The markets.

Buying anything in India will always be an 'adventure'. The adventure is definitely not in the search. In fact, every other corner you turn from main road to tiny little walkway between empty buildings lurks a merchant with glittery packets of tabacco, salty chick pea snacks and other various goods from laundry detergent to vegetables. The array of items available from the most obscure little shop in the slums is astounding. At first I wondered how the little paan spitting man could ever make a living selling what looks like only a few wrapped candies and bags of chips. However if you change roles from buyer to observer you can witness indian women walking up and leaving with cloth, coconuts, sugar, eggs, flour, and more. I've seen men leaving with stacks of notebooks, children buying plastic toys, and even once I witnessed a baby goat being handed over the counter! These merchants seem to have an endless array of items. I wonder if they just bring things from their one roomed houses located behind their little counters, even selling personal items to make a quick buck or two.

The markets of the old city are a completely different story. Walking up from the main ghat you are immediately aware that you have entered 'Old City' or the heart of the market place. Immediately on either side of the streets there are layers and layers of vendors complete with their various sounds of negotiations and scents of street food that I can almost taste when I take a deep breath in. The first layer along the thick black ribbon of the main road are the fruit and vegetable sellers. These merchants brave the speeding traffic and stand dutifully on either side with large wooden carts full of colourful produce. Often in order to draw attention to themselves they place large stereos at the end of their carts and blast some type of high pitched melody. Others resort to their own vocal cords and scream what I assume are the Hindi names of their products...but of course i'm only assuming that's what they're screaming...These are my favourite merchants. Most of them do not speak english and thus I can usually safely pass with out being hustled for a purchase.

However the next layer is a different story. The enterprising Indians behind the fruit and vegetable sellers are sometimes women or men, but usually are children. They have spread big beautiful floral blankets down on the street and have delicately displayed all sorts of jewelery, hair wear, or other shiny trinket. The children responsible for these blankets run out to the street in search of potential clients. When their buyer radar spys a westerner or kind looking upper caste indian, their sticky hands begin their act of tugging or sleeve pulling in order to cause the wanderer to turn and look into their big sad eyes and pouty lips. Then they wait just long enough so that your gaze absorbs their sorrow and you start to feel that tight little empathetic knot in your stomach grow "awww poor kids thoughts". Immediately at that moment they say in their saddest voice "pleeeeeaase madam come look" "I give you special price".

Next, behind these crafty little devils and their trinkets are the booths. Now, what is for sale in the booths is completely random. I have seen a man who seems to specialize colorful plastic buckets, another who had every shape, size and color of shoe lace, and someone who sold only crutches. These merchants also are usually men and sit or lie next to their booth loudly chomping and spitting paan while absorbing the scent of the incense they burn. They seem to sit or lie basking in the sun until a shoelaceless or bucketless buyer springs them to life. Once again I wonder how they stay in business because how often does a person need crutches or shoe laces!?

Thus, Jenneke and I continued our walk through these thick layers of commerce and approached the little stone arch into the real "old city". "Old city" is a serious of decrepit brick buildings that has been serving as store real estate for hundreds of years. The winding stone paths between the numerous stalls are so well worn that the dust and feces gathers right in the middle of the sagging paths. The old city is full of more 'traditional' indian goods. One series of looping paths led jenneke and I to the cloth sellers. Here, there are stacks and stacks of the most vivid and bright fabrics i have ever seen. These stacks are framed by entrance ways draped with glittering shimmering silk scarves. The sellers grab you by the hand and drag you into their rainbow rooms. I constantly felt my body being tugged and was pulled down while cries of "Madam sit! Sit! Come Come look at our scarves-You want Sarwa Cami (typical indian dress of long colorful shirt and pants)! You like Chai! Have a Chai and look! Yes, Yes, now not Later! Sit Madam Pllleeeaaasse! Here, Here! Chai special for you! Now look I give you good price! No you do want! I give you best price and Chai, You are my sister! Like family i give you good price and we drink chai!

After a few of these experiences I learned to fold my arms tightly around my chest, which is uncomfortable because often while walking through the meter wide walkway I was frequently pushed to one side by a passing motorbike (yes even through the crowd and in the buildings motor bikes still drove) or angry cow. In fact numerous times that night walking through the old city i was head butted by these sacred animals' sticky wet snout, and had to continue walking with a big spot of clear smelly drool on my sleeve.

None the less, fighting cows, crowds, motorbikes and shoving along the tiny path I made my way past the jewelery area, spice spots, food markets, religious trinket stalls and many other genres of goods. The entire time I felt like I was part of a contest rather than shopping area. I had to laugh as I thought to my self, this is all one big joke. Like "how many people can fit into a phone booth" the Indian people were really just attempting to see how much stuff, people, and animals can fit inside a group of old stone buildings and still be able to breath, walk and leave with out going completley crazy.

Well i did come close to going crazy and as I inched my way out of the market I cannot begin to explain how amazing it felt to move into a space where i could freely swing my sweaty, snot and drool covered arms. As I left, I thought to myself that this is where I should bring the teenagers next. These crowded streets and markets are full of the color and the life of India. There were so many beautiful snapshots of reality that could be captured from the old beggars perched behinds hundreds of silver shiva statures to the smoky square entraces lined with thousands of brown incense sticks. All this and more counting the layers of the merchants leading up to the heart of the 'old city' was india. To me, this was the life force of Varanasi. The old city is the center of commerce the organ that pumped rupees through the streets and slums.

The Ghats,

Yesterday evening in order to keep our muscles from further heat cramps Jenneke and I decided to go for an evening walk along the Ghats. As we started out the sun had just hidden itself below the horizon and the last bits of orange were fading from the sky.

The ghats are basically huge sets of stone staircases which lead down to the ganges. The stairs are often painted two colors. For example one step would be painted orange and then the next light orange. From the bottom you look up to a mountain of horizontal stripes leading to either a temple, restaurant, or guest house. Many times at different points the steps spread out and feature huge platforms complete with miniature to full temples and statues. A favorite past time of Indians and tourists alike is to sit on these stairs under the stars and sip a 3 rupee cup of chai whilest watching the nightly 'arti' or religious ceremony ( I know very little about these ceremonies and therefore will just provide a wikapedia link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aarti). From my purely observational and uninformed standpoint, what it looks like are young men draped in orange skirts slowly moving burning objects such as silver christmas tree like candles, food, and other things in circles while loud bells cling-clang-cling-clang-cling-clang constantly and two musicians play the drums and a instrument I don't quite recognize, but is the combination of guitar and accordion. None the less it is extremely interesting to watch and only enhanced through the accompaniment of the sweet milky aroma and taste of chai.

Thus after a brief stop for a cup of the wonderful beverage Jenneke and I made our way towards the old city. The plain walk its self is quite unspecial. On one side you have the black still river and the other dark buildings. Of course it is all of the various animals, people, and events found in India ensure any walk along the ghats will never be uneventful. While keeping our eyes pealed for sleeping dogs, cows, and beggars about two ghats into our walk we could see the bright burning light of a fire. As we approached it has evident that this was a funeral burning. We stopped to a moment and gazed into the dancing flames. Beyond the crowd of men, through the fierce yellow and blue and stacked wood, one could just make out the shape of a body. The observation of thin horizontal sticks that apparently were the charred remains of the ribs confirmed this fact for me. I really had expected a strong odor of rotting flesh but the drifting air only contains the usual traces of dung and urine with a touch of smoke. The event very peaceful. I felt I could loose myself in perfect scene of rhythmic flames set within the backdrop of the tranquil river. It was strange that the burning was at night. This meant that no women could attend. Perhaps the poor soul was not close with any women in his life, or no women had made the trip down.

However soon we resumed our walk and continued to transverse the ghats. The next scene we came across was a man atop a platform with a microphone. However this 'man' was covered from head to toe in a white powder. This powder combined with his dark skin actually gave him more of a light 'blue' glow. His curly hair was also coated as well as being woven into a tight bun which sat directly on the top of his head like a strange hat. This style of bun had also been applied to his frizzy facial hair, which fell into a knot at the botton of his chin. Just below the man's pot belly was a tiger print knee length piece of cloth that had been knotted at his hip to form a make shift skirt. Besides two necklaces of bright orange and white flowers this was the only clothing he adorned. The man looked like a character out of a hindi version of the flinstones. We were not sure what he was doing but behind him two vertical bamboo poles held up about 10 pictures of various hindu gods. At the foot of this structure there were many bunches of colourful flowers. After giggling a bit at his outfit we continued to walk only to suddenly here a highly pitched 'singing' flooding the empty ghat. This 'noise/hindi song' was originating from the strange man. After the somber burning this humours atmosphere was much appreciated. We left grinning ear to ear with the and with the after taste of the salty night air as we gasped for breath from laughter. His strange uneven melodies echoed and bounced through the empty sticky air as we made our way.

Only a little further into our journey we discovered another religious ceremony. Here, hundreds upon hundreds of tiny candles had been lit and covered the 200 plus stairs leading from a large red temple all the way down to the river's shore. There were so many candles that we barely could find a place to step. Looking around we soon realized the entire temple was draped in strings of orange flowers. There were hundreds upon hundreds of long lines of color gently dropping down from the building's corners and crevices. Yet there was not a soul around. Not even a cow or stray dog was roaming the area. The flicking light and erie silence was to me a thousand times more spiritual than the hectic temples or the shore of the Ganges with the bathing men, splashing children and constant hum of 'Boat madam, I take you out on the Ganges for good price". For that one instance as we paused amongst the candles I finally felt like I was in what is called the most 'spiritual place in India'. For just a second I felt content, relaxed and at peace. This to me is spirituality rather than Varanasi's day-to-day reality which for me is closer to the chaos of a circus than a holy destination. The stunning silence was hard to leave because I knew the atmosphere was about to change drastically as we approached 'old city'.

The 'old city' is a serious of narrow streets which twist and turn and have no real layout. When I say narrow I mean that the stone walk ways are the width of two people standing shoulder to shoulder and not a centimeter more. And of course these narrow openings are stuffed with the usually array of cows, motor bikes and hundreds of people. On either side of the crowded mess there are shops selling everything from cloths, scarfs, spices, and bangles. Like the rest of india the feeling of claustrophobia and dust, smell of sweets, sweat and sounds of desperate merchants and buyers trying to be heard is indescribable until you have actually experienced it for yourself.

So this is the place we were voluntarily marching toward on the warm april night in Varanasi. Finally we had reached 'main ghat' passing many other wonders and being offered a boat ride six more times and hash three times. I think the best line we received was "Hello Honny. You want some-honny" I am pretty sure the punk teenager meant 'Hello Hunny (as in sweetie) you want some? Hunny?' However in his rapid direct hindi accented english it sounded as if he was trying to sell us Winnie the Pooh's favourite snack rather than 'get with a westerner'. As we climbed up the stairs toward the street the merchants attacked us like the flies which swarm the cow dung in the streets. To ward them off I used my usual terribly accented spanish to say "No hables ingles! Lo Siento!" while jenneke fired off some Dutch. There before us were was the gate into the windy walkways. We were about to begin our journey through the 'old city'.

To be continued...

Technology is our best friend and yet can be our worst enemy. Already down to nine cameras another has literally been fried. The first camera fell to a sacred death after being accidentally submerged in Ganges. It sank down through the milky grey liquid into the black sludge of feces, garbage, bones, and rotting flesh. Now, perhaps like the charred hindu bodies it will  be reborn as another type of gadget...who knows. However all we were left with was a wet piece of muddy metal. The two kids who accidentally sacrificed the camera will now loose 3,000 rupees each from their post card profit of 5,000 rupees. This was a big lesson for these kids who probably might not have appreciated the real value of such a tool. As a result, the two teenagers at fault will have to share a camera and they as well as the others will have learned the value of technology. None the less I can understand how easily it happened. If i was just given a camera of course it would be hard to imagine its value. The teenagers did not have to endure the  slow process of working and saving for it. Perhaps I too wouldn't have taken the necessary precaution and care when passing it to a friend on the sacred banks of the holy river. 

Yet the effect of the lost camera on the kids is something i personally will never be able to comprehend. A little accident can become much greater than little when pride and money are at stake.  In particular the owner of the camera really took the loss badly. This teenager's name is Deeretch. Deeretch, has never missed a day of school and thus never had to pay an absence fee (required by the government for all students). With out a living father he has learned to take responsibility of his mother and three sisters. This life of hard work is constantly reflected in his permanently serious face. His high cheekbones, smooth dark skin, and strong jawline would easily lend themselves to a career of modeling, if only he could learn how to smile. Although he is a decent photographer he really does not enjoy it. Deeretch would rather study politics and work to change his corrupt country. Like some of the others he does not chew pan, studies hard, and even earned a government quota scholarships given to the untouchables which allows him to attend a 'pre-university' school. Also, as the oldest in the fairmail group he has become somewhat of a father figure and role model. 

I only recently discovered this during a lesson. Although now, each day that passes I continue to notice his leadership. During this lesson we asked the teenagers to draw greeting cards for each other. Akaash, is a tall slim quiet boy who's dirty rose coloured tee-shirt perfectly matches his pink paan stained teeth. He does not attend school, cannot write, and works as a mechanic with his father during the day. This shy awkard pink grinning boy had picked Deeretch. After repeatedly telling him to hurry up (Janti!-Janti!), we asked whatever was taking him so long. Akaash replied, "It's not my fault! I got Deeretch! If i had picked anyone else it wouldn't matter how the card looks. Because I have Deeretch it has to be really good!". This comment really showed me how much Akaash and the others must respect Deeretch. 

After our talk about proper camera use and the example of the ganges soaked camera Deeretch was visibly depressed. His stern face had lost all emotion as he stared into space for the rest of the lesson. During the power point presentation on lighting the usually bright eyed enthusiastic student barely spoke. I personally cannot imagine how it must have felt to be in his position. As the 'leader' he had let down the troop, as the father, he had set a bad example, and most of all he was going to have to sacrifice part of his much needed salary from his postcard. Some lessons are so hard to learn and as a helpless observer they really break your heart. Sure, lessons have to be learned, but you wish there were other ways to teach them. 

However now, another camera has began to malfunction. Often when watching the weather man point to pictures of cartoon sun's placed over various locations with numbers such as 45/115F I think oh that can be that bad. However I now understand the reality behind those cartoon yellow spiky circles. I really dont mind the sting of the sun or the blinding white light that gives everything a strange metallic glow. What i do mind how the heat seems to sap any energy you have after a full night of sleep.  And moreover I mind the effect on computers and cameras. Thus we suspect the cruel late april heat is at fault for the unresponsive camera and are currently trying to devise ways to save the remaining eight cameras.

Of course an air-conditioning unit might solve the problem and serve as a simple solution. Yet the problem is that during approximately 9 am until 7pm...sometimes 8pm.... and even as late at 10 pm there is no electricity. The indian people say that the power is cut as the government's way of penalizing those who rewire and pilfer electricity from others. Others say they do it because they want the people to realize its value. I say it has to do with the very word itself-'power'. This lack of or extreme use (however you look at it) it prevents us from cooling the air in order to save the cameras and the perhaps later even the computer.

 

Luckily we are 'upper class' enough to be able to afford a small black generator that runs the fans during the day and chops up the layers stale hot air. During the afternoon it also hacks away at the putrid smells of curry and lunch from our neighbors below. I am not religious but sometimes i feel like worshipping those rotating wooden blades. I wonder how those without these sacred elements manage in such mercury rising temperatures. Perhaps India's reputation of spirituality has been born from the hot summer months. The heat makes it easy to fall into delirium, brain fog, and 'outer body experiences'. Thus it's no wonder an exercise such as yoga started here because rapid movements and other forms of 'exercise' are simply impossible. 

With only eight cameras left it will be interesting to see what happens as the climate's numbers continue to climb. I really hope the project continues because for most they have not had any experience with art. In fact at school they do not teach or learn any form of art. For many just to draw a simple flower picture is like painting the mona lisa. I wonder what effect this has on the culture? Perhaps as I suggested previously it somewhat accounts (or at least ads to) the teenager's extreme lack of confidence. Not only are they born as an untouchable they are never given the chance to explore, create, and imagine. Instead they are taught, made into memorizing machines, and only can see right and wrong, good and bad, rich and poor. Eight cameras are their chance to see the color in their black and white world. 

Rickshaws
It is impossible to walk down the street of Varanasi as a westerner with out once hearing the call ‘rickshaw madam’, “Madam rickshaw where you go?”, “You need Rickshaw madam”. By the 15th time in 3 minutes you are ready to take a sharp pin to their tricycle’s wheels. Rickshaw drivers seem to have a sensor for westerners-even when you think they are not paying attention I have never once been able to walk by with out an offer. These wirery men litter the streets and only during the hottest part of the day can you safely pass because they can most likely be found sleeping on the colorful back seat of their rickshaws.

If possible besides the verbal pestering it is best to avoid them for they are known to hack up and discharge big wads of red liquid from their stained pink teeth. This, to the uninformed observer might even look a little like splattered blood. However this liquid I’m talking about is Paan, and is usually chewed with tobacco. Paan is from a plant called ‘beetle nut’ and I guess when mixed with tabacco the combination creates a ‘high’ as well is a stimulant. However I cannot imagine they would be able to do their job with out this. Daily, the little men’s stick legs have to manage to pull pairs of plump middle class Indians, well fed tourists, and sometimes entire families (I have been amazed at how many people can manage to crowd into the back of rickshaws). These silver three wheeled bicycle men are like the ants of the streets of India, always carrying three or four times their weight and crawling around from every dusty corner looking for ‘food’.

However actually riding in a rickshaw is an experience in itself. When you first climb aboard and sit on the sticky colourful ‘pleather’ you feel like royalty being able to sit high above the wandering water buffalos, and thick layer of dung scented dust. It’s like the climate has changed. The air even tastes crisper and cleaner as you are transformed into a princess while your own personal ‘servant’ peddles below. When you first start moving the wind moves the stale heat across your cheeks and the breeze provides an escape from the pulsating 50 C/111 F sunshine. Yet then the fun REALLY begins. You see there are no such thing as ‘traffic lanes’ in India. The creeky rickshaw has to weave in between cars, cows, and people diving the same as well as the opposite direction. Many times a green and yellow three wheeled tuk tuk is heading straight toward you and you are SURE the rickshaw’s non-stop bell and the tuk tuk’s repeated horn will be the last sounds you hear. Then at the very last moment you swerve to the right skim the side of a cow and just about take out a family of colorful sari’s.

I cannot imagine doing their job and often I am quite torn about how much to pay them afterwards. A thirty minute ride ‘should’ cost around 20 ruppees which is less then 25 US cents. So for a 12k/7 mile ride in which they have braved the heat, filled their legs with painful lactic acid, conquered the traffic and finally deliver us safely to our destination earns them the cost of a gumball. I almost feel bad. What is the harm in paying a little bit more? I am sure they all have families and lives. Even if the money is just feeding their ‘paan habit’ they should at least have something to enjoy after sitting in the scolding sun all day. Yet, on principle I only pay what the market price is. I guess this is more of a power play than anything. I think, “why should I pay more than anyone else pays for this ride” and selfishly stick to my price.

For instance, often if there was traffic or it was hot they will say “35 rupees madam, very hot”. And I say “no you said 20 before”, “but madam very hot”. Then, when attempting to pass them the rupees often they will even put on a ‘pouty’ face, stick out their lip, and refuse to take the money. In this case the ‘proper’ response is to leave the money on the seat and then as soon as a soft breeze threatens to carry the money away their greedy fingers quickly snatch up the bills. I mean really 15 rupees to me is nothing, why do I have such a hard time surrendering to his requests when in fact they are quite valid? It was hot, there were huge traffic delays, and the ride really was a feat of bravery. Yet even though I have a minimum wage in my country, a strong currency and many opportunities to work I am still leery about ‘being ripped off’. Yet the poor Indian rickshaw drivers were ‘ripped off’ the day they were born. They were unfortunately born in a country and caste where money and food will be a struggle for their entire lives. Yet we never think like this. It really hit me when I was talking to another volunteer from costa rica. She was saying how she had to work earning 400 USD$ a month in order to afford the trip. Yet I am lucky enough to be from a country where I can make that same salary in one week. So are we really being ‘ripped off’ when the rickshaw driver demands 15 more rupees?

The trip really has shown me how money is such a strange and inconsequential thing. My passport and birth certificate have guaranteed me that I will always be able to eat. I can always go home and if trying hard enough find something, some way to eat whether it be welfare or minimum wage jobs. Here neither of these exist.

None the less there are well off Indians. I admit I had begun to stereotype India until I went to a ‘mall’. After living in the ‘slums’ it is easy to forget that India is not all poverty and third-world lifestyles. The mall was air conditioned, had a food court and even ‘normal clothing shops’ rather than little dark makeshift buildings with crooked signs proclaiming ‘silk paradise’ ‘good price’. Thanks to the media we don’t here about this part of India as much. Sure this ‘mall’ was surrounded by the warped worn down buildings, roaming cows, and the typical ‘chaos’ of India-the mall exists as proof, as a monument to the higher classes. Yet, like I continually keep learning, just because there was air condition and real shops did not necessarily mean that the people who were shopping there were either happier or unhappier. There was still genderism- the mall had separate entrances for women and was filled with only men (because it was dark and women don’t go out after dark usually). Back in Nagwa the kids and women have more freedom and less ‘expectations’. And they are almost free from the chains of conformation requirements that class and money such as ‘acting a certain way’, ‘dressing a certain way’, women have less restraint and there is less of an ‘keeping up with the neighbors’ attitude. When you have nothing, you enjoy everything and stop taking what you have for granted. When you are just tying to survive anything is excepted and thus there is more freedom. As cliché as these last sentences are… the more and more I continually find them to be true. I’m sure the rickshaw drivers could careless about throwing away their dignity and begging for 15 more rupees.

I am continuing to enjoy working with the ten teenagers teaching them about photography. It is a bit difficult because only a few of them speak very limited english. Thus I am working with a translator named Ashkay (pronounced 'ack-shy'). It is really frustrating not being able to speak with the kids, to find out about their lives, and get to know them. The only insights into their world is of course through visual means, such as seeing their houses, and looking at their photography.

I have been particularly impressed by one of the boy's photography. The boy's name is 'Sonu'. Sonu is probably around fifteen years old. He parts his hair to the side and seems to take care to comb it (unlike some of the other kids). Whenever I meet him he has this immense smile that stretches ear to ear. The fact that he ALWAYS has a smile on his face is amazing given the fact that he is very sick. He actually would die if he wasn't sponsored by a dutch charity which pays for his meds. Sonu has hepatitis B. I am not exactly sure what this entails (i know his is not contagious) but while the other kids are running around hitting each other with pieces of cardboard he sits and watches, just grinning ear to ear. Often Sonu is to tired and cannot go on the photography trips because he doesn't feel well. Instead he just sits to the side leans back, puts his foot on his knee, folds his hands, and observes the others with this great look of satisfaction on his face. Often I feel like I should stick a pipe in his mouth because the way he moves and dresses resembles an old man. The yellow color in the whites of his eyes and pallor (which i'm guessing is from liver failure?) gives his skin a tired worn look. This is not helped by the fact that the only shirt he wears (owns?) is a faded yellow with brown stripes button down dress shirt which helps bring out his jaundiced complexion. However the shirt is always crisp and clean because he does not run around in the dirt and dung, does not fall and tear his sleeve, and does not spill orange drink on himself by quickly jumping up in order to join a street cricket game. I'm guessing his stance and stagger resembles an old man because he most likely has spent his time with....old men. While his father works, brothers go to school, mother cleans, Sonu would most likely be spending his time with his grandparents. As a result his slow deliberate movements and confident wise saunter give him an air of maturity that the other kids don't possess.

What really fascinates me are his photos. They are by far the best (in my opinion), especially his landscapes. He really seems to capture the colours and the smells of everyday life. He understands how to place the horizon in interesting places and include foreground objects in ways which create depth and feeling. He never misses a moment to catch an old women with her head thrown back in laughter, or the moment the paddle hits the cricket ball amongst a sea of cows. I imagine that his photography skill has grown from years of observing. Observing the other kids playing, observing the all the beautiful things in life, and never knowing when he no longer will be able see them again. His whole life is watching the scenery from the background.

Another interesting point is his involvement with fairmail. The fairmail teenagers will all participate in workshops and photography classes five days a week until they are no longer teenagers. Each photo selected for a post card earns them 5,000 rupees plus commission. The money can ONLY be spent on things that will enhance their future (university, home improvements, etc). These kids were chosen from a pool of about 50 or so teenagers based on many factors (parents, time, enthusiasm, etc). New teenagers will only be added when two or more spots are open. The program is supposed to help the teenagers gain confidence and skills which will help them get a job, go to university or even be social revolutionaries (ok maybe that's my little idyllic dream but hey i can dream right?).

For instance the girls in the group have a very hard time speaking out. They complain that their parents ask 'what are they doing, anyone can take pictures, and that photography is a waste of time'. They say that people in the street tell them to go back home when they take pictures. We continually have to tell them that they are 'ok' they can be wrong, make mistakes, and really teach them to stand up for themselves in a culture that from my perspective bully's women. As a result we hope by teaching them confidence they can be leaders and help little by little change people's attitudes. Another boy Dijret wants to be in the police force to stop the corruption. He like the other kids are all untouchables. In fact none of them will give their last names because they are ashamed. This caste of people are often greatly taken advantage of--for instance made to pay all kinds of unannounced taxes (basically at the whim of the police and are subject to beatings for minor or even no offense). Thus like Dijret, many of the kids want to go to university and be politicians or police officers in order to change things for the future.

However in Sonu's case...what future does he have? How will his money help his education when who knows how long he will have to live. He is taking the spot from another kid who is equally as disadvantaged and would be helped more by the money and skills. Is this enough to disqualify him from the program? Obviously I think there is absolutely no reason he shouldn't be included. In fact his photography is creating a memory. This is what it's like to see through the eyes of someone who wants to savour every vision. This is what its like to not take every picture perfect moment for granted. Without words I have learned a lot from sonu and his beaming grin. He has taught me even more than the 1,000's of words every picture is worth.

Sure this story is a bit depressing, but everything in life isn't joyless. We all have to suffer and there is no reason that suffering should always have a negative connotation. As Sonu has shown me suffering helps people see the beauty in the world.


However India is not only suffering and I would hate to perpetuate the stereotype of sick kids, slums, and an unhappy poor population. There is plenty of happiness in India from the lowest to the highest caste. Indians do know how to enjoy their good times. For instance weddings here last FIVE days (like i mentioned before...its wedding season so it's nearly impossible to walk down the street with out being held up by a parade of colorful silk and the loud melody of a marching band. As i type now I can feel the vibration of the drums pulsating through the 45 C/112 F degree air as my ears are filled with the loud marching tunes). Tomorrow I'm going to one of the kid's (Kaushel) brother's wedding. It is the day with the 'banana leaves'. I am not sure what this means however Kaushel "you come Thursday" "best day for see indian wedding" "day with banana leaves". So i guess tomorrow i will learn what the 'day with banana leaves' is.

The third event.
The other night one of our photographers invited us to his sister's wedding anniversary. Of course Jenneke and I eagerly accepted for this chance to witness Indian culture. The first step before arriving was to figure out what we were supposed to bring. After asking a few various shop owners and receiving various answers such as 'colourful fabric' to 'eggs' we decided on a box of traditional Indian sweets. At least it was something we could eat or drink when offered food... which of course was a big worry of mine.

That night we entered climbed the cement steps to the second floor of the boxy house. Immediately I was struck by the lively atmosphere. The same room I had visited earlier during a photography lesson had transformed. The walls were draped with a shimmering fabric of thick white and green vertical stripes. Incense, the smell of naan and chapati bread filled the hot thick air while the latest bollywood hits blared in the background. Immediately on arrival we were made to sit (note: it seems that when ever guests enter the room it is extremely polite to make them sit--and i mean MAKE. The moment I walk into a room some type of chair or a space on a bed is offered. If i refuse the host insists and continues to improve the the seating location by adding pillows or getting a better chair until i accept. During photography workshops the same occurs. This for me is a bit strange because I am teaching. Usually when I teach, I stand. However the Indian children will persistently pester me to sit when ever in the same vicinity as them). After wards a few of the family members were introduced to us. All of the women were draped in beautiful sari's delicately detailed with gold embroidery. They also adorned wonderful gold jewelry in places I never would have thought jewelery could connect. For instance one women had her hair pulled back with a gold barrette. From the barrette a chain ran from over the top of her ear to a piecing on her earlobe. Others had thin chains connecting their decorative nose rings to piercings on their ears. Although their jewelery was different from anything I had seen it it was all tastefully placed and added to the women's loveliness rather than looking gaudy.

Thus in a small room crowded room Janneke and I became lost in a sea of sari's and women. Everyone was very eager to talk to us. They all wanted to know our name and where we came from and try out any other english phrases they knew. There was one girl though who was much less timid than the others. She had big beautiful mischievous eyes and an even larger silly grin. All night all she did was give us compliments. "Mam you are looking very lovely today" (please imagine these phases in a very strong hindi accent). "Mam you have very beautiful eyes". "Mam you are very kind and nice just like your eyes". "Mam I really like you, you are so kind". After 10 minutes of this I had ran out of thank yous and compliments to return (later i will be unsure whether A.) she ment them B.) she was lying or C.) these were the only english words she knew). Instead I started asking about her family. These questions brought a strange crooked grin on her face. "Mam-this is my sister" and she would bring a giggling girl in a sari. Later "mam this is my cousin". She continued to introduce almost everyone as her 'sister or cousin' to the great hilarity of everyone at the party, only later to find out it was all a lie. She only has brothers. In fact it seems that lying to foreigners... actually lying in general is very humorous for Indians. The kids also seem to do it a lot. They make up believable facts about them selves, delivered with a straight face, and then the others in the group burst into laughter.

For me blatant lies are never 'funny or humorous' (only occasionally purposeful :-)). The lie-jokes seem for me to lack any sort of cleverness or double innuendo... Saying "oh this is my cow" when really it belongs to a neighbor is not funny for me but hilarious for Indians. Perhaps because everyone knows everyone else's business lying is funny because knowledge about other people's lives are extremely important essential facts, however still i dont quite see how plain straight lies are funny. Although I do love how humor is so cultural. For instance in New Zealand it seemed 'character based humor' was funny. Anyone who has watched Flight of the Concords or seen Eagle verses Shark will understand what I mean. The humor in these shows/movies lies in the pure 'oddity' of the characters. The characters are odd. The way their little quirks come out in everyday situations is what inspires the humor. In Mexico sexual humor was big. Joking about relationships or boyfriends or girlfriends was always sure to make my students laugh. For instance telling a girl to work with a boy because the boy 'needs inspiration' was always met with hearty laughs. Or saying ohh you think hes cute or teasing, or anything related to sexual relationships was 'hilarious'. In the U.S. think stupidity and jokes about stupidity is funny. We love 'blond jokes' jokes and jokes about people being dumb. I mean...need i mention a movie called 'Jackass'. It really seems to me that humor is such a cultural thing.

So after the introductions it was time for the cake. Everything and everyone stopped while the bride and the groom blew out candles on a HUGE cake. Immediately after the wife cut a piece of the cake and fed it to her husband and then the husband to his wife. Following this was picture time. After a few pictures of the wife and husband (and I mean a few) instead Jenneke and I became celebrities. EVERYONE wanted pictures with us. First we posed with the wife, husband, and cake (luckily they did not try to feed us....at this point). Then every one in the family insisted on having a personal photo with us. The little kids stopped their bollywood dancing to take a 'picture picture', the quiet mothers tugged on our sleeves, and even the bent old grandma's came up and stood besides us attempting to straighten their curved spine to look up at us with big puppy eyes that with out words asked for a picture.

This is also interesting. I would love to learn more about what is a 'good picture' in India. I could never imagine asking guests to be included in a picture at a family event, just because they were different. Were we being asked because it was polite,? we were different? I am also finding this frustrating when working with the kids. We are repeatedly telling the kids what is a 'good picture' and what is a 'bad picture'. Really this is from a Euro-American perspective. Perhaps for Indians a good picture is NOT the same as a good picture for us. Just because we think the lighting and subject look fantastic in a shot does not mean the kids would choose the same. In fact when looking through the photographs the kids repeatedly take photos of other pictures. I could understand if the picture (be it painting, graffiti or something similar) was extremely interesting, but any and often they take pictures of pictures from hindi gods, to mother Teresa graffiti, flower pictures, to a chart with numbers.

What was interesting during the whole party and picture taking event was that the men all sat together in the corner. They barely spoke. They just sat quietly in a group and seemed to be part of the decorations rather than the social scene. They of course were served first and only until they finished did everyone else get to take a piece of cake. It really made me sad, not because of gender hierarchy, but because they seemed lifeless, boring, and uninteresting. I thought of all the male teenagers in Fairmail and could never imagine them turning into these sitting lumps of people. Will our lively bollywood singing/dancing silly cheerful playful teenage boys morph into this?

Back in the sea of saris Jenneke and I were served a piece of cake on top of a very sweet cookie thing with the consistency of fudge (think 'slice' for any one who knows NZ 'slice'). Underneath was a spicy salty mix of fried lentil flour shaped into short thin sticks, peanuts, and puffed lentils. I guess this addition was to pair 'salty with sweet'. I somehow avoided eating the cake by feeding it to the indian children and poked at my 'salty snack'. However soon jenneke and eye were also targeted to be fed but through repeated refusal somehow managed to avoid it. Now it was time for the food and our exit. I would have loved to try the food but of course Indians have much stronger stomachs and I do want to make it the entire two months. So I downed the rest of my orange soda drink and somehow managed to explain that I had to make an important phone call home (family obligations are excusable because of course the family is very important in most Indian culture). So after saying my 'namaste's' to everyone we made our way home.

The second event.
So on Wednesday of this past week I had my first ‘photography class’ with the kids. I am working with ten teenagers from a poor area of Varansi called Nagwa. My guest house is also in the ‘area’ of Nagwa, but for me Nagwa is the winding stone paths around, and in and out of this box like square cement one room buildings. These boxed houses are stacked upon one an other and filled with entire families complete with skeletal grandmas and chubby doe-eyed infants. The photo assignment for the day was to take pictures of their homes. Thus, I was introduced or more confronted with the situations that these children come home to every day.

I am still not sure how I feel after seeing the children’s homes. Yes they are different than anything I would ever call a home, but they have still made it their own. The rooms are stacked with knick knacks and photographs of the gods. To be honest the cozy spaces had more ‘warmth’ for me than most ‘american homes’. The perfectly straight pictures, the bleached sterile walls, smooth and perfectly painted just down harbor the same inviting atmosphere that these homes do. The tattered rugs and dusty corners created a nice backdrop to sip chai and listen to one of the boy’s brother demonstrate the tabula (a type of drum). In addition there are no doors on any of the houses. In fact people just walk in and out of each others home. There is literally no privacy. I imagine if I could speak hindi I would be hear the gossip creeping through the cracks and joining the flies on the walls.

What was more amazing was watching the children take pictures and how their neighbors reacted. The kids had a trouble keeping up as half clothed children seemed to spring from every corner screaming ‘picture picture picture!!!’ Even the old women didn’t seem to mind having their photo taken and shyly smiled when the teenagers held up their cameras. What was interesting was the village was completely devoid of men. I later learned this is because of course the men go to the work during the day while the home keep the home. For some of these women they have never even set foot outside of the tangle of buildings that compose Nagwa. Often women of middle to higher class aren’t allowed to leave their homes. In fact only the lowest castes and the women (at least in Nagwa) are the only ones who can actually roam the streets and leave.

Now of course this raises all kinds of feminist issues and questions in my mind. However there is so much to say, but people are doing what they can. Culture is restricting, period. We can only do so much and anything is something. Big feminist arguments sometimes the reality of the lived situation. Yet, things are slowly changing and like in the west the sexual revolution will come and little by little. And instead of thinking about all of the ‘repressed women’ there are some good things- I couldn’t help but think of how happy they looked and what a beautiful little community Nagwa seemed to be. I mean this little community is the world for its inhabitants. They have friends support from other women and a wonderful social system. I wonder if they didn’t have to worry about affording food and expenses would they be happy? They could enjoy the daily toll of chores, family, and friends. I mean there is something rewarding in hardwork. I myself continually am enticed by the idea of joining a kibbutz or communal living situation. However of course there is more to life. I believe that everyone has a bit of a ‘wonder lust’ or a what if. And these ‘what if’s’ (what if I had this, went to this place, had married this man) often usually link to one thing, money. All of the kids in fairmail and their families have joined the program because of the potential for money. Each picture that the kids take that is turned into a post card earns them 5,000 rupees—which is a lot of money for these kids. The money will help them go to school. That of course being the main goal for everyone.

However school also helps people see in a different light. I know the reason I went to university was to learn to see things differently and complicate my understanding of the world. One important thing with this type of knowledge is the ability to use it. I love that I can ‘be a change’ start and organization, or protest against something I think is wrong or right. However with these kids (especially the girls) this is quite a foreign concept. This is because of the confidence requires to speak out and be different. For the girls this is quite a difficult thing. They never answer questions in class and have a hard time speaking up or voicing opinions when asked (I am linking this to culture—sure it could be personality but…given the role of women here). However slowly everyday they are becoming more confident just through taking pictures. They are learning that it is ok to see something in their own way and take a picture because it is beautiful. The more involved with this project I become the more I can see the role between artistic expression and confidence. I think with art you learn to express yourself and have that expression accepted. It helps people realize that ‘yah I do have a personal view point and yah its different my own, and special…thus hey! I am SPECIAL!’. It’s funny how we all want or need to feel special or loved. I think people find this through relationships, family, religion, volunteer work or perhaps art, music and poetry-basically the confirmation that I am special and loved (maybe that’s why artists often are often lonely recluse nomads haha).

Speaking of weddings… it is wedding season. Thus there are parades of people with carts of food, bands and women in beautiful sari’s filling the streets daily. I kinda like the idea that weddings are public and they share their joy with everyone. However I hate that they block the road for ten minutes and practically pop my ear drums. Oh what love can do!

India continues to amaze me. I have attended three separate events that I feel have been memorable and eye opening. Each has allowed to put my own life and beliefs in perspective.

The first event I attended was part of a music festival being held at the ‘monkey temple’. The festival is six days long and hindu’s from all over the country make the trip to attend. I could tell the music festival was important right from the rickshaw ride there. My friend Jenneke and I hailed a rickshaw and somehow managed to communicate that we were interested in going to the monkey festival. The chaotic ride was only twenty rupees (note: that I was dressed in ‘westernish garb’-later I discovered that when dressed in Indian garb and using a bit of hindi rickshaw rides of twice the distance are only 5 rupees because the person assumes you are a hippy that knows better). Twenty rupees was cheap considering the ride provided the equivalent excitement to a day at the amusement park. In most of the other countries I have traveled in there is only one lane for traffic of each direction. However in India it seems to be a free for all. Tuk Tuk’s, rickshaws, cows, people, motor bikes, all seem to zoom forward, backwards, to side streets. It's like the Russian roulette version of bumper cars. Given festival’s popularity this game/rollar costar ride/means of transportation had become all the more intense. Finally we made it and were immediately swept into a crowd of sweaty body’s pushing and shoving to enter the temple (there were no lines of course). Once entering through the women’s entrance we immediately saw the stage with some sort of music being preformed. Here, we could here the shrewd old women’s strange ‘singing’ and the rhythmic vibrations of the tabula. The skinny small ancient women was half clothed crouched on stage with a microphone in hand. She had HUGE glasses that magnified her very expressive eyes. I couldn’t quite tell whether her expression was one of joy or sadness however at any moment it looked like she was about to burst into tears. Behind her was a pot bellied old man who seemed to be in his own little world. I couldn’t really tell why he was on stage. All he seemed to do was rock his head back and fourth while his eyebrows bounced up and down above his closed eyes.

Around the main stage were many pictures of the ‘monkey god’. The monkey god-Hanuman http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hanuman was portrayed in pictures all over the temple. Any picture of the god that was passed was touched (and there were literally pictures covering almost every square inch of the temple). Many people were seated and seemed to be consumed in a trance like state. I was amazed. It is hard for me to understand this amount of devotion. However I suppose it gives them purpose. I found myself wanting to have something to believe in—or give myself purpose. I often feel so torn during many situations from small moral dilemmas such as should I pay the extra 2 dollars for organic produce to what should I do with my life. Perhaps if I believed that I would be reborn in a higher cast I’d have better ammunition to tackle my dilemmas. Perhaps I wouldn’t even considering studying something for fun unless it could help my family or others who are less fortunate. However, I don’t like simple answers. For me, the mental debate during moral dilemmas is half the fun. I love learning about new ways to look at things. There are so many pairs of cultural glasses to see the world through. I am definitely to curious to confine my self to the rose coloured glasses of ‘hinduism’ or Christianity. However without answers there will always be a degree of uncertainty. And usually it is more difficult to be ‘happy’ when uncertain. So am I missing out on some crucial ‘happiness’ because I constantly avoid right/wrong, black/white, good/bad? I imagine it would be nice to have a life long goal to go to mecca, or to follow a guru toward enlightenment because it gives you something to do, look forward to, and work towards. I love the feeling of anticipation and enjoyment when you are finally able to reach your goal, have something to look forward to and watch for. For instance I used to look forward to track meets and train so I could perform at those meets. The whole cycle was tiring yet fulfilling. Now I find my self looking at different countries and imagining traveling to them, or grad schools and imagine attending them. However because I lack a central guiding path I never really become overly enthused about anything (I mean I’m excited just not in the zealous religious sense).

As I left the festivals the only conclusion I could draw was that devotion has an aspect of beauty within all of its strangeness. They others leaving did seem truly happy of either received a blessing from a guru or preformed a meaningful prayer. They were also part of this larger community and all were part of something together and through their mass they were something bigger, something more ‘real’ than just a little person who is just another body that will eat, breath, and die. Some people are happy with this, but I think others want something bigger (I mean I definitely do-I would love to change the world in some way for both humanitarian and selfish reasons). I guess everyone will have their own little way of determining this and how they want to do this.

As I existed the festival the only thing I felt bad about was that the temple was disturbing the hundreds of monkeys in the temple’s trees. The poor monkeys had to suffer through six days with out sleep as the festival lasts from 8pm until 5am. And hidu’s are supposed to be against harming animals!

Ok now I’m tired. I only managed to chronicle one experience. The other two include working with the kids from fair mail and visiting their homes (a wonderful eye opener to have and have not) and attending an Indian party for a ‘wedding anniversary’ (complete with married couple feeding each other cake)… so to be continued.

Initial reaction

Photos: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2193919&id=1612805&l=79fd63e5fb

So I have taken off to Varanasi India in order to work with Fairmail http://www.fairmail.info/ -an organization that teachers teenagers to work with underprivileged youth. So far it has been interesting. You know after all of the warning about India, I was still quite shocked upon arriving in Varanasi. The city is alive. People bleed from every corner. If there is a crevice or crack, someone or something (cow, goat, dog ect.) has made a home out of it. Even through the poverty the city is beautiful in its own sort of way.

I am staying in a small room on the 2nd floor of a 'guest house'. I am not sure if anyone has read Killing Vishnu, however I feel like I am a tenant in the 'house of Vishnu'. In other words home is part of a much bigger thriving living community found within a small building. There are many Indian families who have made homes in the various rooms of this four story building. At any given time babies can be heard crying, women sweeping, the 2 kilo locks being opened or shut, and of course men clearing their throat by letting a big wad of spit fly from their lips. I feel like I am part of a living organism rather than a guest house. On the ground floor to exit the building one has to avoid stepping in the steaming cow poop left by the guest house's own personal cow-who also can usually be found lounging around by the gate. The most disturbing thing about the living situation is that we are expected just to throw the trash in the garbage 'lot' next door, where the random nomadic pigs play their role as the Indian version of garbage men.

Every morning I role out of my bed from under my mosquito net and use the shower head to rinse my sweaty body with cold water. There is no 'shower' (or toilet for that matter), but instead a silver shower head that dribbles cold to 'luke warm' water depending on the time of the day (sometimes the heat will heat up the water tank). These first few days I have mainly been exploring rather than working with the teenagers yet. As I started to say the city is chaotic. The streets are apparently paved but you wouldnt know it because it is covered by a layer of white dust, cow poop and random colorful powders. Loud horns and the rush of rickshaws, tuk tuk's, and the calls of merchants create the soundtrack of daily life. The air is thick with the smell of spices, sweat, excretion (of all types) and animals. Walking down down the street you feel like you have to wade through this scent. It sticks to you. It creates a sticky wet feeling which is amplified by the oppressive heat. Sure for descriptive/entertainment purposes I am exaggerating a bit, but only a little.

A friend once told me that in Delhi there were virtually no women. However here, every walk of life seems to be scattered in the streets. You have Muslim women all in black with only a small slit for their eyes, to the colorful saris of the hindu women, men in turbans, holy men draped in orange fabric, and little boys running around naked. The people really are beautiful. They are beautiful in their colours, their facial structure, and their smiles.

Through all of this sensory experience there has been an important lingering question in my mind--why do we travel? What is the purpose of this experience? I have seen many 'westerners' clothed in traditional indian garb. I understand that this is considered polite, but I can still not shake the feeling that it is somewhat fake. Why do I have this feeling, I mean after all what is wrong with adopting this new culture, or way of dress? It is fun to wear new things and play 'dress up'. However I thought the point of traveling (at least one of many reasons) was to 'find yourself'. To experience difference so you realize the 'normal' is relative and what you take for granted is actually quite unusual for others. However others seem to travel for escape. Today I feel like dressing in traditional garb, adopting new religions, and ways of life is a form of escape. However why do we have this need for 'escape'? What is so unhappy about western life? I was thinking the other day that so many people seem to 'convert' to eastern religion, but it is rare (at least to my knowledge) for someone to 'convert' (willingly) to western religion. Is spirituality something that is indicative to humanity and while some find it in science, medicine, or other parts of western life, I guess it doesn't quite do the trick for some people.

However I am still trying to grapple with this question--why do we travel? I can think of many reasons but they for some reason still seem a bit unsatisfactory. For instance in the beginning of this post I mentioned the sensory experience of new foods, smells, and sounds. Others try and find themselves through difference, and others to escape. For me I like to meet people. I like to meet the locals but also other travelers. I guess i like to meet other travelers because I really am puzzled by this question--why do we travel and what is the purpose of travel? I am even not sure why I am in love with galavanting around the world. I like meeting other travellers because I guess I believe that maybe i'll someday come across someone who can enlighten me and answer my query--or complicate my question and add to the array of answers I have already obtained.

However most of all I love collecting stories. I love finding out about all of the many ways one can be human. That is what interests me most. I guess at the moment I am trying to figure out how I can make a career out of collecting stories. I have began by studying anthropology, but I am very interested in artistic expression. For me it seems the medium through which people seem to express what it means to be human is through art. However I also love narratives. I am very interested in narratives and what to explore the narrations and the various ways people make narratives. I guess my blog is my own narrative. So this is my own story. And I will continue to collect the stories of others in order to understand my own.