having no “special talents” that the office would benefit from if I had extended my stay.

The longer I worked in that office, however, the more I was able to learn about the myriad needs of the population we were serving and the more I was able to see how I, no special talents and all, was being and COULD BE utilized in this effort. And as my cyber-silence this past Fall may have suggested (my sincere apologies), the needs and the necessary obligations in this cause only continue to increase.

Three days into my departure from South Asia, after a sleepless night, I shared my internal struggles with Ben. He had responded with words I had desperately needed to hear: “You’re not really done there, are you? You need to go back.” It wasn’t a question. It was support. My parents were equally accommodating, biting back their emotions to allow me to make an unbiased decision.

Despite my fears of fundraising again and my sadness over leaving everyone at home so soon after returning, I agreed to work for six more months in South Asia.

I had received a call from our sister office on the opposite side of the country just days before my feet were to leave South Asian soil. This office works towards the same mission of seeking justice for the oppressed through rescue and rehabilitation, as well as accountability for perpetrators; but instead of a focus on forced (manual) labor, the focus is on women and children forced into sexual servitude (read: forced prostitution). The Field Office Director and Director of Aftercare from this office were inviting me to oversee a specific project, as well as provide some staff training.

It is this invitation that I eventually accepted and have been fundraising to be a part of…Thanks to an outpouring of generosity from my dear friends and family (who must not ever want to read a letter from me again!), here I am!

Time is passing quickly here already. The city is new and different, but the transition has been smooth and the work is always interesting. My main task, in short, is research and evaluation. Research pertains to understanding the best practices in the psychosocial treatment for victims of sex trafficking. Evaluation pertains to auditing the state of our partner rehabilitation homes and documenting our findings, in the hopes of raising the standard of care in all of the local homes. Starting next week, I will be leading some staff trainings, as well.

Six months will fly by, and no, I do not know what’s next yet. But, hopefully I will have a chance to see all of the folks I missed during the holidays when I get back to the States late this summer.

[With some of my Aftercare ladies-love them-at the beach after a day of training last week].

[My supervisor showing no mercy in an impromptu race...to be fair, he was the only one with shoes on!].

Where there is light...

2010-01-29T12:38:00.000-08:00

As we entered the alley back in September (2009), we were met by a deafening noise. It was a holiday, and, as per usual on such occasions, music was blaring from unseen speakers. No longer able to communicate with my friend/guide, I became lost in thought. The street before us was typical of countless others we’d passed here in the red light district.

Trash had collected along the stonewalls of the buildings in these narrow lanes offering delightful fodder for the large number of goats, dogs, cats, and rats that called the district home. Their neighbors, countless men, women, and children, socialized with each other from unsteady cots placed parallel to each home’s curtain-on-a-rod/front door.

Unlike other areas of this massive city, no one would meet my gaze. In this dark place, it was as though the sun had set in my mind and twilight had taken over. I could not stop the next thought: the cries of a young girl being sexually assaulted in any of these brothels would go unheard. This supposed day of celebration has only increased the vulnerability of the country’s estimated 1.2 million minors held in sexual servitude.

We drank in the toxic atmosphere for less than ten minutes before walking freely away, to explore the rest of this city. If only everyone could be so lucky.

As I entered my newest office, * where I have joined the fight to combat this seemingly impenetrable world of commercial sexual exploitation (i.e. forced prostitution) on a daily basis, I finally glimpse the light in all this horror…in my compassionate and brilliant co-workers.

In their strength and determination, I see a day when little girls will no longer scream, unheard, under the weight of a stranger. It will be a glorious day.

*Look for further explanation on WHY I am back in South Asia (but different city) in the upcoming post “Annnnd….I’m back!”
["Red Light Street": photo above courtesy of the org]

Haiti

2010-01-26T01:51:00.000-08:00

A dear friend recently had an article published in The Atlantic regarding the recent disaster in Haiti, and those left vulnerable to being trafficked into the sex trade…please read on:

http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/201001u/haiti-trafficking

Sri NO Ka (Part 2): My soapbox moment...

2009-10-01T01:05:00.000-07:00

Sri Lanka has just recently reported an end to its 25-year civil war between the ethnic majority and minority groups in the North. While peace should be celebrated, it will be hard to maintain if the over 280,000 internally displaced persons (IDPs) are left in their impoverished and unsettled state. According to our friends on the island, this population has had little support since the ceasefire in May.

What concerns me when the IDPs are not seen as a priority is that people will grow restless; and violence will come more easily to the neglected and frustrated...those in charge would be wise to refocus their energy on ensuring their citizens are cared for and reintegrated into more stable communities, if they truly want to bring peace to their nation.

Growing up in a community where violence was something we watched on T.V., it is impossible for me to imagine the struggles ahead for this tiny nation where generations have grown up knowing only ethnic violence. My thoughts and prayers remain with them (for more on the conflict and the plight of the IDPs, please check out the report at: http://www.internal-displacement.org/8025708F004BE3B1/(httpInfoFiles)/9D0639639598A4CEC12575A90034A2DE/$file/SriLanka_Overview_May09.pdf).

That being said...here are more images from our visit...

Yes, sometimes it just smells bad...no worries, the nationals do this too, so no one would have been offended :)

These two photos were taken near a wat, or Buddhist temple. The "trek" up to this spot took us all of five minutes from our hotel. Ha!

The look J. captured on my face WAS staged, but pretty much sums up how we were all feeling on our adventure to "Jungle Island," which was neither very jungle-y nor an island (well, other than being a part of Sri Lanka). Our rickety little boat; non-regulation (and very broken) life-jackets (that we had to ask to wear); and non-English-speaking guides were not very reassuring as we braved the rough, open seas...we have photos of us kissing the ground once we made it safely to our destination. I'm thinking never again, unless there are waivers and radios on board...:)

<

(It's a long story...)

Sri Lanka was heavily impacted by the Tsunami back in Dec '04.

Is this auto-rickshaw turned ice cream truck NOT the cutest thing ever?

A hard day's night...

2009-09-30T04:49:00.000-07:00

Well, a funny story about my Sunday evening two weekends ago, at least...

Sunday was spent catching up a) on sleep, and b) on work. Yes, I was working. Preparing for our "Freedom Training" that was starting on Monday. We are constantly updating the curriculum (hopefully improving it) and I hadn't yet finished all the updates we'd planned. After working for awhile, I took a short break to attend house church (a small group of us meet for church at my friends' apt), which was actually a mini birthday party for a friend's daughter, Sneha. She turned 7 (but her size is more like that of a 5-year-old).

I walked in to her wearing the most elaborate princess gown full of golden roses and singing "happy birthday to ME" at the top of her lungs....she was the most strung-out-on- sugar child I have ever seen. And this was PRE-sugar. She's a hoot. Seriously. We had all brought her "princess" gifts, which she gushed appropriately over...until she opened her gift from our hosts: a birthday princess Barbie. Holy toledo! I thought for a second that she was literally bouncing off walls...it was a sight to behold. The dogs in MY neighborhood (five minutes walking distance away) were barking in response...okay, not really. We ate cake and then dug a wee bit into 1 Peter 2.

An hour later, it was back to the office....at 1 AM, as I was pressing print on the first of several documents that I needed to print, the POWER went out in the entire building. Printing was out. Luckily, we have small back up batteries so I was at least able to keep working on the computer. But these batteries don't last forever, and as the back-up- generated lights began to flicker out, I decided I should save my work as is and shut down before I lose it all. It was now 2:30 am and I had to be back at the office no later than 7 am....with tons to do still, I figured I would simply go home, shower, get ready for the day and ride my bicycle straight back to the office to complete my work.

We usually have mandatory hour and a half power outages, but we hadn't had any for awhile now. For some reason, even though these things are totally unpredictable, I simply thought it would turn back on after a short while. So, I shut down, packed up, locked up our office (padlocks and all) and headed downstairs to retrieve my cycle...our building has a night watchman and a gate. I''ve worked late many nights and the gate is never locked...shut, but not locked. Tonight, however, it was. Padlocked. And our "guard" was sleeping soundly on the steps in front of our office building.

I felt guilty waking him up, but I tried to make the normal "okay, I'm getting ready to leave now" noises...nothing (apparently, my fears that the sad little bell on my bicycle is useless are true; I had better replace it soon before I get run over). Yes, my attempts were pathetic, but honestly, if the pulling-the-gate-down-over-the-office-door-and-padlocking-it racket didn't wake him, nothing would! That process sounds like the tin man pre-oiling tripping over himself in a greek amphitheater. It's just painful! Well, to me, at least. Doesn't seem to phase our guard one bit.

After some time, I gave up: if the dogs barking up a storm and the unregulated car horns (that can also be heard in Sri Lanka) weren't causing him to stir, I didn't stand a chance. Defeated, I headed back up into the office...I feel safe here in general, but I'm not stupid; and walking back at this hour to my house sans bike, while possible, is not a wise thing to do...I undid the fallen tinman, worked a bit longer, and then arranged three desk chairs as a makeshift bed (you all have been there, done that, right?) for a brief nap....

I woke up (with the help of my wonderful boyfriend and fellow co-worker's calls/texts) an hour and a half later to find the electricity still had not returned and I again attempted to leave the grounds. Luckily, this time was much more successful...I had just enough time to clean up and then ride back to the office with the hope of printing something before our car left at 7. The power, however, did not return until midday, apparently...sigh. Oh well. I tried. Oh, and I got home that day (Monday) from our day in the field by 9:30 pm....after a LONG, de-licing shower and a quick call from Ben, I was finally able to get some sleep in a bed.

Protecting the Master...

2009-09-10T02:34:00.001-07:00

A previous post describes the Friday trivia/team building game we play in our office, which we fondly refer to as "The Master's Game." The team that wins each week earns the honor of caring for the monkey-carved-out-of-coconut that we know only as "The Master" (of Ceremonies, essentially). After a recent win (and prior to our more recent losing-streak, I am sad to report), a few of us decided it had been awhile since the master had been properly "dressed" for the Friday fun.

To explain the photos below: Our team is called "Toast" (the nickname for one of our teammates), which is displayed as a classy tattoo on the master's backside in one image. His tuxedo offers him some cover from the coming monsoons, and his mask is simply to protect him from the onslaught of swine flu-even the guards outside of our buildings have been wearing masks of late.

Yes, we DO work...most of the time. :)

Sri NO Ka (Part 1)

2009-09-10T02:26:00.000-07:00

Below are some images (pre-camera dying) from a recent, brief excursion with friends to the tropical island-nation of Sri Lanka. It is a beautiful land, of which I only saw a very small piece. We stayed near the old Dutch colonial town of Fort Galle in the south, which is still enclosed within the Fort's ramparts. Most of the images below are from our day around the Fort, itself. "Sri NO ka" became our catch phrase after running into several snags, as any good adventure would. We say it fondly now, of course...

Medical Camp 2009

2009-09-01T22:47:00.000-07:00

Some more images from the day: over 200 families served in one village. The team of national and non-nationals worked tirelessly all day, in extremely hot, unventilated "cubbies." Several families from the operation I was a part of back in December live in this village, which is an hour from the nearest hospital/clinic- one reason it was selected for the camp. The other main reason, however, is our desire to improve community relations for our clients as they reintegrate into free society.

The Girl Child

2009-09-01T03:47:00.000-07:00

My sister is expecting! You wouldn’t know it though-even with her preggo belly, she’s still about half my size. It’s slightly awkward telling people “she’s pregnant” when I show them her picture, because I feel as though I’m insulting their intelligence...but really, on her, you can’t tell!! So, come mid-October, or somewhere thereabouts, my parent’s first grandchild should grace us with his presence. I cannot wait to meet “Peanut,” as he is affectionately referred to for the time being. Yes, Peanut is a boy...

[One of his earlier ultrasounds!]

When I share the news of my sister's pregnancy with folks back home, I can usually expect to hear the question: “Is she having a boy or girl?” Parents-to-be can elect to know the sex of their unborn child ahead of time in the U.S. Some prefer to be surprised, but others would like to choose a name, prepare a nursery, or begin a wardrobe deemed gender-appropriate (whatever that may mean).

Here, however, that is not the case. To be more accurate, that is simply not an option. Parents are not allowed to know the sex of their child before it is born; there are laws against it. Labs performing ultrasound scans, for example, are forbidden to reveal any details as to the sex of a fetus. The reason behind such a law is rather sobering.

Female infanticide is a problem of epic proportions, especially in this state. Despite the laws that are currently in place, bribes are still paid to lab technicians. In cases where abortions due to pre-determination are not possible, midwives may be paid to provide “female deselection” services (where the baby’s spine is snapped after birth), or female babies are blatantly murdered in infancy, through neglect, poisoning, or other torturous abuse.

Economic, cultural, and religious factors have resulted in a son being valued over a daughter. In many communities, a bride’s family is expected to provide a dowry* to the groom’s family, leading to a great economic burden for her parents. Extremely poor families may sell their daughters to local temples as Devadasi, or "brides to the gods" (which essentially means they will be used by the temple priests as a means to make money through prostitution...a fate any girls born to the Devadasi are doomed to share) to avoid the debt of paying her dowry later in life. Another blow to the parents of girls is that the bride leaves her family, along with her dowry, and joins her husband’s. As a result, his parents are guaranteed caretakers later in life, while the bride’s parents are not. His parents gain capable hands, which can help with the household chores. Her parents are down a labourer. The familial line passes through the male, where a man is known as “the son of so-and-so” and the female is either “the daughter of so-and-so” (her father) or “the wife of so-and-so.” In the Hindu religion, certain rites (such as the lighting of his parents’ funeral pyre) can only be performed by a son, again making a boy child preferred over a girl. In some cases, women have reported seeing their lives as so invaluable, that they see killing a baby girl as doing the child a favour. If the girl child survives infancy, she may still be at risk of abandonment. Orphanages in the region are overflowing with young girls. A friend here is starting a non-profit to raise awareness about female infanticide, and to raise funds for the few local organizations that are already trying to combat the issue. It is a disturbing phenomenon, and a sad, sad reality.

Recently, I read an article in the paper here about a village in a northern state, where there is a shortage of brides; so the men have built a road to ease the travel of women from other villages into their own. Now, I don’t really know the cause of this “shortage” of women, but I certainly have a guess...there are frightening statistics highlighting the overall imbalance between genders country-wide.

Watch out, Peanut! I may be bringing a girl cousin home for you...make that five girl cousins...okay, not really. Well, maybe....

*There are also laws banning the giving of/expectation of dowry, but in many rural, very traditional communities, the practice continues. Female infanticide and Devadasi are just two of the many issues that stem from the giving of a dowry. Another is when a groom’s family demands more from the bride’s family. The bride will often suffer beatings, burnings, and other forms of torture until her family is able to meet those demands...

The pictures below are of some girls in a nearby village, where we recently held a medical "camp" (a day of free medical services)-it was my second since arriving last October. I just can't fathom the idea that these darlings could be viewed as worthless by some...

The Namesake

2009-08-27T01:53:00.000-07:00

As a result of our recent wave of rescue operations, we had five straight days of Freedom Trainings. Despite the long, hot days, it was a great week. After several days of dancing with kids during our downtime; having them explain their drawings to me (in a language I could not understand, mind you....it’s poor social work, but amazing how a simple “oh?” or “wow, super!” can satisfy the desires of the child showing off his/her work...just to be acknowledged seems to speak a million words to the children); carrying various toddlers (who reached for ME to hold them!!) on our trek to the local farmhouse; and listening to the endless giggles of all ages as they watched a Disney film, I’ve decided that perhaps I should rethink my career and become a pre-school teacher? My arm was pleasantly sore for several days from all the child holding. It was divine.

The week held many stories and highlights, but for the sake of time (and your sanity), I will share just one: about a ten-year-old boy, M., rescued from a rock quarry. When asked to draw pictures of life in the quarry, the children drew themselves carrying heavy boulders over their heads. During an early session with the kids, M. claimed he had no desire to go back to school (having dropped out in the third grade).

Later that same day, one of our social work graduate student interns led a session on the importance of education. This particular group of kids was so attentive that she quickly got through her material; and had time to work with each child individually. It turned out that M., the oldest child in this group, had never learned to write his name! So, D., the intern, spent several minutes teaching him how to write the characters that make up his name in his native tongue.

After his first time drawing the entire sequence of characters on his own, we all clapped for him (including M. himself!). He was so pleased with his accomplishment that he continued to practice and practice until he could draw it all from memory. Every time he finished his name, he would smile broadly and clap for himself...until we’d all join in and celebrate with him. He even learned to write his sister’s name that afternoon.

The kids were called away from our room, after awhile, to join their parents for family activities. Since they all seemed so intent on practicing their writing, we let them each keep one marker for the night. Once the room had been cleaned up, I walked outside to observe the game-playing. Instead, I saw the kids face down over their papers scribbling away on the edge of the field. When M. caught sight of me, he snatched up his work and ran over to show it off. He pointed out his carefully crafted characters, and pronounced each one clearly. We cheered together over his feat, and then he whipped around to hurry back to his spot on the ground.

But, with his back to me, he suddenly froze. I saw him pat his back pocket with sharp, frantic movements. Then, as I watched, he sighed deeply and, looking over his shoulder, he flashed a relieved smile as he held his marker up for me to see. He had not lost his new prize. All was well. The pen was tucked away in that pocket, once again, as we laughed together about his near-tragedy. Again he turned away, and again, he jolted to a stop. I observed the same hesitation, the quick check of the back pocket, and the deep breath of assurance that yes, his marker STILL remained safe in his pocket, before he finally walked away.

In social work, there is a theory that if we can help our clients succeed in one area (for example, in the therapeutic school setting, if a teen who is struggling with staying in a classroom for longer than five minutes manages to stay in a room for ten minutes, he or she might be “rewarded” and that extra five minutes in a room would be considered a success), they will learn that they are able to do something they had previously thought impossible or see themselves as "capable." The theory continues that this will encourage the client to continue working towards further success. Now, I’ve worked in the therapeutic school setting, and this is a slowwwwwww process. To see this theory play out in a span of less than two days, with M. realizing his ability to learn, floored me!

The following day, he could not stop talking about school and how he wanted to become a teacher, just like the gentleman we have leading a majority of the children’s sessions, J. If only words could truly convey M.’s excitement over his achievement...Watching how he cared for his newest tool on the grassy field was such a sweet moment. No matter how tiring the week, witnessing M.’s experience alone would have been worth it all.

Puppet shows used during discussion on child sexual abuse. Amazingly, there were no tears this time (puppets can be scary sometimes! I remember being afraid of Chuck E. Cheese...that was one BIG mouse...it just made no sense!).

A child working on the "touching rules" workbook.

One of the piggies at the farm. We also saw geese, turkey, love birds, cows, and flowers. But mostly pigs. It smelled niiiice.

Running to catch up with the group-we'd been distracted by a peacock sighting! And then there were the deer...eventually we caught up to the group making its way to the farm.

Culture Shock: Chennasty Days

2009-06-23T23:35:00.000-07:00

Culture shock can be depicted as a curve, much like a “u.” Imagine, coming into a new culture. At first, you are in the “honeymoon stage” of oohs and aahs...everything is cool and interesting. That’s the left-side top of the “U.” After a bit, the differences between your home culture and this new culture start to become more apparent, and tolerance for these differences begins to wear thin. When one is at his/her lowest, or at the bottom of the “U,” he/she may prefer to be alone and seclude him/herself; or view everything in a negative light. As time wears on, one typically will begin to understand the new culture better or become more comfortable with the differences and begin to climb out of the “U.” The theory goes on to explain that once an individual reaches the right-side top of the “U,” he/she has successfully adjusted to the new culture.

This is not to say that there is only one “u” for an individual to overcome. They come and they go. When living in community, it is important to remember that people experience the highs and lows of culture shock at varying points. To assist our little community of transients in staying aware of when one of us is experiencing a high or low, we have had t-shirts made sporting the terms “Chennice” (for good days here) and “Chennasty” (for days when we’ve just about had it, and people would be wise to steer clear).

Until recently, I cannot remember a day where I felt like I had reached the depths of the cultural “U” enough to sport my “Chennasty” shirt. During this period of shifting, however, I have had more days wishing I had a closet FULL of that particular shirt than I would like to admit.

Let us all praise God that my friends and co-workers made it through this time. I am happy to report that the shirt has been officially tucked back down to the bottom of my clothes pile. May it rest there in peace for the next four and a half months.

[Sometimes the crowds on the streets can just be too much...other times, it's kinda fun. This image from T. depicts the shopping district preferred by locals, which a friend of ours/local yoga instructor took us recently.]

[Waiting on the cows/water buffalo/whatever to cross the road can lead to explosions of anger on your more Chennasty of days...other times, it just looks like a great photo op!]

Shifting Spaces: Part 2...

2009-06-23T23:06:00.001-07:00

MOVING IN:

[T. and N. had mattresses delivered to their new, unfurnished flat...this was the priceless shot T. caught of the "delivery truck"! Can you imagine?? I can barely stay balanced on my cycle, let alone maneuvering this awkwardness through our city's streets!! I guess he DOES have a tiny trailer for it to balance on-but still!]

Renting here is a curious thing. I will spare you the details of our prolonged search for a new place. Once found, it took a number of weeks to negotiate our lease and fees. As mentioned before, there is the matter of 10 months deposit. Then, there is also an agent to pay. I have had to pay an agent’s fee for a rental in Boston. That agent actually found a place for us to look at and handled all the negotiations with our landlord. While it was painful to pay that fee, it was at least understood that some work had been involved on the part of the agent.

In our case here, we found a place online, dealt solely with the owner of the property ourselves, and literally made one phone call to the agent. And for that, it is generally accepted that he receive one month’s rent as payment! Please note: this is TWICE what some of our staff, who put their lives on the line, are paid for a month of arduous work. HUH?!

Then, we are dealing with a lease that uses phrases even our staff attorneys could not make sense of...so, after a week of back and forth on our lease, an agreement is finally signed. We moved our stuff via auto (4 trips back and forth), and despite its already having been “thoroughly cleaned,” we began a thorough cleaning of our own (things were still growing in the fridge and counters were extremely sticky).

Overall, the new flat is fabulous! It is such a relief to no longer be in transition. We have a playground below our window, which is always full of neighbourhood kids. We have plenty of tacky 70s looking velour seating at our disposal. We are, once again, the only non-nationals living in the complex. I realized this when I dropped off ironing with the man who lives next to his work station in our parking lot...I told him I’d pick it up the following evening, but instead, he unexpectedly dropped it off right to our door as soon as he’d finished (I hadn’t told him where I lived).

So, as is the norm, we are still dealing with setting up our “already set-up” internet service. In one day, we had four people come by the apartment. One of the four was at the wrong apartment (he was there to “disconnect” someone’s modem...”No, sir. Please CONNECT.” “Disconnect?” “NO sir, please CONNECT”), which was eventually discovered when I realized we were not going to fully understand each other and sagely called a friend to translate. After this day of being told “I will go, and come” and being met by a completely new individual several times, we have now seen a new face every day, and yet, still do not have internet.

Part of me thinks that it is not purely incompetence on the part of the company that no one seems to come to our house prepared for the work that is expected and required. Perhaps it is more the curiosity of its staff, who simply want to see the weird western women that live on their own? I’m sure it’s neither, but it’s interesting to learn where I need God to teach me patience...the internet, of all things? Really??

[The temporary flat is the top floor of this lovely home. Auntie and Uncle lived right below-they are the sweet landlords, who had many words of advice for us. So cute.]

Shifting Spaces: Part 1...

2009-06-23T22:51:00.000-07:00

MOVING OUT:

The past month and a half has been spent “shifting flats” (moving from one apartment to another). Our lease ended May 31st, and we were all too ready to say goodbye to the wilful termites, overabundance of cockroaches, and Superman, our unstable landlord (to put it nicely). Before we could shift, we had to prepare our current flat for its final inspection by Superman. This meant repairing fixtures (that, for all I know, may or may not have worked when we moved in) and learning that our A/C WAS truly broken-and therefore needed repairing itself. The A/C had, in fact, been leaking gas (which may explain some of the difficulty I had in waking each morning...hmmm...).

Why must we go to the trouble? Because local housing rules demand that tenants pay a deposit worth 10 MONTHS RENT before moving in. Yes, ten (10) months. All at once. In addition to actually paying rent. Considering how difficult this is for us to front, it is apparent how such a system discriminates against any but the wealthiest of citizens.

The catch? Oh, yes, it is not that simple, folks. There is NO guarantee that the landlord will pay the deposit back; especially a landlord as slippery as Superman. It was our fear that if the flat was not absolutely perfect upon his final inspection, he would keep our entire deposit. The weeks leading up to this inspection were wrought with headaches.

For example: We called daily about having someone come inspect the A/C and fix the wiring to one light socket. The daily response from both inquiries was that someone would be by later that day. One of us would wait at home later, and be sorely disappointed. Calls the next day would receive explanations such as “oh, the electrician had to attend a funeral unexpectedly” (totally understandable, but a call informing us that no one would show might have been appreciated!) or “oh, yes, he could not come” (no, really?! Well, glad that explains things). And then we would be reassured that someone would come that night, “by 8:00, Ma’am.” Uh, huh. This went on for at least a week. Finally, the A/C guys showed up (we never saw the electrician-a story for another post*). After diagnosing the problem we were told someone would come to retrieve the A/C the next morning. Fine.

This was one week before our inspection/the last day of the month. By this point, we had already been repairing things around the apartment for almost a month. These were just the final touches. Of course, no one showed up the next morning, despite my roommate skipping work for the morning to handle the issue; no one thought to “give a call” and inform us that he would not make it. The next day, my roommate got a call: “Half hour, Madame. Someone is coming in half hour.” Two hours later, someone showed up and took the A/C, explaining that it would take two days to repair and return. Two days later, no A/C and no one would answer our calls regarding its status. Three days later, we called again.

It was a Saturday (most people work Saturdays here; children even attend school). The man asked for one more day, “I will bring Monday.” Okay, that’s actually two more days, but who’s counting? In any other circumstance we would nod and shake our heads knowingly. Unfortunately, we were supposed to have our inspection on Sunday, and be out of the flat by Monday. In other words, we needed it that day. “Okay, Madame, we will bring tonight by 8:00.” Innocently, we believed the man. My roommate sacrificially stayed home, skipping out on an intern/fellows event at our office director’s house. As should have been expected, no one came that night. Instead, the man turned his phone off. Until Monday.

Luckily for us, Superman also turned his phone off on Sunday, and didn’t come to inspect until Monday night. Oi. In the end, my flatmate who handled all Superman interactions for the rest of us ended up crying (which she never does); speaking very angrily with him; and breaking her phone in a moment of total frustration before he finally agreed to return our deposit to us. This was after he berated her for having such a temper, of course, and asked her, incredulously, how she ever expected to get married, speaking to a man in such a manner. Oh, poor Mrs. Superman.

Mind you: this was just the moving out.

[V. and a friend of his helped us move N. and T. into their new flat-N. is in her third year here, and has had MANY items bequeathed from past interns/fellows/friends. Luckily, V. had a friend with a truck, and luckily, they both had muscles to spare! This pic shows me and V. goofing around with T.'s stylish hats on the last, and smallest, haul of the day. Holding items in the truck on the short drive wasn't as uncomfortable as it may have looked. It was a loooong, hot day for moving...and it was only the first of many! 1) We moved OUT of "the Penthouse" May 31; 2) T. and N. moved IN to their new flat the same day; 3) I moved into T.'s old room for a week while J., B. and I waited for our new flat to become available/lease to be finalized; 4) J., B., and I moved out of temporary housing (see photo below) and into our latest, greatest abode!]

[The temporary flat was on the top floor of this lovely home. Auntie and Uncle lived right below-they are the sweet landlords, who had many words of advice for us. So cute.]

On the road to UBUD, in central Bali

2009-05-27T09:18:00.000-07:00

The hills are full of these rice terraces.
Stunning really.

This sweet Hindu woman is carrying her offering to the temple.
It is a daily ritual, which involves quite a sacrifice of funds & sweat.

I've never seen Poinsettias outside of their Christmas foil-wrapped pots before!

Lake Batur, in the shadows of Mount Batur, one of Bali's still-active volcanoes.

Back to life, back to reality...

2009-05-27T07:16:00.000-07:00

It was a magical ten…no wait, make that nine, noooo…eight days in the beautiful Indonesian archipelago. Well, however many days I was actually in the country did not seem like enough. With over 17 thousand islands to explore, I doubt an entire lifetime would be enough! Under the guise of the mandatory “visa run,” I was able to embark on a dream vacation. Yes, when I explain to my co-workers I was absent last week because I had to take my visa run (which IS true: the particular visa all the ex-pats in the office have requires that we leave the host country every 180 days from the entry date stamped in our passports), they laugh knowingly: “Uh huh, sure, visa run. Did you enjoy your holiday?” To which I heartily respond, “Oh yeah!”

Seven days were spent enjoying the beaches, the jungles, the rice terraces, the Hindu temples, the people of Bali, and most importantly, time with Ben. The Balinese are very proud of their culture and their traditions. Approximately 85% of its population considers themselves Hindu (Indonesia is a Muslim nation). Every taxi driver we had was very open about his beliefs and was a great guide to understanding the sights and sounds around us. Living in a Hindu nation, myself, I found the differences in the religion here fascinating, and sometimes surprising. The drivers taught us how to differentiate between Balinese and those born off the island—for example, all sons (and daughters, I believe) are given names that signify their birth order. We met many a Dewa and Made (first and second). Most of our drivers were fluent in English, and as children, were taught to play a traditional instrument, perform a traditional dance (which we saw one of…there are several), or study a martial art…or all three! They also drove us through many mountain villages that were known for a particular art form, such as wood carving, painting, kite-making, etc. The talent creased into the hills of Bali is unreal.

I ditched “poor” Ben (who can really feel bad for a guy stuck on BALI??) for one day to visit my dear friend, and a former roommate, Melissa. She is living on Java, in a spunky university town called Yogyakarta, where she has been granted the prestigious Fulbright scholarship to do research. The short time spent with her was very special. I loved getting to see her home, favorite local spots, meet her landlord (Ibu), hear her speak conversational Indonesian, and even attend an event at the university she is affiliated with…the U.S. ambassador was the guest of honor, so the Fulbrighters had to make an appearance.

Alas, work beckoned, and I had to say a weepy goodbye to Ben, Melissa, and the exquisite archipelago. Thank you, Lord, for such a rejuvenating week of sleep, balanced meals, sunshine, and special people.

Not an idle March...(tardy-post!)

2009-05-26T23:42:00.000-07:00

**NOTE: this was composed awhile ago-due to a broken computer, a constant flow of visitors, and VACATION (WAHOO!), I have slacked in posting for waaaaay too long. More current posts will be coming soon...whatever soon means :))

Has it really been six months since I left the beautiful Bay Area?! It was JUST New Years, and Julie and Neal were visiting. Hey, speaking of: if you want a good time, come see me! I’ll let you clean up termites & cockroaches; share a bed with two other people; AND cause you to fry in the hot sun, whilst hungry and thirsty, as you search for me sans cell phone for hours on end (life is rough without that glorious little communication device…who knew??!)…Can you believe they actually want to come back (you guys are amazing!)??

From my first full January weekend (which was the Wall Graffiti Program described in one of my earlier blog posts), deadlines have demanded my attention-so much so, that I hardly even noticed it was St. Patrick’s Day; that is, until my co-worker came in wearing blinking shamrocks! The strange part, however, is that even the normally-mundane tasks of creating schedules and inventory lists have been abnormally fulfilling. I found myself at the office from 7 am until 11 pm last night feeling challenged and focused until probably the last hour (when the whining in my head started). The hours vary day-to-day (as does my attitude), but I have several projects going on right now and ALL of them excite me! [Here, again, my ADHD rears its ugly head: which to work on first?? Dr. G, I’ll have you know that all the prioritizing training is paying off (at least in one very important area…everything else is bound to fall into place any day now…yep, aaany day…)]

For those who are curious about the activities they are so generously supporting (other than the Wall Graffiti event and allowing mosquitoes to feast on me), the following is a brief recap of my first three-and-a-half months of 2009:

*Back in November we started running a three-day workshop for the victims of bonded labor rescued in the most recent operations to help with the transition into lives of freedom, aptly named “Freedom Trainings.” Since then, one of my projects has been to help create some, and continually refine the, curriculum and materials used during this workshop (for more on this subject, please read my blog post titled, “Let Freedom Ring”). We have already organized three “freedom trainings” in 2009, and foresee many more in the coming months, including one next week. We expect over 50 individuals at that training.

*Reports, reports, reports! Annual reports are due to government officials in each district. Since January, these have filled several nights of editing all of the documentation kept on families, as well as compiling statistical data. Also, starting in January, our office was selected to participate in a study to ensure our “aftercare” department is actually accomplishing what it says it is, and is actually helpful to the families we serve. All offices will have to participate in these monthly reports come July, but for now, just a few offices are helping create measurable indicators, that make sense to our American headquarters and donors, but that are appropriate for the type of work each office is focused on and culturally accurate. For our office, I have been given the role of point person/data collector. I don’t envy the committee in charge of creating this study: victims of forced prostitution require a very different aftercare response than victims of forced labor, and yet they must create indicators that do not create a ton of extra paperwork for the field offices but do allow our output to be evaluated objectively by onlookers. It’s been fascinating, despite the headaches.

*A second round of graduate-level social work students began, and I was able to help orient our newest addition to her internship. It’s been great to discuss her experiences and share my own tips over the weeks. We’re preparing curriculum now for a month-long intensive internship (called “Block Placement”) for final year MSW (Masters of Social Work) students from nearby colleges. The session I am currently helping prepare for, and will co-lead, is on PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder).

*Perhaps the biggest chunk of time, after the aftercare indicators pilot study and freedom training preparation, has been spent writing an initial project proposal for a partnership with another NGO that is near and dear to my heart; one that would provide a much needed service for the families we work with. It is a joint proposal, written for both organizations, with several deadlines. Thankfully, it is not in my hands at the moment, so I’ve had a few days to breathe.

Other than the Freedom Trainings, these tasks have kept me glued to my desk at the office, so it was a treat to make it back to a village this week. I was able to observe a children’s group led by our current student intern; visit with a young girl who had participated in the Wall Graffiti program as I shared pictures with her mother and grandfather from that weekend; and accompany a young burn victim and her ailing mother back to the city and its hospitals. My direct involvement ended that evening after settling them into their lodging for the night, but the news from the following day was extremely hopeful for both patients.

In February, I was able to take a few days off to travel. I rode the train to a neighboring state for a friend’s wedding; and took a few days off later in the month when Ben came to visit. He experienced the city for the first half of the week, while I worked; and THEN…flew us both to the infamous Taj Mahal. Easter was celebrated with a glorious feast shared by approximately twenty friends, both expats and nationals, following church (the sunrise service was avoided, as many churches start these services at 3 or 4 am!!! As fun as THAT sounds…I would prefer to actually be awake for the sermon). And there you have the main happenings of 2009 thus far.

May you all be enjoying the cherry blossoms and sweet smells of Spring...

In loving memory...

2009-04-23T05:10:00.000-07:00

For the joy and strength she continues to provide…I celebrate the life of ERIN MICHELE JUHL (November 27, 1983-April 23, 2008) with my Cupertino family today. My heart is with you all.

Consumption

2009-04-21T22:28:00.000-07:00

There are days when this city feels like one giant trash heap. Cows rummage through the layers of garbage along the river banks in search of anything edible. Small fires create suffocating smoke, as people burn the excess from the week. Where else can it go? There are no friendly neighborhood garbage men to whip up the cans lined neatly along the streets and toss them back into people’s yards. And there are CERTAINLY no orange or blue bins specified for recycling.
Despite the appearances, however, it is MY creation of trash and consumption of goods that is most frightening. Before my arrival, I liked to consider myself a “true Californian,” whatever that means. But, as I understood it, this meant that I grew up recycling, conserving water* and caring about preserving the environment. I was raised by the motto “recycle, reduce, reuse” (thanks mom, dad, and the Cupertino Union School District). Don’t worry, though: I did realize how little effort I really put towards these means, and how ironic my home state’s damage to the environment continues to be through its worship of the automobile... still, I was the obnoxious one, while living in East Texas, who saved three-months-worth of recyclable items because I was going take it all back to California with me if I had to, darn it! Yeah, never mind that I was DRIVING the whole way home (because that’s not harmful to the environment, or anything!). Where I lived during that time had no means of recycling and I found this truly appalling...Luckily, a trip to a nearby city, just days before my trip back to the West Coast, led to the discovery of (wait for it….)…one whole recycling plant.
It was an excruciating first couple months after moving here, as I had to learn to hold my tongue when garbage was tossed out of cars or dropped on the side of the road (it appears to be generally accepted that the roads are cleaned every morning, and garbage is simply piled up and burned wherever it is collected). Items, such as plastic bottles, are retrieved and reused (Slumdog Millionaire, anyone?); but for the discarded and seemingly-useless: it’s straight into the fire. Inhaling the fumes as I cycle home each night is most unpleasant. Rather than turning up my nose in disgust, however, I have been forced to spend time doing a little self-reflection.
While my ecological footprint was already pretty embarrassing, it wasn’t until coming here that I realized the vast piles of waste that I alone was creating. Growing up in a land of abundance certainly creates privileges, but for me, it also has caused me to be ridiculously extravagant. Let’s take a quick, and humbling, look at just a few examples:
1) Although I use a water canister, the number of plastic bottles I accumulate to satiate my need for a daily caffeine-rush is disturbing….especially compared to the two men I share an office with-well, let’s just say, I drink them under the table!! And, I’m fairly certain I am the only one that adds to the garbage can in our office.
2) When I started in the office, I was provided with a small stapler, a small two-hole puncher, a small box of paperclips and tacks, a pencil, a pen, a sharpener and an eraser. This took up very little space in my desk drawer and seems to be how most of the office manages just fine. Once I loaded up the items I brought with me, however, the drawer was overflowing! There were the little roll-on white outs, two boxes of pens, three binders, pile of semi-used notebooks, tabs of all sizes (you know, the sticky tabs to make papers where someone should sign, etc.?, post-it notes…oi vey! The expressions on my co-workers faces! While many find the items fascinating and often come by to borrow them, there are still others who call me out on my over-use of post-it notes and tabs (without realizing it, of course)…what it takes to keep me organized…sheesh!
3) The bag I carry on a daily basis holds just about as much as a family brings for the entire three-day “Freedom Training” we conduct. No matter how many times I’ve tried to lessen the load, however, I continue to stubbornly swear I need it all…
Earlier this year, when the financial crisis made the headlines in big ways, an article by a local journalist caught my attention. He described reading about Americans’ attempts to live frugally during the holidays, such as families cutting back on the number of Christmas presents they could give their children this year. His response was that the recession will be felt less here than elsewhere because the majority of South Asians have always lived frugally. It is a part of their nature, he explains. In my friends and coworkers here, this seems to ring true, as many have one vehicle per family (and, therefore, are dropped off at work by a spouse in the morning-the exhaust emissions aside); most bring their lunch every day in re-useable tins; paper conservation is constantly encouraged; and many prefer to work with the lights out (we have city-wide blackouts almost daily).
Huh. The contrasts of this land continue to baffle me. As does the statistic that 20% of the world’s population (mainly the U.S.) consumes 80% of its resources. A brief self-examination has shown this to be true, at least in my small sphere. There is so much I can learn from this community, and yet, there is so much room for growth here, as well. Just some thoughts. Happy Earth Day, all! http://www.earthday.net/earthday2009
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*Disclaimer: Water conservation was due to drought conditions, so I feel obliged to add this as a disclaimer considering this was more forced upon us…who knows if this would have been a value if we had an endless supply?? 

I Want to Ride My Bicycle

2009-04-16T05:12:00.001-07:00

Tada!! Feast your eyes on my stylin’ “cycle.” Here she is, my ladies bicycle, in all her glory. For the past month and a half, I have been riding this baby to and from work, the store, friend’s flats, aaand…that’s about it. In another month and a half, I will have made up the difference between the cost of riding to work in an auto and the cost of the cycle itself; but including weekend travels, I’m pretty sure the difference will be made up much earlier.

Having my own transportation has brought me so much joy. When I do have to play the haggling game with an auto driver, I am less easily frustrated and actually find it fun on occasion. The biggest drawbacks, so far, are: 1) the amount of dirt and exhaust I inhale during even my short rides to/from the office; 2) the layer of “air” (when you can FEEL it, it deserves quotation marks) that covers my face all day; and 3) the fact that I fear for my life at every turn. But, in reality, the pros far outweigh such cons: 1) my prayer life has expanded exponentially (more so for the others on the road than me-that no one else would be hurt by my lack of experience on these streets); 2) again, the freedom of movement has opened up so many doors-I’ve found new grocery stores and understand the lay of the land much better; 3) I feel more a part of the life here, as being so exposed allows me to interact more with nationals; 4) the nationals are (for the most part) extremely amused at my attempts to cycle; 5) the activity makes me feel much less sedentary (it’s a form of exercise that creates natural air-conditioning…something very much lacking at the speed I run)...

It has also made me appreciate being a foreigner more than anything else. A white girl on an ostentatious cycle, while most likely annoying, is rather conspicuous. Whereas the stares normally get old, I’m fairly certain they have saved my life time and again. People will slow down until I’m safely across the intersection, rather than blasting their horns (which would be more the norm). Bystanders warn other drivers of my presence when my little bell just won’t cut it. And, luckily, they seem to be more forgiving of my foibles. Let’s hope that lasts!

Wall Graffiti

2009-03-24T21:52:00.000-07:00

It was a star-studded event. “The first of its kind;” and a handful of our kids got to be a part of it. Okay, sadly, I didn’t even know who the “stars” were, but then again, if you ask me, they were actually our kids. Never-you-mind the U.S. Consular-General, famous national artist, and local media personnel…six of our youngsters were given the opportunity to demonstrate their unique artistic talents. Now their names and work are permanently displayed in a mural painting covering one wall of the U.S. Consulate here.

In January, we were one of three agencies serving underprivileged children invited to participate in a local arts festival (co-sponsored by a local arts organization and UNICEF). The festival was intended to promote awareness of violence against children. And our clients rose to the occasion. Two days were spent painting the mural created by well-known (around here, at least) art director, Thotta Tharani, from suggestions given to him by local school children. Images included the American and national flag intertwining, kids playing basketball and cricket, kids reading in a library, symbols of peace, and other famous sites from both countries. Tharani gave our kids individual attention as he helped them improve their blending of colors and stroke movements.

It was surreal watching the care with which our kids applied these principles. True artistes. One boy brought his entire collection of pencils from home…just in case. They practiced painting within the lines the night before-and were so excited about the project that they were reportedly dressed and waiting for their 7 am pick up by 4 am!! Wah???!

Since we work with so many kids, it was hard for staff to narrow down the number of participants! Those who came had demonstrated some artistic skill, but mainly, they had to be of a certain grade level (proof that they have consistently attended school) and currently attending regularly. We wished we could have honored all our hard-working scholars**, but unfortunately, we were only allowed six (actually, five, but the organizers let us squeeze one more in…Ha ha- take that Consulate security!).

At the close of Day 1, we took the children to a local beach. Four of the six had never been to the beach. The thrill of this new experience was apparent in their high-pitched squeals of delight while jumping in the waves and building sand castles near the water's edge. Before leaving the beach, my co-worker treated the children to ice cream cones. It was a good time. Especially, getting to see these young people just being kids!

Once back in the car, my co-worker asked all our little artists, "What will you do now? Rest?” Amidst protests, one of the six mischievously replied, "No, Madam, we are too excited to sleep. We will play games all night." Of course, by the time the vehicle reached the lodge that was housing the children and their parents for the weekend, all six were sound asleep.

Day 2 found the children just as excited as the day before. As the mural neared completion, the children met with the local U.S. Consul General and members of the press. Before the children left town, we brought their parents (who, due to consulate security regulations, hadn’t been given permission to attend the event) to see the finished product. Each child was able to point out his/her signature that had been ceremoniously inscribed onto the wall earlier that day.

Despite my inability to converse with the kids, they were fantastic about helping me feel included in the fun. I was left alone with them for twenty minutes, as we waited for their parents to arrive, and they all became my language teachers and dressed me up to look as local as possible…I think it was in an attempt to marry the old “spinster” (as any single female is referred to-at age 18, 28, or 38…it doesn’t matter) off to one of the local men working at the event. The big tipoff was when they made the two of us pose for a picture with him handing me a “ring.” Oh, those kids…such a riot.

The chance to bond with our kids more made this weekend of working from the wee hours of the morning (without comp time, mind you) absolutely worth every minute. I love my job.

**The drop-out rate in the villages is extremely high, and fluctuates constantly. Many of the children we work with have either a) been forced to work alongside their parents or grandparents (some even as young as five); or b) never had the opportunity to attend school before their release. This creates any number of challenges as they try to transition back to village life. Knowing what a struggle it was for me to sit in a classroom, I can only imagine how difficult it must be for our kids to suddenly be expected to sit at a desk, listen to a teacher, complete homework assignments, take tests…even holding a pencil or drawing are novelties for some of our clients. For those youths that are still too young to work full-time, starting in a classroom full of kids half your age can be too embarrassing. Others try to start in classrooms part-way through a school year…any of us would struggle to catch up!

Basic classroom etiquette aside, lots of our kids are dealing with the trauma of forced servitude, and often, additional physical or sexual abuse. While corporal punishment is illegal here, it is still a common classroom practice. To be beaten by a teacher could easily re-traumatize our clients. Several clients claim to fear a teacher. Asking that teachers not hit students, however, is seen as ludicrous, since this is not viewed in the villages, and even by many in the city, as abuse or excessive.

Let Freedom Ring...

2009-03-23T20:37:00.000-07:00

“’Freedom’-we repeated to ourselves, and yet we could not grasp it. We had said this word so often during all the years we dreamed about it, that it had lost its meaning. Its reality did not penetrate into our consciousness; we could not grasp the fact that freedom was ours.”
- Austrian psychiatrist, Viktor Emil Frankl, on life after liberation from Auschwitz.

As I stepped out of our vehicle to greet the recently released bonded laborers in February, I was awed by the immediate recognition on their faces. Fifty individuals from our last two operations were before me, ready for their “Freedom Training”: three days of free medical care, educational sessions, and family bonding. Half of this particular group was from the operation I had the privilege of staffing in December. A picture from that day of one little girl I had especially bonded with serves as my screensaver at work; but I had never expected them to remember me. Even my three-year-old angel seemed to smile at me out of familiarity. The painfully early drive to this training facility, after a late night at the office, was quickly forgotten as a fourteen-year-old victim of bonded labor from the same family grabbed my hand to walk me into the nearby meeting hall.

This was Day 2 of the released laborers’ “Freedom Training.” Born of the desire to serve the families we work with better, this training was created to provide them with information found to be useful for a more successful transition from slavery to freedom. As the Frankl quote above describes, emerging from captivity is not as glorious as it may sound. This is just one more way we can offer support to our clients as they endure the challenges of rehabilitation.

Another benefit of the “Freedom Training” is that it offers an opportunity for our staff and the families to bond. Perhaps the most significant aspect of this experience, so far, is when the families have a chance to sit together and talk about their hopes and dreams for the future. All the families have responded well, so far, and comment on the fact that they wouldn’t take the time to do this on their own. The idea behind the first family session is to help them start planning, and seeing the bigger picture, rather than the day-to-day. It leads up to later sessions on, say, savings or substance abuse, which has then led to conversations about how money spent nightly on alcohol, for example, can eat away at one’s dream of starting a tea shop or building a house. Many will hear their children’s dreams of becoming teachers or policemen for the first time, and better understand the importance of allowing their children to pursue an education.

Day 1 starts here in the city, with general medical check-ups at a local hospital, followed by eye exams, and a screening for HIV/AIDS. Days 2 and 3 are spent at a rural conference center, where educational sessions are conducted. Topics include: their legal rights and helpful government grants (“schemes”), health, hygiene, nutrition, domestic violence, substance abuse, child abuse/sexual abuse, savings and self-help groups, as well as laying some ground work for the emotional healing that may need to take place. While the kids receive a number of these sessions, there is plenty of time for games and other fun. Lodging, food, and transportation are provided for the families throughout their stay. Family-oriented activities are planned for every evening.

The three days offer an opportunity for our staff to really get to know the dynamics of the families we work with, and to gain a more well-rounded perspective on how to properly serve the families. At our most recent training, just this last week, it became especially clear that the three-days offer our staff the chance to really gain the trust of the families. Our most recent operation was quite unusual-and came to fruition rather quickly. While this was a HUGE blessing, it gave the families little, if any, reason to trust us as we ushered them to what we knew to be safety. On the last day of their Freedom Training, the families shared that when we arrived, the owner of the facility (i.e. the perpetrator of crimes against them) had told them to hide because we were bad and would put them in jail. As a result, five families who had hidden deep in the rock quarry were still living in bondage. The training participants insisted we go back and help release these others. Oh, yeah. Trust had been gained.

It’s a huge event for the department and involves a LOT of bodies and time to prepare. My role has mainly been to create tools to help the planning go more smoothly (my mom is probably laughing at the thought of me trying to keep things organized; aren’t you, Mom?), gather materials, create some curriculum, be a photographer, and, as always, entertain the babies. Since November, we have had four of these trainings; and we continue to refine its content and execution. Luckily, the feedback from the families has been extremely positive, so we are encouraged to continue and to grow the program.

So, back to the February training: The picture on my screen at work of the little girl on the day of release shows her wearing a dingy, grease-stained, brown boy’s shirt as her only item of clothing. In fact, I’m pretty sure I thought she was a boy for the first few hours. I remember watching as she had tried, repeatedly, to eat food (that had seemingly dried on it at a much earlier date) off of that shirt. A month and a half after that day, there she was again. But this time, she was fully clothed in a frilly, bright orange dress and had her hair done up in a neat, half ponytail. The sight nearly brought tears to my eyes.

Everything about the group I had met the day they were released from slavery seemed drastically altered-for the positive. Of course, each family in the group is still dealing with issues that could take years to work through; but they will do so on their terms. A sign of positive change was apparent in the patriarch of the group. His stoic silence on operation day had not betrayed any emotion. The lifelessness of his stare had worried me: he seemed utterly lost, as the only way of life he’d known for thirty-years had suddenly ended. As I watched him at the Freedom Training, I had the joy of observing him smile and laugh. He still looked slightly lost; he was, after all, taking in a whole lot of new information. But, now, there was life in his eyes. And that fills me with hope.

California....knows how to party

2009-03-06T10:06:00.001-08:00

Dr. Dre and Tupac’s “California Love” was certainly on the playlist last night for all the hip mosquitoes living it up on my feet. Oh yes, the place was packed as the Beach Boys’ “California Girls” and Chuck Berry’s “Promised Land” beckoned one and all…

Okay, I can only take that so far… If you weren’t amused by this post, don’t worry-neither was I! Now my feet must be pumping out Augustana’s “California’s Burning”…

More where that came from...

2009-02-15T10:52:00.000-08:00

2009-02-15T10:39:00.000-08:00

Two weekends ago, some friends and I traveled via train to a neighboring state for a wedding. Here are some of the sights we experienced:

Please Mr. Postman

2009-02-15T10:29:00.000-08:00

President’s Day Weekend has always been a special weekend for my family. Growing up, we would leave school right after the classroom Valentine’s Day party and drive to Yosemite National Park for a long weekend with my Dad’s side of the family. I remember piling into the mini-van with my bag, or “mailbox,” full of Valentine’s and candy from my classmates as we drove into that snowy wonderland in the shadows of Half Dome.

As per tradition, my family is there this weekend, making this one of those times when homesickness settles in. When that happens, of course, even the little things here irk me to no end. Hence, my latest rant: the postal service.

On Friday, I received a Valentine’s package from my uber generous mother. She went to all the trouble of selecting special treats to send, wrapping them in two plastic bags, and shelling out a fortune to ship here. And yet, the postal service here decided that all her efforts were for their enjoyment.

This is a common practice, of course, so I’m not fully surprised. Every box I’ve received has had an end sliced open and any loose items (mainly candy) have been slyly shaken free of their boxed internment. The state of my package on Friday, however, was utterly ridiculous: The entire box had been ripped open and tied back together again with rope; all the items had been removed from my Momma’s packaging; and the remnants of the “samples” taken would have gone unnoticed, except for the fact that they left the spoils in with the rest of the items.

And, here is where my homesickness pushed me over the edge. Out of two bags of Valentine M&Ms, the kind post office left me a quarter of one very torn bag and another open bag held a majority of the heavenly chocolate-disks-covered-by-a-thin-candy-shell remaining…But, seriously, would you partake when you had no idea what had touched your food?…In exasperation, I asked my flat-mates “why bother?! Why leave anything behind?!” Why not just take the entire bag, so that the possibility of getting to indulge in chocolate could have slipped past my attention, unnoticed? Instead, I had to dump the remains of my soiled taste of home. Grrr…

Ha, it’s really one of those “you-just-have-to-laugh” moments; a truly petty thing for me to be upset about (well, minus all the trouble my poor Momma went through to send me some lovin’)…unfortunately it caught me in a bad space.

So, Mr. Postman (and your cronies)-next time you “examine” my mail: please, just go ahead and keep whatever you decide needs further inspection. It’s all yours. Truly. No need to suddenly feel guilty and leave me the remnants. I won’t mind…honest.

Demoted

2009-01-14T11:31:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-14T10:47:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-14T10:18:00.000-08:00

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!!!

Thanksgiving: Part Deux (as promised)

2008-12-11T01:22:00.001-08:00

28.Nov.08: Despite the lack of electricity during most of the day, and the unstable situation in Mumbai, four expats gathered together last Thursday evening for a celebratory feast. Nothing would stand in the way of gluttony! Not even the fact that no hired-cars were available because they were not about to risk driving in the rains. Donning our ostentatious Wellies, rolled-up pants, and overnight bags (just in case), my roommate and I juggled the prepared dishes, extra groceries, and single umbrella, as we made our way up the driveway to flag down (with what hands??) an auto-rickshaw.
How this unsteady mode-of-transportation seemed to be the only viable option that stormy night is beyond my non-engineering mind. Yet, there we were. If I’d had a free hand, there would have been more visual documentation of how ridiculous we must have looked! Any attempt to keep water off my good-natured roommate was futile. Every time I shifted bags to shake an elbow towards the on-coming autos, she became my umbrella’s dumping ground.

Most of the yellow-painted three-wheelers were already packed full. The wait for a ride was so long; my roomie had to sit on the side of the muddy road before she dropped our increasingly heavy dessert. By the time an empty auto pulled over for us (probably for a good laugh), we were completely drenched…and willing to pay whatever fortune our driver requested. The fortitude produced by the promise of a large meal, laced with nostalgia, is incredible!

Our friend’s warm, clean apartment was such a welcome sight. Another friend arrived shortly after us, and together, the four of us shared a glorious meal. My roommate (a Kiwi, who lived in the States for a couple Thanksgivings as a child) generously provided two essentials: the cranberry sauce (which came in a jar, but we were in no position to be choosy) and the stuffing. Our hostess managed to acquire and/or produce two large chickens, mashed potatoes, homemade gravy, fruit salad, and broccoli (the first I’d seen here!!!) smothered in Velveeta cheese (a treat from home). It was beautiful.

After making ourselves sick from eating more food in one sitting than we were used to, we returned to watching the news about Mumbai. I’d followed the reports via the internet whenever we’d had power throughout the day, but it was fascinating to watch the news unfold on a television. We called friends in the area to make sure they were still okay. We discussed the implications for the rest of South Asia. And we were devastated for the citizens of India and Pakistan.

We are in an area that is traditionally known to be fairly peaceful. Despite our feeling of safety, we are not naïve to the fact that anything is possible. A local law college was shut down last month due to riots between castes. What may appear to be a religious conflict is, in actuality, a clash between the have and the have-nots; between those who believe they have power over others, and those who have grown tired of being oppressed. It is an issue that has been brewing for centuries.

At first, this was cause for hesitation in moving here: how can I only live for a year in a culture just waking up to its overwhelming social problems, and expect to make an impact? How can I expect to find any hope? But despite the risks and my fears, my heart has been changed. I cannot imagine a better time to be here. Among the youth, there is an openness to discuss these issues; and for me, the opportunity for a deeper understanding of those which I have barely even scratched the surface.
~~~~~~~
Part of my hesitation came from the mixture of rich and poor. Despite my being a volunteer here, I am living in one of the nicer neighborhoods. Granted six of us live there to make it affordable, but we feel safe, and it came furnished.

Every day, I take an auto to work. It picks us up at the edge of our driveway, and put-puts for ten minutes past a river, which smells like a soiled diaper. Thousands of families have set-up house on the slopes that border this river. Their coconut-leaf roofs peak just above the “sidewalk,” so that the home life of the many street children and beggars we pass each day is easier to ignore. The suffering right outside my door (literally, two buildings down) is appalling.

What I find even more appalling is learning how I have become one of those “rich” people who appears complacent to the “poor” around me: it took two whole days before I heard about the damage inflicted upon these families by the recent record-breaking rains of a passing cyclone. Apparently, a nearby reservoir had reached its capacity of 22-feet, and had to be opened to relieve pressure. Waves gushed forcefully through the opened shutters from ten o’clock Thursday (Thanksgiving) morning until later that evening.

Water levels rose quickly, leaving families occupying the river bed with little time to evacuate. The current swept through their fragile shelters, indiscriminately snatching whatever it could find, including, in its greed, human life. Overall, 51 (documented) lives were lost; approximately 1,380 areas were affected; and at least 168,000 people have been impacted by the flooding.

[A picture of the water being released, from the local paper]

When I first heard this from some local friends, I was told the families most at risk were given no warning. While I cannot verify this fact, I simply cannot imagine how these particular families would have gotten “the message” (most can’t read, probably don’t have phone access, certainly don’t have internet or television…so if the government sent a warning, they would have had to go door to door, which is highly unlikely!) .

The river level covered all but the little bit of roof that we see poking over the sidewalk for several days after the initial release. There was no chance of ignoring the increase in numbers of cows and families that now occupied the edges of the streets. Massive relief efforts, however, are supposedly in full swing. The Government is dispensing funds for families to rebuild damage done to their homes. Moreover, the deceased’s’ next-of-kin will receive an equivalent of US $2,060 for the life lost. Um, yep, I’m sure that should about cover it…?????? Sigh.

To think that this happened right down my street without my realizing it frustrates me to no end. What am I doing if I’m not interacting with my neighbors? If I don’t know what’s happening in my own neighborhood? At least my eyes have been opened to my weakness in this area. I have hope that I will not continue to waste any opportunity to learn about the good, and the bad of my temporary home; to really understand how the choices we make impact those around us; and how important it is to see the whole picture, not just what’s on my immediate right and left. Ooh boy, is this gonna be fun…

2008-12-02T20:48:00.001-08:00

A friend of mine, an amazingly energetic human rights lawyer, models her "formal" saree for you all...in her hair is a strand of jasmine, which are sold on the side of the road. Many women will wear these flowers in their hair on a daily basis. For her, it's just a special occasion. The strands smell soooooooo good (especially in contrast to the nearby garbage dump/public restroom...oh, I mean, river).

Wouldn't you know I'd go and ruin a perfectly sweet photo?

Surprise...

2008-12-02T19:55:00.000-08:00

Last Friday, we were able to throw a western bridal shower for a friend flying home to get married next week! Luckily, we were able to pull it off-it was meant to be a tea party, but it wouldn't have felt right if everything went as planned...our electricity went out just as we were going to boil the water. So, the majority of the party was done by candlelight, but it was still fun to celebrate with her.

"the surprise"

For all of our national guests, it was their first "shower." We had fun sharing about different wedding traditions, which were explained through a couple games:

Her fiance had answered a series of questions about his future-bride. She heard the questions, and then had to guess what his response would be: as this picture demonstrates, certain questions (even despite our attempt to censor the questions/responses, so as to be audience-appropriate) still managed to fully embarrass the guest-of-honor. Such a good sport!

A simple game of "wedding word charades" proved to be very educational...can anyone guess what she's acting out here??

Thanksgiving 2008: Part I

2008-12-02T19:44:00.000-08:00

As Monsoon Season comes on full force, so do the beanies and wool coats. Yes, even here. Even in the humidity. Several of my miniscule co-workers wear three layers of clothing under their jackets. I shudder at the thought of one moving to Australia in February, where she will live for three years. Okay, in reality I envy her for having this opportunity; but I do fear for her losing limbs due to frostbite during the winters down under. It is currently 75 degrees Fahrenheit as I write, and yet, she told me she had worn socks, gloves, and six layers of clothing to bed this week! Ah, winter in South Asia.

We experienced thunder and lightning the other night. Waking up in the wee small hours of the morning to what sounded like the aluminum roof of our building cracking open, our awe and wonder was best expressed by one of my roommate's deep "WOAH." By the time we got up for work, that particular, powerful storm had passed.

Schools were closed yesterday because the streets were too flooded. Whereas at home, flooding is seen as a nuisance, here it is a major hazard. There are exposed wires, basically everywhere, and very close to the ground. On more than one occasion, I have almost choked on some strung at chin-level in my neighborhood. The water-and- electrical-wire combo does not bode well for the large quantities of humans wading through the city to get to work, school, food, higher ground…wherever. Plus, the pathways most frequented by pedestrians contain manholes every ten feet, or so.

In an effort to speed up the draining process, these death traps are often left wide-open throughout the season. Luckily, I had been warned of this and, therefore, steer clear. On the ride home from work yesterday, however, I witnessed the rescue of a pitiful soul, who could not have known the manhole was even there due to the gallons of rain water that had accumulated around it into a ten-foot-wide pond. Others watched a woman walking in front of them disappear completely, as she was submerged in one such hole. Luckily, people were close enough to fish her out. And still another friend was horrified to see a man fall into a ditch hidden on the side of a road by the muddy waters and have to be rescued by others that literally dove in after him. Can you imagine? Not knowing how to swim, as most of my co-workers confess to, and having to talk about nearly drowning in a drainage ditch? Ugh.

My biggest concern, however, is for the number of released laborers who live at the bottom slope of their villages. An aspect of the everyday oppression this group of people experience, and (sadly) expect, is being treated as the lowest-of-the-low in their society. So low, they are not even considered a part of the caste system (which is illegal here, but so ingrained, even educated people do not realize they are perpetuating the problem). As a result, they are given the worst land to build their homes upon: the most vulnerable, lowest, and furthest away from any roads or towns. Essentially, they are told to wait at the back of the line…for everything.

Home types range in the villages (just like in the city), but the most common materials used by our families are mud, straw, and tree-branch roofs. The community works hard to keep these clean and presentable, and the homes are well-made. But when the storms come, they are not able to withstand the elements. Rebuilding takes time, energy, and money that most of our families work very hard to earn and save. Not long ago, one middle-aged couple proudly took me on a "tour" of their newly-upgraded home. Their neighbors had all pitched in, and they had saved for months to build this exquisite mud structure: one AND A HALF rooms, with tall reeds that held up other reeds in what resembled a covered-porch. It was impressive. I'm anxious to visit their village this month to see how it has fared.

Today, Thanksgiving, I have much to be grateful for, as I sit at home high and dry. Due to the flooding, our office has been closed-so I actually HAVE to take the day off. Well, if I must…Cars are staying off the streets because of the high waters, so my co-workers that ride scooters and motorcycles to the office wouldn't stand a chance. Plus, many are without electricity (including us, on and off, as mentioned in my earlier post) and several inches of water are covering the floor of others' homes.

Oh, there is so much more to say about today alone. I've written a small novella already, however, and will, therefore, save the rest for another post. Stay tuned…

The latest...

2008-12-02T09:43:00.000-08:00

Thank you for all your concerned messages, and for your prayers. Tensions are still high, but everyone on staff is accounted for and we are all safe. My apologies for the delayed update! Here are just a few glimpses of the roads before the worst of the flooding:

Safe & Sound

2008-11-26T23:05:00.000-08:00

For those who have heard of the attacks on foreigners in Mumbai, please be reassured that I am nowhere near that part of South Asia. Several friends are living/traveling in that general vicinity, however, so please keep them (as well as, all the hostages and families of those killed) in your thoughts and prayers.

I spoke with one expat in the city, and he let me know all our co-workers are fine, but that they are not able to leave their homes yet. This is purely precautionary. I will keep everyone posted whenever our power comes on (its been in and out all day due to the rains/wind where I am).

Read more at: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=97537819

As for our office, we ALL (expats & nationals) have the day off, due to the weather. Our streets are flooded, making it difficult for anyone to come in, and with all the power failure (and occasional lack of running water) even working from home is a challenge. Man, its rough being forced to relax! Ha!

Do keep those without shelter or stone homes in your thoughts & prayers, as well. Its cold for the nationals right now, and many are living in conditions made wholly unsanitary during this season of rain and flood.

Happy Thanksgiving to all in the States...xoxo

A funny thing happened...

2008-11-25T08:37:00.000-08:00

It’s official. My skin, my hair, and my clothes all HATE my current home. As for me, I like it just fine, thank you. Though, I do have to keep a good sense of humor about, well, pretty much everything. For instance, today I took my clothes that I had hand-washed (yes, again-but that’s ANOTHER story) off the drying rack, and they were cardboard-stiff; which is basically how my hair feels these days, as well. I’m just grateful I haven’t lost chunks of it yet, as one of my roommate’s did her first year here. Not to worry though: in her case, the main spot has supposedly grown back as baby-fine hairs and is well on its way to recovery.

Then, there’s my face, which is reacting to the pollution in the air and hard water like it did when I first hit puberty. Gotta love a pockmarked-face at the age of twenty-eight (an age which, by-the-way, makes me older than at least two-thirds of the office staff). Add on the splotches covering my body left by every single mosquito bite…all in all, the talk I heard from author Philip Yancey tonight about even the “ugly” being worthy of love hit very close to home (okay, that wasn’t his whole point, but he did mention it at least once).

Actually, tonight’s adventures (for lack of a better word) are a great example of the importance of finding the humor in many-a-situation. First off, there was our driver. A sweet man, who MUST have just gotten his license, because there is no way he has been driving in this city for any length of time: He actually obeyed all the “rules,” such as driving slow and not trying to get around every moving thing in front of him. Of course, this was his downfall, as we were twenty minutes late to the service (which we found out, shortly thereafter, didn’t actually matter; however, more on that later); he hit an auto (our version of the tuk-tuk or rickshaw-a covered motorbike with a bench attached behind the driver’s seat)…and kept driving; and then, he hit a man! Yep, “we just hit a man” were the exact words I used in response to my friends’ confused looks. Luckily, the man was large and, despite yelling angrily at our poor driver, he was smiling as he walked on. I’ll spare you the rest…but really, if we didn’t laugh, we’d have cried.

Now, the humor in the speaking event where Philip Yancey, author extraordinaire, was the guest of honor began with realizing we were attending a full on church service (read: no idea when, or if, it will end), rather than simply a speaking engagement. And it was NOT in English for the first hour; thus, our being late was insignificant. But once the actual program started, it was interpreted from English. The hilarity of these next couple of hours was mainly due to the interpreter, who seemed to translate rather liberally and added in several “Hallelujahs” that Mr. Yancey had most definitely not.

We also enjoyed the use of the phrase “And next is Mr. Philip Yancey, but first…” or “And now for Mr. Philip Yancey…right after a brief word from…” which we heard at least four times (and one and a half hours) before “now” came to pass. Sharing about the event with two roommates who had stayed home helped cultivate a fuller appreciation of the evening; especially, as we found ourselves laughing throughout our entire re-telling.

Working amidst the dark world of human trafficking and slavery, it is God’s grace that allows us to maintain a sense of humor. Mr. Yancey also spoke on this grace, and how it can be found in: the smile exchanged with a small child on a home visit (as opposed to making small children cry because they can’t figure out if I’m a ghost or something less freakishly scary); the invitation to share a meal at a new national friend’s house; a sweet and encouraging note from a friend back home I have severely neglected to communicate with, an auto driver willing to take me for a fair price on the first try, a co-worker who referred to himself as “Uncle Hugs” in an office-wide congratulations note to another co-worker; the local market selling cheddar cheese, of the non-spreadable variety; or having the electricity stay on all day; just to name a few. Seriously, there is plenty I find not-so-amusing, which makes it even more important not to dwell too long in the dark places. Been there, done that. No thank you.

Humorous images (well, to me, at least):

Okay, so I know I'm not five, but seriously? If this was the name of a soup at Marie Calendar's, I'm fairly certain the cauldron would remain full for the entire evening.

A friend sent this to me from our Diwali celebration. The over-dramatic grimace most definitely comes from growing up in an insurance agent's house. Limbs lost due to a sparkler mishap, however, is one statistic of which I have yet to be made aware...

The picture below is from my layover in Korea. Again: REALLY? Why is this a slogan? Did I say these were humorous images? Because this one kinda makes me sad...

"Stop thinking. Feel it!" (for those who cannot read the small print)

For my mom...

2008-11-15T07:11:00.000-08:00

Eating my greens.
You're welcome. ;o)

Bittersweet

2008-11-15T06:13:00.000-08:00

The young man dropped to the ground outside the airport without warning. One second he was talking, joking; I blinked, and he was crumpled on the tile.

As people came running, either to help, or gawk (we may never know), my friends and I pulled out cameras and started to snap some photos...while laughing hysterically.

NO, we were not being callous, ugly Americans...although to the many onlookers, I'm sure that was exactly what they were thinking (sorry). In reality, this young man was a friend, on his way home to the States, who had the misfortune to be struck by another friend's "dart" out-of-doors. According to the rules of the game (and he HAD to follow the rules...even if it meant missing his flight), if one is struck by the "dart" (an imaginary dart, no worries) he/she must fall to the ground immediately. The individual must remain here, until some kind soul "removes" said dart. There is no need to explain the entire game, nor to explain how I shudder at the thought of laying on the ground here.

A rather large crowd had gathered in the few minutes he remained on the ground. What I wouldn't give to know what the masses made of our idea of a good time...oi vey.

When someone finally showed him mercy, and he was allowed to get up, we said our farewells: He was sent on his way with an enthusiastic "golf clap" and echoing cheer as he stepped out of our vision. Now, when I think "golf clap," I think "marshmallow clap"....you know the one? Where hands never touch? So, for those not in the know (such as myself), this is actually the clap that starts slow and loud; but gets progressively faster and raucous. I'll be the first to admit we were obnoxious. But, oh, was it fun.

And such is the bittersweet nature of life abroad. In one short month, I have had to continue the trend started in May with saying goodbye to grad school friends, followed by June goodbyes to my East Coast soulmates, and those painful September goodbyes after a quick stint back in the Bay Area...here I am connecting with folks who will steadily slip out of my daily life until I take my turn next Fall.

Despite the sad farewells, I do rejoice in the fact that I can even call these admirable souls my friends. And, don't think for a second that we don't make the most of their last days...below are some images from the first "a dieu":

Goodbyes are awkward. So, this is our made-up sign to capture such an emotion. Because obviously our expressions don't cut it.

And here is evidence that there is life in a land without cable...or not, depending on how you look at it. This was the goodbye dinner dessert. We were mesmerized by the slowly tipping box. To be clear: when I say "we," I don't mean me...nope. Nuh uh.

Hey, you come visit for a month, THEN you can judge...

What to wear...What to wear?

2008-11-15T04:34:00.000-08:00

(Written last weekend...)
My wardrobe of long pants and short-sleeve, loose-fitting tops has also been tolerable despite what the thermometers read. Today’s excitement involved picking up my new “South Asian” wardrobe from a nearby tailor, all “stitched” and ready to go. Five outfits made just for me, all for the price of a shirt back home. Niiice.

While this may seem excessive, this was the staff’s recommendation for the work I have been (and will continue) doing. The wardrobe I am referring to consists of drawstring pants called “salwar.” Salwar put every other pair of drawstring pants I’ve ever owned to shame…they could easily fit around a baby elephant and still have enough string to make a bow. Besides having to tie them around my ribcage, they are extremely comfortable during the long road trips that are a regular part of my job.

There is another popular style of pants, which boasts a similar waste to the salwar. I will have nothing
to do with these, as I’m pretty sure they were originally intended for circus-performers on stilts. Being
on the short-legged side, these tight, mile-long leggings that barely allow my feet to pass through are best avoided.

Over the salwar, women wear dress-like tops called “kurta.” These can be short or long-sleeved depending on one’s preference and/or the material. The tailors cut wildly imaginative collars in the kurta. No, no. “V-neck” and “crew-neck” would not compliment the loudness of my cloth’s pattern. All the poor tailors’ efforts seem to be in vain, however, as we then hide the intricate details of our collar under the “dupatta” (we “cool” folks simply call it the “dup”…actually, in my case, its more because I cannot seem to pronounce “dupatta” the same way twice).

This light, scarf-like piece of material hangs over both shoulders, with the center pulled down in somewhat of a v-shape over the chest. Two things are still a mystery to me: 1) what exactly I’m supposed to keep covered (my collar, or other “things”…or all of the above-and sadly, this would be a rather inappropriate question); and 2) how the national women manage to keep the ends from constantly falling off their shoulders. Some pin them, but what about the rest?? Balancing the dup in place for an entire work day is a skill I strongly desire...perhaps even covet. Please forgive me.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

Saris, or sarees, are actually more common, and I’d say, even more beautiful. But, when I consider the challenges I face in the supposedly easier number, I don’t have a hope in the world with these mounds of fabric. For some reason, however, I dropped off nice material for just such an outfit today. I need something appropriate for a co-worker’s upcoming wedding.

My first outfit took 5 days to make, and it was awesome (I’m wearing it in almost every photo in the field-see above). This particular tailor took fifteen days, which seemed reasonable for such a large order. So, when she asked me when I would need my saris by, I thought “I have at least fifteen days,” so I said, “oh, there is no rush.”

Now, the tailoring on a sari involves stitching the edges of the material, and making a tiny little blouse to avoid total indecency. While I cannot even make a simple A-line skirt (as my Mercy Ships buddies can attest to), this does not seem like an enormous task (especially compared to arranging it on one’s body!). When I asked the date, however, that I should expect my sari to be ready, the proprietor told me “right before Christmas, on the 20^th.” Hoping I had heard her wrong, I clarified, “you mean November 20^th?”

“No, December.”

“Um, well, I actually need it by December 3^rd!”

“You said there was no rush.” Darn, she was right. Strangely enough, I had thought 18 days would be plenty of time to not feel rushed. Silly, Kim.

In the end, she said she would do the stitching on the sari, but could not get me the blouse by December 3^rd. Well, lesson learned: clarify from the start what the terms “long time” and “no rush” mean…Grrr. Oh, and don't go back to that tailor, as she certainly gets plenty of business.

Please say hi to Target for me!

So, what exactly is it that you do over there?

2008-11-15T04:03:00.000-08:00

As a fellow, my role is being constantly developed based on skills that I bring to the office and the ever-changing needs of our clients. For now, I am assigned to provide support for Aftercare Managers (or, national social workers) during home visits. These homes are located in very traditional and remote villages. “Support” at this point has meant taking pictures of the families, suggesting follow-up questions after seeing the Aftercare Manager’s written notes, playing with kids while the parents speak to our staff, and simply being an extra body accompanying the female staff for long trips.

Most of the villages I am assigned to are anywhere from two and a half to four hours away from the office. Trips to the field are the best AND the worst days. Sitting for hours at a time on roads with tanker-sized pot holes has to be the most aggravating part of the aftercare department’s role. I woke up the morning after my first field experience with a severe headache from what I can only guess was whiplash (not only do we rock side-to-side constantly, but we also enjoy sudden stops regularly…for which I must be grateful: the less-appealing alternative is slamming head-on into large trucks). Being in the field, however, spending time with the families, getting to hear their stories firsthand, and seeing their smiles when I commend their bravery for speaking out against their oppressors** has, by far, been my favorite part of the job.

Along with these home visits, I am currently re-defining our curriculum for using local social work students as interns and trying to build relationships with reputable schools of social work in the region. Through focus groups, I’ve been able to solicit ideas from the entire Aftercare staff. And just yesterday, I met with the head of the social work department at one local university. Starting November 18^th, I will be responsible for supervising the students and trying out the new curriculum.

Other projects in the works include building up our resource library for training the national staff and, ultimately, better serving our clients; providing support for and participating in various aftercare initiatives, such as our recent medical camps, and upcoming children’s festival; and being a liaison between our organization and other local NGOs.

> On our way to a village.

> A cluster of some really nice homes in one village.

> One family even rigged up a pretty sweet "restroom" in which to bathe...it is NOT used as a toilet. That's gross. THAT business is typically taken care of on the edges of the villages, thank you very much.

**The victims we work with risk everything to speak up about their circumstances. They must claim their status as forced laborers to government officials, who often have little or no compassion for people of their caste. Many times, the government officials have allowed the perpetrators to be present at this hearing, and the bonded laborers are threatened throughout. In one instance, it took a small child to tell the truth before any of the adult laborers would finally admit to the daily abuse they endured. In another instance, freed laborers were surrounded by an angry mob paid by their former owner as our staff was returning them to a village. When I think of how intimidated I get speaking in front of a group of supportive peers, I just cannot even begin to understand the courage it must take for those who have been taught they are worthless from birth to demand justice. Humbling.

Fahrenheit 451? Try Celsius 232.8, Mr. Bradbury.

2008-11-09T03:19:00.000-08:00

Attention all future visitors! NOW is the time to come. The weather (on non-rainy days) is absolutely delightful. It almost feels like a warm Spring day in the Silicon Valley…almost. That is, if that Spring day causes head-to-toe perspiration on a person walking from her front door to the street.

Speaking of the street…the word on ours is: do NOT come in May-the hottest month of the year. By arriving in October, my hope is to grow accustomed to the heat as it bears down on us in the coming months leading to this region’s summer. Thus far, it’s been quite pleasant. I have only lost sleep one night due to the heat.

Superman

2008-11-09T02:51:00.000-08:00

An afterthought on our washing machine's status...

Yesterday, I finally broke down and hand-washed five buckets full of clothes, sheets, etc. There was no alternative. I'm not complaining, mind you. It's what I was expecting to do for every wash. No, the reason this is noteworthy stems from our landlord's response to the death and destruction of our machine:

Superman, as my roommates have lovingly** dubbed him, has decided we are lying about the irreparable damage done and refuses to replace it until he is able to assess it personally. As he is on holiday until who knows when and I was down to ZERO clean clothes options, I was forced to finally hike my skirt up (and tuck it in) while I squatted over the buckets. At least I get to count the scrubbing as my second workout this week! You should see the size of my guns now!
Prepped ahead of time by my roommates, Superman's assumption that we were lying to him did not come as a surprise. Normally, I would have been indignant. In his case, I just had to nod and say "that sounds about right."

Apparently, the girls had requested some help in eradicating the colony of cockroaches that had settled comfortably into the kitchen's cupboards (where they still remain-I see at least 4 every time I enter the kitchen). Despite the presence of a large cockroach scuttling across the floor in front of him, Superman insisted there were no cockroaches. Similarly, he was convinced they had lied about being volunteers until he was informed by one of our co-workers that they, in fact, were NOT being paid for their work. Oh, Superman...how far the mighty have fallen.

**The nickname sounds fairly close to his "good name," as they say here. I personally think he earned this nickname out of sheer irony.

**Also, my roommates asked me to point out the inaccuracies in the image above: apparently, one should add a large, rotund belly, rather than bulging pecks; and a flapping comb-over on his head, rather than a red cape off his back...

BWahahaha!

2008-11-03T06:31:00.000-08:00

Just wanted to show off these FABULOUS pics sent by loved ones back home:

Kara (as Share Bear) and Siena (as Cheer Bear) Piro's first Halloween...This pic kills me because a) the twins are adorable and its so fun to watch them grow, even from afar, and b) I totally had Cheer Bear! Good choice Grandma Hofmockel (the costumes' maker). Mom and Dad Piro (Alissa, my freshman year roommate at Pepperdine, and Squale, her uber-talented hubby and now a dear friend) went as Jem and He-Man to complete the children's toys theme. LOVE IT!!
The pic below is one of the girls in summer dresses from Auntie Kim that Alissa sent to me-are they NOT just the cutest??!

And this sweet cherub was born a month after the twins, to my cousins, Mark and Robin Martin. Annika got to buzz through Mark's office in her bee costume. I'm pretty sure I know how the office reacted, but I wonder what she thought of it all...Rob?

Thanks for sending those you guys!! Keep 'em coming....

Don't mess with the Mast-ah!

2008-11-03T05:24:00.000-08:00

At first appearance, our office is incredibly thoughtful, joyful, professional, self-less, and any other number of positive descriptors. But don't visit us on Friday mornings! From 9 am to 10 am, our staff regularly divides itself into six ruthless, power-hungry teams...all set on one thing: winning. My normally mild-mannered cohorts, who have regularly given up a night of sleep for the others, epitomize the word "competition" in our weekly trivia game.

Following the raucous chanting, during week one in the office, I came upon this scene and honestly had no idea how to respond! I felt like the bartered price of an auto ride as the teams "discussed" who got the newbie.

The game is administered by "the master," a wisened, old monkey...carved into a coconut. His rules prevail-he can award points as he sees fit, and just the same, he can take points away. And, what, you may ask, is the prize? Why, pride, of course...and the honor of being responsible for "the master" until the next round. We're pretty simple folk.

It is amazing to me how much you can learn about others in such a setting. Husbands have stooped so low as to blame their wives for their tardiness (an automatic deduction of points), and in the same breath claimed they should get points for their chivalry in entering the room last...At the other end of the spectrum, there is an ample amount of grace given during the game, as well: we got points despite my giving the wrong answer because I had at least made an attempt in my first week; and teams have gotten points for breaking into spontaneous song.

Seriously, though, I see this ritual as a necessary part of the work. To be able to let go and laugh in spite of the wickedness we see day to day restores hope for the world, and builds trust (strange, but true) among us. It is a part of our culture to work hard, but it's healthy to not take ourselves too seriously. And this transfers to the field.

The victims see these bonds among my teammates, and are comforted. They seem to appreciate the willingness of our staff to laugh with them, and share their burdens and fears openly (NOT usually the case in the wider culture). So, really, the master's game is essential to our mission ;o).

Okay, maybe/maybe not, but I have acquired a delightful amount of useless knowledge!

Did you know that:
- Hong Kong is made up of 235 islands??
- the Phillies are the losing-est team in sports history?? And that they've lost over 10,000 games?? (Congrats Phillies)
- the Tasmanian Devil cartoon character was created by WB to help save the endangered Australian critter from going extinct?

Working hard over here...Honest.

A nibble here, a nibble there

2008-11-02T09:47:00.001-08:00

Staring up at me, with those beady little eyes, he seemed to be saying, “Do you mind? Your monstrous tush is in my way.” For that, he got his picture taken and posted here (see below) for all to view the uppity fellow who dared to pinch my rear this Sunday.

There I was, sitting on a local beach (YES, we have beaches!) listening to the unfolding story of one of our visitors, when I suddenly felt a painful sting. Despite my efforts to swat the source of my discomfort away, it struck again. Scrambling to get away from whatever was feasting on my flesh; my tiny nemesis boldly stood his ground. The fact that he was the size of my thumbnail had not deterred him from claiming the right-of-way...

Now, I can add the welt left by his attempt to move boulders to the ever-growing collection of leprosy-looking splotches covering my body. While I could post a picture of this new addition, that does not seem even remotely appropriate. Ahh, crab bites. Good times.

Some call it pumpkin bread, I like to call it "a little slice of Heaven"

2008-11-02T05:35:00.001-08:00

Bearing teeth-rotting (but oh-so-delectable) candy corn and other fall delights, three compatriots joined us this weekend from another field office. The assembly line pictured, as well as the abundance of non-traditional (a.k.a. WESTERN) foods were the result of our iron chefs creativity...Martha Stewart would have been put to shame by the tastiness of our feast, which served about fifteen ravenous adults.

Following this goodness was a rousing game of Trivial Pursuit: Globetrotter Edition...it was strangely reminiscent of Thanksgiving, so we decided to say a big THANK YOU to all our supporters (my apologies for the "turkey-coma"-esque posture of the models ;o)) . We are truly grateful for your sacrifices and generosity.

And thank you, guests, for bringing HARVEST with you...what a treat!

Life, as we know it...

2008-10-30T09:31:00.000-07:00

The good news: we own a washing machine! No quarters necessary; no sitting on dingy, cracked plastic chairs during the final spin; no bending over a bucket full of suds, rubbing my clothes together in the hopes that the caked-on layer of dirt will relent before I do…oh, no…we know how to live it up.

The bad news: an electrical fire consumed the top of our precious machine two nights ago. It is no more. Apparently, the burden of keeping six women clean was just too much for our cream-colored box of j-o-“oy” (yes, j-o-“oi” – it’s a new favorite term). Well, it was sure wonderful while it lasted.

Pop, drop, and lock it...or something like that...

2008-10-30T04:33:00.000-07:00

The time on my phone said “7:00 AM.” Really? For the second day in a row, the incessant popping sound of firecrackers had started at sun-up. Can anyone explain the appeal of setting off these colorful explosives in broad daylight? Seriously. Alas, such is Diwali (pronounced: “Dee-vawl-ee”). The Festival of Lights-well, the OTHER festival of lights- is a three-day celebration of the triumph of good over evil (**Read the note below for more information). Those of us without family to celebrate with were invited to a feast, followed by chaos, at our director’s home.

About twenty of us gathered on their apartment building’s rooftop to gain a better understanding of why the United States (well, I can only speak for California) has so many restrictions on where and how firecrackers can be set off. Emerging from the stairwell, it sounded like we had entered the civil war (and I ardently praised God that this is a peaceful part of the country)…booms and pops surrounded us. It was truly an amazing sight.

As someone with ADD, it was almost like torture: where do I look first?!? We’d hear a steady flow of cracks from one side of the building and turn to look, but see nothing; then, hear a boom on the other side and catch the fading dust of what must have been a giant green explosion. This went on continuously for hours! Much of the excitement originated from our group on the roof.

Reason was momentarily abandoned for the joy of playing with fire and watching things explode. One building next door must have felt under attack as several bottle rockets went awry. Thank goodness they didn’t retaliate! And thank goodness for tin roofing, cement walls, and steel window frames. Words cannot capture the experience, but I am so glad I was able to witness (and live through) this holiday.

Boy, was I grateful to find our apartment building still standing as we pulled in later that evening. Some neighbors had decided it was a good idea to set their small collection of “crackers” off in the covered carport. Awesome.

**Wikipedia (the oh-so-trusted source of information…ummm) shares that Diwali, or Deepavali, is “a significant festival in Hinduism, Sikhism, Buddhism, and Jainism.” The “victory of good over evil within every human being” is symbolized by the use of lights or lamps.
For some, “it is the homecoming of King Rama of Ayodhya after a 14-year exile in the forest, after he defeated the evil Ravana.[5] The people of Ayodhya (the capital of his kingdom) welcomed Rama by lighting rows (avali) of lamps (deeva), thus its name: Deepavali. This word, in due course, became Diwali in Hindi.”
There are other significant reasons for the celebration, which can be found at: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diwali. This site is also to be thanked for the photo.

Beautiful words...

2008-10-28T00:31:00.000-07:00

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain:

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

-Emily Dickinson

(This commercial break has been brought to you while I await approval on my latest posting. I'd planned to put a really inspiring picture of a national social worker in action, but my friend's caped-crusader pose won out. Please note: the pants sparkle. Oh, yes...it's true.)

Mossie Woes

2008-10-23T10:17:00.000-07:00

Disgusted. Disturbed. Concerned. The expressions on the villagers' faces as they pointed and gawked at my swelling mosquito bite (see the self-portrait) were actually rather amusing; especially considering they had just been laughing about the fact that the mother had birthed her seventh child the week prior to this home visit. No doctors, no midwife: Just her and a neighbor woman. She had thrown that bit of information in after talking for a good twenty minutes (this was also amusing, though troubling). Mere minutes before this, I had met a man missing part of his second toe, as a result of leprosy. And they were showing ME pity? It was priceless.

Later that night, while sharing this story with my roommates, they enlightened me a bit. Apparently, the horrified looks were most likely brought on by the villagers' belief that the grotesque red bulge on my arm WAS leprosy, as my bite looked similar to the early stages of the disease.

So, yes, the mossies (a new Australian term I learned yesterday) seem to enjoy feasting on me…and, after watching the bite pictured grow for two more days, I finally made a visit to the doctor's. He was a pleasant man, who reassured me that "this is the normal reaction to our bug bites. For another three to six months, it will be like this." Fabulous. He then listed many useful tips, such as 1) sleep in a mosquito net (now, why hadn't I thought of that?); 2) wear long, 100% cotton sleeves (in THIS heat?! You've got to be kidding!); 3) use mosquito repellent (what if I WAS wearing repellent? What then??). At this, I paid him the grand equivalent of US$5.00 for his kindness in humoring me and made my way to work. Note: My ex-pat co-workers tell me that none of their reactions to bites have been like mine.

Medical Camp: Day 1

2008-10-23T09:56:00.000-07:00

Tuesday was Day 1 of our medical camp. It went really well-I was worried when I woke up to a torrential downpour and severe lightning/thunder that no one would attend, as they had to travel from their distant villages to reach the "marriage hall" (usually a huge temple-esque building used for-you guessed it-weddings). Luckily, God provided...we had plenty of supplies, incredibly dedicated volunteers, and around 120 individuals received medical attention! The families were adorable-they came dressed in their best. I was part of the registration team, which basically meant I wrote their token numbers on a sticker that was then placed on their shirt with an explanation from a national social worker on staff (and perhaps the most adorable person in the world). "Token numbers" are like the ticket you'd pull at the DMV, declaring your number place in line. "Now serving #240 at window 7" was not quite how it worked for us today, but you get the idea...total, 35 families made the trek to our location.
My favorite parts of day 1 were seeing the excitement of the visiting medical team. They were just thrilled to be a part of helping us build relationships with local, national doctors (who were required to be in attendance by the government if we were to have such an event), so that our clients will receive continued service at local hospitals and so that it will be more likely that we could do medical camps in the future.
One story told by the visiting team leader, with tears in her eyes, was that one victim asked the translator to tell her thank you for being here because normally they would have to wait for hours on end in the hospital before being seen. Today, I believe the longest waiting period was about 20 minutes, and then they had free access to: a family practitioner, nurse practitioner, dentist, physical therapist, HIV/AIDS testing, health counselors, and the appropriate medications dished out by the visiting pharmacist (also the fiance of our legal director!!!). When the American visitor heard this man's thank you, she asked that the translator inform the man that it was HER honor and privilege to be here with him. Apparently, the huge grin on the man's face at hearing this made the entire trip worthwhile.
Another positive from the day: the local doctors informed our staff leader that this was the most organized and well-done medical camp they have ever seen. That is exciting news for future victims we work with-hopefully they'll receive better care from local hospitals now! It's also fun to hear volunteers so excited about the work being done for the victims, that they are already talking about how to educate folks at home and bring in more funding for the victims.
And the last story I will tell: We have one young girl suffering from elephantitis (spelling??) in her leg. No one has been able to help her. Luckily, one of the visiting doctors knew of an organization that another team member has a connection to that specializes in such cases. So, we may be able to get this precious girl the help she truly needs. Yay for good ol' networking!
Let's pray for similarly successful days Wed. and Thurs., and that the excitement for our exhausted volunteers/staff continues...(another favorite part of the day was interacting with the little kids, naturally. The people are some of the most beautiful people I have ever seen...and we had a coloring area for the kids-they proudly showed me their work afterward-LOVED that!)

How one survives monsoon season...

2008-10-21T11:35:00.000-07:00

--

Ladies' Craft Night at the token Aussies'...minus the craft. Oh, well-next time, perhaps? This shows of few of the ladies hard at work preparing our feast.

That same night, we had 8 girls crowded around a laptop watching a live sonogram...who knew that was even an option?? Only ONE of the eight even knew the baby's mama, mind you.

This image makes me happy: gotta love the pink, child-sized rain suit...

Election 2008

2008-10-21T11:05:00.001-07:00

Last Thursday, I was able to vote for our future (fingers-crossed) president. Some brilliant ex-pats (other non-nationals) working at the local U.S. Consulate figured out how to provide absentee ballots for those of us who had not received ours yet. To save time on returning our ballots (and increasing the likelihood that our votes will count), they planned to send them with the weekly consulate mail.

It was quite weird to see so many (non-roommate) ex-pats in one space, but it felt great to be able to exercise my civic duty, even from afar. In a way, I felt like I was surrounded by family. Thank goodness for well-informed roomies who were able to help me find this random event!

Please be encouraged to take the time to participate in this election...whomever you chose to vote for~

*Side note: A comment made by one of our national staff today to my roommate was that he likes Gov. Palin because "she's funny...she doesn't seem to take it seriously...I think she should be your vice president," to which my roommate could only reply with: "I am deeply offended by that comment." HAHAHA!

Keeping it light...

2008-10-21T10:52:00.000-07:00

While awaiting approval from HQ on my latest blogspot, I wanted to pass along a link to just one example of how we've kept ourselves entertained over here during the last few rainy nights...
A flash mob is apparently a phenomenon that, sadly, I JUST heard about. These are a few of the original FLASH MOB images. While I feel for the poor individuals that are singled-out in each clip, I do bust out in uncontrollable fits of laughter every time I see it. Oh, the simple things that bring one joy...
http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=e65_1199304869

Greetings from South Asia!

2008-10-12T06:11:00.000-07:00

This Saturday marked the one-week anniversary of my arrival. Although it seems like forever since I left San Francisco, it has only been a week and a half...wow, really?! It's true what has been said about days spent in another culture actually being the equivalent of weeks, due to the amount of new information/experiences an individual is taking in...hopefully, by keeping this blog, I will better remember and be better able to process what is happening here on a daily basis.

Thus far, I have been acquainted with my new roommates (yes, all five...count them: FIVE), and co-workers; oriented to my new office, flat (i.e. apartment-extraordinaire), and role as a Fellow. I'll be working on becoming acquainted with the neighborhood for a good while....I can't even remember how to pronounce my street name yet! Oi!

In the coming weeks, I will try to post entries detailing my life here, as much as I am allowed;o). If you have any particular requests for information, please feel free to email me directly at: kjwhitta@gmail.com.

Thanks for keeping up with what's happening...

For now, here's my Top Ten of Living with Five (other) Girls:
10) There is a collaborative appreciation for dancing...
09) There is always someone to talk to...
08) Our place is always well-stocked for life's necessities...
07) Our apartment complex security guards are very protective of our group.
06) We all fit in an auto...whether on laps or side-bars.
05) There are plenty of shoes to choose from...
04) There were plenty of traditional outfits to choose from for my first day in the field...
03) Collectively, they have been through it all! So, I am saved from a number of embarrassing occurrences daily...
02) I have yet to cook a meal for myself (everyone is very generous, thoughtful, and seem to have uncanny skills in the art of cooking).
01) I have yet to be late to work...with four people depending on you, there's no way I want to be the last one ready!