Indian Escapade

Curry Jar-Jar’s Mind Junk

Lowestoft@archant.co.uk — Thu, 02 Oct 2008 15:41:00 GMT

Can you imagine being on a bumpy roller coaster ride for seven hours straight? Ha, well that is what it felt to be aboard the Bangalore- Madikeri bus. It was so bumpy at times that we could not contain our laughter (much to the bemusement of our fellow passengers) as we got chucked about like sacks of spuds. Thank goodness none of us were car sick or needed the toilet partway through. As we stormed up the amassing hills skimming the Western Ghats and then hurtling down the other side; one could see the landscape dramatically changing from vast desert-like plains to lush mountainous jungle.

The further we encroached into the Western Ghats the more we witnessed quaint cottage-like villas dotted sparsely by the roadside with proper front yards and gates (a rarity hitherto) and a thickening lush forest that blocked dramatic views of the tea estate valleys below. As I intently looked upon the ever changing and yet ever mesmerizing view from my window, I coolly listened to Radiohead’s OK Computer and became induced into a semi-conscious state of complete bliss. OK Computer has definitely become the quintessential soundtrack of my time in India thus far. It completely encapsulates the musical interpretation of what I am seeing, hearing and feeling.

On the way we passed through a small town called Kushalnagar that stands out in my memory for just one reason: Tibetan Monks. They were everywhere. At first we simply could not fathom why. Tibet was hardly just around the corner. Only after enquiries was it revealed that Kushalnagar was considered by many monks to be a safe haven for them mainly because of its distance from their homeland. Apart from its geographical location; Kushalnagar had been only a random choice. Random indeed.

Peeling our bums off the leather seats when we thundered into Madikeri bus stand, we organised ourselves with military speed into two parties to scour the streets for accommodation. Within no time at all we had checked into a comfortable, but basic hotel by the town’s cinema and trundled off for some dinner.

Madikeri is a small unobtrusive town nestled in the ridges of the Western Ghats. You cannot stumble across Madikeri; you have to make a specific journey to reach there which is perhaps why it has been able to retain its quaint charm. Don’t be mistaken however; the town centre is still hectic and dirty but one can easily oversee its downfalls by simply sitting in Raja’s Seat Park and watching the sun set over the panoramic view of the Kodagu region below.

We had the bright spark idea of voluntarily arising at 5am to catch the sun rise also. I am glad that I hauled myself out of bed and sulked my way across the town lit by crystal-clear twinkling stars to join the others, and see the sun creep over the distant hills because I would have been awoken anyway by the Muslim morning call to prayer competing (loudly) with the Christian church bells summonsing the congregation. Once in Raja’s Seat I was surprised to see literal scores of locals also in the park but they were not there to admire the pending view; but to exercise!? Bedecked in preposterous woolly hats and LA style velour tracksuits about 30 middle-aged men and women strutted their stuff about the park. How queer!

To try and keep warm I left the others and wandered alone around the park and came across a shabby desolate once-white pagoda in the Eastern corner of the park. I perched on the edge and let my bare feet dangle over the cliff below as I felt the warming of the sun awaken my sleepy face. I admittedly daydreamed for about an hour before I picked myself up and went to join the others who had walked onto the protruding rock far from the madding crowd in the west of the park. The view from there was even more breathtaking. The morning mist clung so heavily to the trunks of the trees below along the silhouetted mountain ridges that if one glanced over the scene quickly you would be forgiven for thinking you had just seen the giant back of an alligator; all silent and ready to capture its prey.

With the increasing light came the chorus of the cockerels and the thinning of the valley mist in conjunction with the sinking of the distant interspersed stratus clouds. The clouds then slowly began to drift through the valley like a delicate whisper until they disappeared out of sight. We all sat contently in silence until I opened my big mouth and blurted that I was hungry and did anyone want breakfast?

Later in the afternoon (after a much deserved nap) we got dropped off at Abbi falls, which is seven kilometres out of Madikeri. We thought it would be a grand idea to see the waterfalls and then leisurely walk back through the neighbouring villages. About three minutes into the walk back it became a trek of survival to reach base camp before dark. Granted, they were only hillocks but my goodness was it humid! Along the way we did take the time to take in the stunning views of the abundant forests below. Call me weird, but at times it felt like we were in the backcountry of Rwanda. What sparked that thought? I have no idea. Simply.

The indisputable reason why we went to Madikeri was to go trekking high up in the Ghats. Fed up of taking most tourist routes when in any given town, city or temple; we wanted to get off the beaten track and really savour Indian countryside. Thus we approached a local guide and arranged a day to go exploring, deep into tiger country. At seven we were collected from our hotel by a young lad (of no more than sixteen we approximated) and taken to his house for a home cooked pourri breakfast. Delicious! Afterward we were introduced to his father and acquaintance, who was the ex- forestry commissioner for the surrounding Coorg region, and then we departed for the hills.

Adorned in what looked like his Sunday best clothes the ex- forestry commissioner throughout the day leapt ahead, jumping over barbed wire fences, clambering up near-to-vertical slopes and jabbering to local farmers to retrieve examples of limes, lemons, chillies, pineapple, honey, pepper, wild rose, banana, coffee and tea plants. He also showed us plants and fruit that I have never seen or tasted before.

For a little rest we sat on the edge of some paddy fields and were offered to try Paan. I wish I had not accepted! It was gross! Yuck! When you see images of Indians with blood-red stained mouths and spitting profusely; that is Paan. To try and alleviate the foul taste left in my mouth the Dad went to scout for some toddy (a naturally alcoholic drink extracted from trees up high) but alas came back empty-handed. He did however hear from a local that an elephant had angrily charged a nearby village that very morning and had knocked down a man. Mouths aghast- we were excited to hear such a thing and asked whether we would be able to see any elephants up close? He diplomatically explained in broken English via his son that he did not want to endanger us by deliberately trailing the path of any elephant because of their renowned violent and unpredictable temperaments. Disappointed, but appreciative of his wisdom we followed them into the dense forest and set about taking off our shoes and treading precariously through murky waters to discover a beautifully secluded waterfall. Knocking Abbi falls into a cocked hat; we braved the spidery waters to reach the spray on our faces. It felt like we had found the secret garden and were traipsing through the damp foliage like the original famous five (minus one). On the way back to the shoes I nearly did a Bridget Jones repeat by slipping on stones, but managed to steady myself by reaching out for the nearest branch; which turned out to be an ants nest that mostly crumbled around my fingers. Gross!

The higher we walked the steeper and raggedier the tracks became. Ellie looked as if she would explode what with the colour of her poor ruby-red puffed face, Helena’s glasses kept sliding down her nose because of the perspiration, and Alpa’s feet slid about in her flip-flops. But we all soldiered on much to the hilarity of our guides who still (don’t ask me how) had a distinct spring in their step. As we neared the summit of the ridge we crossed paths with a villager carrying three bottles of toddy. We later discerned that it was her occupation to climb 60 feet up a bamboo ladder at 5am ever morning to collect toddy and then walk into Madikeri to sell for 60 rupees each. After thinking about it, we still found it difficult to fathom that this woman went about such laborious endeavours to earn less than just 200 rupees a day. That was a reality check for all of us but one that our guides did not understand. In their own words: what else would she do?

As we finally staggered to the top, all of our moans ceased as we saw the view stretching out in front of us. At 1500 feet high and under the auspices of a glorious midday sun we could see for miles and miles, and happily sat drinking toddy with the fresh breeze all around us. Further along the young boy found seven day fresh tiger poo amidst some fern. What! Suddenly I put up my guard and became very apprehensive. Tigers? How naïve was I to think that tigers would only be found in wildlife reservations like back home! Silly Chloe.

Throughout the whole day we only came across one other party of trekkers; two Danes and their guide. We all commented how that would never have occurred back home. Such places of unimaginable beauty would be swamped with twitchers, retired day-trippers and coaches of school children with clipboards; and thus be spoiled.

Being so close to nature and having basic processes of plants etc. explained made us all realise just how removed we are from nature back home. Even I who can often be found on a Sunday meander in the countryside have no clue as to the names of plants or trees, let alone their respective medicinal qualities. I felt so stupid not knowing.

By the end of the day we were pooped and overwhelmed with information about the Coorg region, but had relished every moment of it. We could not thank them enough for their patience and hospitality for they had shown us a brave new world where the smallest plant or insect counts.

In my opinion whenever anyone arrives at a new destination with a heavy rucksack on their back and the scolding sun on their neck, they have about two hours of patience to find accommodation. After that time you lose complete hope in humanity, would prefer to crumble onto the floor and irritably bark at anyone who approaches you. Fortunately when we arrived into Mysore that did not happen! In fact we found the queen of hotel deals: free soap! A full-length mirror! Hot water! A soft bed!? Coat hooks! And even an elevator!

Eager to reunite with Sunita and Bradley, we met them for some supper to hear of their time already spent in Mysore and were pleased to find out that they were yet to visit the Maharaja’s Palace (the main attraction of Mysore) because they had wanted to wait for us. So with that we got up early the following morning and circumnavigated the palace walls on foot until we found the entrance .

Completed in 1912 the palace was designed by a British architect under commission of the Raj to replace the previous palace that had burnt down during a wedding celebration. Not wanting to sound too over-the-top, but equally wanting to give credit where credit is due; the palace was beautiful. When one imagines how a Maharaja’s palace to be; colourful, decadent to the point of almost being shameful, gaudy, unapologetic in its grandeur, attention to detail, employment of expensive materials, fabrics and space; that was the palace of Mysore.

Lining the inner walls of the central ballroom was a continuous stream of intricate murals depicting life in Mysore during the Edwardian Raj era. When one looked up to the ceiling, the most elaborate chandelier hung precariously below the most stunning stained glass peacock roof.

For me the best aspect of the palace was the brave enmeshing of both Eastern and Western architectural designs into one magical and exotic form. For example oriental pillars choked many of the grand halls, European paintings furniture and scattered the corridors, and Indian sculptures guarded the inner courtyards. A great triumph in design and interior landscaping.

Wanting to continue our mesmerization with the art that Mysore could offer we hurried over to the Jayachamrajendra Art Gallery. Leaving the gallery we opted to undertake a spot of shopping in the famous Devaraja Market and cheer ourselves up. What mayhem followed! The market was a crazy pungent maze of vegetable, spice, and Sandalwood perfume stalls. It was brilliant. Sunita had earlier found a local man selling an array of organic perfumes and took us to meet him. He ushered us into his stall and ordered us all tea as his nephew masterfully demonstrated how to roll incense sticks. Alpa gave it a go and ended up with what looked like a corndog! Ha. For the next two hours we happily sat huddled in his stall and tested just about every perfume he had in stock: mint, lavender, eucalyptus, watermelon, Ylang Ylang…. I found it quite overwhelming at one point and so had to excuse myself. By the end we all stank but were happy with our purchases.

While we were safely undercover the heavens opened and it poured with rain. Peeved and caught unawares we remained in the market and just pottered about until finally the rain slightly subsided so we could make a run for our hotel.

Our evening’s plans to return to the palace to see it lit up were (literally) washed away with the continuing thunderstorm and torrential rain so we retired to our hotel to indulgently watch television. Helena and I however, were not satisfied and so we ventured out in the rain to buy some alcohol to pass the evening. We were denied entrance into at least one bar and severely gawked at in the off licence where we were eventually served.

On our way back I sort of caused an auto accident. Oops! Usually when autos sound their horn one steps to the side of the road out of their way but on this occasion I refused because the road was wide enough for both of us and, more importantly, there was a massive puddle to my left. I definitely did not want to plunge my foot into that! However because of my (in) action the auto theatrically swerved into the middle of the road and collided clumsily with a bicycle. Feeling incredibly guilty I hurried over to see if anyone was hurt but was ushered away from the scene as the locals ensured that the young lad had nothing more than a few scrapes upon his knee. Oh dear- not good karma! I am still awaiting the repercussions.

The last destination within our sights was the former-colonial hill station of Ooty. Individually we had all heard many recommendations to visit Ooty and so naturally, we followed what we had heard and set aside five days to explore the town and surrounding villages. On the way our bus blew a tyre and so we had plenty of time on our hands to read up on the history of the Tamil Tigers in Sri Lanka, the defacto caste system still present within South India, and speculate just how many autos were there in India?! Answers on a postcard please.

Unlike all the other bus rides I had been on hitherto; this one was scary. The height at which we climbed and the speed at which we took the hairpin bends made me want to close my eyes and pray to a God. Any God. The higher we climbed the more magnificent (and petrifying) the view became: lush green tea estates blanketed the mountain slopes with intermittent eucalyptus trees standing proud sky-high like ivory poles.

Ooty was a dump. Not just that; a cold, wet, muddy, and almost-deserted dump. From the moment we stepped off the bus, something just did not sit right with me about Ooty. Perhaps it was because I had expected a hilltop oasis speckled with decaying colonial houses and lush greenery decorating cobbled roadways etc. But Ooty was a far cry from anything considered lush. To set the scene for you: the local kiddies “Amusement Park” (I purposefully placed the word within inverted commas because it is unlike any amusement park I had ever seen before!) was called Jolly World; well, it was the saddest-looking jolly place I have ever seen. With only a few rusty go-carts and swings, it was empty and remained so for the entire time we stayed there. No wonder.

The hotel we found was the best yet if only because it was like we were living on the set of Faulty Towers. The waiter in the restaurant would abruptly appear out of the kitchen and demand (not ask): “What do you want?” When he had written down the order he would declare: “Finished! Next?”

Our six-bedded room that partially overlooked the lake apparently caused quite a commotion with the other guests if only because a man (Bradley) had checked in, and was sleeping with five girls! Scandal! The room itself was freezing because windows lined its Eastern front, and there were flies everywhere. Gross! In the restaurant also there were flies. Where were they coming from? Upon reading the anti-guide to Ooty we read that the lake (although picturesque) was where ALL of the town’s sewage was dumped. Enough said.

Later on the same day we arrived into Ooty we took a stroll along the lakeside to go and visit the Thread Garden. The exhibition of threaded flowers is not even worth even a tiny description because it was rubbish so I will save you the boredom that we had to endure for 20 minutes. As we walked aimlessly about it struck me what Ooty was akin to: the setting of a Point Horror novel! All the elements were there; a dark and ominous lake, deserted amusement park, the town set high away in the cold, misty mountains, weird and kooky staff members bowing to their “masters”, windows a-rattling and flies choking the air…we all got a bit creeped out after I confessed my comparison to many a Point Horror novel I had read as a teenager.

In the evenings we would all huddle in our hotel room together (to retain maximum heat) with the rain bashing the windows and hang our damp clothes on impromptu washing lines. With no traditional British camping game of scrabble to contend ourselves with we adopted the game of trying to find the most obscure words and guessing what they meant. It was actually quite fun as Bradley had bought a book that contained the stupidest words- ever! For example, can you guess what krukolibidinous means? I will keep you guessing. Looking back we had some of our best nights together there because we would laugh at just how ridiculous our situation was, and talk late into the night about random topics like: just how long could one survive in the desert on beer?

Taking opportunity of a fine day we arranged to go trekking in the Nilgiris with a guide named “Santosh” who was recommended by a few guys we had met at dinner. The day we spent with him will live forever in infamy in all our memories for no sooner had we loaded all our gear into the jeep and begun to trundle along the dirt tracks towards the hills, we were stopped by a government official and warned that we were not able to cross any further because it was a private road. Just as he finished his spiel a public bus doodled past! Hmmn, I think we all knew his game. Graciously Mike entertained his prohibition and stood talking with him awhile before they both returned to our vehicle, and both hopped in! It turns out that he had missed his bus into work and wanted a ride. No actual fiscal bribe was necessary but with a few little pats on the back, we were “allowed” to venture on.

As we traversed the increasingly hostile landscape, Santosh informed us of the state of wildlife preservation in India. He explained the present dire situation of both tigers and elephants within the reserves. They are legally protected however it is common practice for rangers to accept bribes so that tourists can either poach them or enact an activity called “elephant ramming”. I think you can imagine what that entails. We were silenced by our shock and dismay. It was a deep shame to hear how the elephants were becoming violent towards humans because of their growing ill treatment. Of course I do not blame them.

As we crossed the path of a herd of dozing bisen, Santosh’s stories of former treks became wilder and (for me) scarier: tales of surviving elephant chases and encountering tigers face-to-face! Now I being quite a calm and rational being, became quite rattled and started to internally panic about being savaged by ravenous tigers or being squished by a cross elephant. I made my way to the middle of our tour (I didn’t want to be at the front because I didn’t know the route and I most definitely did not want to be at the back in case I was snatched or set upon) and begun to creep along. Petrified.

Thankfully we reached the hill’s summit in one piece and were told to sit and relax with some coconut biscuits before we would commence our descent into the Hungerford Tea Estate. I had just begun to relax when I heard a faint whirring. Getting louder I turned around to see a black tornado-shaped cloud of swarming bees emerge from over the brow of the hill. I yelled at the top of my voice: Swarm of Bees! With that Sunita leapt up and began to run down the (steep and rocky) hillside with the others. I reacted by rolling down my cargo pants; place my hoody firmly over my head and turning my back to the swarm. Meanwhile Santosh’s only words of wisdom to us all were: they don’t like fire. Great. Let me just whip out the campfire I had stowed away in my rucksack. Mercifully the bees were not interested in us and continued to whirr down the hill. Afterward we sat about laughing but I think all of our hearts were still beating fiercely within our chests.

It was bizarre to see yellow gauze on the hilltop and I enquired as to whether it was indigenous to the Nilgiris. Alas, it was not and had been brought by the British. For what purpose I cannot conjecture but maybe to remind them of the rambling English countryside? – It worked for me, ha!

For the remainder of the afternoon we were taken to meet local Toda’s in a nearby village, wandered through tea estates and ate chocolates by a log fire. The story of the Toda’s (who are native tribesmen to the Nilgiris and still inhabit the countryside) is a tragic one. Like the plight of Native Americans in the U.S., the Toda’s are stuck in-between their loyalty to continue living like their forefathers and fighting the forceful influence of the encroaching Western world. They are a lost people. The men are renowned for being lazy drunks. Too lazy to work their own land so they rent it out for a mere pittance to Tamil families (who make a good living from toiling the land) and too lazy to assist the women of the village who are left to raise the children, care for the small barn of animals, cook, and clean etc. The children do go to school but Santosh told us once they have reached a marriageable age, the girls are not permitted to continue their education any further (for fear that they will want a more acculturated existence and abandon their Toda heritage).

Listening to their stories, and to Santosh, they both painted a picture of how Ooty was once the paradigm of serenity, prosperity, and order. Families would return to the hill station every year to enjoy the cool summers and fresh countryside. Now there was corruption, a desperate clinging to tourists and dilapidated colonial housing.

Feeling like the mirror image of the weather: miserable, the following day Helena and I darted into town to eat a Thali and see if we could bag a jewellery bargain. While out we got caught in the most terrific rainstorm and so had to hurriedly retreat into the closest bakery (pure coincidence I tell thee ha!) and over the next three hours did a tea and cake crawl back to our hotel. I managed to plonk my foot into the biggest (and murkiest) puddle in our haste to reach cover. When I pulled out my foot it was covered with soggy excrement. Needless to say I was not best impressed. In fact I could not wait to leave Ooty far, far behind.

Eager to leave a soaking wet and cold Ooty we grabbed the first bus that would take us to the train station, which so happened to be an a/c ultra deluxe service. Score! With music to serenade our three-hour journey down through the mountains and reclining, padded chairs; you would think that this would be my most comfortable journey to date in India. Unfortunately not as I had to contend with the piercing sounds of a young girl hurling her guts up as we swung around every hairpin bend. As a direct result both Sunita and I felt quite queasy and dared not look out of the window to see the whimsical stonewalls that separated us from the vast plains stretching out below us as far as the eye could see. And when we arrived I kissed the blessed ground.

The rest of our trip was not very exciting or worth boring you with because we simply caught the train back to Chennai and then clambered into an auto to reach the city bus station and then made our way back to Kanchipuram. We were all travel- weary and so in a zombie-like fashion we silently sat together until we collapsed into our flat, and beds!

All in all however, I had an awesome time and cannot wait until my next trip with Helena to Mumbai. So until anything happens (as I am fearful that it will) in my life here in India, I shall sign off poyittu varukiren!

Curry Jar-Jar’s Mind Junk: You say goodbye, I say hello

Lowestoft@archant.co.uk — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 14:21:00 GMT

Hoorah! It is mango season at last. No longer do I have to suffer the infernal disappointment of ordering mango juice in the vain hope that it will be available, only to be informed (usually about 20 minutes later) that sorry- but we no have Ma’am. With that in mind I have gone a bit crazy with regard to ordering mango juice and ice cream just recently.

After saying farewell to Kanika, the children then had to say goodbye…to me! On April 4 I packed all my belongings and headed into Chennai to start my second placement as a wannabe journalist for the City Express.

As I waved the children goodbye for the last time as they entered the school gates it hit me hard just how much I had bonded with the children during the three months now passed.

Looking back I recalled my initial shock in meeting the torrent of children and how I found it difficult to hide my dismay at what little they could call their own or listen to their stories of aggrieved childhoods. Also how I had to accept early on that I could not solve all their problems. Spending quality time with the children was all that I could offer. Whether it was helping them learn English, letting the younger children use me as a climbing frame or simply lending a sympathetic ear; I consider my time with each of them to be precious because these intimate moments were what really mattered to them. No money could buy that.

My wish to experience the real India quickly mutated into a simple desire to let the children be real children- if only momentarily. Through hosting rooftop star-gazing parties, football tournaments and martial art classes; it was great to let them just be.

Not wanting to succumb to clichés; but without a moments hesitation I can proudly say that my time at the LCC enriched my life beyond expectation. I cannot over emphasise the sheer joy that overwhelmed me when Radha was finally able to recite the alphabet without skipping the letter “V”, the pleasure when Romeo started to develop his own artistic talent, or the time that Lakshmi overheard me say: You’re mental! to one of the other volunteers in jest; and then insisted on repeating it full blast in a cockney accent!? (I still cannot persuade her to desist from using the phrase when in the presence of her teachers- yikes!)

In the run up to my departure it was again, inspiring to see how diligently they would all study under the dim light in the main room for their final exams.

The children taught me the importance of loving and appreciating family, the inconsequentiality of material desire, and the wonder of small mercies. I eagerly encourage anyone who has ever been tempted to volunteer, and indeed even to those who have never contemplated it for a second because if you do not reach out and help those in need; who will?

In my last few weeks we went a bit crazy watching Bollywood masala films. The film Om Shanti Om was ace! A real visual and audio delight (although we had to watch it in black and white). I definitely recommend anyone to take a break from Hollywood and indulge in Bollywood; even if just for one Friday night.

Marla also kindly took it upon herself to teach Helena and I how to make chapattis and various sambas. She found it hilarious, and so did the children, as we covered ourselves in flour and made a real bodge job of it all. I tell you, it takes an awful lot of elbow grease to make the perfect chapatti and an awful lot of sweat to stand over the heat and cook up a perfect samba. But we got there in the end and now I can proudly announce that upon my return home I shall hold an open house eve and cook chapatti for everyone (Oops, I had better ask Mum if I can borrow the kitchen ha!).

The day before I left Kanchipuram, we celebrated Bradley’s 19^th birthday. A week earlier Helena and I went to Chennai to buy a pair of new sandals for him as the ones he insisted on wearing were hilariously fowl. They were at least one size too big and the soles were almost completely separate from the shoe! We could not bear to hear him slouch along anymore and so took it upon ourselves to buy him some fancy new ones.

In the evening we headed into Chennai and a hookah bar called Mocha (one of a handful of places to socialise in Chennai). I had a really good time and savoured the company around me as I knew this would be the last time we would all be together. To celebrate in style we ordered two chocolate fondues, and winced when they were brought out. They were huge! I have never seen so much bubbling chocolate or assortment of cakes, iced buns, and marshmallows in which to dunk. We all literally dived into the chocolate but after ten minutes of scoffing we felt ashamedly gluttonous and could barely move. What pigs.

Not having enough money for a hotel to crash the night in Chennai, we jumped into an auto and asked them to speed to the bus stand to catch the last bus to Chennai. Oh, we so missed it. I was fuming. The prospect of spending over four hours stranded in a bus station made my blood boil. How could we have been so stupid and not left in time? Desperate, we asked a bus conductor whether there were any other buses leaving that pass through Kanchipuram. Praise be- there was! We sprinted across the forecourt and found the last bus leaving for Vellore and there began bartering with the driver to take a slight detour and drop us off in Kanchipuram. We thought at the time, and I still do now, that it was not such a major request as the road leading to Kanchipuram is barely five kilometres from the main highway to Vellore. But he would not budge. What to do? Take our chances and be dropped off in darkness at the roadside near Kanchipuram? Go all the way to Vellore, and then catch a bus back (how ridiculous) or kip on a rusty bench in the station?

Perhaps rather foolishly we hopped onto the Vellore bus in the vain hope that w would be able to persuade the driver (by appealing to his kind heart) that we were very afraid at the prospect of being dumped at a road junction at 1am. All our efforts were to no avail. Damn! So we had to just sit and watch the turnoff for Kanchipuram as our bus sailed by… five hours later we got into Kanchipuram! Five hours!!! Determined not to let the other passenger peacefully snooze their way to Vellore we insisted on singing “the wheels on the bus go round and round” at the very top of our lungs.

No sooner had I arrived into Chennai on Friday afternoon was I greeted by Paddy who filled me in on the latest gossip- they had been chucked out of their flat and had moved into a Bible College. Whaaaat? Taking a deep breathe and just sighing I moved my stuff into their new abode. The only accurate way I can describe the “flat” is to say this: remember the house that Edward Norton’s character from Fight Club moved into when he began his soap making business? Well, that is exactly what my new place is like. The toilet did not flush and there were regular electricity cut outs.

Sitting on the balcony (the flat has some redeeming features) on my first evening fiercely trying to read and get to grips with Wuthering Heights whilst the singing of hymns drifted up the stairs, I heard something scuttle. Looking up from my book at the crucial moment when Heathcliff returned from his three-year absence, I saw the source of the scuttling; a big, fat juicy cockroach. Brilliant. Determined to send a distinct message to the rest of his family I took Wuthering Heights, wielded it high above my head and- wallop! Dead cockroach. I cannot deny that it felt disturbingly satisfying and since then we have not had (or seen) anymore.

But all has not been doom and gloom. I am definitely the kind of person that tries to see the best in even the direst situations and just gets on with it. The first challenge I set myself was to conquer the bus network of Chennai. It is definitely cheaper (compare 15 rupees with 150 rupees!) and is a good way to see the different city districts. I was rather chuffed with myself when I managed to find my way to Besant Nagar to meet up with the others at a journalist professor’s house for pizza and beer one Saturday eve.

The evening was really interesting as we were able to meet actual Journalist students and interrogate them about Indian life and journalistic tactics. Unbeknown to me however, the night was still young at 9pm as we headed into T Nagar to meet up with a guy to celebrate his birthday of the following day. I had my first experience of Chennai nightlife in a club called Speed; heck, my first taste of any kind of nightlife in 2008! Ha, I was like a duck to water. The club itself was nothing to write home about, nor was the music but it was fun just to let my hair down and dance my way into the early hours of the morning. It was quite odd waking up the next morning with a slight hangover (never good when the temperature outside at 9am is 33 degrees Celsius) and the faint whiff of cigarettes on my clothes.

On the Monday I met the editor of the paper I was to be interning for, and was given my first assignment: to write a 300-word piece about my experience in the orphanage. Just 300 words! Ha, you can imagine my horror at the thought of having to cram all that had happened at the LCC into just 300 words. I did however, manage it and the editor thought it was good enough to be published- Wahoo! My first published piece. Fingers crossed that I am sent to cover some interesting and varied events across the city, and also apologies if I am unable to keep up to speed with telling y’all of my Indian shenanigans. I think my little fingers will drop off with so much writing, and doodling!

Curry Jar-Jar Mind Junk: All aboard the Jungle Express

Lowestoft@archant.co.uk — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 13:12:00 GMT

For the past few years I have asked my family not to buy me chocolate eggs for Easter because of the gross excessive packaging that accompanies them (that being said I am aware Cadbury’s Creme Eggs only come in foil: Hint! Hint!) but this year I craved chocolate like never before. Trying to rationalise my foaming at the mouth for nearly the whole day; it was because I knew that I was not going to receive one at all and I did not have the option to sneak out and buy one for myself (how sad a spectacle that would have been!). So this year I had an anti-Easter and as a result I was incredibly downbeat. No Sunday newspapers to peruse. No fry-up. No guilt-watching Songs of Praise. No family round for lunch and then a country ramble to Sotterley. To be but brief the absence of chocolate triggered the pang of homesickness. All was remedied by the evening however after I received a call from home and was asked whether I had received an Easter package….fingers crossed it’s chocolatey!

As y’all may recall I have just returned from a brief two-week tour of the Western Ghats and parts of Karnataka with the merry band of other volunteers. Actually to refer to them (Alpa, Sunita, Bradley, Ellie and Helena) as just other volunteers sounds incredibly impersonal as I would now consider all of them to be my friends. All in all I had an awesome time discovering Bangalore, Madikeri, Mysore and Ooty before returning to a soaking wet Chennai.

No sooner had we left Kanchipuram could Bradley be heard wincing as he reached into his rucksack to retrieve his book. The silly boy had not learnt the golden rule of always ensuring that toiletries are wrapped in some sort of bag to prevent leakages. He had opted for Sunsilk’s Black Shine and- guess what- yep; the shampoo was actually black hence all of his books, ipod and other clutter were smothered in what looked like crude oil. It was not a pretty site but smelt good though!

There is one thing I have definitely learnt about Indian railway; never opt for a seat downwind of the toilet. Having caught the sleeper train at 11:30pm we hurried to our seats amidst the frantic chaos of people bustling to clamber aboard. It was all rather exciting as I had never been on an Indian train before and was astonished to discover how decent each carriage was (considering we opted for the lowest class available) and just how tremendous its capacity for passengers were (we counted at least 20 carriages). Within each carriage there were approximately six bays of eight beds (three high) that were folded away during the light hours of travelling. And at the end of each carriage were three toilets. Granted they were little more than holes but still, decent enough.

Once the train had begun to rumble along the track we soon folded and climbed onto our beds to sleep. But could we? No- because it was too ruddy freezing! We had not anticipated just how cold it would be to travel at night aboard a train with three ceiling fans to each bay that could not be switched off. I swear my nose at one point turned blue! I don’t think I have ever been so appreciative of a pair of socks I had packed to deter mosquitoes from savaging my feet.

We arrived into Bangalore at an ungodly 5am and immediately set about securing lodgings for our three day stay. Bradley was the hero of the hour as he found us a local “hotel” that would put us up for a mere pittance. It was quite a quirky little establishment that was reminiscent of a French colonial house with its French window doors that opened onto a white veranda. Although it looked out over a building site (and alas, no builders to ogle) and was adjacent to a main road; it was a gem of a find.

Having dumped all of our stuff at the hotel and successfully defrosting ourselves we endeavoured to scour the streets for breakfast. Reluctant to eat in “Western” eateries (mostly because they are overpriced and the food is usually not very good) we discovered Biba’s Garden whereby I had the most delicious Masala Dhosa ever! Bar none! And at only 15 rupees! I could hardly contain myself.

For our first day in Bangalore we thought to join the locals in whatever they do at weekends and so, we went to the Turf Club for Saturday afternoon horse racing. With a guide in one hand and a plate of papaya in t’other I recalled the one time that I went to the dogs at Great Yarmouth and how to pick a winner by judging their recent performances etc. Helena and I placed a joint bet for race number two- and won! Wahoo. Even though we only won seven rupees respectively; we were hooked and had great fun picking out winners (and losers) for the duration of the afternoon. I cunningly employed the expertise of a local. Well actually, I had little choice as he was sitting next to us and could not resist feeding us titbits of “insider” information about which horse was likely to win.

As an Indian city, I though Bangalore was quite impressive. The streets were wide, clean and bordered with lush trees. The traffic was ordered. There were city parks and museums aplenty. There were even bars and chained restaurants. Yet there was something that just did not sit right with me. For a few days I could not place my finger on what exactly made me feel uncomfortable about the city; until it came to me: Bangalore felt soulless. So desperate to be on a par with big Western cities, it is as if during the IT boom of the 1980s that propelled Bangalore to its current prominence, urban planners concluded that if one chucks up fancy modern buildings with neon lighting and allows franchises of companies like McDonalds and Levis; that the mindset and culture of the Western world will follow suit. It does not. Too many aspects of the city centre culture looked and felt fake: Bangalore was out of context with the rest of the country. At times it felt like I was in Tokyo, but one was starkly reminded every now and then that it was indeed India by the fact that bars still closed at 11pm and served perhaps only two kinds of liquor, and after dark all the women disappeared from the streets.

Don’t get me wrong- there were places that I did enjoy, like Peccos (because it was a tiny candlelit enclave of rebellious souls listening to Jefferson Airplane and supping Kingfisher beer) but overall I did not warm to Bangalore. Moreover the cost of everything downtown was almost tripled! The cheek! In one night I spent the same amount of money on alcohol (I only bought three!) as I did on three nights accommodation! That taught me a lesson and so now I am going back to being tee total.

When we got back to our hotel at midnight we were dismayed to find that the reception desk was vacant. Where was everybody? How were we to get into our rooms? Our minds soon ran away with our imaginations as we begun to marshal up the most ridiculous scenarios of how we would break into our rooms. During this banter Ellie popped her head round the desk and I helped her to pilfer our key from the (open!!!) cupboard. What great reassuring security.

The next morning we decided to do a spot of sight-seeing and so ventured to Cubbon Park. More than four hours later and after losing about three pounds of weight (due to excessive perspiration) we found the beautifully grand Secretariat building proud in the sweltering midday heat and towering over the surrounding landscape and then the city’s art gallery. Because it had taken us forever to find the ruddy gallery (none of us could read a map) we were none too fussed when we got to see the exhibitions. We just wanted to conk out in the park amidst the clumps of bamboo and watch the impromptu cricket match being played by park workers during their lunch break. I did discover however; that I dislike Kangra artists and have a fondness for Bhikaner paintings (don’t ask what that means because right now I cannot remember!)

Oh my goodness I nearly forgot to impart our collective highlight from our time in Bangalore- we managed to get tickets to see Serena Williams play Patty Schnyder in the Bangalore Open 2008 Final! Earlier in the day when we had been trawling our asses through Cubbon Park we saw banners advertising a tennis tournament. Curious- we wandered over and were shocked to discern that Serena had knocked out her sister during the semi-finals and was playing that very evening. We grabbed the opportunity to buy last minute tickets and really enjoyed watching what turned into a fantastic match. Of course Serena won.

Having watched over five hours of tennis in one sitting (there was also a doubles final but I ashamedly cannot remember either of the pair’s names) we had become quite jaded and so lazily crawled out of bed quite late the next day. Hopping onto a random bus after scoffing (yet another amazing) masala dhosa from Biba’s Garden we arrived at Bangalore’s city market. What a mistake that was! The only way I can attempt to describe my time there is to try and get you to imagine being placed in shopping purgatory; where there is no escape from the heat, the never-ending tunnel and myriad of shops ablaze with gleaming jewellery that almost make your eyes water, the chorus screech of street sellers, and the bombardment of your weakening, sweaty body as people barge past you; desperate to get the best deal.

So overwhelmed and desiccated we crashed out in the gardens of a nearby hospital- because we thought it was the most appropriate place; just in case, ha!

For the rest of our time in Bangalore we mostly ate, tried to visit a driving range at the city’s Golf Course (but were kindly and curtly informed that one needed to be a member at a price of over $800 a month), and mostly walked about the city (much to the amusement of auto rickshaw drivers). In fact on our last evening we walked across the entire breadth of Bangalore to reach our hotel because we had missed the last bus and were too tight to fork out for a rip-off auto fare. Typical Brit backpackers. It took us about 40 minutes and all the way we received stares from car passengers sailing by for Indians really cannot understand the concept of walking anywhere if you have the option to travel by more comfortable means. I hastened to add that none of them stopped to offer a ride though!

The next morning Helena, Ellie, Alpa and I left Bradley and Sunita in Bangalore to head for Madikeri. I have yet to get my act together and write up my shenanigans from that portion of our trip (sorry! I have been ill recently) and so will lock myself away for the next few days to do so. Until then, poyittu varukiren

Curry Jar-Jar's Mind Junk: Rooftop Remedies

Lowestoft@archant.co.uk — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 12:07:00 GMT

The last few weeks and days have been very hectic for us all here. It is difficult to know what to impart and what to keep to myself, but here goes:

On February 19 the volunteers collectively requested a crisis meeting with the administration of the LCC. The reasons which mounted in that request were mainly based upon the children’s medical state. The idea of boils is humorous; but not when the majority of children suffer from them constantly because they do not have soap to wash with, and cannot go to school because it is too painful to sit on a chair. As a reality; that is utterly desperate.

With the arrival of Helena (an aspiring doctor) it suddenly dawned on us that we had no idea which children potentially had HIV, those that needed glasses, who may suffer from diabetes etc. The task of improving the children’s health was a massive task, and in a cry out for help and support from the founders of the charity we compiled notes and suggestions for improvements based upon our observations.

I know that we may sound like pompous upstarts; I mean who dares to saunter into a charity that has been established for eight years and start sprouting their ideas when one should be aware that funds are always a limiting factor? We collectively felt however, that we had to be harsh in our resolution that as volunteers we had come to India to offer our time, money and efforts to teach the children and support the running of a charity; and so if we could see possible changes that could easily be employed- why hesitate? We also candidly highlighted the burning urgency of providing medical attention to some of the children suffering from scurvy and impetigo.

In an attempt to show our dedication to the LCC we advocated our intention to commence a letter-writing campaign to secure sponsorship from companies and how we had begun to ask local restaurants for their leftover food.

Thankfully the LCC administration was open to suggestions and a breakthrough occurred when it was agreed that the administration of the LCC would provide a weekly medical float for Helena, a doctor would come visit the LCC, and that they would be more pro-active in their support for volunteers. To hear that was sweet music to our ears!

Helena was given 1000 rupees for the medical float with which she was able to purchase: cough medicine, ringworm cream, mouth antiseptic cream, glycerine, antiseptic ointment, eye drops, and throat lozenges. These were purchased after assessing each child’s individual health needs and consequently were greatly required. She was also in the process of establishing an ordered and systematic method in which to distribute all medicine. I do not regret our stance because ultimately our efforts have only improved the children’s lot. And with that I shall say no more.

The promise of never-ending sunshine was ruthlessly shattered one Thursday afternoon when the heavens above opened. My goodness did it pour, and pour and pour! Within ten minutes the roads were no longer visible and I therefore became stranded in a shop over 45minutes because it was too risky to brave the muddy torrents that now lined the dirt tracks. The locals expressed their surprise at such weather because the monsoons usually do not begin until May/June. I too expressed my surprise and anxiety at the prospect of being in India when the real monsoons would occur. I also laughed with them at how I was sure I would be fine because my mother had insisted that I pack my new umbrella. God bless mothers!

That very same afternoon I spotted a man with elephantitis. This is how random and quizzical days can be here. Having only ogled at photographs within textbooks or half-watching Channel Five documentaries about such conditions; I never thought I would bear witness to the real thing. I hope I did not stare too much but I was just too amazed to see the man slowly (and triumphantly) walking.

To give all of the children a special treat, we came up with the idea of splitting them into animal groups (because the thought of treating over 90 children was too daunting a task) and hosting a weekly star-gazing party on our roof for each of them. So far we have had two parties and they have been a real success. We each put in 100 rupees for each party and with that money we bought candy, stickers, shampoo, coloured thread, popcorn, crisps, nail varnish, cola, henna… We also put together little goodie bags for them to take away. It was hilarious to see the sheer thrill of the younger girls and how they reacted to all the E-numbered foods and the sounds from the MP3 player. When it was the turn of the older girls the night took on a more poignant twist for me as Sanga (the eldest girl) really opened up to me.

Sitting under the stars and gently conversing as our hands were decorated with henna she told me of her hopes and dreams of becoming an air hostess and to travel the world. With wide eyes she asked what qualifications she would need, and would she still be able to marry? I reassured her that of course she could. No job should ever prevent her of marriage and indeed vice versa. She then continued to tell me about her childhood and how she had been at the LCC since she was only seven years old.

I felt honoured that she was able to trust me and talk so candidly about things which she usually kept locked up tight, but I cannot hide just how unworthy and inadequate I also felt. What reassurance could I give her? What wisdom and guidance could I ever impart to such a girl already matured far beyond her years? How could I empathise with her current situation or even begin to try and understand all the emotions that she kept to herself because she did not want to burden the younger girls? It would have been patronising for me to advise her to remain strong and determined; for had she not already been for her whole life? In a feeble attempt to ease her anxiety of her future I promised to conduct research as to what institutions offer training courses, and what qualifications she would need to obtain a place. Perhaps me listening attentively and offering a supportive hand was the best I could give?

Tonight the younger boys are coming over and on Sunday we have organised a mini football tournament for the older lads. I have been warned by them to practice my tackling skills- yikes! I think the prospect is quite alien to them of playing with a girl but I am ready for the challenge.

Rooftops have become a recurring location for many of my stories for they are where most of the action takes place. Perhaps it is the novelty of my being able to venture onto a roof and thus choose to spend quite a lot of my time up there. I find it soothing and a great source of escapism to just watch the birds fly by and the countryside beyond the fringes of Kanchipuram.

The Manipur boys who live above us also frequent the roof often and can be seen doing many a craft. To my surprise and wonderment they are expert kite-makers. Out of little more than newspaper, rice glue, twigs and thread they are able to make the sturdiest kites and release them high into the sky. It is magical to see them await the rustling of the trees so as to predict the ensuing gust of wind and then launch their creations amidst screams of laughter. What is more magical is to see the littering of other distant kites in the sky by neighbouring rooftops set against a setting sun that can only be described as a hazy lemon strepsil dozing on the horizon. What a sight, and a memory to cherish.

Helena has begun to teach a daily Tae Kwon Do class on the roof. It was great fun even though the sweat was dripping off our faces. The hour of pure physical exercise definitely awoke my lazy ass. She even got me doing press-ups! She had a nerve, ha!

I have also found the rooftop to be quite therapeutic for the children. It is the closest thing they have to a garden and so I encourage them to partake in activities on the roof; if only to sit and chat there.

For one girl Radha, the rooftop has become a very significant place. One evening when she was inconsolably pining for her sister (whom had been taken to another orphanage owned by the LCC) I took her hand and guided her up onto the roof and set about telling her that when I feel lonely I look up at the stars and feel reassured by their presence because I know that they are exactly the same stars that my friends and family see too. So even though we may be thousands of miles apart on land; we are united under the same sky. And if I want to I can shut my eyes and send a message home through the Dog Star. She seemed baffled at first and a little afraid of the dark but eventually she gathered what I was trying to explain and merrily wished away on just about every star visible (including a few aeroplanes).

Last Saturday we took our chances with a bus once more and embarked upon a day trip to Tiruvannamalai. Deemed as one of the five most holy towns in Tamil Nadu, Tiruvannamalai (meaning Red Mountain) is named after the extinct Arunachala volcano mountain that dominates the landscape. Within the actual town a colossal temple complex called Arunchaleshvara which honours the God Shiva stands grandly. During a full moon it is reported that thousands of pilgrims gather to circumnavigate the 14km base of the mountain. Some even attempt the five hour trek to its summit.

I had a wonderful; if not sweltering day in Tiruvannamalai. After eating some tasty falafel we wandered around the temple grounds and then hired an auto to show us some more remote sites far from the madding crowd. He was a great guide for he took us far around the north side of the mountain and into a remote temple whereby we were the only ones present. At first it was really spooky because it was as if the temple had been forgotten for hundreds of years and we were the first to discover it. Bats flew about the dusty pillars as we tip-toed around the narrow corridors and whispered to each other. Outside the views of the mountain were breathtaking, not only because of the parrots that squawked nearby too.

On our way back to the town we stopped off at a fairly run-of-the-mill temple (sorry to be casual about them now) but a stone grabbed my attention because it was smothered in chalk swastikas. Even though I understand that the symbol has Sanskrit origins and when right-facing is a recognised ancient Hindu symbol; I still find it difficult to remove the Nazi connection I have with the symbol. It just proves the power a symbol can have, and how the meaning and association can change so dramatically by a single event or person.

After a long day of sightseeing we fell into a local restaurant and ordered what was to be the most anticipated meal ever! I nearly lost it through my fury of the server’s lack of speed and awareness of our ravenous hunger! 25 minutes I waited for my lassi- and then only to be told that it was not available! He then got our orders wrong and Alpa ended up eating my food by mistake. To top it all off I caught sight of an opportunistic rat scurry up the stair banister as we departed. The only redeeming feature of the establishment was the flavoursome Chilly Pataka I eventually got served! Ha.

On Monday the air was full of celebration and surprise as it was Alpa’s 23^rd birthday. Not wanting her to feel homesick we ensured she had a day to remember! In preparation we all chipped in and bought her a pink pashmina, some silver bangles and other silly little nick-knacks like nail varnish and henna (because there are no other decent shops here in Kanchi). One of the girls made her a really beautiful card, and I weaved a bracelet.

With the remainder of the money we secretly went to the best local hotel and arranged for a surprise dinner that night (three of us went along earlier to decorate the table with balloons and streamers. We also ordered a personalised chocolate birthday cake from the local bakery).

She was shell-shocked by the surprise meal, to say the least. It was satisfying to see that our efforts paid off especially when she said that her birthdays are usually a bit of a non-event back home. The evening only got better as we gave her our final surprise: the hotel permitted us to exclusively eat cake and drink chai on their much coveted rooftop garden where you can overlook the whole of Kanchipuram by moonlight! It was a great way to end the evening.

Disaster has struck once again for Curry Jar-Jar! Not only have I endured the humiliation of falling over, admitting to having head lice, being a nightly pin cushion for mosquitoes, and being royally burnt as I stupidly fell asleep in the midday sun; but now I can advertise that I have bed bugs! How irritating! How much can a girl take?!

Let me tell you there is a big difference between going on vacation for two weeks and putting up with the daily routine of dousing oneself in Jungle Formula; and then accepting the de facto reality of not being able to keep up with the liberal appliance of said mosquito repellent nor escape from other “insects”. It can get a girl down!

Determined to remain unbeaten I lumbered my mattress up two flights of stairs and dumped it onto our roof for three days in the vain hope that the cruel sun would bake the little monkeys to a miserable death! Ha. I think it has worked.

No sooner had I overcome the mighty bed bug did I then have to contend with a blocked kitchen sink. Some bright spark (who shall remain nameless and thus retain their dignity) put acrylic paint down the plughole and thus created a scurvy-layered lagoon. Hell bent on solving the blockage instead of calling a plumber, Helena and I marched into town in the search of a plunger. To prepare us for our mission we stopped off at the tea stand and guzzled a piping chai. While there a man named Babu boldly introduced himself and did the whole roll call questioning that we have become accustomed to now. He then proceeded to offer us a ride into town. Looking at each other and mildly excited at the prospect of being driven into town in the back of a truck (his luxurious mode of cattle transportation) Helena and I kindly accepted his offer and clambered into the back of his auto truck.

What a mistake! How could we have been so stupid to forget the golden rule: Say NO to Strangers! After parading us around his neighbourhood (that was not enroute to town) like a prized catch, we met his very own mother and father! Increasingly exchanging perturbed glances, Helena and I pressed him to take us to town because of an urgent appointment we had to attend presently. Thankfully he heeded our urgency and swiftly dropped us off. Phew!

We then set about the local hardware stores to seek out a plunger. Now that was the real ordeal of the day. If I had to demonstrate once the actions of a plunger while talking loudly in slow broken-English for a plunger; I had to ask at least 50 times. No exaggeration. It was getting dark, and we were weary from being handed a toilet brush or being told that the shop opposite or adjacent had one. They were all fibbing. Not a single shop in Kanchipuram (and we tried many) had a plunger!

Returning home empty-handed and defeated, Bradley ultimately had to take one for the team and plunge his hand into the now-murky abyss of stale water. It was not a pretty sight but luckily he fixed it.

All of these shenanigans may seem horrendous to the reader; but they have strangely become part of our daily routine and keep us on our toes. It is like we are jovially partaking in a warped Big Brother that is setting the most bizarre challenges to overcome. And at the end of the day no matter how dire things seem; counteractions always occur that make one easily forget our silly woes. For example only t’other day did I witness baby watermelons growing out in the countryside. What a marvel! It was amazing to see how arid the surrounding soil was and yet have the knowledge of how lush the inside of that tiny fruit was. I was also shown the peanut plant. I had no idea that peanuts grew underground! Honest. Moreover I never knew that the coconuts we call thus at home are no more than shrivelled brown furry excuses for the real thing. After being handed a brimming cup of fresh coconut water and its squid-like floppy flesh; I could not believe the differences between them and yet they were the same fruit. Continuing revelations abound in Curry Jar-Jar’s world! Whatever next?!

Depending on when you read this; I may have already departed for Bangalore. Leaving on March 7, we merry band of five are taking a two-week break to explore parts of Karnataka. No doubt many an anecdote will occur as it seems wherever Bradley is; trouble occurs! I shall return soon but for now I will sign-off with poyittu varukiren!

Curry Jar-Jar’s Mind Junk: Get on the Bus

Lowestoft@archant.co.uk — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 10:55:00 GMT

After many weeks I have come to the conclusion that every premise downtown is a shop! It is surprising that any of them stay in business for there are literally scores of bicycle repair shops, food stalls, cobblers, mobile phone shops and gazillions of eateries. The choice is overwhelming, and if anything quite frustrating because it is often a mammoth task just trying to decide where to eat or barter for fruit. But fear not! My ability to barter is rapidly improving. No more can the locals see me coming and think to themselves: A-ha! Now they tremble in their sandals when I approach!

I find it fascinating to wander about Kanchipuram. At first I did develop a nervous twitch when exploring because people would just stop and stare at me. I became convinced that I had something permanently stuck on my face that I was not aware of. But now I just shrug off the attention and resume my own business.

I especially like to investigate the narrow side streets because it is usually anybody’s guess what you may discover; like a few days ago I found that you can buy an entire watermelon for only 10 rupees at the Naviji Market. I could not believe my greedy little eyes and so hastily bought as many as I could (without toppling over). They are lush to scoff while lounging on the apartment roof and listening to the general craziness below.

On January 26 we accompanied the children to school and joined in the celebration of honouring India’s Republic Day. Considering it was 8am I think I did remarkably well to look interested as the flag was raised and songs were sung by all. Admittedly I was only there to show support for the children and so did not care about my hobo appearance nor my poor singing ability. The children did however and poked fun at me.

Later that morning four of us were collected by the LCC founder and taken to her “land” for an afternoon picnic. Now let me try and explain the “land”: it is basically a vast stretch of 17 acres covered with mango trees, teak, coconut trees, vegetable rows and paddy fields that is being primed to house an entire community. Not only is it Sophia’s (the LCC founder) dream to re-house the LCC children, but also to build a school, separate volunteers quarters, a polytechnic college, a farm to rear their own cattle and grow their own food, and also to build her retirement home alongside that of a new church. The plans are grandiose (to say the least) and I cannot hide my skepticism. In my humble opinion it was frustrating to hear of all her efforts and funds being wasted through obtaining blueprints, and lawyers’ fees for estimating the cost of such a project when the LCC children do not regularly eat fruit. Admittedly if such a project could be realized then the children would reap the benefits of living in clean, calm air and consuming fresh vegetables, but to ignore their immediate needs for a pipedream is irresponsible in my eyes.

But that aside, upon our arrival we were pleased to see that other volunteers had been invited so we all had a chance to catch up and natter away in the shade of the trees. It was funny to hear how one of the guys had been mistaken for James Blunt and subsequently had been hounded for autographs. Somehow I think he did not mind his new-found celebrity status.

Soon into the afternoon it became apparent that we were gate crashing a family event and so begun to feel a little uncomfortable. A delicious lunch was presented and thereafter the weirdness truly began. Quite excited at the prospect of being able to laze under a tree and quietly read or chat; Sophia and her family insisted that we sing hymns and give thanks to the Lord. Not wanting to appear rude we reluctantly obliged through gritted smiles. Thank goodness we had safety in numbers.

The highlight of the day came when Sophia’s grandsons were bullied into performing a song for us. Can you guess the song? Oh, I bet you cannot. The young boys (with the assistance of a microphone and speaker system) launched into the most startling performance of Akon’s “Smack That”. We could not believe our eyes or ears. Did they not understand the lyrics?! How could their grandparents look on so proudly and clap in support?! At any moment I truly expected Jeremy Beadle (may he rest in peace) to spring up from behind a bush and yell: You’ve Been Framed! The day concluded in much the same fashion as we were called to perform “something special”. Like rabbits caught in the headlights we all looked to Patrick who thankfully picked up a guitar and sang Oasis’ Wonderwall so that we could all chirp in together. What a day!

Having spent close to a month at the LCC we decided it was time to get on the bus and venture to foreign parts of Southern India. With that thought we gathered our belongings one weekend and traveled to Pudicherry. Locating and boarding the correct bus was an ordeal in itself! The bus station was chaotic and we had absolutely no idea how to find the correct bus. Thankfully because we stood out like sore thumbs some locals (about ten of them) took it upon themselves to ensure that we caught the correct bus and managed to get a seat. I was relieved to have nabbed a window seat and so happily gazed out for the three-hour journey.

Unfortunately by the time we arrived I had stupidly acquired the most dramatic t-shirt tan on my right arm. I looked a right plonker but fortunately had no time to wallow as no sooner had we stepped off the bus that one of us opened a guidebook to research our destination for hotels! At only 450 rupees per night for all of us (in a private 11 bed dormitory with five toilets and shower) we were in heaven to find the Sri Aurobindo Ashram which was located close to the ocean promenade. Technically it was not a hotel but a meditation centre and thereby a 10:30pm curfew had to be heeded, but we were all cool with that (knowing that most bars close by 11pm anyway). We were all ready to book in when it was dramatically discovered that without ones passport; no hotels will accept bookings. Helena and Ellie did not have their passports. Eek! What to do? After much fraught discussion it was decided that regrettably they had to return to Kanchipuram and come back the next morning with their ruddy passports. They were not impressed but accepted that they had no choice in the matter. Feeling guilty; Alpa, Sunita and I suggested that we all go for a meal before they departed. So we all traipsed off to enjoy a candlelight fish supper and sip mango lassie’s before waving them off.

Afterward Sunita, Alpa and I pootled leisurely along the promenade and instantly felt the pace and ambience of Pudicherry. It was so vibrant and yet calmly refreshing to be by the sea and spot the sporadic tourists also meandering along. We did ashamedly pop into the best hotel in Pudicherry and supple cocktails. At first we were apprehensive but were soon shocked to find that the drinks were only 125 rupees- a bargain! For the rest of the evening we had a great getting-to-know-each-other-properly conversation before heading back to the Ashram.

Pudicherry itself is quite small but a real gem. Mainly because of its French colonial past; the architecture is stunning and oozes character that is reminiscent of any provincial French town. Heck to have pavements, tree-lined streets and cafes serving continental cuisine was a revelation to us! Of course we were still in India and so one could not entirely escape the litter or the general craziness; and the local eatery La Coromandale did serve the best grub. Bar none.

The next morning we awoke to the surreal soundtrack of birds singing and the gentle splashing of a garden waterfall; was this for real? Somebody turn off the cd! We could not believe the oasis that was our lodging.

For the remainder of the day we wandered aimlessly around Pudicherry; looking in various bookshops (with titles like: How to AIDS-Proof Your Child and A Guide to Lobstering), chilling in the local park before being attacked by the random sprinkler system and trying to survive the local undercover spice market that was like a Victorian labyrinth of smells. By this time the other girls had returned and Bradley (another UK volunteer) had joined our happy troupe.

It was decided that we should try out a recommended haunt and so set about paying a peddle rickshaw to take us. That is where the most horrendous saga began. Sunita, Helena and I grouped together with a fairly youngish man and agreed to pay him 30 rupees. It soon became painfully apparent (for him) however, when the sweat began to bead on his brow that we were too heavy and his peddling became more exaggerated. It also became painfully apparent (for us) that he had no idea where the restaurant was! What to do? At the point where he had to get off and push the bicycle up an incline our conscience got the better of us and we called for him to stop; we would walk the remainder. He seemed relieved at this but then refused to accept his payment; he wanted more. Taken aback that he expected us to pay him more money when he had not even delivered us at the correct location angered me. Granted he had peddled his legs off practically but we did not force him to accept our business. Miffed, but cornered by a potential confrontation we paid him extra. Later when we met the others we discovered that the Seagull Restaurant was undergoing renovation and did not exist after all! How stupid and guilty we felt toward the peddle rickshaw driver!

On the Saturday we made a pact to be cliché tourists and so booked to be whisked around the “best” sites of Pudicherry. In hindsight I am glad we did because we were shown and explained such sites as the Ashram that otherwise I would have ignorantly overlooked. We visited Pudicherry’s Botanical Gardens (whereby I was told that the governor had recently visited a tourist convention in London and was impressed by an invention so much that he brought two back home with him. What was the invention I hear you cry? The answer - portable loos.

The gardens were pleasant but were completely dwarfed in comparison to our own glorious Kew Gardens. Unfortunately I had the same opinion of the government museum. We are spoilt by the high standards employed back home with regard to attention for detail and presentation, quality of artifacts and their preservation, and knowledge offered to the public. The displays of Pudicherry’s history seemed an almost hurried afterthought and the visit soon descended into a comical farce when Bradley came across a rock and mineral display, with categories like: pebbles and chalk. More disturbing however was the presence of raw asbestos just lying casually in an uncovered display cabinet. We could not hide our astonishment nor understand the guide’s confusion as to why we were shocked at the presence of asbestos. We all got lost in translation.

The highlight of the day for me was two-pronged: The trek to Auroville and the discovery of a bar called LeSpace. Founded in the 1960s by “the Mother” disciple of Sri Aurubindo; Auroville is a community of approximately 2000 people who live together with the purpose of realizing Sri Aurobindo’s prophecy of living “at one” with nature and their spirituality. I hesitate to call it a new-age hippy commune because it is so much more than that. The place truly mesmerized me. To have the space-age gigantic Matri Mandir meditation ball-sphere revealed as one strolls onto the orange-clay viewing platform is a memory that will last a lifetime. The structure is so futuristic in its design and setting that I honestly felt I was actually on the production set of Stargate SG-1. Some say in a dismissive manner that it just looks like a giant golden golf ball wedged upon grass; but to me it was so much more. I almost could not grasp that it was built in this time; a real feat of human imagination and creation.

That evening, after nearly recovering from my Matri Mandir- induced trance, we spent a lovely evening drinking and debating in LeSpace. With its Brick Lane vibe of eccentricity and mellow soundtrack, I could have happily stayed there the whole night were it not for our blasted 10:30pm curfew! And my was the vodka potent!

On our final day in Pudicherry we thought to take advantage of being by the ocean and so visited Auroe Beach. We now all concede (apart from Bradley) that it was a stupid idea. We all completely forgot that for us to strip down to a swimming costume and dive into the sea in India is a big no-no! So us girls all sat on the steaming sand in our trousers and t-shirts and glared in envy at Bradley frolicking in the sea like a puppy. If only looks could kill! Ha. On a positive note we were able to take pleasure in seeing that none of the men (there were only men on the beach) knew how to swim but were quite content to throw themselves into the crashing waves wearing little more than their y-fronts and ill-fitting life jackets. What a sight!

On our return journey our bus had no windscreen. But hey-ho this is India and any extra air-conditioning is always welcomed.

Vellore is definitely worth a visit if only to see the dramatic fort that was occupied by the British during the late 18^th Century and the bizarre Golden Temple that is sadly omitted from most guidebooks. Minding our own business and wandering around the pillared- temple, Helena and I became quite embarrassed at the attention we were receiving and the numerous requests for people to have their photograph taken with us. Not wanting to appear snooty we became pose-happy with gritted smiles. Oh the woes of being polite and obliging!

Greeted by a red carpet (the first carpet I have seen since arriving) outside the Golden Temple entrance, Helena and I literally sprinted to feel the warm fabric cushion on our abused feet. It felt so good! But alas, it did not last long as were abruptly told to check-in not only our shoes but also our cameras and phones. It apparently was not good enough to have them switched off when entering the grounds. Considering it had just passed the midday heat we stupidly decided that now was the right time to visit the Golden Temple and thus began to negotiate the trail to the front of the ticket queue. What a mistake! We almost fell about laughing as we realized just how stupid we looked walking so awkwardly on the gravel and (now molten) tar. Anyone from afar would think we were walking on hot coals. This obviously amused the locals and once again a curious crowd began to amass. Great. Once at the front we were presented with another dilemma: pay 100 rupees for a special pass or wait five hours in a metal pen with 70 other people to visit the temple. Now that was a tough decision.

Thankfully there were more carpet strips the other side and we both sighed with relief. It was then that I first caught sight of the Golden Temple, and boy was it golden! My eyes surely deceived me. Again, just like Auroville, the temple looked fake and more like a forgotten prop from the film Flash Gordon. It was definitely awe-inspiring and impressive but did so in a fashion that teetered on vulgarism. As one approached the entrance to the temple there appeared the most bling-tastic chandeliers I have ever laid eyes upon. They no doubt put P. Diddy’s home interior to shame.

Because we had paid 100 rupees we were (embarrassingly) able to get closer to the temple which lay as an island in a pool of glistening holy water, and were able to catch a glimpse of the Hindu figurine, receive free cake, and also be blessed by a metal cone hat (very bizarre indeed); while the other real pilgrims were crammed into aisles and literally shoved each other to glimpse the Hindu god (now obscured by our fat heads). I felt such a fraud.

Once back outside we re-joined the masses and looked on keenly in wonderment as people laid their heads on what can only be described as a big black ceramic bowl and patted the inside thrice. What was it all about? Helena by now was completely jaded and starting to lose the will to live in the still-searing heat. I too was tired-out by the sheer volume of questions I had now whirring in my head about all that we had seen. None of it seemed to make any sense. Why were there so many peculiar and abstract customs with the Hinduism we had witnessed hitherto? When the elephant strolled by to bless people we looked at each other and knew we had seen enough. With that we hailed an Auto Rickshaw and resumed once more the quest for a decent price back to the bus station…

Curry Jar-Jar's Mind Junk : The Education of Chloe

Lowestoft@archant.co.uk — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 14:27:00 GMT

I never anticipated that so much would occur on a daily basis while I was living here. For example as I walked some of the children home two weeks ago an elderly lady approached me and started speaking Tamil. Immediately I looked to the eldest child and asked her to translate. The lady was explaining that she did not bear a son therefore she would like to take a boy. I thought she was joking and so laughed and smiled as I shook my head; but she was being completely serious. The tone of the conversation switched instantly. I told the girl to tell her that we do not sell children. I could not believe that the old woman believed it to be a reasonable request. Afterwards I could not help thinking that the idea of an orphan going to a home whereby being the only son he would be treated like a king was not such a bad idea. Surely it would beat sleeping on the floor, eating nothing but rice and only receiving affection from foreign volunteers who sporadically appear for a period of about three months and then disappear?

So much of what I see and experience is a brave new world therefore I am increasingly finding myself (much to the annoyance of people around me) whipping out my notepad and scribbling away while in the middle of almost any activity; lest I forget. As a result however I look like a poorly-disguised spy. In addition to my incessant note-taking I have to tell you that I could happily babble away on this blog without any heed to a word count and consequently bore you all to death. So for this installment you will be relieved to read that I am going to exercise restraint (yeah right- you wish!)

On the January 10, Ellie (another UK volunteer) and I were taken to our placement at the Love Care Centre (LCC), Kanchipuram which is two hours west of Chennai. Our arrival in itself was a surreal ordeal. Getting lost somewhere in translation she and I were blessed during a ceremony that can only be described as an Asian version of Peter Kay’s Phoenix Nights topped off with a religious slant. The stifled laughs were almost too unbearable to withhold. Thankfully we were not held captive for long before we were dropped off at our apartment and literally hit the ground running with regard to commencing our work!

A girl named Kanika sleepily opened the heavy double teak front door decorated with an abstract Hindi floral design, and welcomed us in. The apartment is far more comfortable than I had dared allow myself to imagine. We have a kitchen with ample crockery and a fridge (luxury!), two bathrooms (well, basically they are both wet rooms with a few cut-off pipe-ends which equate to rustic showers), a massive open communal area where hangs a ceiling-chair (now this is quite difficult to explain but it is basically like a rocking chair combined with a swing that is suspended from the ceiling- I know it sounds peculiar but it has thus far proved very popular when any one of us has been in need of nurturing our sanity by gently swinging back and forth), four plastic garden chairs, seven beds and le piece de la résistance: a television and DVD player! I could not believe my eyes. A blinkin’ television!? It is never on because we barely have the time moreover it can only play black and white DVD’s (which due to the nature of Love Care Centre; are mainly Disney films), but most importantly there is no proper plug therefore when one does try to connect it to the mains blue sparks can be seen and heard! Ellie discovered this as we tried to watch a film one Saturday night and she nearly involuntarily electrocuted her hair to an afro-perm status! Ha.

Our apartment is situated on the rural outskirts of a very dusty Kanchipuram. Nationally famed for its silk saris and stunning Hindu temples dotted around the town; in Kanchipuram one can easily stumble across the silk-weaving process on almost any narrow side street. Comprising of little more than a wooden frame set approximately 50 metres apart the silk thread is detangled and then stretched by hand before being gathered and bundled off to the loom factories. It is wonderful to see a cottage industry so vibrant and intrinsically linked to a community. Cattle can often be found roaming the streets as can monkeys and packs of dogs.

Tiny lime, orange, mint, royal blue and baby pink cottages line the mud-road streets nearby and the early shrill (more like screeching some mornings) of herb and fruit traders echo through the communal courtyards that are hidden by cast iron gates and hanging vines.

In front of many of the cottages are smouldering piles of ash where domestic rubbish once lay strewn but was purposely burnt overnight. Packs of miserable-looking feral dogs scour the streets for food scraps. The herb traders barely earn ten rupees as they roam the streets for hours looking for customers. And some women never venture beyond the fringe of the courtyard vines but are bound by marital duty to their homes. But this is India. The land juxtaposed at every juncture with regard to its omnipresent poverty, wealth, beauty, suffering, traditionalism and modernity; and one quickly discovers that you can either embrace their culture- warts and all- or descend into frustrated insanity trying to understand; or heaven-forbid try to alter things.

Anyway- back to the LCC and our first taster of what we were to be doing for the next few months, and who we would be doing it for. Oh, but allow me to retract one more time to explain that we do not live with the children at LCC. Our apartment is a brisk ten minute walk from where most of the children live. Some seventeen young boys from the LCC do live above us in what can only be described as a rough concrete open cell with roof access and terrace toilets to boot, but the rest live in an apartment that is rented from a local.

Okay, A bit of history for y’all: The LCC was set up in 2000 to provide a loving and stable home for children from disadvantaged backgrounds. The LCC also offers children the opportunity to receive a good education; which they would otherwise be unable to access. Presently there are over 90 children under the guardianship of the LCC. The children range from the ages of three to fourteen years old, and come from a variety of different backgrounds and parts of India. Some of the children were devastatingly affected by the 2004 tsunami and are now orphans; some children only have one estranged elderly family member due to HIV/ AIDS virus related deaths, and some children come from Manipur in the hope that they can escape the regional violence.

To be but brief the entrance corridor to the LCC is akin to what one imagines the opening of a Victorian workhouse to have been. A long dark and dank concrete corridor ensnares you as you venture into what seems the very soul of the building. There is no guiding light so you fumble along, and then are interrupted by a sudden wet concrete staircase with only a cold metal banister to hold. A slither of light manages to seep through the once-bright mint walls as you enter the kitchen area. The room then opens up into a dusty pink enclave of various pots and pans, children’s toys, clothes and other random clutter. There are no seats. No carpets. The walls are bare aside from the graffiti-style crayon scribbling. There is only one solitary window for the entire two-storey apartment. There is only one toilet/shower/washroom (there are two open toilets on the roof but I refuse to categorise them as sanitary rooms in any shape or form). The children’s washing hangs precariously on string lines in the main living area. There are no beds. Oh, and over 70 (yep you did read that number correctly) live and sleep here. And who looks after the children? - Only a warden named Selveraj and his young wife Marla (who has the task of cooking for all of the children). They work seven days a week and the concept of a lunch break, let alone a weekend off is laughable here.

Marla is a remarkable woman. She has oddly taken quite a shine to me (even if I do say so myself!) which I think is probably due to my teaching her a few English words while the children are napping (before I continue babbling I feel I must just convey how amazing it feels to communicate with another human being when you cannot speak the same language. It is a truly uplifting feat when just by employing hand gestures, facial expressions, and if necessary dramatic actions to communicate. For me it really hits home how much we are essentially all the same and can understand each other even if from completely different worlds). The unfortunate thing now however is that she cooks extra portions for me to eat; she is trying to fatten me up to become a good robust wife! Argh- how do I explain with hand gestures and broken- English that marriage is the last thing on my mind!? She even ensured that breakfast was once sent to the apartment when I tried to dodge it. Moreover she has also started to pinch my cheeks in affection. Even my Nannies refrained from such behaviour. To be honest I do not mind, but it does make me think of my own mum and then I start to miss her hugs.

The first time I was led into the LCC building I cannot deny that I found it very difficult to hide my shock and dismay. Never before have I been slapped into a reality so desperate. And then I was greeted by the tidal wave of children and their torrent of hellos. To begin with, they literally mauled me in my bewildered status! They tried to use my body as a climbing frame; pulled at my hair- they were exhausting! A young boy named Arjun bounced sprightly over to offer his hand in greeting and I stretched out my arm to shake his when… Shock! Horror! I spotted that his hands were absolutely smothered in warts! I froze. My smile dropped but I knew it would be very hurtful of me to show my reluctance to touch his hands so I shook his hand with an encouraging smile.

In the days and weeks that have since passed I have just about settled into a routine with the children and many of them already are very dear to me. A typical day is as follows:

8:00am – Trudge along to the LCC and help administer medicine (mostly creams for Ringworm and scabies, throat lozenges and cough medicine, and occasionally eye-drops)

9:10am – Realise that the children should have left for school five minutes ago and so start to rush them to gather their books.

9:30am – Drop the children off at school. Return to the apartment to chill for an hour before returning to the LCC to teach the Home school children.

10:30-13:00 – Teach the Home school children English, mathematics, geography, health...

Free time to sleep, read, eat, natter, research future classes etc. (I am usually found dozing or making bracelets)

16:30pm – Collect the children and walk them to the park (where we let them go wild)

18:00 – Return to the LCC and ensure that all the children complete their homework

20:00 – The children sing songs and then we scoff dinner

21:00 – We finally fall out of the LCC after having completed the second round of medicines

Now people who know me back home have always known me to be strictly anti-children; so for me to confess that the children here at the LCC are melting my shrew-like heart; it will be a revelation for many to read. Despite their dire living conditions and tragic life stories the children are a pleasure to teach and be around. They are so polite, welcoming, affectionate and fun to be around. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would come to India to discover that I would be learning card tricks, the art of origami, bracelet threading or even wearing wild flowers in my hair (sneakily picked by the children from their neighbours’ gardens)

Their eagerness to learn new things and help with duties is astounding. Of course they are still children and so there are always little spats between friends, tell-tales, snatching of others’ belongings and spiteful nipping when they are frustrated but overall they are a world apart from the spoilt and demanding children back home. It is heart-wrenching to witness that many are so desperate for love. The volunteers here really do care about the children but that affection does not even come close in comparison to the love that only a parent can give. It has made me really appreciate my family and the upbringing that I was fortunate enough to receive. These children have little else than each other.

To see the sibling bond and protection that a boy named Arun-Vijay has over his younger sister Rohini is tender to observe. Moreover it so rare for brothers and sisters of such a young age to not hate each other and squabble incessantly! With my own two sisters I have only come to realize in recent years how much they mean to me, and that I should have realized it so much sooner.

The children also have an amazing resilience. They are so hardy (because they have had to be) and yet are so stunningly innocent. For example one day after school Ellie, Alpa (oh, another UK volunteer arrived) and I wanted to take the children to the park but hesitated because there were only the three of us to supervise all of the children. After deliberation we thought: Hell why not?! If we don’t take them they will not be able to go at all so off we all clambered. Now to get to the park one has to cross a very busy road. This made me very nervous as some of the children are barely four years old but I was soon taught that they did not need help crossing the road. If anything, they helped me cross the road! The children felt unable to go to the park without “supervision” and/or authorization and yet were quite content to get there on their own accord. I laughed at the whole saga because it would never have occurred in Britain. Can you just imagine the outcry if just three adults took over 90 children by foot (without wearing any shoes- because they do not own them) to a park over 15minutes walk away?! No consent forms. No health and safety checks. No coaches to transport the children. It made me ponder: was it ultimately naïve of us to take the children to the park? Did we endanger them? Or are we too protective of children in Britain today? Surely they need to become “street wise” sooner rather than later? And not be afraid of strangers? I am still undecided.

A few of the children’s personalities crack me up whenever I see them. Some of them are complete nut-nuts! During one of the children’s singing session I became aware of a lot of commotion behind me. I turned around only to see a boy named Kati contently sitting crossed leg…with a tiny bird standing in his palm chirping away gleefully! The LCC’s very own Birdman from Alcatraz! The surrounding children were of course amazed (as was I) and nearly became excitable beyond control. The things children get up to!

There is a young girl named Radha who is simply off-the-wall. I know this sounds ridiculous but she is like a young female version of Norman Wisdom! Ha. The facial expressions she pulls and how she throws herself around reminds me of all the films my sisters and I used to (and admittedly still do) watch. There is also another young boy called Jesudos who amazes me. How he survives I have no idea. He is always attempting to beat up the older children but ends up bawling all the time because the older boys retaliate. He just does not seem to learn. Jesudos is the classic case of a child that is very intelligent but just does not want to study. If he goes to school with little more than a comb or a shoe in his rucksack we hail it as a miracle.

The school that the children attend is reportedly the best school in Kanchipuram. I do not like how the sister’s administer discipline. They frequently apply a wooden baton across the knuckles as punishment for not wearing the correct school dress (because the LCC cannot afford all the fancy regalia that the school board dictates) the children are frog marched out into the school courtyard and ordered to stay outside in the midday heat for hours. How humiliating it must be for the children. A cruel reminder of how little they truly have: no shoes, a daily packed lunch of plain rice, a solitary ink pen that has nearly run-out and a tatty second-hand textbook. I cannot imagine how their pride must be crushed as they see other children arrive on bicycles with shining shoes, packed lunch bags stuffed with fruit and sweet goodies, an actual pencil case and hoards of books.

The children do not learn; they memorize words that they do not understand through desperate recitation. Perhaps I never, until now, fully comprehended the importance, and therefore the privilege of being a native English speaker. The emphasis on ones ability to communicate in English appears to be ubiquitous to Indian culture. But I cannot see the logic in ensuring the children can reel off English sentences in a robot-like fashion and yet not understand a single word in context. This I have tried to relay to my home school student Rachael. It does not matter if you learn slowly; ultimately quality will win over quantity. I simply refuse that she memorize her written answers, but prefer her to practice pronunciation for homework. She has just about accepted this.

To try and alleviate the children’s ostracisation from their peers we were able to purchase shoes for the children (alas socks were to come some three weeks later). The event of giving out shoes was a royal saga. The LCC could not afford to buy new shoes for everyone so we had to squeeze certain children’s feet into shoes that were blatantly to small, or too big for them. It was an awful time. To try and salvage some of the shoes already in the children’s possession I purchased superglue and spent my late evening with Ellie and Alpa in gluing the soles of shoes and placing them under our bed posts in the vain hope that the children would be able to wear them the following day.

But all is not doom and gloom here. Because India is a secular state, no sooner had I arrived in Kanchipuram did I partake in the Pongal Festival. I was told by a local that it is the Hindu harvest celebration. Cows are honored by having their horns brightly painted and their bodies adorned with flowers, sugar cane is eaten and every household decorates their porch with the most beautiful chalk patterns. The only down side- and this is where my Western acclimatization seeps in- is that most shops are closed for the duration! Eek! It made me reflect how back home we panic when Morrisons closes for one day at Christmas and Easter! Ha.

Our neighbors in Kanchipuram have been very welcoming. Each morning I am engulfed by enquiring children: Hello! How are you? What is your name? I am certain they all know my name by now but still insist on shaking my hand and smiling innocently.

I consciously take the time to stop and shake all the hands with a smile on my face and politely nod to their parents who shy away in the doorways. There is one old lady who sits outside the school every afternoon but has not quite decided whether she likes me or not. I find her amusing for she has no teeth and wear spectacles that are reminiscent of the late Ronnie Barker. She just stares up at me expressionless and watches as I walk home. I shall bide my time and muster the courage to politely approach her.

I have begun to sample local cuisine and am becoming quite partial to pori’s (they are like puffy Yorkshire puddings), delicious chapattis, pistachio barfi cakes, the succulent sweetness of the gulab jammon dessert, masal dhosas…the list could (and shall in the ensuing months) go on and on! Ha, but I think you get the picture.

Oh, and there have been two new arrivals at LCC: Sunita and Helena. They have settled in remarkably quickly and it is good to have more volunteers around to help, and of course good company.

I am hoping that if I write about the following that someone will be able to explain to me why it is that quite a lot of local women paint their faces with a yellow powder? I have thought about it a great deal and still cannot understand why, and for what purpose?

A week ago I received my first parcel (consisting mainly of confectionary and protein pills- that are like horse pills and nearly choke me on a daily basis!) and batch of letters from home. I was over the moon! A wry smile crept upon my face that lasted for hours as I read the happenings of my friends and family back home. I love to receive mail when I am away. As I can often be found stressing; opening e-mails is never the same as actually receiving a handwritten letter. And I love to hear of everyday mundane things that people do or are thinking. Although I am obviously biased I have to sing the praises to my mother for her letter writing. Her letters are top-dog! She can spin a yarn about the Norwich bus being late by seven minutes into the most hilarious saga. Moreover the differences in our experiences with public transport made me laugh extra hard for after reading her letter I hopped into an auto rickshaw whereupon the driver decided to play chicken with his other driver-buddy! Like a rabbit in the headlights we speedily (and precariously) drove on the wrong side of the road to pass motorbikes, buses, trucks…! The soundtrack of shrills would have made good for a thriller film. I was relieved when I was able to step off and had survived to spin my own yarn. Give me the tame Norwich bus any day!

Last night I was finally forced to sit down and admit that I was in dire need of nit-combing my hair. Oh the shame! Oh the humiliation! And, oh the ruddy annoyance! For one who (had) managed to sail through school and university without any whisper of the dreaded nit I was devastated to discover that one of the little darlings (well, probably all of them when I come to think of it) had passed them onto me. At first I was in denial and then I became paranoid to the extent where I would itch my scalp for just itching’s sake. I then thought: what the heck! If I get rid of them now then I will probably only get them again- who cares?! So I happily continued in that frame of mind for a few days until I spoke with my mother on the phone and she highlighted that I would need to keep my new personal zoo under control (and just imagine the potential embarrassment of going to a reputable establishment Chloe and your head is literally buzzing with lice!?! Thanks for that mum) so the following day I literally skipped class and dived into the nearest hotel swimming pool in the vain hope that the dreaded chlorine would blast them from my now-sabotaged skull. Of course it did not work, but looking on the positive side of the event was that I discovered that one can have a free hot shower at the poolside. What luxury! I could scarcely catch my breath as it was my first hot shower since my arrival. The water droplets camouflaged my literal tears of ecstasy because I had long ago accepted that I would never feel clean while here. The daily combination of heat, sweat, dust, the general grime at the LCC and not having access to hot water had forced me to realize that my feet and hands would probably always have a grubby tint.

If you have scrolled down to this page, then thank you for enduring my long ramble! Part three shall be coming shortly (and will be more upbeat) about my first road trip to Pudicherry, Chennai and Vellore. I just thought it best to describe the LCC and Kanchipuram in one foul swoop so you can understand in future blogs just where I am coming from…so until then, poyittu varukiren!

I never dared to foresee that the children here would have so little and that I would endeavor to reach out and appeal to people back home, but if you could spare anything for the Love Care students here I would deeply appreciate it (as would they a million times over). They literally have little more than the clothes on their backs and so anything you can give like school stationary, balls, storybooks, shoe laces, wax crayons, soap, nit combs, plasters, toys for the younger children…all will be welcomed and treasured! Please give what you can and send to: Chloe Strowger, C/o Sophia Chelladurai, MIG 348, 2^nd Main Road, Nolambur, Mugappair West, Chennai 600037, INDIA. Thank you!

Curry Jar-Jar’s Mind Junk: Changing Worlds.

Lowestoft@archant.co.uk — Thu, 24 Jan 2008 16:28:00 GMT

Okay, oh my goodness! Where to begin? How to describe what I have seen, smelt and heard? I will put it like this: The India I have seen is nothing short of a pungent kaleidoscope bombarded with the hooting of auto rickshaws by day, and crickets by night. It is the closest I think I have ever been to being mesmerized- and I am soaking up every moment of it. But first things first- let me properly introduce myself and the reason behind me writing this blog.

As a nation steeped in history, oozing cultural richness and religious diversity; from an early age India mystified me. Ever since I first glimpsed a Bollywood film, learnt of the impact British Imperialism had upon their course of history, and learnt of its importance to the countercultural revolution that swept through the United States during the 1960s; India has retained its allure as a place I yearn to visit and explore.

Thus having recently turned 24 and still reluctant to commit to a career that will probably determine the next 30 years of my life; I decided (with a little persuasive assistance from Southern Comfort) to get off my backside, stop procrastinating and go! But I did not want to just aimlessly wander about the land with a heavy rucksack on my back and a lonely planet guide in my palm. And I definitely wanted to steer well-clear of the voyeuristic tendencies of a multi-stop tourist by stepping off the tour bus at scheduled (and strictly timed) destination spots. I wanted to come to India to gain an authentic insight of her communities and way of life. In brief: to step inside her consciousness. I therefore decided to volunteer in the hope to engage in a genuine cultural experience.

Some may consider me naïve and they may be proven correct. But right now I am excited at the prospect of India hurling herself at me. It will all be part of the adventure and challenge as I boldly step out of my comfort zone and explore all that India has to offer. Indeed I am not prophesizing myself to be the discoverer of India. My solitary wish in writing this blog (thank you to The Journal for letting me clog up some of their web space) is for people to enjoy reading my experiences and perhaps be provoked into thought and reflection of the way they view the world. I would love this blog to be an open dialogue. The chance for people to share similar experiences or views, questions, disagreements…anything goes!

Oh, I nearly forgot to explain the name of Curry Jar-Jar! To summarize a very boring story (and goodness I must start writing more concisely) someone at work once thought my name was Curry Jar-Jar!? Upon repeating the name to myself in amusement I thought that it did actually sound phonetically quite similar to my actual name: Chloe Strowger. So for a bit of fun I decided (hey, the plane journey was long and allowed lots of time for idle thoughts) to use Curry Jar-Jar as my pseudonym. I hope y’all do not contest!

So with that blurb over, let me begin…

I arrived into Chennai on 9^th January about 2am local time. From there the assault began. As I stepped outside the airport to find the representative of the school my first thought was: Crikey- it is quite hot for this time of day and there is a lot of activity for such an hour. People (mainly men) were everywhere! But I quickly remembered stupidly that a seventh of the world’s entire population live in India! And yes- the stares did begin. I understand that it is purely curiosity but never before have I been so conscious of my heritage.

As we left the airport it felt as if we had unknowingly been entered into a twilight drag race! And we seemed to be winning ha! My first experience of Indian driving was hilarious. With no apparent need for wing mirrors- they honk their horns to let other drivers know they are behind, to the left, to the right, about to overtake, about to turn…get the picture? Any need for traffic lights? Bah don’t be silly! I also quickly noticed that there are mainly just four modes of road transportation in Chennai: buses, motorbikes (that are used like family estate cars), auto rickshaws and…wait for it…Morris Minor’s!?!!

Also at the airport I surprisingly learnt that my placement details had altered. Great. I was now to be placed at a school called the Love Care Centre where in excess of 90 children attend. Therefore as I type this I am currently living in Kanchipuram- not Bangalore. Indeed a far cry from Bangalore- ha! At the time I was slightly narked but figured that this was a taster of India to come: ones plans are never definite and usually turn out fine; you just have to go with the flow.

The next few days in Chennai now seem like a distant hazy memory. The very next morning I properly met other people who would be doing similar placements to I (they are all very nice), and we were then collectively driven to a Hindu temple whereby my steep learning curb truly began: The bustling nature of everyday life, the appropriate use of my right hand when exchanging money and greeting others. Dealing with the constant (and slightly intimidatory) stares from men, the culture of bartering for a fair price when- because of your skin colour and therefore the presumption that you are a wealthy Westerner- the price suddenly shoots up, the spiciness of local cuisine, learning about all the different kurtas, salwars and dupattas that women can wear, and the ubiquitous role of religion to India. Initially I did catch myself with my mouth ajar as I witnessed these new scenes of everyday Indian life around me.

The visit to the temple was definitely an experience that will linger in my memory. It was the first time I witnessed poverty and crippling disability in such a cruel manner. Men and women literally crawl on the floor amongst the rubbish (which is everywhere and something I shall talk about later on) by the entrance in the desperate hope that some passer by will throw them a rupee. Just so you are aware; one pound is equal to 80 rupees. I really felt stupidly out of place at the Hindu temple as people were engaged in religious piety; and then there was me wandering around trying to understand all the different Hindu Gods, and absorb the ambience. It felt cheap and disrespectful so I doubt I will impose myself in such a way again.

The following day we traveled to the UNESCO site of Mamallapuram whereby the stone carvings are believed to be over 1000 years old. I cannot deny that it was, and still is difficult to comprehend anything being that old. The granite carvings were beautiful as the sun shone delicately onto the still-immaculate detailing with lush green trees gently rustling in the sea breeze by the Bay of Bengal. Gazing at the sheer wonder of Krishna’s Butter Ball (a massive rock that teeters on the side of a rock face) – I thought: Aha! This is more like it. But somehow I managed to enact a scene parodying the behaviour of Bridget Jones by slipping over and landing royally on my backside! The sheer mortification as about 50 locals ran to assist and bathe my bleeding arm. I tried desperately in pigeon English to communicate that I was fine but that did not seem to desist their desire to carry my bag and rub various ointments into the wound. I was very thankful to all of them and managed to quickly scamper out of the limelight. So after just two days I had a bruise on my left buttock, approximately 15 mosquito bites on the other, a grazed elbow, and a “dead” arm because of the plank of wood- sorry- bed I was sleeping on; and then to top it all off I was considering “zapping” myself with a minor electric shock to relieve the mosquito bite itching! But fear not- I was not defeated!

Afterward we sauntered to the beach to glimpse the Indian Ocean. I cannot deny that it was a beautiful sight to see the crashing waves and the local fisherman mending nets along the sand as far as the eye could see however, I could not get over how much rubbish lay strewn about. For someone like I who detests seeing litter and has assisted in beach cleanups- I was near to convulsing with the desire to whip out a plastic bag and recruit helpers to clear the beach! The issue of rubbish here in India is one of the hardest issues I think I will personally grapple with. People do not seem at all bothered by the mounds of rubbish at roadsides. Coming from a family, and indeed culture whereby recycling and maintaining clean neighborhoods is something to aspire to; I cannot and do not want to try and understand this aspect of their culture.

Tamil Nadu is a largely vegetarian state due to its Hindu majority. I am not a vegetarian and so after three days on the trot of paneer butter masala I did (ashamedly) scout out meat. In my defense I was concerned that the emphasis on the word “trot” may occur and I was not ready for all that palaver so early on! I am glad that I did sample all that Tamil Nadu can offer in terms of meat because now I think I will stick to vegetarianism for the rest of my duration! Ha. The food is everything I imagine it to be, and more. You can keep your drunken Friday night balti’s and onion bhajis. I am eating the real McCoy. Yes it is spicy, and yes it is all eaten off a large leaf with your right hand (no left hand slip-ups yet! Hoorah!)

On the Friday I traveled to Kanchpiram and arrived at my placement but because I have only been here little over a week I am reluctant to speak of the place until I have had the chance to properly settle in and orient myself. I can promise thee however that there are some corker yarns to spin already…so until then, poyittu varukiren!