Shikshantar

I’ve recently come into contact with and become interested in an organisation who are anti-qualfications, Shikshantar. They’ve got a pretty radical philosophy, not dissimilar to the Montessori principle, that degrees and qualifications in general are worthless and should be scrapped.

                Maybe I had a particularly good degree course, or perhaps I’ve been institutionalised, but at first glance I don’t entirely agree with everything they’re suggesting. Contrary to what they say in their booklet ‘Healing Ourselves from the Diploma Disease’, I didn’t spend the last four years of my life pointlessly ‘memoriz[ing] de-contextualized facts’, rather I was developing a critical thought process which I think is vital in becoming an aware and rational citizen in the real world and just generally being interested in things with other people who were interested in similar things. I’m fully aware that a certified first class understanding of medieval poetry does not an engaged community member make, but the skills I built along the way have value far beyond the exam hall. It also opened doors in me own interests that I would otherwise not even have considered, and without which I would not have found myself at their dinner last night. So no, I won’t be starting an auto-da-fé of degree certificates outside the Students’ Union any time soon.

                But they have a lot to say that I am fully in support of. Having a piece of fancy paper with a number on it is not the answer to life, the universe and everything. It is impossible to develop an understanding of other cultures from your favourite desk in the library. A PGCE cannot teach you the enthusiasm that transforms a mediocre teacher into a great mentor. Being a master baker doesn’t come from a scientific understanding of the process of coagulation. In short, life experience cannot be certified. To be clear, they are not against institution-based learning, rather the fact that education has become less about learning and more about getting the right piece of paper with the right logo and the right number on it. It can’t be ignored that 75% of people in my uni classes were just chasing that magic 2:1 so they can get a marginally less mediocre job in an office with bigger windows and more pot plants.

                Learning should be about curiosity; finding the end of an intriguing looking thread and unravelling something purely because it’s interesting and not because it will get you somewhere. Of course it is true that you will get more out of it that way, but it has to be said that that if that passion is the works of a particular medieval romance poet, the university library is not a bad place to start.

The Silver Screen

Topics for the last few posts have been a little on the heavy side, so here’s something a little bit lighter.

                We all have an image of Bollywood in our heads even if you (like me, until a couple of months ago) couldn’t name a single film: Tellytubby-style colours, huge crowds of head wobbling dancers in the streets, the totally over the top fight scenes. I’m going to be honest, it’s all true, but actually, I have genuinely enjoyed every film I’ve seen. Not even in a ‘so bad it’s good’ way, but genuine enjoyment. Despite the super-cheesy, attention-grabbing, money-spinning dance routines (check out my favourite: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LX0Ced3G5eg&hd=1), the characters are engaging and the storylines pretty memorable. There does seem to be some sort of Bollywood checklist that means that each film has to have love, death, marriage, babies, fight scenes, suicide,  murder, weddings (I could go on), so a numb bum is an integral part of the viewing experience, but nonetheless I’m honestly considering stocking up my DVD collection.

                On the other hand, there’s television. I can only assume that the entire budget for India’s entertainment media is spent on the film industry, so all TV is supplied by the same small team armed with a rudimentary understanding of production and an 80s camcorder. There seem to be two main categories: soaps and series based on legends and epics. The soaps are all the same: new wife, bitchy sister-in-law with a slightly evil husband, large-bosomed matriarch and her husband in a stonking great house in which everyone has three assigned places to stand. In a thirty minute episode, approximately fourteen minutes are supreme close-ups of people looking shocked/ angry/ upset and another nine minutes of adverts. I like to think that Indian drama schools have whole modules on melodramatic facial expressions, eyebrow control like that only comes with some serious practice. The series about legends are a lot better (or at least, more entertaining), if only because of the phenomenal range of fake moustaches. Think back to the adventure films of the late 80s/ early 90s to get an idea of the special effects and evil cackling involved, then add a lot of men in skirts and huge gold hats that even the Pope would be jealous of- voila! An instant hit. It’s honestly difficult to tell whether a programme is aimed at adults or children, but at least I have now realised that my true calling is to be a TV moustache-dresser.

At Your Service

                Before I came out here, I did a lot of thinking about how I was going to handle situations I was uncomfortable; child labour, sexism etc. One thing that it didn’t even occur to me to consider was how I would deal with servants. I didn’t even realise that people outside of Downton had servants any more. As far as I’m concerned, your parents do your cooking and cleaning until you’re deemed responsible enough to handle a microwave and hoover, and then you’re on your own; it’s the very definition of adulthood.

                And yet here I am, awaiting the delivery of my morning chai and parantha, and mentally apologising to the cleaning lady for the mess we made of the floor picking off our henna last night. I have three meals a day cooked for me and spend every morning attempting to find somewhere to sit where I can dodge the relentless sweeping and mopping (I now appreciate the value magic of carpets; they just absorb all the dust and general urgh and nobody is any the wiser...) Some people might enjoy lazing around while all the household stuff is done for them, but not me.

                Firstly, there’s the independence issue I’ve already mentioned, but there’s more to it than that. I have absolutely no idea how to treat someone who spends a large chunk of every day in the house but isn’t a family member, and it seems that they’re not sure how to treat me, either. Kailash, the cooking lady, and I are great buddies – I try my best to chat with her in my (still) minimal Hindi, and she does a lot of smiling in return (through probably out of sympathy). A sound basis for a friendship, I think. The cleaning lady, on the other hand, won’t even look at me when I give my daily cheery ‘Namaste!’ but rather just continues mopping under my feet.

                Then there’s the added complication of national history; having spent 200 years bossing Indians about, I think we Brits have a real reticence about doing it in our daily lives. I know my family felt the same towards our (black) maid that worked in our villa during a holiday in the Caribbean. On top of that, I just don’t like people touching my stuff. It’s my mess, and I know perfectly well where everything is, thank you very much.

                On the other hand, it is a job. You can look at being a servant as being no different to being a cleaner in a school or a chef in a restaurant, but for me it’s very different to equate what happens within the home with the public sphere. 

The Mortal Coil

Unlike many young visitors to India, I never had any intention to ‘find myself’ here or to waft about in a kaftan smoking dubious organic material. You are highly unlikely to find me cleansing my chakras or whatever in an ashram; that’s just not my bag. But even with my staunch atheism, it’s very difficult not to be affect by the spirituality that permeates every aspect of life here.

                One of the things that has most struck me is the attitude towards death. Maybe it comes from having a faith, maybe it comes from being a developing country where mortality is very much present (having never witnessed anything more than your average roadkill, since being here I’ve seen 2 dead cows, countless dogs, three cremations and three actual human corpses, as well as two unpleasant encounters with electricity myself), but the taboo that surrounds death at home just isn’t present here. It’s just another part of life, and all that really counts for anything is the present moment. Nothing really sums that up better than the fact that the Hindi words for ‘tomorrow’ and ‘yesterday’ are the same.

                A month or so ago I made a post about how many people hang around the streets doing nothing; it’s time for me to balance that out a bit. The people who I’ve met in the various projects I’ve been involved with have all had an incredible optimism for the future, which I think is actually rooted in this belief in the present. Because the fear of oblivion that stalks ‘the First World’ isn’t so present, there isn’t the mad scramble to leave one’s mark and claim glory, but rather the focus is on actually doing something that matters. I’ve been seriously impressed by the number of perfectly ordinary people who’ve decided to start a school or fight governmental corruption or take on an international corporation, and just got on with it. And believe it or not, it works! It really is inspiring to see both the power of the individual and the strength of the co\mmunity in action. That’s not to say that it’s plain sailing all the way, of course there are issues with knowing how to play the system (and a corrupt one at that), but nevertheless, the increasingly pessimistic ‘West’ could do with taking a few leaves from the Indian book of optimism.

Coca Cola Campaign

I don’t like Coke. First of all, it doesn’t actually taste like anything else on this planet, which makes me just a little suspicious. Plus it makes your more thirsty than you were before, which to me is exactly the opposite of why I have a drink. Then there are the terrible things it does to your body (http://www.trueactivist.com/what-happens-to-our-body-after-drinking-coca-cola/). Nothing that started out life containing cocaine can be good for you, in my book.

                But that’s just for starters. Drinking Coke has an international impact that people are gradually getting increasingly aware of, but awareness is still low. Lok Samiti, one of the organisations I’ve been working with out here in India, has been leading the Quit India campaign against Coca Cola for some time, focusing principally on the removal of the Varanasi plant. These ordinary people (farmers, housewives, shopkeepers etc.) have faced terrible police violence and prison sentences as well as undergoing hunger strikes in a desperate attempt to save their water supply. Since the arrival of the Coke plant in 2000, the water level in the surrounding areas has dropped dramatically, to the point that many wells are out of action for much of the year. Seriously, I’ve seen the graphs; if they were ski runs, they’d be beyond black. Of course, Coke have spouted all the usual ‘local jobs’ tripe, but at the end of the day, buffalo don’t drink fizzy drinks. There are a couple of great films that have been made that can show you in a much more powerful way than I can write, and I recommend you check them out: http://www.cultureunplugged.com/documentary/watch-online/play/10489/Holy-Water

                And that’s just what’s going on here; there’s a ton of other issues ranging from the dodgy to the deadly. Trying to bribe US Congress to cut donations to WHO because it makes Coke look bad, death squads in Columbia (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/business/1448962.stm), using child labour in Pakistan, racism in plants in the US... the list goes on. At my own uni, there was an attempt to ban Coke from the Union, which ultimately failed as it was necessary for financial stability – is it right that one corporation should be so central to what ought to be an independent, democratic body? I think not. Feel free to research this stuff in your own time, but just remember, next time you ‘share a Coke with friends’, be aware of exactly what it is that you are sharing.

Feeeeeeeed me!!

You might be wondering why I, amateur gourmande that I am, haven’t said anything yet about food. Well believe you me, it’s not for lack of trying, but every time I attempt to, words literally fail me. How can you, sat reading this at your computer, possibly understand just how good kachouris are, or how weirdly refreshing it is to feel a pani puri explode in your mouth, or the phenomenal sweet creaminess of lassi handmade from thick milk straight from the cow? I could give describing it a good go, but to be honest I think that would just be unfair on you. Suffice it to say that everything is just amazing (except one strange white vegetable that looks a lot like pear but is horribly bitter; I don’t like that. And the bread – that’s just awful. Sugary and pumped with preservatives). But I feel that I ought to say something on the subject, so here we go.

The vast majority of people I’ve been living with have been vegetarian, so I’ve mostly been off meat for six weeks. And, now this is something I’d never thought I’d say, I actually prefer it that way. I’ve really enjoyed being handed bowlfuls of mysterious vegetables that I’ve never seen before; I’ve given up asking what they are, because the answer doesn’t actually elucidate anything. The humble pulse has totally won me over, and I’ll be stocking up on dahl recipes before I go home. I have had meat, but it’s always been goat or mutton and has been incredibly fatty, something I’d generally rather not eat more than once a week. The chickens that I’ve seen outside the butchers’ don’t exactly look free-range, either. So I think that given the choice, I’m going to stick with vegetarianism. Besides, there’s paneer to add into the equation – not great on its own, but delicious when cooked up in a thick sauce with a fresh roti.

Then there’s a whole universe of street food. Everywhere you go, the streets are filled with stalls selling various different goodies; being out at the festivals is the most tormenting experience as I just want to stuff my face with everything going. Everybody seems to have their own favourite stall, but how you work out just which one that is out of the multitudes on offer, I have no idea. Same goes for chai wallahs; with everyone having their own individual take on that famous Indian beverage (which is what you’ll be getting chez moi from now on, by the way), you need to navigate the myriads of interpretations on offer. I personally favour a strong cardamom presence, but that’s just me.

And sweets... Indian sweets are just a whole different species. My adventures in Laddu-land has not been very extensive yet, but one day soon I’m going to buy myself a whole box of sticky treats and undertake a very serious, thorough investigation. What I can tell you is that sweet items seem to come under one of two main categories: quite delicately flavoured pulse-flour based delicacies, and seriously syrupy, oily pastries that have your teeth running for the hills. Either way, you can guarantee that they’ll be plentiful at all special occasions, from birthday parties to festivals, and even feature in religious ceremonies.

A quick note on mealtimes (sorry, I know this is a long post). Indians eat really late, and it’s something that my body has taken a long time to adapt to. Breakfast is at about 9, mostly something savoury (leftovers from the night before, maybe) and often a dairy dish such as homemade yoghurt or kir, which is a sort of rice pudding with dried fruit and nuts. Lunch is usually 2 or 3ish and evening meal not until 9 or even 10. Every meal will come with rice and/ or roti, and often with a potato (aloo) dish. And it’s a pretty hefty portion... people struggle to understand that I a) only eat one carbohydrate with a meal and b) don’t need a serving the size of my head. Generally people go straight to bed after dinner, having got up at dawn to start the daily house cleaning ritual.

The humble Friday night takeaway will never be the same again.

Mind Your Manners

I had thought that my friends and I were as pretty cosmopolitan bunch - we've lived across the world, travelled a lot and come from various different backgrounds. And I guess we are, in our own very European ('Western'? I'm never sure what the best way to phrase that is) way, but really we come from a pretty closed milieu. It’s only during the last 5 weeks, while I’ve been living with rural Indian communities, that I’ve realised just how much it is possible for attitudes to differ, particularly regarding manners.

                It took me a good two weeks to reset my rude-ometer, preset to its customary British levels of politeness, and not be affronted every time somebody (often perfect strangers) grabbed at my possessions or waltzed into ‘my’ room to stretch out on ‘my’ bed. I’ve talked about privacy and personal space before, but I’m just going to reiterate for you: there isn’t any. Even when I’ve had the luxury of locking the door, if somebody wants to get in then they’d just bash away until I opened it. I learned pretty quickly that it was less hassle to leave it wide open.

                Then there’s the volume level. I often totally failed to realise that people were talking to me, even in English, because it sounded like they were conversing with somebody three rooms away rather than somebody right in front of them. Which brings me back round to language again. I know I bang on a lot about understanding the local language as being the key to understanding a culture, but it’s absolutely 100% true. As a Brit, with our very particular way of dressing requests up in layer upon layer of niceties, it’s genuinely a shock to be told ‘Get out of the car’ or ‘Move that bag’. Until you can work out what locals are saying to each other, you just won’t realise that here there is none of the ‘Would you mind...?’s or ‘May I...?’s. Imperatives are the order of the day (pun 1000% intended).

                But the spitting. Oh, the spitting. Now this I really struggle with. That now-familiar sound of ‘hkhaarrkharrrraarghhhh-phut-splat’ (pronounced as written, ish) is just delightful to my ears, and even more so to my eyes. (This is India is my mantra. This is India.) In fact I did a class on manners and etiquette with my more advanced group and drew up a guide for Indians visiting the UK – one suggestion was ‘Don’t spit in front of you, do spit to the side.’ Nice try, kid, but no cigar this time. And there’s a lot of stuff I could go on about, but I’m not going to because I don’t want you to get the impression that all this is a problem. Although it all takes a lot of getting used to, that is precisely the point. It is up to me (or any foreigner visiting) to make the effort to get used to it all and to suppress the instinctive look of disgust or offence, because here, quite simply, none of this is disgusting or offensive.

All natural

I’m going to let you into a few secrets, just between friends. You may find what I am about to say disgusting, or even shocking. If you do, I suggest you reconsider any plans you had made to live in a developing country, where this is all rather normal.

               Firstly, I’ve sort of given up washing my hair. While the women here spend ages brushing, oiling and plaiting their extensive tresses, I quite simply cannot be bothered. The combination of dust, pollution and humidity means that my once-luscious locks look the same whether I washed them an hour or a week ago, i.e. not dissimilar to a low-grade scarecrow. Every time I shake my head to dislodge a fly, I get a free shower of grey dust  (which then lodges itself in my pores, kindly giving me the skin of a teenager again). The first thing I plan to do once I’m back in the UK is treat myself to the world’s deepest condition.

               Secondly, I’ve stopped wearing deodorant. Admittedly, that is a bit icky, but I don’t think anyone can tell, provided I don’t wave my arms about. In my defence, I’ve read in a lot of places that mosquitoes are attracted to synthetic beauty products, so it’s a question of the health of my liver! And anyway, I’m going to play the life experience card, and say if I can’t do it when I’m living somewhere where I have to walk through the cowshed to get to the shower, then when can I?

               And here’s the big one…. I have renounced toilet paper. WHAT?!?! I hear you cry in consternation. Well, to be honest, I don’t have a choice. Nobody else uses it and you can’t buy it even in the big supermarkets. The plumbing system can’t cope with it and there are no bins in the bathrooms (Note: there are no bins anywhere. I have enough mental anguish dropping biodegradable rubbish in the street, let alone lobbing used bog roll around.) I’ll be honest, it took me a while to work out what the alternative was, until I noticed that a recurring feature of all bathrooms/ squat loos is a small plastic jug. That’s right, my friends, you have to sort of rinse. With your hands. And then waft about a bit until you’re dry enough to continue on your merry way. Now that does take some getting used to, but as they say: When in Rome!

Hindlish

Language is a strange thing. We say that we are ‘studying’ a language as if it’s a solid entity that can be observed and inspected, like a statue in a museum; but really, they are living entities, constantly morphing and shifting. They have to be – our modern, technological society would struggle to function if we were all speaking like a character from Chaucer. Now, I know this as well as anybody, and it’s what makes being a linguist exciting, but there is still quite a large part of my brain that is a definite language snob. (You there across the pond, stop pretending you speak English, be honest with yourselves and call it American.)

               So here’s my problem: Hindlish. I’m spending these three weeks working as an English teacher, and that is precisely what I intend to teach. English. From England. But the language that’s developing here is a strange beast, with its own individual quirks. Take my class yesterday, for example. The topic was ‘polite requests’, so I set the kids to create short dialogues at the market, buying various things, which they then presented to the class (with varying degrees of success). One of the boys informed me that he ‘would like to recharge [his] phone’ – a strange request at the market, you might think. I know full well that what he means is that he wants to top-up his credit, but was what he said wrong? In England, yes, it would be wrong – the shopkeeper would give you a seriously weird look, thinking you wanted to borrow a plug socket. But here it’s in current usage. So, as an English teacher, employed to work with kids who want international careers as engineers, doctors, lawyers etc., is my responsibility to teach them my native tongue or the developing hybrid that is already a major force in their own country? I think as I’m only here for a very short time, there’s little point in trying to reshape something that’s already ingrained, but I’d genuinely be interested to hear from anybody who’s faced a similar problem doing ESL for longer term.

Never leave home without a porpoise

Those of you who know me well know that there’s nothing I hate more than a day without a purpose. So imagine, for a moment, the difficulty I’ve had being stuck in the house with no work and not even those dark corners of the internet or daytime TV to distract me from my own boredom. But no longer! For the next three weeks I’m going to back in the classroom of an NGO school, chalk in hand, irregular past participles at the ready. Resources are very low, but the kids are very enthusiastic and that’s what’s important. It’ll also be my first time teaching above primary level, which is a bit intimidating.

But back to the issue at hand; people here really seem to struggle to understand my need to be busy. Yesterday I was actually told that I should avoid doing any hard work! They seem baffled by the hours I spend surrounded by books and my trusty Rosetta Stone or attempting to work out in the middle of the floor, a 21^st century Countess of Monte Cristo. Vast swathes of the rural population seem to be pretty content doing absolutely nothing. I mean, serious amounts of nothing. We all appreciate the odd pyjama day, but the streets here are filled with people who are just, well, existing. They’re not buying or selling anything, or waiting for anyone, they even seem to accumulate in large groups in order to not communicate in a strange sort of silent, isolated social situation. They don’t even look like they’re thinking about anything, just existing,

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to say that Indian people are lazy; I’ve been very fortunate to meet a lot of people who are extremely dedicated and driven and have achieved incredible things. I also know that there are massive issues with unemployment and labour rights, so it is highly likely that these people don’t have anything they can do. I’m not passing judgement, just observing; principally because at this particular moment in time, I too have nothing to do.

Random Musings

Some things I don't think I could ever get used to:

• Being stared at
• Long distance spitting and loud phlegm removal
• Hitting (friends, children, pets... anything really)
• Seeing kids doing manual labour
• Emaciated and mutilated street animals
• Dark rooms with very small windows
• Absence of toilet paper

Some things I'm really surprised that I am used to:

• Drinking copious amounts of chai
• Oncoming traffic on single direction roads
• Risking life and limb to cross the road
• Riding motorbikes with no helmet
• Mattress-free beds
• Washing from a bucket
• People pooing by the side of the road (Why I'm ok with this and not spitting, I don't know. Though I won't be joining them)
• Being vegetarian (Though if anybody fancies sending me a very rare steak and a cheese hamper of Christmas, I wouldn't refuse it)

The Empire stares back

               Dear ex-colonies of the world,

               In days gone by, we did bad things to you. We catalogued you with our cameras, made you dance at our dinner parties and made human zoos at our exhibitions. For all those things, we are sorry. We won’t do it again. I suppose you could say that we deserve the same treatment in return, but haven’t we got past the whole eye for an eye thing?

               Love, ‘the West’

               Avid followers of this scintillating publication may remember that a while ago I talked a bit about staring, and how you just have to develop a thick skin and ignore it. Well it turns out that no skin is impermeable. I recently went to distribute medication in a flood-hit village that had literally never seen a white person before and now almost see the appeal of the burkha. I spent four hours under close scrutiny, and I mean close – people were drawing up chairs, Abramovitch-style, in order get a really good, long look. A man with a stick was employed to herd children away from me. I was paraded around the local school, where I was asked if the reason for my whiteness was horrific burns. After three hours of this, I had been driven into a dark corner with my companions Quasimodo and the Phantom of the Opera, either about to deck someone or burst into tears, until I was rescued by the village president bearing samosas. Now, being stared at by a group of middle aged men isn’t actually much of an improvement on hordes of children, but fresh street food and sugary treats did do something to improve my mood.

               I’ve always been unsure about my standpoint on zoos (provided their doing important conservation work, I’m anti-zoos for entertainment), but now my mind is made up. Nobody wants to feel like that. And should I ever pass a celebrity in the street, I shall look pointedly in the other direction and hope I don’t walk into a lamppost.

Girlpower?

Last week I was invited to a Women’s Meeting at the local town hall; Hurrah! thought I. This is where I get to see how all those issues I spent so long reading about are really being dealt with. What nobody told me was that I too would be making a speech, in front of about 500 local people as well as the head honcho and founder of the charity. So, as the talks (in Hindi) got underway, I plastered a look of ‘Indeed? Most interesting’ across my face and set about thinking about what I was going to say. It was actually surprisingly difficult, considering that I generally have a lot to say on the subject of gender relations and can talk about the history of dowry, infanticide and marriage until the cows come home. But then that little voice called Cultural Awareness popped up again. Useful as it is in the world of academia to be able to quote famous figures and historians, I don’t actually have any real insight into these issues, so I figured it would be best to leave that side of things up to the women who have been living with these issues their whole lives. (Incidentally, these problems are still very prevalent; I’ve seen two newspaper reports on dowry murder and even wrestled with myself about getting involved when a man harassed his wife outside my door in the middle of the night.)

In the end, I decided to for the fairly safe, but immensely important issue of ‘women’s problems’ not only being problems for women, but for the whole of society. It went down very well, much applause and congratulatory food (including a pastry thing so unbelievably sweet that I think it was made of unicorns and pixies).

But here’s the problem. The very same evening, the father of the family that I was staying with at the time felt compelled to leave the room we were all in because I carelessly revealed my knee. Now, this is a man who is constantly wandering around, fiddling with his lunghi, his own knees very much on show. I dutifully covered up, but took the opportunity to open a discussion on why it was perfectly fine for him to be nude-kneed but not me; the response was ‘because that’s Indian culture’ - essentially the classic fallback argument of ‘because it is’. And this is coming from the same women who had earlier told me that the earlier meeting and my speech had been ‘a very proud day.’ Despite considerable discussion, the idea that this seemingly insignificant issue of skin display could be in any way linked to big problems like female infanticide seemed to completely elude them. Like I’ve said before, I’m not here to cause a feminist revolution, but it’s incredibly difficult to understand and be ok with women who want to make progress but don’t see that it is only possible when the value of women is equal to that of men in all respects. A leg for a leg, as it were.

School Days

We in the UK may have had a few minor gripes with our education system over the last few years (I, for one, want to overhaul the language system in a bloody scholastic coup, but keep that quiet), but let’s be honest, we have one of the best education systems in the world, and we know it. Those with a less fortunate draw in the post code lottery may disagree, and would be right to, but on a global scale we’re pretty bloody lucky.  And it’s got nothing whatsoever to do with I-Pads or SmartBoards. (Incidentally, I find it somewhat dubious that politicians are handing out free laptops here, in an area where there isn’t even a reliable flow of electricity – buying votes, much?)

Since I’ve been in India, I’ve been watching different groups of kids learn, and it’s been an eye-opener. The work of the DAAN Foundation in Udaipur, to which I hope to return at the end of the month, is aiming less to create an academic experience than an educational one, which is not at all the same thing. Samvit is trying to promote an outlook on life that is aware, independent, conscientious and forward thinking – things we would take for granted, like not throwing rubbish in the streets and expressing personal opinions. My time in Sandila has shown me exactly how important this is.

The kids here spend about four hours a day in government schools, with only half an hour on each subject. A group then comes to the house in the afternoons for homework help and a little extra practice, which is when I get contact with them. It’s less what they are learning that is an issue, but the way they are doing so; they learn by rote, memorising huge chunks of textbooks in English with absolutely no evidence whatsoever that they understand. The same even goes for maths, copying out sums they’ve already solved as if writing them out again would hammer home the whole principle. I even watched one girl painstakingly copying an incredibly detailed diagram of a heart, with every single line and speckle in place, but not a single label. She thrust it at me proudly, asking what I thought; when I said it wasn’t finished without labels, she told me there weren’t any on the original diagram, so they can’t be that important.

This lack of independent thought goes all the way to university level. Firstly, the resources are incredibly low (the library, about the size of that of my tiny village primary school, is open for half an hour a day), and even textbooks contain model answers that the students just highlight chunks in. Secondly, there’s a uniform. Now, anybody who’s given a passing nod to Foucault will tell you that control of the body is also control of the mind. It’s impossible to self-express when you’re part of a crowd.

So, what this all comes down to, in my mind, is a pretty sorry state of affairs. Resources and materials are one problem, but the real issue looks to me to be a lot deeper. Asha, the NGO I’m working with here, is an anti-corruption charity, aiming to make people aware of their rights, but it seems to me that until the education system permits the development of a nation of independent, analytical thinkers who ask ‘why?’ and not ‘what?’, the massively damaged political system will be very slow to change indeed. Knowing that the syllabus in the hands of these politicians, and seeing their faces plastered on the screens of every free university laptop is a very sobering thought indeed.

Stiff Upper Lip

If you’ve been wondering if I’d dropped off the face of the Earth over the last little while, you would not have been too far wrong. My address over the last week has been ‘The Squat Loo, Rani’s House, Rural Indian Town.’ I’ve only finally emerged because I’ve taken so much Immodium that I may as well not have a rectum. (Sharing is caring!)

            But my digestive issues aside, it’s interesting what happens when your personal limits are tested like this. Many, probably even most people would have problems with the flat white cockroach lurking in the lightless squat loo, washing from the hand pump behind a towel or the world’s least comfortable bed (imagine, if you will, an 18^th century farmhouse kitchen table, covered with a 0.25 tog duvet that has been put through the washing machine at 60° several hundred times. You now have a fairly accurate description), but actually, all this doesn’t bother me a huge amount. I’d be lying if I said I was enjoying it, but I can cope.

            What I am seriously struggling with, however, is a lot more mental. Firstly, the large expanses of nothing-to-do-ness mean my brain is like a panther shut in bird cage. An empty bird cage. (Mohini’s comment: ‘You have done something today, you chopped an onion.’ Not exactly what it says on my supremely expensive Employment visa.) I’ve been henna-ed and threaded and made a pair of trousers, but done very little of any real use. Hopefully this afternoon, though, I’ll be conducting some interviews, in Hindi. Interesting.

            Secondly, the big thing which I knew I’d have issues with, but didn’t realize how much it would affect my whole mentality – a total lack of personal space. ‘My room’ is a misnomer – it’s also the office, living room, classroom, printer repair centre, back door, generator cupboard and mosquito hatchery. The upstairs room is generally full of women drinking tea, charging their phones or just generally observing my every movement. There are only certain places where I’m allowed to sit, lest my coveted paleness come into contact with a sliver of sunbeam, though I am permitted to be escorted for a trudge along the main road once the sun’s gone down.

            I’m going to try and stick it out, I don’t want to be the pampered white girl that can’t hack it, but it turns out that the Great British Stiff Upper Lip is maintained not by tea and collar starch, but rather by privacy and a rapidly dwindling loo roll supply.

Busy... beetles?

So along with the youth centre and trips to temples, we’ve been doing some pretty interesting classes and activities. This week we’ve saluted the sun in yoga, ridden camels, learned to cook(ish) and attempted to play traditional instruments. I have new respect for the humble chapatti and those who make them – you need fingertips of steel to make those things! And then there’s the challenge of getting them completely round (important note, ladies – if your chapattis aren’t round then you’ll never get married. Imagine how much your partner would suffer from the indignity of having to eat misshapen bread. Shame on you.) Camels also aren’t as uncomfortable as you might have thought (perhaps a different story if you’re a guy, I wouldn’t know), though a lack of stirrups is somewhat disconcerting. The few hours we spent with the musicians were rather fascinating; it turns out that I can more or less handle the drums, but the 17 stringed violin-type thing was a little bit above my skill level. Seriously people, how do you manage all that thinking at once?!

Everyone who has been involved in giving us these classes has been someone from Sam’s extensive network of contacts – no tourist traps for us! It’s meant some fairly intense tuk tuk rides going out to villages in the hills, as the Jeep is still with the mechanic (it is fixed, it’s just... not starting.) You’d be surprised how tenacious those little things are. We managed to get all the way up to a hilltop goddess temple, up roads that my little Mitsubishi would refuse to have anything to do with. But there definitely is a gap in the market for a Jeep-able bra for Jeep-able roads – all that shaking and bumping around gets just a teeny weeny bit uncomfortable.

Yesterday we also went out to where the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel was filmed. Now, generally I don’t think it’s a good idea to go to film sets, as far as I’m concerned it only destroys the magic of the film when you see how small or CGI-ified the whole place is, but this was an interesting insight into the Indian mindset. Anywhere in Europe or the USA that had a connection to a film would have at least a gift shop and display, if not greenscreen photo set-up, neon signs, replicas of the characters etc. And it would no doubt be heaving with inappropriately dressed, camera-wielding international tourists. But this place was, in essence, precisely what it was in the film: a crumbling, badly managed hotel (and not even close to Jaipur). I suppose the set research team did an excellent job.

Man! I feel like a woman.

If you’ve been keeping up regularly with these little brain splurges, then you may well remember that as a feministy- and generally femaley-type human being, I was a bit concerned about how I was cope with the whole situation. Well, here is an update on those thoughts.

                We’ve all heard about the staring and I’m sure you’re aware of the usual tips: cover up, fake wedding ring, dark glasses etc. I’m going to put this very simply: there is no stopping it, you just have to filter it out and try not to let it bother you. What is more difficult to deal with, however, is people flinging their baby/ grandma/ next-door-neighbour’s cousin’s goat at you and insisting on taking a photo, without so much as a ‘do you mind?’ or even asking your name. But actually I don’t think this is a gender issue so much as a racial one. The two boys I’m with have the same problem and, in general, people don’t care which of them they have a photo with, provided they can just permanently record the spectral glow of our luminescent skin (trust me – we even seem to glow in the dark). My question is what do these people do with these photos? Do they go running home desperate to show their family this mysterious white being they encountered in the street? According to Samvit, we’re now their girl/friends – seems a tad desperado to me.

                The only other time I’ve really been in a gender conundrum was at a village dinner. Don’t get me wrong, it was a great evening – fab food (as always, and from now on I’m only eating my curry served from a bucket), but I’ll be honest, the situation made me a tad uncomfortable. The men and children sat on half of the field, facing each other, and the women on the other. I haven’t seen a gender divide like that since primary school discos, separated by the Panda Pop table. I felt very much like diving in the middle and shouting ‘I don’t believe in the gender binary –GROUP HUG!’ but somehow I don’t think that would have gone down too well. ‘So what did you decide?’ I hear you cry. I’ll tell you what I did. I did what any self-respecting English-person would do... I dithered, until I was guided to the men’s side with the rest of our group. Was that the right thing to do? I don’t know. I imagine I would have had a very insightful night if I had sat with the ladies, but then again as talking isn’t really the done thing at Indian meals then maybe I would have just been very lonely. Nobody objected to me being there, so why anybody else? I don’t know, like I said, I’m not here to cause a feminist revolution. Cultural awareness seems to be winning out so far.

Just a Touch Touristy

So let me run by you some of the more touristy stuff the stuff we’ve been up to outside of the centre. But please don’t stress at me for not having photos yet – I’m trying my best! They’re just refusing to load, but I’ll have a quiet word with them on the side and see if they’ll think about their behaviour.

We’ve had a good dose of temples, starting with Eklingji and Nagda. Eklingji is still very much a working temple, complete with people making and selling garlands of flowers as offerings. Because it is still an immensely popular place of worship, we got shunted around a bit by the people who (perfectly reasonably) just wanted to get on with their prayers rather than inspect the architecture and countless statues and pictures of deities and demi-gods. But then again, I would always rather see a building full of life and being used for its original purpose rather than as an empty monument. Jagadish temple, right in the centre of Udaipur, was similar, although not as intricate. We got a guided tour from one of the students from the traditional art school, who pointed out the various features of the temple. One major tip – take socks with you for temple visits, the marble gets bloody hot under bare feet, even if it is white.

Nagda temple, on the other hand, is no longer used as a place of worship. According to the guy who took us on a very in-depth tour, it was destroyed by the Mughal invasion (but between you and me, and without getting too deep into the particulars of Mughal history, I’d take this with a pinch of salt). To start with, it didn’t look particularly destroyed to me – the carvings, despite dating from the eighth century, were remarkably clear. Anyone who’s anyone is carved on the building somewhere – Shiva, Krishna, Lakshmi, Radha, Ganesha, everybody involved in the Karma Sutra, the guy getting intimate with a donkey...

We’ve also just got back from the City Palace, a beautiful building which houses various museum-lets about the history of Udaipur. The photography archive is particularly fascinating, charting the history of Udaipur since the advent of the camera. We’ve had a couple of attempts to see the sunset from various buildings on high ground, though a couple of technical faults have meant that we haven’t made it yet.

The DAAN Foundation

Let’s get serious for a moment, and maybe even a tad sentimental, just for a moment. The rise of that new stage of young adult life, the Gap Year, has been surrounded by a lot of discussion about the values and problema of short term volunteering. Now, I’ve been a  short term volunteer before, at a Costa Rican orphanage with a commercial company, and I’d agree that having a continuous cycle of volunteers (the majority of whom can’t be bothered to learn even simple phrases of the local language) working with vulnerable kids is probably a bad idea. At first, they get attached to the newcomers and then have to deal with the emotional consequences of them leaving just as they’re starting to form bonds. I would imagine that over the years, this means the kids develop difficulties in forming relationships, anticipating being abandoned just weeks later. Obviously, this additional emotional trauma is not what they need.

                The DAAN Foundation (daanfoundation.org) is, on the other hand, very different. The youth centres that Samvit runs through his organisation are not aiming to provide the very basic needs for kids, but rather a fun and welcoming place for them to build on and expand their education, social skills and capacities. It’s an organisation that is still somewhat under construction, but from looking through photos of previous volunteers and hearing their stories, this is the ideal point for us non-locals to get involved. We all have something different to bring to the proverbial table; website maintenance, photography for marketing, promotional videos and so. I myself have been responsible for putting together maths workbooks for the local teachers and volunteers to use in the future, hopefully for many years to come. This means that rather than leaving a hole when I move on, I will have created something productive and useful for these children, something that can only be to their benefit.

                Samvit has ambitious plans to get the current two centres up and running more or less independently, hopefully with the support of local students as well as international volunteers, before opening a complete school. With his dedication and drive, and the support of more volunteers, I’m pretty certain he’ll be successful. Sure, individually we’ll only have been directly involved in a tiny portion of these children’s lives, but the impact that each one of us has made during that time will be a positive one not only for the children that we have had personal contact with, but many others in the future.

Namaste!

Namaste! We made it to Udaipur (with a gripping 5 hours in Mumbai domestic terminal) and – cliché alert here – are loving every minute of it! So far, we’ve got pretty stuck in with Samvit and the DAAN Foundation (www.daanfoundation.org – definitely check it out). We’ve been preparing resources for the DAAN Foundation youth centres in two rural villages (maths... not exactly my forte, but ho hum) as well as leading games and activities with them. They’re... energetic! They’re great, a lot of enthusiasm but seem to be a fan of slapping each other.

And then there’s Samvit himself. What a hero - he’s super ambitious and very dedicated to what he’s doing, but that doesn’t mean he takes everything too seriously. He’s got a story for every situation (particularly during the twelve daily chai stops – he loves chai. He needs chai. He IS chai.) and we all know, or at least hope, that we’ll be in his stories in years to come. And his Jeep... no seatbelts, no indicators, doesn’t really lock... it’s a fab vehicle, and surprisingly agile when it comes to dodging street-dwelling cows and the magically appearing motor scooters. By the way, did you know that here it’s the driver on the main road who’s responsible for looking out for drivers zipping out of side roads? That’s crazy, right?! But somehow it works – I’ve only seen one accident, but then I guess when nobody’s going faster than 40km/h, there’s not much damage going to be done.

AND THE FOOD! Now you know I’ma  big fan of food. ALL food (except sweetcorn. And mushrooms. And actually a few other things, but shush.). But seriously, dear people of the Internet, the food is UNBELIEVABLE. Sure, the toasted chili pepper and lettuce sandwich for breakfast this morning was a bit of a surprise (now that gets you up and going for the day, trust me), but everything that has come near my mouth has been incredible. But how long I can last before I get craving for a juicy, oozing steak dipped in baked Camembert, I don’t know...

Brain mumbles

Well, my bag’s more or less packed now apart from the odd toothbrush and so on, but I’ll be honest, I’m not exactly feeling prepared. I’ve been very lucky in that I’ve travelled all over the world, but this is the first time that I don’t really have any idea about the culture I’m about to dive into. Here are a few of the big questions that are going round in my head before I set off:

As a liberal feministy type lady-person, how do I react if I find myself (or see someone else) in a situation that I’m not ok with? I don’t mean the big stuff; I’m talking about not being included in a handshake or something like that. Now, UK-dwelling me wouldn’t take that crap from anyone and would insist on an explanation and apology, but how far should ‘cultural differences’ temper that reaction? Do I let it go, because ‘that’s the way it is’ or do I cause a minor cultural incident? After all, I’m not going in order to try and create a feminist revolution because a) that’s not my place, and b) ladies like the Lucknow Red Brigade (http://red-brigades.blogspot.co.uk/) and many other organisations (I won’t give you a lecture on the history of Indian feminism here, tempting as it is) are doing a top-notch job - Go Team! But still... everyday sexism is not ok... Hm.

Then there’s personal space. I love working with people, I wouldn’t be going to do this if I didn’t, I also need my me time. Just to be on my own, read, write, whatever it is, just doing it away from other human beings. How do I explain that without being rude? Or do I just try and swallow my ‘piss off, world’ days and try not to explode? And with that goes independence. At 22, having lived away from home for 4 years, I’d consider myself a pretty competent human being at the whole ‘life’ thing. I don’t need my room tidying, or my socks washing and I love being at the helm in the kitchen. But I’m going to be a guest in somebody’s home for quite some time... so, I think I should probably ask to help out when there’s cooking or washing being done or whatever and hope that that gets taken the right way.

Well, I guess all this stuff will become clear in the coming weeks and months, I’ll let you know what I find out.

The Suitcase Squeeze

Now that my passport is finally back with me, it’s time to start thinking about packing. And it is going to take some thinking, as I’ve got 6 months worth of weather to pack for and (girlie wurlies of a nervous disposition look away now) only 15kg of luggage allowance. So I can forget hairdryers, straighteners and all that nonsense, and stick with the basics. I’ve been looking at various packing checklists and this is what I shall shortly be attempting to cram into a small suitcase and some handluggage (I’ll warn you, it’s a long and not particularly interesting list):

A few cotton skirts and baggy trousers

Loose cotton t-shirts

What I like to call my portable mosquito nets, loose, long lightweight tops to chuck over anything else

Cotton undies (skimpy thongs and frilly frenchies can stay well at home!)

Cotton socks (are you getting the theme here? Keep it breathable)

Lightweight but warm jumpers – layers, people!

Sandals

A pair of more robust trainers

A small bag that can be kept close to the body with vital things in

Bug spray (Jungle Formula Max – it may melt plastic, but my mozzie bites swell up like Malteasers)

Bite relief stuff

Suntan lotion

Soap

Painkillers

LOTS of Immodium

STERILE First Aid Kit (These are pricey, but they come with needles and syringes so should I end up in hospital I can be sure that the materials used in my treatment are sterile)

A small but unbelievably bright torch

Malaria tablets (Most areas in India are fine, except the bit I’m going to at the end. Typical.)

Water cleansing tablets and a filtering bottle to be super sure

Hand sanitiser

LADIES – This one’s important: Contraceptive pills. This isn’t because I anticipate bonking my way across the country, but it’s a tip I’ve been given by quite a few other girls – in areas where sanitary products are difficult to come by, it’s easier and more hygienic to just put a stop to the whole lady eggs process for the duration of your trip.

Then there’s what my brother refers to as ‘The Blue Folder of Doom’, a vital weapon my Dad will pull out at the slightest sign of bother and produce a magic piece of paper to fix the problem. My magic papers include:

Contact details of everyone imaginable

Insurance documents

Airport hotel booking confirmation

Plane tickets

Copy of Visa documents

Copy of passport

Not the most thrilling of blog posts, I know, but it just might be useful to you one day. The next one should hopefully be from Udaipur!

Vaccines

For some reason, not dying from a horrific exotic disease is really expensive. Really, really expensive. The value of my blood has definitely gone up majorly in the last couple of years with all the bonus antibodies it’s got pumped into it (and yet I still can’t shake this annoying cold...). If you’re going on a trip anywhere outside Europe, they definitely need to be in your budget pretty early on, because it could be a nasty surprise. Once you’ve got them, the majority last for 10 years or so, but keep track of them! And make sure you think about them in advance, most need a course that could take a couple of months.

Let me run my private collection by you:

Typhoid (1 x £40)

Hepatitis A (1 x £52)

Hepatitis B (3 x £43)

Hepatitis C (got at school)

TB (got at school)

Rabies (3 x £55 and it doesn’t even guarantee you won’t get rabies)

Japanese Encephalitis (2 x £89 – this one is recommended but not necessary, but given the choice of cake or debilitating brain damage/ death, I pick cake)

                Malaria tablets (varies depending on where you’re going and how much hallucination you’d like)

Wow. I had never actually seen all that money in one place before. I’d better have top notch blood.

Learning the lingo

We Brits have a hugely embarrassing reputation for monolingualism but *NEWSFLASH*, you don’t have to follow the crowd! You can make all the excuses you like for not having good enough lessons at school or whatever, but at the end of the day, it comes down to laziness. Yes, I said it and I’ll say it again – LAZINESS.

If you want the full immersive experience of another culture (and why wouldn’t you? If you’re looking for 5 star hotels, find another blog.), you need to speak the local language. Even just a few phrases, the real basics – you can pick those up on the plane. But where languages are concerned, I want to go the whole hog. Plus I’m going to be in a pretty rural area, so it’s going to be somewhat necessary. So, about 5 months ago, I bought myself the Rosetta Stone Hindi kit and set to.

                I swear by Rosetta Stone. Yes, they’re pricey (but hang around for an offer before you buy, they come around quite frequently), but I do 15 – 20 minutes work a day and already I can do past, present, future and conditional tenses. Sure, my vocab’s not great, but I reckon I can deal with everyday situations, provided that the other interlocutor doesn’t get too chatty. What I can’t do, however, is write. That’s going to take a bit more work and a patient tutor.

                Hindi is not considered a ‘hard’ language. It may appear to be a load of squiggles, but remember, once upon a time the latin alphabet was a load of squiggles to you, and you’re obviously coping with it pretty well. It’s not like Chinese, Korean, Arabic etc. in that you have to start totally again with the basic concepts of what language is, rather it is an Indo-European language and therefore related to our own. You’d recognise verb forms, direct and indirect objects and so on, and of course words like टेलीविज़न (television), plus it’s more or less phonetic, once you’ve deciphered the squiggles. I wouldn’t recommend it as your first foreign language, but if you’ve mastered something European and you’ve got the knack of language learning, then there’s nothing stopping you from giving it a go.

Visa Chaos

Sooo... visas. We need them, but they're a lot of hassle. I seriously had no idea quite how much hassle. Let me just run you by the kerfuffle so far:

Approximately 6 weeks ago: I sent off all the bits and pieces (including £300, bleurgh) for an Employment visa.

3 days later: All my paper work was sent back to me, with a note telling me to start again and apply for an Entry visa, especially for internships. I then spent a week fighting for a refund on the non-refundable Employment visa, with success. Yay! (Tip, don't take that rubbish lying down, of course they can refund you.)

10 days later: I finally have all the various bits of paper and letters from Asha Parivar to support my Entry visa. Success, surely?

... silence from Radio Visa... The High Commission phone continues to ring... it costs me 95p per minute each time I call VFS (the pre-screening company)...

Last week: Oh wait! You DO need an Employment visa! Please resend us all the things you've already sent us, plus a load of extra stuff! *Cue tears of frustration*

Today, with two weeks to go... I haven't seen my passport in weeks. They have all the required documents, but haven't confirmed that they have. Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhka\wryn;o\iewutorthakjdshfn\skjt.

Watch this space for if I actually make it or not.

In the beginning...

Before launching off on how everything's going, I should probably tell you a little bit more about what I'm doing, and why.

On the 2nd September 2013 (visa permitting... more on that later), I shall be jetting off to India for 6 months. I'll be spending the first three weeks with the DAAN Foundation (daanfoundation.org) in Udaipur, doing a Cultural Exchange. After that, I'll move to Lucknow for the next four months to work with Asha Parivar (ashaparivar.org), a charity who works to ensure that the government's Welfare Programmes are carried through to grass-roots level. For the last two weeks, I'll be travelling up to Assam with my parents.

So, why am I doing all this?

Aside from working with two very good causes, there are a few reasons for doing this trip:

1) I've spent the last 4 years studying Indian pre- and post-colonial history (with an emphasis on gender studies), so want to go and be part of post-colonial development in action.

2) I come from a pretty colonial background and want to firmly bring it to a close. My mum was born in India when my grandparents were living out there and had the whole servants and ayah shabang. My great-great-however many times grandfather was Pretorius, who founded Pretoria in South Africa and so I imagine was pretty instrumental in a lot of shizzle that went down there. I'm not ok with that.

3) I'm a linguist and fancy learning something non-European, and the best way to do that is always in situ. That means living and working with local people, so why do not do that while doing something worthwhile?

So, I'll be doing my best to keep you updated with what goes on up to and during my trip!