A Poverty Pickle

I’ve been thinking about this post for a couple of months now and have drafted and scrapped it several times – poverty. It’s such a difficult issue to pin down, let alone work out what my thoughts about it are. What even is poverty? A purely financial take on it doesn’t even scratch the surface, particularly when you think about the role that assets like land and livestock have to play here. It’s not uncommon to see women and men glittering, yet still slumped by the side of the road; someone with little understanding of Indian culture might see this jewelry as a savings fund, but the ever-present pressure of dowry prevents it from being so.

                Can we measure it by facilities, then? Maybe. Access to drinkable water is improving by way of community pumps and taps, meaning less pressure on women to go trekking every day, though it only seems to have freed them enough to swap water pots for enormous bundles of sticks or basket-loads of bricks. There certainly a lot of excellent initiatives to train women in handicrafts and textiles, but I imagine they still don’t have a hope in hell of buying their own products. Nevertheless, the willingness of women (and of their families) to train must be evidence of progress.

                Child labour, on the other, I think we can all agree is a definite poverty marker. The sight of pre-pubescent kids wielding pick axes by the side of the road could never (and should never) cease to be shocking. The all too familiar tug of a grubby little hand on my is sleeve is just heart-breaking, especially knowing that handing over those ten rupees or a packet of biscuits would do more harm than good in the long run – if sending children out begging is effective, then what incentive would desperate parents have to send their kids to school?

                Then there’s the added complication of technology. The status attached to phones and laptops is so powerful that it seems to have overridden the want for the infrastructure that supports it. Politicians are handing out laptops to students who cannot guarantee having the electricity to charge them and to some teenagers I’ve met, school is just one giant electrical socket. I can’t help feeling that pressure from the ‘West’ and a general ‘keeping up with the Jones’ attitude’ is distorting natural evolution, which is never a good thing. Then again, without delving back into the whole Jamie Oliver/ poor people/ TV thing, who am I to begrudge anyone their escapism?

                But the main thing is that there is huge enthusiasm for change. There are organisations doing phenomenal work with massive community support, the caste system is gradually crumbling and the spanner thrown firmly into the proverbial works by the Aam Aadmi Party (The Everyman’s Party/ Mango Man’s Party, depending on your translation) has shaken up a political climate infamous for its corruption. While there’s obviously still a long way to go, the genuine optimism for the future of this country is exhilarating and is one form of nationalism that I could actually get behind. 

The Efficiency Deficiency

                When you move to a developing country, you don’t expect things to run as they would at home. If you’ve done even a scrap of research, you’ll expect the power-cuts (there’s one now), the snail’s pace internet and so on. We at home are in a privileged position that we can turn the hot water tap on in the certainty that a) water will come out and b) it will be above body temperature. (There may be exceptions, such as any postcode with a high student population, but that’s another issue.)

                I’ve said tonnes of times that we ‘Westerners’ aren’t here to impose changes, but I can’t help but wonder that everyone’s life would run a little more smoothly and progress would skyrocket if some simple, minor improvements were made. Take the train reservation system, for one thing. You all know by now that I’m a super fan of a good train, but the process of buying a ticket for one is a nightmare. The simplest way to get hold of one, is to go to a travel agent, pay an extra 100 rupees and have it all fixed for you. ‘Ridiculous!’ I hear you cry, ‘I am an independent traveller, an intelligent human being and an impoverished student. I can do it my own way!’ I’m going to be honest here, you can’t. When you go to the station, you are required to fill in a form with all the information of the train you want to catch. Firstly, the form is kept behind the counter, so there are arms from all directions groping through the hole in the class while some poor soul is trying to make a purchase. Once have the form in your sticky mitt, you have to fill in the details of the train you want to catch, which class, seat numbers and so forth. You cannot get the ticket without this fully completed form, but how do you know which train you want until you try to buy the ticket? Perhaps try the website beforehand– unintelligible. Even if you think you’ve got it all planned, inevitably you leave with something totally different. Or use the computerised system at the station? Step one is to type in the train number, which you don’t have. You have a slight advantage if you can read the Hindi sign, but you still need to know your train’s name and point of origin to identify it. The 2 minutes it takes to book a trip from Cambridge to Leeds online suddenly becomes 20 minutes for no real reason.

                But what I really don’t get is that nobody seems to see this as a problem! I actually tried to move a pile of the infamous forms to the table with pens provided for the purpose of filling it in, and everybody looked at me as if I’d just sprouted three additional noses. I’m trying to make everyone’s lives easier here, people! But I think we find ourselves back at the issue of education – a lack of questioning in school means a lack of questioning in life. Sticking to the status quo is easy, safe and hey, we all get our tickets at the end of the day, so what’s the hurry? 

Baubles in Bikaner

                I admit, there has been radio silence on the blog time – sorry about that, life has got a little bit, well... normal over the last month or so. But pressure is being applied in certain quarters to come up with the goods, so I’m going to break my rule about only posting about what I think rather than what I do and tell you a little bit about somewhat unconventional Christmas.

                As you were all gobbling down your advent choccies and getting flustered over fairy lights, life over here in Udaipur was continuing as usual. The supermarket started selling Father Christmas pencils, but other than that, very little changed. Not surprising, really, as Christians are a pretty small minority. You see, it turns out that Christmas actually is, as they say, all about family. If, like me, you’re not in the slightest bit religious, then what Christmas really is is an amalgamation of bizarre rituals and age-old arguments that nobody outside your own family circle understands. (By the way, I hope the leaves didn’t see the light of day, Christoph.) When you’re away from home, nothing can replace that.

                So, Team and I decided that instead of moping around bemoaning the lack of mulled wine and mince pies, we would go and do something utterly unconventional and spend Christmas in the desert. (Though thinking about the history of Christmas, I guess that’s not altogether unconventional...)

                Our journey to the fort city of Bikaner involved my first overnight bus journey. Now, trains I can get behind. I like trains; you can actually get a decent night’s sleep on a sleeper train. They’re one of the few things that our former colony can perhaps thank us for. The bus, on the other hand, is not my friend. Imagine, if you will, being imprisoned by the Mafia and being put in a still functioning chest freezer, then being driven off to an unknown destination that probably isn’t going to end in tea and cakes. That’s what a single sleeper compartment on an AC bus feels like. Add in to that the fact that we’re driving through the desert, the air so thick with dust and sand that the edge of the road is ‘more like guidelines than actual rules’. And did I mention the horn? Buses have a novelty horn that they’re clearly very proud of and like to make the most of. It’s not exactly conducive to a good night’s rest.

                Bikaner has three main offerings to the curious traveller: a fort, camel safaris and a rat temple. I don’t know about you, but to us, the first port of call was pretty obvious. We stocked up on peanuts, hopped on to a bus and scuttled off to meet some holy rodents. I can’t quite remember their full story, but legend has it that a very important family narked the goddess Durga (not recommended, in case you were considering it), so she made the family switch places with the rats in their palace. So, to this day, they have been provided with food, music and whatever else it is that rats need to make them happy. I had envisaged an Indiana Jones-esque building writhing with furry little bodies, but it actually wasn’t too bad. Definitely an opportunity for a Chicken Run/ Ratatouille combo sequel, though. A handy hint: take a spare pair of socks with you. Like any other temple, you have to take your shoes off. And those ain’t Coco Pops crunching underfoot.

                For Christmas Day, we booked a camel safari out into the wilderness. I’ve never seen a John Wayne film, but I think after three hours astride a camel I was doing a pretty good impression. We had a fab Christmas dinner of vegetable stew, lentils, rice and chapattis all cooked over an open fire by the camel guys while we played about in the sand. It’s amazing the ability sand has to make even fully grown adults regress to toddlerhood, but it’s really nothing compared to the fun you can have with the bleached skeleton of an ex-cow. Beats Lego hands down, any day.

                After a few more hours back in the saddle, we turned up at our camp. Huddling round the fire, watching for shooting stars and having massages (I let the sneaky bum grope go, the camel guy can consider that his tip) is a pretty good way to spend Christmas Eve. I didn’t fancy risking pneumonia/ the wild dogs so I slept in a tent (or at least, under a canvas draped over two poles), but Team decided to brave the great outdoors. I didn’t envy them the ice on their blankets in the morning.

                In the afternoon, we headed up to the fort. It has an impressive display in tribute to the glory of the Maharajas, but no mention of anybody else at all. You’d think a woman or a non-royal would have to set foot in the fort at least once in five hundred years, but apparently not. UNTIL ME, that is. In general, I haven’t been harassed by local people. But when I go to touristy places, that all changes and I seem to become a walking exhibit. It’s infuriating. I sent the fourth guy who asked to take my photo running for the hills; he came up to me with the usual ‘One photo?’ and by that point I was so fed up, I just barked ‘WHY?!?!?!?!?!’ and he turned on his heels and fled, squealing ‘Aaaaah... macho girl!’ Maybe I should get a t-shirt printed, complete with six-pack and biceps.