Journalists Are Socially Awkward

I've been working at a newspaper this summer and one thing that strikes me everyday is how socially awkward the newsroom is. People send emails to the person sitting next to them while others talk about sex with the f-word liberally sprinkled through the conversation. These are things I'd never do. I wonder is it because I'm young and don't quite feel like an adult yet?

Or is it a weird newsroom code that I haven't learned? I almost feel that people talk about things they'd never talk about with others if they were outside of the newsroom. I guess I'm a newsroom prude-I'm not delving into those conversations until I'm ready.

Things I Miss About India

Vibrant Saris
Bangles
Kingfisher
Staring Being 100% Permissible
Learning Something New Everyday
Growing Up-Finding Self-Independence In A Place Where I Shouldn't Have
Rickshaws-They Made Every Ride a Rollercoaster
Indian Smiles
Indian Head Bobs
Kaapi Nirvana.... Oh Coffee Day!

It's been almost two months since my return and I think about India constantly. It's funny how just about everything makes you think of India. Yet, I still can't believe that I was ever there. It seems like a dream. While I think about it constantly, until my feet feel the red dirt or I see a rickshaw flying by or I'm drinking Kingfisher, I can't say I truly remember all of India.

I am so worried about forgetting everything I learned. I catch myself becoming comfortable again in America. When I returned, everything was a shock. Now, everything seems to be as it should. I want to always remember that hot water is a blessing, air conditioning is a luxury, you don't need a car to get where you need to go, and your Starbucks coffee costs more than some people make in a month. But somehow it's getting harder to remember those things.

Hierarchy of Having a Driver

We just got back from Kerala. One of the newest experiences I had while on the trip was having a driver. Of course we needed a driver to get to Kerala and around the city of Kannur. It was an awkward experience to be staying at a three star riverside resort while our driver stayed in his car for two nights. We gave him a nice tip every night to eat good meals, but I’m pretty sure he saved the money. He and his family likely needed the money more than he needed a good dinner.

In America, class distinction exists but we tend to surround ourselves in cul-de-sacs of class. We live in suburban houses with people who have similar incomes to us(they have to in order to live in the neighborhood). We go to colleges and most students assume that private equals money, although this isn’t always the case. Poverty exists but for the comfortable middle class, it’s not at their front door. The “ghetto” is never in your neighborhood and you drive through the bad part of town but never stay there.

So it’s hard to confront your own wealth, your fortunate life. For perhaps the first time you’re forced to feel uncomfortable, to realize that right next to you as you sleep in an air-conditioned room and bed, someone’s sleeping outside and there’s nothing much different about you from him. He works equally as hard if not harder and somehow you lucked out.

Naked...literally and figuratively

So today I had my first ever massage. Might I suggest that if you’ve never had a massage, getting an Ayurvedic massage in Kerala is not the best way to start. Out of the stupor of an hour long nap, I was awakened by a phone call to my room saying “Please come now for your massage.”

On arrival, I was asked a very important question. “Are you on your menstrual cycle?” If I had been, the massage would not have occurred. I would have been too impure to receive any form of healing. One of my friends, who was on her cycle, was told that when her “condition” improved, she could have a massage. After this not so subtle question broke the ice, a warm older woman grabbed my hand and said “My daughter, come.”

I followed her lead as we prayed to the idol in the room. With hands pressed together, I waited until she finished praying. Then she led me into a room where I removed my jewelry and clothes, all of my clothes. I wasn’t prepared for all of that. Then, she put a loin cloth on me….literally a string and a piece of fabric. There I was naked and sitting on a stool as she rubbed oil into my head. Then she put me on this large table and chanted as she poured warm oil all over me. I felt like I was in a bad Ricky Martin music video.

The massage motion she used wasn’t really a kneading motion but a swoop. She chanted as she massaged and I prayed that this would be over soon. The massage was followed by a steam bath and then another bath to get rid of all the oil. Then I followed that up by another shower back at my hotel room. I can still smell the oil whenever I think about the massage.

I am still digesting the massage. Its traditional purpose is as a form of healing, of healthcare. People who are sick might receive such a massage from an Ayurvedic specialist. I couldn’t help but question women’s healthcare. The female masseuse had to be called in for us ladies to receive a massage and she drove five hours. It seems healthcare, even an Ayurvedic massage, might be a man’s world too in India.

Kerala vs. Mysore

After a scary trip to Kerala, we had an absolutely beautiful first day. We spent the morning at the beach. From the look of the hotel staff when we asked about going to the beach in the morning, we soon learned that our notion of a day at the beach is different from that of an Indian’s notion. No one goes to the beach when its most hot, like we did. Secondly, no one sunbathes while laying on a towel. Women don’t wear swimsuits, they wear sarees and chudidars in the beach. It was an odd sight to see women with so many clothes on letting the ocean crash over their feet. So needless to say, we served as entertainment to both men and women alike.

We ventured out of the resort for lunch and some unexpected shopping. It turns out that in India my size 8.5 foot is an 11 here. We found a Baskin Robbins, a surprise in a town like Kannur that is less of a city than Mysore. There were a lot of surprises in Kerala in terms of what we had gotten used to seeing in Mysore. Kerala is much less of a city, yet there were far more cars and consequently a lot more gas stations than in Mysore. Secondly, we saw so many advertisements for schools and healthcare facilities. We saw a lot of children in uniforms going to school. Kannur also seems to have quite a large Muslim population. Unlike in Mysore, men wear the traditional dress of a piece of cloth wrapped around their waists. Another thing was that we saw so many furniture stores here and I can’t remember ever seeing a furniture store in Mysore.

While Kannur is far less urban than Mysore, in terms of education it might be more developed. I got the feeling that a lot of people here were more educated. There were cyber shops and places to learn about computers and take English proficiency tests. I would love to spend more time here than just a weekend.

India Is No Amusement Park

Rachel, Taylor, Emily and I left for our weekend holiday in Kerala, a neighboring state with a beach. Dr. Rao told us the drive to Kerala would be about four hours. It turned out to be closer to five and a half. We ventured out with our driver, Robi, and it was smooth sailing for about an hour or two. Then the rain came and we were literally driving through the jungle. Elephants were on the side of the road and monkeys darted in front of the car to cross the street. It was so surreal. I felt like I was living the JurassicPark movie or was on an amusement park ride. Everything was so green…the jungle was everything I’d imagined it would be. It was one of those rare instances where the images you’ve been fed all your life are actually accurate.

I was snapped back into reality when the road became unpaved and muddy. We were going down a steep hill. We were bumped around everywhere. Robi, the driver, was driving all over the road to find the smoothest patches. Trucks were pulled over because they couldn’t make it up the hill. We were all scared enough that we were silent. We were concentrating just as much as Robi. When we spun out once on the mud, we all freaked. It was an odd feeling to realize that if something happens to me, there is absolutely nothing I can do and the likelihood of anyone finding me is slim. India is increasingly teaching me that I have very little control, a scary thought for a control freak.

Ayurvedic Hospital...a letdown

After visiting the Swami Vivikenda Youth Movement, the Ayurvedic hospital we visited just doesn’t compare. It was rundown and dirty. I would not want to be treated there. It was supported by the government. It’s interesting that the NGO of the Swami Vivikenda Youth Movement was nicer and was not supported by the government at all. It’s the opposite of how I thought it would be.

It makes me question how much faith the Indian people can have in the government when it comes to healthcare. The government cannot be trusted to keep its people healthy. At the same time, the government is really all you have because an NGO can run out of funding or lose its staff. So what are the people here to do? How do you hold a government accountable that is corrupt? How do you stay healthy enough to provide for your family when you don’t have the money for a private doctor?

I’ve always taken my health for granted. I’ve never worried about getting quality healthcare or finding a good doctor.

Swami Vivikenda Youth Movement

My heart is truly touched. Today, I saw a healthcare system that is holistic, that cares more about the well-being of the community than the machine of the body. The Swami Vivikenda Youth Movement was a hospital created by doctors in a rural community that includes tribal families.

This NGO provides basically free healthcare for people and has also set up a school for local children. What I liked about the system is that the people still pay a little bit, one rupee to be exact, and this gives them power. They don’t feel ashamed and can hold the doctor accountable. Secondly, the doctor now owes the patient something. The doctor isn’t providing just free healthcare.

The use of the school is so well executed. The children, who are tribal children, are not told to forget their cultures. They are equipped with the tools to survive in both the tribal world and the rest of Indian society. The children will ultimately decide what life they’d like to choose.

In America, we teach one culture. We misteach the history of Native Americans. We talk about the history of non-white cultures for a month if at all. We equip our students with one form of knowledge. So we grow up confused with how to reconcile the history of the traditions we grew up with in our multi-cultural families with the “white, European” education we receive. The Swami Vivikenda Youth Movement seems to have educated the children without the remnants of colonization. America still colonizes its non-white children.

Suspicions Confirmed

It’s true, I’m famous among the rickshaw community. When I and a group of people ventured out to catch a rickshaw, the driver pointed at me and I said, “Yeah, I’m the one who fell.” I now use my falling incident as a ploy to lower the cost of the ride. Every rickshaw driver ends our rides by telling me to “Stay out of holes.” Believe me, I’m doing my best. Every time I see a hole, a little panic sets in.

Beware of Hole

So I had perhaps my most memorable moment in Mysore a few nights ago. Not only did I do something I’ll never forget but I’m pretty sure I’m now infamous among the whole rickshaw community. My greed had gotten the best of me, so a group of us left for Coffee Day after dinner. I’d walked to the little area where rickshaws gather a million times but tonight was different. To avoid running into some people walking towards me, I walked over a set of rocks. I stepped onto the first set of rocks. The next step I took resulted in me landing in a hole on the side of the road. I was waist deep in god knows what.

Apparently the rocks had been placed around the hole to keep people away. I was so startled I couldn’t even scream. Everyone gasped. All I could think about as I was falling is that some firetruck would have to be called to rescue me, only there’s no firetruck here in Mysore. Then, I thought what if there’s snakes down here or what if I’m covered in cow crap. I had fellow students, every rickshaw driver around and a man on a motorcycle telling me to get out “Very slowly, very slowly.” I got asked if I’d torn my ACL, how was my ankle? This was the first time I had to truly ponder possible healthcare options in India. What if I had been hurt? Would I have been well taken care of at a hospital? Would the doctor even be there at this time of night?

Thankfully, I was ok. With the help of some friends, I got back on solid dirt again. With cut up hands, ripped pants and a bruise on my left side, I still went to coffee day. I needed it after the fall.

Oh! Coffee Day

We’ve discovered a little piece of heaven in Mysore called Coffee Day. It’s the closest thing to Starbucks and is becoming our dirty little habit. Nearly everyday we head over in a rickshaw to the haven of air conditioning, clean tables and iced coffee that doesn’t make us sick. I love the place and its award winning Kappi Nirvana but at the same time I feel incredibly guilty for going.

Truthfully, I can get coffee like they serve at Coffee Day in a few weeks when I get back to America. It’s such a commercialized inauthentic place with us as regulars and every western yoga student in Mysore popping in daily too. Masala Chai is labeled as drinking it "for that ethnic feel." I feel a little disgusted for spending 80 rupees on a coffee when the minimum wage here is 69 rupees a day. Disgusting, I know.

Commercialism and Tibetan Buddhism

We visited a Tibetan monastery a week ago. The monastery was so incredibly vivid. I guess I was expecting a dull place but it was as bright as the mandala sand painting that Tibetan monks made at W&L this winter. While the place was beautiful, I can’t get over how commercialized it was. Outside of the monastery was a little Tibet with Tibetan refugees selling all sorts of goods.

As a journalism major, I love the idea of being able to see what used to be a private place, a monastery. On the same token, I respect religion and I find it terribly disruptive and disrespectful to all of the monks there to have their lives on display. With eyes watching sacred ceremonies, they somehow lose their sacredness.

What also struck me was how young some of the monks were. I never realized that children literally grow up in the monastery. I can’t help but wonder how these children define normalcy. They spend their whole lives on display. If they ever leave the monastery, as some do, how do they integrate themselves into society?