Sukhamano, state-siders (Issue 7) - Rob in India

And we're back. The "Kerala Exchange" has now become the
"Kerala Quarterly" and, man, have I got an issue for you.
Since I left you last time (in February, yikes) classes were just letting out and the students left for summer break. Life as I'd known it for the past half of a year changed dramatically, but this break from the usual duties also gave me a chance to pursue some big adventures. My March adventures don't fit into this newsletter, so to get that story you're going to have to visit the blog at malayalamartin.blogspot.com. April was spent mostly on the All India Tour; a 28 day rough and tumble romp through the northern regions of India. Those of you paying close attention to the web album have probably already been staring at the photo evidence of that excursion for weeks. From the very day we arrived back in Kerala, until near the end of May I was engaged in camps of various sorts. This extended edition of the "Kerala Quarterly" will take you on a virtual tour of these past two months.
The All India Tour has long been a part of this volunteer program. After seeing one tiny corner of the country for most of the year, it gives us a chance to catch a glimpse of what else is going on in this vastly diverse country and put some perspective on our Kerala home. I'd say that goal was met, and then some. In four weeks we travelled from the southern tip of the continent to the Himalayas. We saw deserts, rice paddies, golden fields of grain and villages cut terraced into the heighest mountain range in the world. Every place we visited was home to one or several languages we didn't even know existed. Yes, there is a difference between South-Central L.A. and Fargo, ND, but the diversity we encountered in our travels made the American melting pot look like an Easy Bake Oven.
The Jodhpur fort was home to many a Mughal monarch, it's the gateway to the Thar Desert and beyond them thar dunes lies Pakistan. This fort may also be home to the one truly satisfying audio tour in existence. If you ever make it out here it's really worth the Rs. 400. The fact that the entire fortress was hewn from solid rock into beautifully intricate designs is nothing short of miraculous. There is just something deeply satisfying about the geometric intricacy of Muslim art. Check out the level of detail around this window…
We spent one day in Jodhpur and then took a night train to Jaisalmer, home of another big ol' fort. The train arrived at 5:30 a.m. and left us unsure about "what next." What happened was this: We were completely overwhelmed by people offering us rooms, travel packages, auto rickshaw rides, and camel excursions. We put on our best, "Get outta my face" faces, but our assaulters had developed some kind of immunity to this, the deadliest weapon in our body language arsenal. Somehow me managed to escape the railway station, but not before one man pulled me down by my backpack to show me his brochure. It looks like we've entered Tourist Hell...
The fort was only a couple of kilometers from the
station, and once the sun came out most of the wild-
eyed salesmen disappeared. The fort by day was actually a very pleasant place- a veritable castle of sand. I probably could have done without this audio tour, but we did meet a lot of interesting people along the way. One lady who owned a handycrafts store, (actually, she was the only female shop owner we met all day), told us this story about the "sustainable" community from which her goods came and to which her proceeds went. The word "sustainable" evokes oohs and ahhs from environmentally concious people the world over, and it was the perfect sales pitch for us. Just before we left she gave us a CD and said, "Take this and you can see what I'm talking about." Later in Delhi we popped the CD into a computer and, what do you know, it appears she was telling us the truth about everything. I think we were all a bit surprised that we found a devoted and honest souvenir seller in Tourist Hell.
Stepping out of our home communities in Kerala into the tourist world of Rajasthan was a bit of a surreal experience. We were used to living in a place where people knew us and shared their lives with us. Suddenly, we jumped into this world where everyone saw us as tourists. That is, of course, logical for them to assume, but we didn't really feel like tourists. We felt like displaced Keralites. Yes, the forts were amazing, but as a group we decided early on that forts weren't our forte. We wanted the rest of our journey to involve less sightseeing and more people seeing.
As we took another night train to Delhi we were excited to see some familiar faces again. Our stay was arranged with a family of Presbyterian missionaries posted in Delhi. We also anticipated meeting with our friend Binu who is studying in Delhi, and is the son of our program coordinator, Thomas John Achen.
When we arrived in Delhi we took a taxi armed only with directions and an address scrawled on a piece of paper. While we've managed to conquer the various transportation systems in Kerala, in this town we were back to squarea one - we didn't even have one word of Hindi between the four of us. We did manage to arrive safely at the Hudson residence, and were warmly greeted by the good Reverend Hudson himself. Without missing a beat he began cooking up some hot noodles for us, mixing some icy drinks and sending us out in shifts for a hot shower. We've haven't had pasta, ice cubes, or hot showers since August 2007! This is something really amazing to us. And that first experience pretty much summed up the level of hospitality that the whole Hudson clan extended to us during our stay.
From the Hudson's house we traveled to the Taj Mahal, of course. We also made several excursions out into the city with the Hudsons as our guides. Along the way we had some incredible meals including, much to my surprise, the absolute best South Korean food I've ever set my teeth into. Though the Hudsons were invaluable in helping us around the city, they also gave us a really unique perspective on our own time in Kerala. Though we've offered one year of our lives in this country, the Hudsons will be here for at least three, and they've already completed stints in Pakistan and South Korea. Suddenly, a year in India as a recent college grads doesn't seem like such a big deal.
From the Smith residence we trekked deeper into the Himalayas
in search of adventure, full body fatigue and snow. We found
all of these things. On our first hike we trekked up a beautiful stone path through green fields and budding rhododendrons. Despite this lush first leg, the snow capped peaks surrounding us stood as a reminder of what lay at the end of our climb.
After a couple of hours of hiking, some mountain-sized clouds began to roll towards us, thundering all the way. The girls figured that getting caught on top of a mountain in a storm is a bad thing, but I reasoned that if we're going to die on a mountain we might as well die at the top. So the girls found shelter and I ran on ahead. At the top there stood an old, stone temple to Shiva, a lot of snow, and dozens of dreadlocked, face-pierced hippies. I took a couple of snaps (of the buildings, not the hippies) and quickly headed back down to join the girls. Scarcely did we begin our decent before the heavens unleashed a torrent of heavy hale balls. Turns out the girls were right afterall. So we found some shelter and waited out the storm, no worse for the wear, but now we can tell our grandchildren that we were trapped on a Himalayan mountaintop in an ice storm.
Our next stop, Daramshala, was selected so we could get a taste of Tibetan culture, and of course, food. We got much more than we planned for. Well, initially we got exactly what we had hoped for – cooking lessons. We traveled through a long corridor of back streets to arrive at Sanje's kitchen. As we prepared our Mo-Mo Soup we asked some questions about Sanje's journey from Tibet to India. It turns out he had quite an incredible journey, and for travelers willing to listen, you get a lot more than some cooking tips out of Sanje. He told us about his midnight escape from his village, he didn't tell anyone or leave a note for fear of endangering his loved ones. He made the four week journey into Nepal on foot and then eventually moved to Daramshala to work as a cook. It was eight years before he made his first phone call back home. We've been hearing about Chinese atrocities in Tibet for years, but this first hand account gave us a face to match with the issue.
As we exited the maze of buildings back onto the main street we were surprised to see a flood of monks carrying banners denouncing Chinese occupation of Tibet. The procession went on and on. After the monks came the city people, then the school kids, and then a smattering of travelers from all around the world also joined in the march.
We just happened to be at the seat of Tibetan government as the Olympic torch passed through Delhi, and this protest was staged to coincide with the relay. This display of raw emotion made quite an impression on all of us, especially after our eye-opening conversation with Sanje. We felt humbled to be at the epicenter of this Olympic-sized issue.

Summer Camp - Kerala Style
T he very day after returning to Kerala I was invited to help
lead a three week summer camp for kids aged 6-16. Actually,
I was introduced to the camp as the "dance teacher." I tried to explain that the only dance experience I had was with tap dance, and I didn't think attempting tap with over a hundred kids simultaneously was a good idea, but the organizer reassured me, "It's ok, we're sure you'll come up with something good."

Even now I'm not quite sure how it happened, but I managed to put together some steps for a punk rock version of "I Fought the Law." The kids young and old seemed to really like it. I guess, since the typical Malayalam film does depict random dancing as a fact of life, they were an accepting audience. One of the young girls came up to me after I taught them the dance, gave me a big smile and said, "Great moves!" Hey, if she's happy then I can be satisifed with my utter dance awkwardness.

During these three weeks I also served as song leader, magician, jungle gym and resident expert in paper airplane folding. I worked at a summer camp for three summers in America, but I'd completely forgotten what an incredible joy it is to get to know these small people. Though the differences between this culture and American culture are innumerable, these Keralite kids had just as much energy, mischief, and as many questions as the American variety.

The day after that camp ended, I awoke with a feeling of disappointment - there would be no more camp today. Luckily for me, a new camp began the very next day. This camp was for older students – college kids. The program was organized by the Student Christian Movement, though students from any religion were encouraged to attend. Entitled, "Student Empowerment and Communicative English" the camp sought students who came from the poorest sections of society namely Dalits. Though education is freely available in Kerala, all things aren't exactly equal. As it has become necessary to have some skill in the English language to succeed in most desirable occupations, primary educations that focus on English training have also come into vogue. The families with lots of money can send their kids to schools that offer special language training, or even an international school. The students from the poorest section of society, however, cannot afford these special services.

Over the next two weeks we met and bonded with the students at this program. We were asked to lead the grammar portions of the program, and we did do that, but we also focused a lot of our energies on building up the confidence of these students to engage their language skills, no matter what their proficiency.

The program turned out to be very rewarding, not only because we got to meet so many amazing students, but also because of the change we saw in them in just two weeks' time. Monday through Wednesday was like pulling teeth, especially during the group participation portions of our lessons, but by the following Monday these students felt comfortable communicating with us no matter how proficient or limited their vocabularies. We eased some of the tension by speaking in a form of hybridized "Manglish" when necessary.

On the final day we broke the students into four groups and gave them a scavenger hunt to complete. Once they had collected the items we instructed them to make a skit incorporating all of the things they found. The results were absolutely astounding. One group presented a play detailing the struggle of the tribal populations of Kerala to cope with the pressures of modernization. Another group gave us an incredibly nuanced portrayal of some of the negative effects of globalization. I was utterly blown away; these were the same students who refused to speak at all only two weeks before.

That's it for now, congratulations on making it through, and thank you for coming with me on my journey thus far. I think my next newsletter will be my last from India, though I'll give you one follow up issue after my return. Now that students have returned I'm busy again with classes, visits to Kanam and a couple of side music projects as well. For those of you familiar with the Holden Evening Prayer, it's coming to Kerala with a bluegrass twist. Get ready.

May Newsletter - Laura in India

"The Baggage of 5:00pm"

I have an irritation.
A pet-peeve, if you will.
Something that has bugged me for years, and for no particular reason,
Other than it just annoys me.
5:00pm.
That's right.
5 o'clock in the evening.
I can't stand it.
This abhorrence may stem from years of activities that kept me busy during precious days where one learns to live in harmony with all o'clocks: volleyball practices, rowing practices, summer camp, afternoon work shifts and such. Due to these, I've never had to face the irritable qualities of 5pm, thus leaving a bitter taste for the time.
For starters, is it late-afternoon, or early evening? It can't decide for itself. Then, should you suffer through the goosebumps of a cool 5pm, or put on a jacket, risking a sweatiness that will surely chill you by 6pm?
And to top it all off, the day's closure is making for a darkened room. You're sitting in this funky-semi-sunlit-space. You want to turn a light on. So you do. But, what is this? The light doesn't do squat. Your room is still funky-semi-sunlit, but now with a glowing corner where your lamp is pathetically trying to have an effect. Then you check your watch. Ah. It's 5pm. That's right. At 5pm, it's not dark enough to turn a cozy lamp on, but outside light won't penetrate past the curtains.
Hmmph. 5pm. Can't live with it; surely, can't live without it. To say I've been suffering anxiety attacks at 4:59pm would be a bit of an exaggeration. But, I have been fully aware of the weight of the baggage I brought to India, having packed both the concentrated past, and the futility of personal pet-peeves. As much as I hoped, nothing got lost along the way; it all arrived; everything is here. Even 5pm.
But, to my surprise, India has given me more than a place to put the luggage down. It gave me a time change. At 5pm, everything comes alive for our 'neighborhood'. I spend this time with my friends of the assisted living facility. By 5pm, afternoon naps are finished, our tea has been drunk, and we are ready for fresh air and fresh faces. Everyone is ready for the 5pm socialization hour:
There's Dr. Mani and his wife, Ann. Dr. Mani is a retired Physics professor, originally from Kerala, but lived in North Carolina for almost 40 years, teaching at a local university. When Alzheimer's became a reality for Ann, Dr. Mani opted for the less costly health care India could provide. Dr. Mani and Ann made their voyage back to Kerala, where he has been her primary care taker. With the help of their home nurse, Banu, I watch each day as Dr. Mani's courage, love, persistence, sense of humor and wonderful smile never diminish.
After we drink tea, Banu and I sit with Ann, and Dr. Mani takes his walk. When I see his Nike's laced on, and the leather sandals on the door step, I know it's 5pm.
There's Maya Ammachi and her daughter, Susan. Maya and her father were freedom fighters with Gandhi. She's closing in on 92, and due to a fall last year, she's finding it harder to recall names and places.
Our conversations may start with a story, but a few sentences in, she'll be clouded with a strange look, and then with a wave of her hand say, "Gone...Forgot." And while we chuckle together at what might have been a great story, Maya lets her two front teeth shine from the guard of her lips. One such interaction:

Maya: I saw your friend the other day.
Laura: Oh, who was that?
M: She was looking...very bad.
L: Oh my. That can't be good.
M: No. It wasn't. She was doing quite bad. Your friend...(trying to
find the name)
L: Kat? Beth?
M: No. Your friend...
L: Uhhh...Rob?
M: No. Your friend, that's a girl....
L: Uhhh...my mother?
M: (clearly frustrated) No. That one friend. Obama's friend.
L: Uhhh...Hilllllary Clinnnton?
M: Yes! That's the one! Your friend Hillary. I saw her in the paper.
L: Oh good! My friend Hillary. How is she?
M: She's not doing well against that Obama fellow.
L: I'll have to talk with my friend, Hillary.

And, the chuckling begins.
When I see Maya Ammachi on her porch chair, her smile perching, and waiting to chat about politics and my friends Obama and Hillary, I know it's 5pm.
When I see Thomas Appachen watering his flowers; when I hear Bavakutty Kochamma's contagious laughter; when I hear the home nurses teasing one another and singing songs, I know it's 5pm.
And I couldn't be more excited.
That which irritated before, is what I anticipate and look forward to each day.
For, 5pm has been transformed.
My prejudices, my judgments, my apparent understandings of myself have been flipped, flopped, and forgone. It's as though India has allowed me to leave this luggage whirling around the baggage claim. And so I must ask myself, what other baggage is it time to let go of?

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light." Matthew 11:28.

April Newsletter - Laura in India

"Psalm 121"
When paging through a National Geographic, gawking at the peaks and
climbers alike, I often ask myself, what do those hikers think about
while scaling the tops? What do they ponder while trekking? Surely,
being professionals they have discovered pure, mountain zen. Surely,
they have found oneness with the paths and peaks, thus never growing
weary, but gaining strength with each passing step. Surely, their
hiking thoughts are nothing like mine:
Huff. Huff. Puff.
My goodness.
Huff. Huff. Puff.
Okay. Not tired. Nope. Not tired.
Geez, Thompsen, you're breathing hard.
Nope. Don't think that. Keep going. Look at the trail. Press on.
Oh, that's good. Press on.
That's it. Watch your feet. Good, watch the trail.
Man, your feet are big.
Huff. Huff. Puff.
Big shoes, too. Big enough to hold weights.
Uff-da. It feels like they've got weights. Yep, 1000 lbs in my shoes.
Huff. Huff. Puff.
Must distract yourself. Sing a song. Watch the trail and sing a song.
"I see trees of green...Huff.
Red roses too...Huff.
Uh...I see clouds of white...Puff.
Um...What a wonderful world...Huff."
Maybe I should pick a song I know.
Huff. Huff. Puff.
Okay. Just watch your feet.
I often wonder if my hiking companions recite poems or think deep
philosophical thoughts while climbing versus huffing and puffing. I
often wonder if I'm the only one who has such a love-hate relationship
with mountain trails. I love the challenge and I love the climb; but,
I can't wait for the trail to end and I hike anticipating the next
water break. I often wonder if others also spend more time looking at
the trail than at the landscape around them.
Thus, I went into our Himalayan excursion with the slightest hope that
I had outgrown this hiking habit. Maybe this passage would be my
passage to more mature inner monologues.
Yet, while we climbed about, surrounded by some of the most majestic
peaks in the world, I could not keep my mind off my huffs and puffs,
nor my eyes off the trail. As we walked through valleys that surround
Everest, I could not keep from hoping that around the next bend we
would finally finish.
At this, I grew more and more discouraged. Why do I think this on
every hike? Why do I eagerly anticipate the trail, yet once begun, I
cannot think of anything but its completion?
We soon came to a clearing with some of the most beautiful mountain
peaks I have seen. The Himalayan range is massive. They seem to take
up the entire sky. And better yet, they seem to know their beauty, as
they stand proud, majestic and full of grandeur. Our eyes wanted to
continue staring, but the trail continued. So, we did as well.
Back to huffing and puffing, I thought. Back to the battle in my
mind. Worst of all, back to gazing at a stupid trail that looks like
all the other stupid trails I've been on. Trails are trails. But,
mountains are not just mountains; they are something more. They are
worth gazing at. They are worth keeping your eyes on. I wanted to
climb higher, but that meant keeping my eyes down, motivating my feet
to press on--a habit I've developed through the years. And the last
thing I wanted was to spend another two hours going up a mountain
without seeing a mountain.
While pondering all this, I was reminded of a Psalm; a Psalm I've read
many times this year. Psalm 121:
I lift my eyes up, unto the mountains-
Where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord,
The Maker of Heaven and Earth.
I was surrounded by mountains. I was in need of inspiration. It
seemed like Divine intervention that this Psalm came to mind. But,
instead of a spring in my step, I was just given more questions. Big
surprise.
What is it about mountains that reminds the Psalmist of God, the
creator of majesty and grandeur? What is it about creation, God's
creation, that comforts the Psalmist? It does not read 'we lift our
eyes to the Taj Mahal' or 'we lift our eyes to the forts of Rajahstan,
where does our help come from'. For, we do not turn our eyes to a
being of this world, but to a source of this world.
And, from that, I had to simply ask myself, why do I not lift my eyes?
Why had I always resorted to watching my feet, watching the trail
pass, as I walked my path? I've been told to watch where I am
stepping; that there is danger in keeping my eyes elsewhere; that I
may stumble if I do not watch closely enough. That is, I hold some
control of the journey if I watch every step. Yet, in gazing up, I
will not only be reminded of the creator of my challenge but also the
helper of that challenge. I can release my control once I have faith
in gazing at the mountains.
How much of my life have I been watching the trail instead of the
mountain? How often am I too ashamed to lift up my eyes? For in that
lifting, I admit my weakness. It is in staring at the mountains that
I am humbled. I confess that I am in need of strength, in need of
help. In taking my eyes off the trail, I find myself not knowing
where the next step may be. In taking my eyes off the trail, I trust
that the Maker of the mountains will bring me through their passes. I
trade false assurance for active dependency.
So, as the path continued, so did we. But, this time, I kept my eyes
up. I watched the clouds roll over those mighty Himalayas; I squinted
as the sun beat down; and I marveled at the snow falling around them.
And, there, I did enter a new passage of hiking. One with the same
huffing and puffing; one with more stumbles and blunders; but, one
with an incredible view.

March Newsletter - Laura in India

07-08 India - Laura getting fire wood
Originally uploaded by YAGM

"Doris the Dell"

I had debated on bringing Doris to India. She's been a loyal friend;
logging in many late nights in college with papers and exams, staying
awake with me while I plugged away at emails, and with only a stubborn
'm' key, she's never given me trouble. For being a five-year old,
simple laptop, I can only give Doris, my Dell computer, praise. She's
a trooper, but, could she make the journey to India? Even more,
should she? I spent many pre-India hours debating the issue. I was
coming to India to live simply; I have voiced with my friends our need
to live in solidarity with the poor. Would bringing Doris only
contradict this mission? Would my voice of solidarity be frosted with
hypocracy if Doris was strapped under my arm?

After advice from friends and previous volunteers, they all encouraged
Doris' trek. She would be helpful, they insisted, in pre-writing
emails and newsletters and she'd provide music of home to ward off
homesickness. So, finally, I folded. The selling point was a
friend's observation: keep Doris in my room, not advertise that I had
a computer, and remember she was there for convenience, not necessity.
Ah, Doris' journey was justified.

The first months were successful in keeping Doris' presence unknown.
At night, we'd jam out to tunes, upload pictures and enjoy one
another's company. During the day, she'd sit idly in my room, waiting
for my return. I kept her sleeping as much as possible, to remember
the simplicity I had promised myself, and felt quite pleased with her
private existence.

That was until a friend was preparing a presentation, but the DVD she
needed refused to play on any of the machines. She was stressed, and
running out of options. I immediately thought of Doris. But, I
hesitated. If I expose her, then what? Will my ideals of simplicity
be simply blown away? Would the guilt I was trying to justify finally
surface? Would I become that fancy-dancy American, feeling good with
her charity work while basking in the glories of expensive luxuries?
But, my friend was stressed, and I knew I could help. I took a deep
breath, and mentioned Doris.

"Really??!?!!"

She was overjoyed. I brought the laptop to her office and we tried
the DVD. Pure success. (Like I had any doubts...come on, it's Doris)
That Saturday, I brought the laptop to the community hall and showed
a room full of underprivileged children a movie. Throughout the film
I felt encouraged by Doris' new role. Perhaps she could be a
technological tool: I could use her to assist in events and lectures,
ones that needed the convenience and flexibility a laptop can bring.
What I didn't realize was while I was justifying Doris' use, word was
spreading quickly of her presence.

Not too many days later, a few wardens approached me in hopes to
borrow the computer to transfer music onto their cellphones. I felt
trapped. They knew Doris existed. They knew of her capabilities.
They knew I had no excuse.

"Suuuuuuuuurrrrrrrre," I drawled out. "That'd be ffffffiiiiinnnnne, I
guesssssss," hoping that my hesitation would drop a hint.

Nope. No hint caught. So, I let Doris go for the evening. Her first
sleepover. It would be lie to say I was not lonely that night.

But, she came back in good spirits the next morning, and I was feeling
better and better about her open and known existence. The wardens
were comfortable and respectful in asking to borrow her and my friend
requested Doris' presence at other community functions. I've even
watched the confidence in the girls rise, the more I give them Doris.
They know how to start movies, open various documents and music, and
we've even begun typing lessons. I've learned a lot about sharing
this year, so Doris' active involvement in our community, I thought,
was becoming a symbol of this new learning.

Then it hit.

I didn't expect it. I didn't even see it coming. It just hit.

My true nature.

It snuck up on me, and hit me. Hard.

Doris was being passed from one person to the next. I don't think she
came home for almost a week straight. She was with the wardens, then
with the girls. Back and forth, back and forth she went. Getting
tired of this shenanagens and wanting her home for some R&R, I had
left her with the girls one afternoon, and told them I'd pick her up
by night. So, as I walked up the stairs, I was not surprised to see
the back of 11 heads huddled around a desk. They were watching
another movie. Doris was doing what she does best, and the girls took
full advantage of it. I stopped midway up, though, and snapped:

What is this?, I thought. Another movie? Are you kidding me? Here I
openly give them Doris to use, and they just milk it for all its
worth. I can't believe this! She's mine. I have not had Doris for
days, and here they are using her again. I know sharing is a
beautiful thing of God, but come on. Really. She's mine. I paid for
her. I counted bugs and delivered newspapers for a summer so I could
buy her. I've done the hard work. She's mine. Not yours....

And as quickly as my tantrum came, I realized who was talking. My
greed. My selfishness. My jealousy. My life of power and privilege,
my real understanding of sharing, was coming to the surface. When I
have something to give, I'll give it, until I want to stop. I'll
share, but I'll keep the power of that sharing. I'll stay in power
and keep the freedom to exercise that power when and how I want. And
you. You will learn to be grateful for my generosity.

I was drenched in "I"s and "me"s.

And I was ashamed.

I paused long enough to see the beauty and richness of the scene in
front of me. 11 girls, who, with Doris, have the freedom to watch a
movie when they want. 11 girls who are learning to be self-sufficient
with a computer. 11 girls who live in a world of technology, yet do
not have daily access to exercise their technological knowledge. But,
at least with Doris, they were getting a taste. And best of all, they
were treating Doris as if she was their own. As it should be. What
is mine is yours. Openly and Freely.

So, it dawned on me, what if I had not brought Doris? What if Doris
stayed at home? I remembered what almost kept Doris in America was my
search of solidarity; my need for simplicity. But the actualization
of what I considered 'simple' was a denying of what I actually had:
great access and great freedom to share. Not out of boast or charity,
but from simple understanding and responsibility to get to my
neighbors what is theirs.

There is truth, honor and a desperate need to walk the footsteps of
our fellow man. To try and understand the life lived by others. But
living in solidarity does not mean negating the fact that you've been
given privilege; it's not about denying your circumstance. It's about
mutual enrichment: uplifting those under society's pressure and
degrading atmospheres, while realizing the equalization of the human
race.

I may have worked that summer for Doris, but it was not for myself.

It was so she could be in the hands of all her rightful owners.

February Newsletter - Laura in India

07-08 India - Beth, Laura, Rob and Kat in the Maldives
Originally uploaded by YAGM

"Just Float"

Out of India we went. Our visas were no longer valid. Each year the
volunteers leave the country after six months in order to reenter and
stay for the next 180-day span. The last week of February signified
the halfway mark for our year; our week away was an essential time to
regroup, rejuvenate and refocus. Past volunteers have spent their
'visa-renewal-getaway' in Sri Lanka, but with the rising violence and
after several anxious parental emails to Achen, we spent our week in
Maldives, a small country south of India.

Quick facts about Maldives: it is 100% Muslim, there are over 1000
islands that form the country, and being a tropical paradise, most
islands are converted into resorts, thus making it Tourism-Central.
Thus, a piece of bologna costs $10. On sale. Thus, our first episode
of "Maldives on a Dime" will be airing soon.

Nevertheless, the country is breathtaking with its white beaches, its
clear, bright ocean, and its salty breeze, both warm and relaxing.
Stepping off the plane was like stepping into a postcard: a picture
perfect paradise that you try to capture on film, but the best shot
remains the one in your memory.

Throughout the week we found plenty of adventures: local shops to
investigate, restaurants to try, a new culture and religion to
understand, and an ocean to soak up. Yet, one of our favorite
adventures was spent snorkeling over a coral reef.

After much investigation, we finally landed a spot on a local
outfitter that suits up scuba divers and snorkelers. With great
excitement and anticipation at what lay ahead, we eagerly loaded the
ferry that carried a dozen other snorkelers, as well as a dozen scuba
divers, most of whom were other tourists. During the boat ride to the
dive in point, I became quite aware that my inexperience and complete
lack of knowledge of snorkeling might be a rare commodity; everyone on
that boat released an air of confidence saying that diving into the
depths of the ocean goes next to brushing one's teeth on the day's
to-do list. I tried my best to air a confidence, but the thousand
questions I was asking Rob and Beth, the ones with previous snorkeling
experience, may have blown my breeze.

What if my goggles fog?
Rob, my goggles are fogging now.
They'll get fogged in the ocean, won't they?
That can't be good.
Rob.
Oh my, Rob. I can't see a thing.
My goggles are fogged. How will I see the fish?
Oh, what if the goggles are full of water?
What then? How will I see the fish?
Rob, what if this tubey-thingy gets full of water?
How will I breathe?
How will I see the fish if I can't breathe?

His patience and understanding with us was incredible. Though the
boat was trolling around, waiting for us to jump in, Rob ran over the
essentials, checked us over, and we dove in. What we missed in our
'Snorkeling: a Cliff Note Basics' speech, was to be soon learned.

When I first entered the water, the beauty was breathtaking. The
vastness of the ocean and the oneness I felt with creation was enough
to want to stay bobbing up and down in its waves all day.

But, then, I realized I was bobbing up and down.

The boat pulled away, and I saw the vastness of the ocean. Its real
vastness. Its hugeness. Its incredibly, huge, real vastness. And I
remembered I was only a little head, bobbing up and down.

Trying not to think of my insignificant, bobbing head, I tried to
refocus my attention. I jammed my goggles down, shoved the breathing
tube between my teeth and dropped my head down. Perhaps if I focus on
this whole snorkeling thing, I justified, I will forget that I'm
floating in the Indian Ocean.

First breath.

Mouth full of salt water. I jerked my head to the surface, half
swallowing half spitting all that I had inhaled. Trying to regain my
breath, which was becoming more and more needed as the sea-tredding
was becoming tiring, I found myself panicking further as my goggles
kept my nose plugged and the waves kept crashing over the tube,
filling it with water. I had one last resort. Rob.

Rob!Rob!OhMyGoodnessOhMyGoodnessThisIsn'tWorkingICan'tBreatheThereAreNoFishBecauseICan'tSeeAThingBecauseICan'tBreatheOhMyGoodnessOhMyGoodness...

As he swam by, he turned his head, and simply said, "Just float.
Relax. Put your face in. And just float."

Easier said then done, but it was my only option. I had to relax.
And I had to float. I had to stop resisting the ocean's waves, and
let myself be taken by them. There was no other way. My tredding
water, my need to want to control the sea, was only causing me to sink
further into unjustified anxiety and fear. I had to let go. And
float.

I held my breath. Put my face under the surface, and felt my body
rise to the top. At this, I exhaled from the tube and sucked in. No
water. Just air. As my body rose and sank in rhythm with the waves,
so did my breathing. Ah, I could breathe. So I opened my eyes.
No peptalk or preparation could have prepared me for all that lay underneath.

Fish, brightly speckled with oranges, yellows and blues. Coral
covering the entire seabed, and hiding the thousands of creatures that
call it home. Fish as big as my turso swimming about, not noticing
me, the intruder, on top.

It was a sacred moment. I was watching a part of creation from a
distance, yet I felt a part of it simply by observing. The sealife
kept on with its routines, its comings and goings, not in the least
disturbed by my watching. Yet, I was witnessing a part of God's
creation I never knew existed in such a capacity. Its beauty,
strength, majesty, its complexity, yet simplicity, was captivating.

I soon forgot about my bobbing head anxiety, as the mystery of what
lay below the surface was more important than the worries that
remained on the surface. The unknown danger of the ocean quickly
decimated with the awesomeness of all that was unknown and unseen
within it.

And to think, I would have missed it if I had refused to just float.

Sukhamano, state-sider - Rob in India

January/ February Mega-Double Issue

And we're back … back from a trip to the Maldives, back to normal life at our sites, and back with the newsletter after two months (yikes!). This is the long awaited double issue, but double only in the fact that it covers two months, not double in length per se. We have to keep these things a manageable length. I don't want to discourage the few die-hards who actually read these each month.
I'm back in Kottayam, I'm healthy and I'm ready for action. But wait, where has everyone gone? If I ever had a semblance of a weekly routine, it has now been completely obliterated. We had the last day of classes at the college two weeks ago, many of my friends at the theological institute have been accepted into seminaries and are moving to far-away lands, Thursday is my final day at Baker LP and I'm feeling just a little emotional about all this. I will keep relatively busy until Easter, splitting my time between the boys at KNH Hostel in Kanam and preparing for two musical performances during Holy Week, but then what? You're just going to have to stay tuned to find out. In the meantime, let me give you the brief on these last two months – they have truly flown by.
Attending conferences has become a monthly activity. Some are poorly managed, unspeakably dull and, in general, a huge waste of time. The conference I attended in mid-January was the opposite of all of those things. The topic was, "Globalization: Life and Livelihood Issues." The attendance was small, maybe fifty people, but they represented most of South India, some states in the North and contained a wealth of experience and knowledge on the subject. During the week we heard from social activists, professors, pastors and priests, villagers and city folk. We heard first hand accounts from people who have made it their life's work to oppose many of the negative effects of globalization. Actually, the only people with little field experience were the four Americans, but we had a unique perspective on the discussion as well. While many people in Kerala have frustrations relating to globalization, a lot of times their complaints are vague: "Globalization is bad" or "America is the source of all that is bad about globalization." While there is certainly some truth in these statements they simplify a very complicated issue. No one mentioned even once either of these all too common accusations. Rather, they identified a specific concern (for example Pepsico sucking up all the ground water of a village, leaving the villagers without the basic resource for survival) and then discussed how to react to that threat. It was a hugely inspiring time and we made some close friends. We hope to visit many of these friends in April and get a closer look at the grassroots work they're doing.
In the last week of January, I visited the homes villages of several of my student friends, attended yet another wedding, experienced the craziest Church festival I've ever seen, and participated in the yearly C.S.I. Convention held in Kottayam. That church festival really was a crazy experience, maybe that'll become a blog post.
Emily came to visit during the first two weeks of February. We spent some time seeing the "sights of Kerala," as you can see on my Web Album, but we also spent some days in and around Kottayam. I really enjoyed exposing her to many of the people and places that make up my life in India. My newsletter may be magnificent, but it doesn't quite replicate the actual experience of being in India. I'm glad that Emily was able to get a first hand glimpse of the reality. Anyway, it's handy to have one more person back in America who understands when I say, "I was at the KSRTC stand and a goat drank my tea."
After Emily's departure I had one week back in Kottayam before my Indian visa expired and I had to leave the country - what a week though. Tuesday was sports day, which featured departmental tug off way, and the hilarious "slow race" on motorbikes. Wednesday was College Day. Many students presented dances and songs, and even yours truly got on stage for one number with the band "Rockin' Saints."
And then Kat, Beth, Laura and I went to the Maldives. I suppose that deserves some sort of explanation. The plan was always to go to Sri Lanka in February when we needed to renew our passports. Well, one large bombing in the Colombo railways station put and end to those plans, so at the last minute we diverted our trip to the next closest country, the Maldives. The Maldives is only about an hour flight from Trivandrum, but it's a whole world away. No, that is not their tourism slogan, though it would be a good one, it's simply the truth of it. Flying into the capital island, Male, was an impressive sight. The sea below us was dotted with dozens of islands; a green forrest nucleus, a white sand beach cell wall, azure sea ectoplasm and a rich blue … look I haven't had cellular biology since 9th grade. You get the idea anyway; it was really cool looking.
We did face one large problem upon arrival to the Maldives – a complete lack of cash. Our budget would have suited us quite well for Sri Lanka, but in a land where the economy literally floats atop a sea of tourism, bargains were hard to find. We did find a relatively cheap place to stay. The toilets reflected this cheapness by utterly refusing to function properly, but we managed. We also had trouble finding a beach, which is astounding being in a country with 1,190 islands. The problem was that most beaches were privately owned by resorts, and to use a resort beach you had to pay their (exorbitant) fee. Ah ha, but we got creative. We took a passenger ferry to a local island, one not controlled by a resort, and spent two glorious days enjoying a half a mile of beach, and an expanse of shimmering blue water all to ourselves. We also smuggled ourselves aboard a SCUBA boat and snorkeled over a beautiful coral wall, visited the national art museum, discovered how and where the locals eat and, my favorite, enjoyed relaxing for hours in a coffee shop, sipping an actual cup of coffee. That coffee thing may seem like a trifle, but after six months of limited access to western style coffee and no access to western style "just sit and read for an hour" coffee shops, it felt like a huge luxury.
That's it for now. Keep checking my blog for periodic updates, and don't forget to look at the updates to my web album. Ya, no Maldives picks yet. They will come.

KNH (Kindernothilfe) Hostel (Bala Bhavan) in Kanam

I've alluded to the rascals many times, but now I officially present to you the boys of KNH Hostel in their very own article.
Since sometime in late October I've been visiting KNH Hostel. The KNH actually stands for a German word, Kindernothilfe, which means "Helping poor children." KNH Hostel is also often referred to as Bala Bhavan, which means "boy's home." I normally just say, "I'm going to Kanam," Kanam being the village where the hostel is located. This hostel is home to about 60 boys ranging for elementary school age to college age. It is a place for boys who, for one reason or another, cannot study and live at home. Some of the children are orphaned; others come from poor households that cannot accommodate the expenses of schooling a child. Though almost every one of these children comes with a heart-breaking story of their own, my visits there have (almost) always been extremely joyful affairs. The boys are full of life and energy, lots of smiles and they are never shy to teach me some new tricks.
The first time I visited Kanam was something of a traumatic experience. Once my conversation with Mercy Miss, the head warden of the hostel, ended, children overran me. "WHATISYOURNAME?" "HOWAREYOUIAMFINETHANKYOU!" "WHEREAREYOUGOING?" I answered as best as I could while trying to manage five or six handshakes at a time. Thomas, another one of the wardens, shooed away the younger children and so I was left alone with just a few of the older boys. We sat down together in the main courtyard and started to learn about each other. I asked them their names, what they're studying, which is their favorite subject, etc. They answered politely, and then scrutinized me at length in Malayalam. Finally, one the oldest boys, Subin, paused, gave me a good once over and proclaimed, "You have a very large nose." "Yes and you have a very large mouth" I thought to myself. This cat and mouse game of dialogue finally came to a close when I saw it was time to catch my bus to Kottayam. I only spent a few hours at the hostel, but at that point, I was convinced that I didn't need to come ever again. Somehow I ended up back the following week.
I'm glad to say that the first visit was the only one where I actually feared for my life. Each time I went back to Kanam I enjoyed it a little more and a little more. Now I can say that it's probably my favorite weekly activity. I absolutely adore those guys. I go when I have time, usually on the weekends, and stay from one to three days at a time.
My daily activities there are basically split into two categories: time with the little ones and time with the big ones. Time with the little ones usually occupies my early afternoon hours. One common activity is going for "wild" walks. I call these walks "wild" for many reasons. They usually involve walking across many people's private property and entering homes without warning. We also often disturb tourists at a nearby "rustic retreat." To these boys, no land in or around Kanam is off limit and they move about it with incredible confidence. Normally by the time I catch up with one to say, "Deepu, we really shouldn't be in this man's yard" we are already inside his house and drinking a cup of his tea. The strange thing is, most people don't seem to mind the intrusion.
These walks are also a lesson in local flora. They pick literally every flower they see and give it to me; usually the gift comes along with some sort of message like "I love you, Uncle" – incredibly endearing. We also have tasted every edible thing in the nearby forest. We eat oranges the size of a bowling ball, pineapples, the chewy lining of pods dropped for trees, coconuts, and these incredibly sour pink fruits. I always look forward to these walks, but they have been toned down recently. Now Mercy Miss insists that several older boys come along as well. This usually mitigates the wildness by a significant margin.
The other main chunk of time is spent with the big ones. These guys are more the conversational type. We often go for quiet, non-wild walks in the early morning, sometimes not speaking for minutes at a time, but simply enjoying the coolness of the air. At night we often stay up way past curfew and discuss all things Malayali and American. One of our favorite activities is trying to tell jokes. This is an incredibly difficult task.. Most jokes assume some level of inside knowledge of a culture, and also utilize some sort of wordplay so we have to tell each other these jokes using a combination of Malyalam and English. Usually the jokes don't translate and the response to a punch line is only the sound of a cricket chirping in the distance, but occasionally we have a winner. Here's my favorite so far:
"Yesterday (name someone in the room) was trying to get a coconut from the tree by throwing stones at it. He failed because one of the leaves kept getting in the way. So finally he climbed the tree with his machete, cut down the leaf and slide down again, satisfied that he could now dislodge the coconut with a stone."
Now that's a great joke. I'm headed off for Kanam this very afternoon so who know what adventures await me. I'm excited because it's been almost two weeks since my last visit, but no worries, in May when all of the students are off campus, I may just make Kanam my temporary permanent home.

Sukhamano, state-siders - Rob in India

07-08 India - Vivian, Rijo and Rob in front of Santa Cruz Basilica
Originally uploaded by YAGM

December Newsletter

Well, it's official. I've just reached a new personal record for longest time spent outside the U.S. Everything from this point on is completely uncharted territory (not that being in this particular country and living without Americans nearby isn't entirely new too). I do feel that when I crossed into the New Year, I really did enter into a new phase in my time here. Whereas December was one of the busiest Christmas seasons I can remember, this January is very calm. I returned to the C.M.S. College in the New Year to find many of the students missing and the campus virtually deserted, but more on that later.

Let me back up to where I left you off last time. Christmas in India is unlike anything I've ever experienced before. Though some cues for how to celebrate have been taken from the western standards, they almost all come with a Kerala twist. Instead of giving Christmas presents, many people give Christmas cake. Instead of hanging lights from houses, people hang gigantic paper stars. There is no snow, of course, and Santa has taken on a whole new persona.

Santa (known as Father Christmas here) has a hilarious bit that he does whenever he shows up to a party. I call it "Stumblin' Mumblin' Santa." Santa enters when the music swells and the drums start pounding out a frenzy. At this point Santa dances around, but also inevitably bumps into chairs, tables, people, whatever else may be in his path. This topsy-turvy entrance isn't because Santa has had too much Christmas cheer, but rather because the Santa masks that everyone wears do not come prepared with eyeholes. Some attempts are made to fashion crude openings, but these mostly fail.

Once Santa makes it up to the stage he is given a mic and asked to say a few words, but all that comes out is mumbled gibberish. Luckily someone is always on hand to translate what Santa is saying. I initially thought that the muted tone of his words was also a byproduct of the mask, but it turns out that Santa really is just speaking nonsense. After all, the real Santa did not know how to speak (insert your choice of Indian languages). "Stumblin' Mumblin' Santa was definitely my favorite of the Kerala Christmas traditions, and I hope to continue this tradition even at home.

In the final days before I left Kottayam on Christmas break a very unique caroling opportunity presented itself. I was invited to join carolers who have been at it for over a decade and they have a very unique take on caroling. Rather than walking around the neighborhood, or visiting a hospital, or the houses of our friends, we went straight for the biggest, gaudiest, most wealthy mansions in the entire city. Some of the places were veritable palaces complete with fountains and gardens, a fleet of German made automobiles, and a small army of security guards to watch over it all. The leading sandal makers, jewelry sellers, photograph developers, and newspaper publishers of Kerala all live in Kottayam. I was bit skeptical of this plan. I mean, I wanted an inside look at the monstrous houses as much as anyone, but invading in the form of carolers didn't exactly seem in the Christmas spirit. Nevertheless, I went. At the first house we sang three songs, they clapped and then, to my great amazement, handed over a large wad of cash. One of my fellow carolers was even ready with carbon copy receipt for the exact amount. What kind of caroling is this anyway? This pattern continued until past one in the morning. Amazingly, at almost every house we visited we were warmly welcomed, even on into the wee hours.

As we hunkered down after the rounds to enjoy a little late night grub, I had to ask, "Can someone please explain why people are giving us money and what we're supposed to do with it?" Turns out all the proceeds go to a local charity (a different one each year) and the reason we visit all of the mansions is because, well, they give the most money. Ah ha, it finally makes sense. Maybe this sort of caroling does fall within the realm of Christmas spirit. The caroling continued for four days until Christmas night and the result was a handful of really tired guys and the largest donation they've collected in their eleven-year history. This is another Kerala Christmas tradition that I will never forget.

At this point I boarded a train and spent Christmas day en route to Andhra Pradesh, a neighboring state and home to one of India's tech centers, Hyderabad. We were not going to that westernized metropolis, though. We were headed for the plains and cotton fields of rural AP. For now, suffice it to say that we made it there and back safely, and it was one heck of a ride. I've devoted the feature article below to explain that experience in greater depth.

We celebrated New Year's back in Aluva, the very city where we began our journey and home to our fearless leader, Thomas John Achen. To ring in the New Year we attended a late night service at Holy Trinity Church. Midnight slipped by me completely unnoticed sometime during the prayers of the church. I was a bit surprised at how it sneaked past me. However, the contemplative beginning to this year seems appropriate.

That mood of contemplation has followed me even now that I am back in the campus. Many of the degree students are in the midst of testing and some students still have not arrived back from the holiday break. Compared to the bustle of December, I barely know what to make of this quiet. This break has given me a chance to reflect on some of the things I've done so far and ask myself how best to spend my future months here.

My regimen of classes has continued, and I'm continuing to visit the boy's home in Kanam each weekend. On the horizon, there is an international globalization conference in town next week, and I've been asked to be an official reporter, so that should keep me busy. I'm also working on putting together a Holden Evening Prayer service (a truly beautiful setting) for this season of Lent.

As always, thank you for the support, warm wishes, generous Christmas presents, and letters that you've sent my way. Though I have a wonderful and loving network of supportive friends here, it always makes my day when I get some little news from home. I wish all of you the very best in this new year.


Christmas at Parkal Mission, Andhra Pradesh

Does the Polar Express have an estranged cousin living and working in India? I think so, and I'm pretty sure we boarded that train Christmas morning en route to Parkal Mission located in the state of Andhra Pradesh.

Aboard the Polar Express, passengers view magical snowy wonderlands, the like of which they've never seen. As we traveled on the Parkal Express, we traversed across the Western Ghat Mountains on the border between Tamil Nadu and Kerala. The spectacular view and the drastic change from the coastal plains of Kerala seemed magical to us. On the Polar Express there are magical people aboard who elicit feelings of wonder and mystery to all who meet them. Passengers of the Parkal Express will meet the pilgrims on their way to worship Aiyapan in Shabarimala. These pilgrims, dressed entirely in black, covered from head to toe in flowers and barefoot to boot are also a great mystery. Finally, the Polar Express takes those aboard to a place unlike anything previously imagined. The Parkal Express brought us to a place we also could not have imagined. Though Andhra still counts as "South India" from the landscape to the language, from the food to the climate, it was like visiting a whole new country. For all of us, our idea of "what India is" just got a lot broader.

Kerala is covered with people and green plants. The lines between villages and cities are blurred, one just runs right into the next. Andhra, on the other hand was full of wide-open spaces, miles between villages and a color palette along the lines of sand/dirt.

After spending all Christmas Day and night on the train, we awoke to find ourselves in this new land. The air seemed a bit lighter as the humidity was almost non-existent, but the oppressive heat more than made up for any relief we may have experienced. Needless to say, there's a good reason that people here nap from 2-4, it's too hot to do anything else.

From the train station we made our way to the Parkal Mission, a mission site founded by the C.S.I. (Church of South India) about 80 years ago. The story about the foundation of the mission is actually a great one. A bishop from Andhra went to a meeting of pastors in Kerala, where the Christian presence is much greater than in AP. He explained the dire condition of life for many people in the rural areas and asked if anyone would devote themselves to this mission field. One young pastor, Rev. Eepan, stood up, pricked his finger and wrote out the words "I will commit to Andhra Pradesh" with his own blood. Some versions of the story say that he even had to prick himself multiple times to finish the message. Anyway, it's a great story, and I have no doubt that the foundation of this particular mission sight did involve quite a bit of blood, sweat and tears.

The site we visited was a home for orphaned boys, or boys without a stable home life. They ranged in age from pre-school to undergraduates. During the day while the boys were at school, we visited some nearby villages to get a feel for the "rural life." I'm afraid to say there aren't too many idyllic aspects about life on the farm here. Many farmers rely on cash crops (like cotton) that have huge initial investment costs. If the crops fail or if the market for the crops is weak, they default on the loans they took out to pay for planting in the first place and thus begins a truly deadly cycle of debt. There is also an issue with land barons. While in Kerala there are land reforms that limit how much land can be held by an individual, in AP one man can own thousands of acres and then hire these village workers into a sort of share-cropping. For the landless, this leaves them without any ability to increase their capital, organize effective labor unions or really wield any sort of power in society. Despite these desperate conditions, the people we met were very excited to show us around the village. We even got a peak at the (illegal) distillery that makes the local brand of moonshine. Now that is trust.

Back at the Mission we spent the evenings with the boys. Language presented a bit of a problem at first since these boys spoke mostly Telugu, whereas we've been only exposed to Malayalam. We did learn that "manji" means "nice" and so we got a lot of mileage out of that word. Manji food. Manji song. Manji boy, etc.

Our evening program was centered on a nightly prayer service. I loved the nightly prayer service. It would always begin with the boys singing a song. I'll take it on good faith that they knew more than one song, but the drums always overpowered the singing, and the beat was always the same. But it was a catchy beat - ::thun, tha-thun, thun::. Next we would sing a song, and then teach them that song. At first I was a little skeptical about the success teaching these songs, I mean, I worked at a summer camp. I know how resistant some kids are to learning songs. To my amazement, these little boys learned the songs twice as fast as the typical American campers, and these boys didn't even really speak English. Next we had a skit (again, very thankful for camp counselor experience) and a message from the sister (as in nun) in charge, whom we affectionately called kochamma (small mother). After praying the final prayer, everyone dashes for the dinner table. We all ate at an open-air table, which was perfect for the perfectly cool Andhra nights.

Our week in Andhra continued on like this, and we grew to love our nightly routine, but all too quickly the time passed and we had to return to our home in Kerala. The ride home was a little less magical than the ride out, especially as it came time to sleep. Crawling into my berth I found a pair of wet briefs. Not exactly my favorite bedfellow. At three in the morning, one of the pilgrims tried to crawl into bed with me, and at four the pujas (prayers) began, complete with tambourine, drum and "everybody now" choruses.

The experience at the mission really affected all of us that visited. The homey atmosphere they've created is wonderful, but the financial situation of the site remains in dire straits. Parkal Mission is not alone in this way. Also at the boy's home I visit in Kanam money is in no great supply. Buildings are falling apart, the children's clothing is falling apart, and they play cricket using crude bats and balls fashioned from coconut husks and branches. It's impossible to visit these places and not be amazed both by the quality of the kids and the utter tragedy of the living conditions.

December Newsletter - Laura in India

"A Spider's Lesson"
A part of me enjoys bugs and other typical crawlers. I spent two
summers working in an entomology department; heck, I spent those hot
days prowling North Dakota fields for various insects and spiders.
Yes, these ecological essentials are my buddies. That is why I have
decided the mammoth-size spiders I have encountered here are anything
but normal. They are the phenomenon you see in textbooks, not your
bathroom.
Complete with a body the size of my face, eight shaggy legs and the
speed of an Olympic sprinter, these hairy beasts freak me out. That
is why I have rationally come to the conclusion that these
mini-monsters are not from the spider family. No, no. They are some
morphed descendent of the T-Rex. Of this I am sure.
My face-to-face encounters with them have been few, but enough. The
first: during a weekend stay at a girls' boarding school. I spent the
majority of mornings chasing these giants from behind pipes, from
under the sink, and out of the toilet. Of course, I did all this
while standing on a chair and waving a five-foot long broom. I must
have read in a travel guide that you should try obtaining the upper
hand when taking on the last of the dinosaur race. Being the
environmental conservationist, though, I left doors and windows open,
hoping to guide these crawlers back to nature, instead of invoking the
second mass extinction.
That was until Spiderman showed up on the ceiling. As I waved the
broom in the air, coaxing the terror from the corner, instead of
crawling down the wall as any sane spider would, this guy leapt out of
the corner, hung mid-air for a moment before parachuting down to the
ground. That was it. I lost it. I could not control the shouting or
wild broom thwacking. Next thing I knew, SkyDiving-Spidy was nothing
more than a pile of goo on the floor. I confess, I felt victorious.
I welcomed the moment by triumphantly calling my roommate, Christina,
to share my jubilation. A part of me feels I crossed over from girly
tourist to cultured traveler; another part of me hopes I never see
these creepy crawlers again.
Later that day, I was preparing a devotion on Mary, the mother of
Jesus. As I scanned the room for any of the beastly intruders, I was
struck with the thought of Mary's courage. Here I was, standing on
chairs, using broomsticks to rid my clean and sheltered bedroom of
spiders; Mary was fully vulnerable as she gave birth among all that
creeps in the night. Can you imagine?
I suddenly realized how glorified and glamorous we have made the
entire Christmas story. Our nativity scenes portray everything in its
perfection: fresh and wonderfully golden hay; a manger that is a
perfect size for the babe; Mary is spotless and comfortable; and the
stable is clean and perfect. No spiders.
We've turned the birth of Jesus into a Disneyesque, magical
performance, masking the realities of the time.
Imagine seeing a nativity scene in its honest and revealing authenticity.
Hay and straw that is anything but new. Sure, a fresh layer has been
laid for the night, but the layers beneath it hold the fertilizer of
tomorrow. And this is Mary's maternity ward. Would such a place pass
the regulations of hospital sanitation?
A manger, worn by age and weather. Wood that has been replaced
several times, so straight edges are only a memory. Perhaps the
inside is splinter city. A manger leg that was kicked by the cow a
few months back, leaving a permanent teeter to the trough. And that
pesky sheep who keeps poking his nose into the crib, finding a baby
has replaced his habitual food. Was Mary busy shooing a sheep's snout
away from her Lord as she welcomed the wise men?
Oh yes, and Mary. Did one of those giant spiders perform its
parachuting act just as her contractions began? Did flies bite her
legs and toes? Did a mouse scurry over her hand in the final stages
of labor? I cannot imagine every saying this again, but I hope the
pain of childbirth was a distraction from other possible distractions.
Finally, the stable. Plenty of holes, cracks, cobwebs and dust. I do
find comfort, though, in thinking about the smell. Some may find it
foul, but I always thought my cousins' barn had a sweet aroma.
Naturally sweet.
Yes. Imagine that nativity scene.
Would you want that decorating your mantle?
To satisfy our craving for the perfect holiday, we have given the
Christmas story a makeover, giving it a glamorous facade to fit the
lifestyle and taste of the privileged. We have forgotten the lowly
beginnings of Christ and replaced it with porcelain and crystal, glass
and glitter-the rich man's holiday. How ironic that we have created a
perfect nativity: the Hilton of stables, the Baby Gap of swaddling
clothes, the purebreds of lowering cattle. For Christmas is anything
but the glorification of worldly excellence.
The beauty of Christmas lies in what we have called imperfect being
claimed as perfect through the birth of a Savior. Everything our
society considers unworthy made worthy: the glory of the Christmas
season.
So, why is it that Christmas has become a time of selfish perfection?
A perfection defined by our worldly standards. Is this where we find
Jesus, the Christ? Are we honoring the baby Jesus at the palace, with
its royal splendor, or at the stable, with its spiders and dust?
Where is Jesus found? Among the so-called worthy of us, or among
those we have deemed unworthy?
My fear of the dinosaurous -spiders remain, but my respect for them
has grown. For their ancestors may have been the first to see the
newborn King. How unworthy I am to even share a bathroom with such
precious creatures.

Sukhamano, state-siders, Issue 3 - Rob in India

07-08 India - Rob playing instrument at College Choir Concert in December
Originally uploaded by YAGM

November Newsletter
I'm dreaming of a green Christmas here in Kerala. This is the November newsletter, but it's already the second week of December, and I can't help but feel a little holiday cheer. This past week we had both the Kottayam Mixed Voices Christmas concert, and the College Choir carol service. They were a heap of fun and have adequately set the mood for the season, even though this climate is opposite to the snowy plains of Minnesota.

November was a month of traveling hither and thither across Kerala. As a foreigner I receive invitations to visit homes, churches, work places, schools, and villages almost every day – sometimes even from complete strangers. In the past month I've been agreeing to most of these proposals (except for the ones from strangers) and it's taken me all across this great state and yielded many many very wonderful experiences. Actually, these wonderful experiences are so numerous that this newsletter cannot contain them. On my blog you can find a couple articles that contain more details and even a measure of personal reflection about these travels.

At the beginning of November I began visiting a home for boys in a small village outside Kottayam. These boys range in age from elementary to undergraduate and come from mostly very poor families. Our ability to communicate verbally is somewhat limited, but as our activities consist mostly of playing cricket and running around like crazy animals, this doesn't present much of a problem. I also have to be on my toes to respond to calls of "Uncle, uncle!" - which is the rough equivalent to "Look at me!" Usually this means that one of the boys has scaled the wall and is hanging from the fan , or that one boy has successfully trapped another boy in a professional-wrestling-style headlock. What can I say, these guys are charming (if challenging) and I'm excited to bond with them over the next months.

I also checked a life goal off of my list this month - to be a voice actor in an animated film. The Malayalam language newspaper "Malayala Manorama" has a division to develop CD-ROMs for educational purposes. Their latest project is a series of animated children's stories. The disc comes with the option to hear the story read by a Malayali or by an American (I play the part of the American). As a side note, I also made my big screen debut this month in the Malayalam language film Of the People. I play an American, and I have no lines. I can't exactly explain how these people or projects find me, but perhaps it has something to do with being the only white guy around.

I'm also continuing with my normal duties in Kottayam, namely language and culture courses with undergraduates and graduate students, weekly classes with 3rd and 4th graders at a nearby school, nightly visits to the Bishop Mani Theological Institute to help train lay people for seminary entrance exams, and lots of other interactions with the students of C.M.S. College. But in-between all of this I've been squeezing in many music rehearsals and a lot of side travels (which I chronicle in detail on the blog).

I'm starting to feel at home here in Kerala, even though the language barrier and constant stares are not bound to go away anytime soon. I've made some very close friends and I'm enjoying my invovement with the different projects. The diversity and frequency of experiences here far outpaces my ability to fully process them, but I can always "process" later. As always, I cherish your news from home. Thank you all for your continued interest and support. Happy holidays, my friends.

Weekend and Vishnu's: An Adventure
If variety is the spice of life, then uncertainty must be the chili pepper of life. When Vishnu invited me to his home in a rural fishing village one Saturday, I had no idea what to expect and I wasn't even sure how to get there. I hopped on a bus going in the general direction, told the fare collector the name of the stop and desperately hoped he would alert me when we had reached my destination. He didn't, but luckily Vishnu caught site of my paleness shining from within the public bus and shouted at me to get down at once.

He led me through the narrow dirt path to his neighborhood, a collection of about 10 or 15 houses surrounded on three sides by lush green rice paddies. After meeting most of his immediate and extended family along the path we finally made it to Vishnu's humble house, where he invited me in for breakfast. We ate in the dining room / living room / bedroom / entryway. The entire house consisted of two bedrooms, a kitchen and this multi-purpose room. Vishnu, his parents, his two sisters and grandmother all lived together in this house that, in terms of total area, was roughly the size of my room at C.M.S. College. At this moment the fact that even as a volunteer I'm not really "roughing it" hit me like a ton of bricks. But Vishnu was not ashamed to bring me to his home. He did not invite me to his home to expose the horrors of poverty, to pump me for money or even to make me feel guilty. He wanted me to meet his family and he wanted to show me the beautiful paddies and backwaters that surround his village.

Vishnu's parents were away at work when I arrived. They are both daily wage earners (as is nearly everyone in the village.) His father works on a boat where his job is to actually catch fish by hand by diving to the lakebed and scooping up a precious form of fish that hides in the mud. Simply amazing.

After breakfast we decided to take a dip in the lake near his house - it was already blazingly hot outside. I didn't think to bring a swimming suit but, no problem, Vishnu provided me with a towel to cover myself. The downside, the towel was roughly the size of a dishrag. It fell about midway down my thigh and didn't quite make it all the way around my waist. Not wanting to be a wet rag myself, so to speak, I donned said cover and hopped into the water with Vishnu and some of his friends and relatives from the village. It was truly a marvelous time and we spent a good amount of energy diving for clamshells. I definitely lost my towel a few times during the swim, but I always managed to find it again despite the murkiness of the water. You can see a bunch of pictures from this part of the adventure on my web album.

After drying off and redressing we grabbed a quick bite of rice and sambar and headed off for the next adventure, the bird sanctuary. As there seem to be strict host/guest rules here, the boys insisted on paying my entrance to the sanctuary. Well, I thought to myself, I doubt it's very expensive. I was half right. The entrance for each of them was only 5 rupees, but my entrance came to a whopping 45 rupees, three times the others guys' fee combined. But they paid it gladly and we were off. The area was really beautiful but the best part about this walk was the conversation that happened along the way. It was here that Vishnu told me that he had been accepted into the Indian Navy. By accepting the position he has agreed to serve for the next 15 years. He also will have to leave college before completing his degree in order to attend training in January. Unlike in America where people join the armed forces to help pay for their studies, in India when you join the armed forces you must abandon your studies. The upside, however, is job security for the next 15 years, and a pension upon completion. Compared with the staggering unemployment rate in Kerala, this doesn't seem like such a bad decision.

As night approached I hopped a bus back to campus and reflected on the day. I was truly moved by Vishnu's sincerity and generosity. He shared his home, his food, and the foremost thoughts on his mind with me. In two weeks it's likely that I will never see Vishnu again, but I think we will both remember the day in the village for a very long time.

October Newsletter
In Kerala, every day is a surprise. Surprise! There is another college strike today. Surprise! It's a torrential downpour during the dry season. Surprise! No power or running water today. Surprise! You're leading a two-hour class and it starts in three minutes. I'm learning a whole new way to be flexible. This culture has instilled in me something that is really true in all cultures – life cannot be trusted to behave.

Though I've continued regularly with some of the programs that I mentioned last month (choir rehearsals and interaction with students young and old), October was the month of side-projects.

In the beginning of the month I accompanied a group of youths (ages 14-19) on a weekend retreat. These kids were from the Mar Thoma Church, a reformed outgrowth of the Syrian Orthodox Church, which is a unique export of Kerala. I was asked to join them because; you guessed it, they wanted me to lead the singing portions of their camp. Never mind the fact that out of the 30 kids I only recognized two of the faces, I was excited to join in for the ride. The site was located a couple hours from Kottayam town, so we had to take a bus - we took a public bus actually. How do I describe public buses? Have you ever seen that picture of eight or nine college dudes all smashed into a phone booth? It's kind of like that, only horizontal and accelerating at 40 to 50 Mph. It's also exciting watching thirty people expulse themselves from the bus while strangers help hurl the bags, speakers and musical instruments out of the windows to "catchers" below. Long story short, I had a great weekend and met a lot of really enjoyable people. I also saw a very large python (in a cage).

Keeping with the meeting random church people theme, I spent five days at a "Kerala Pastor's and Christian Workers Conference" early in the month. The main speakers, strangely, were Americans, but the true joy of the conference was meeting pastors (Achens) from every corner of Kerala. I heard about pastoral life from the chilly foothills of the Western Ghat Mountains to the impoverished urban slums in the state's capital, Trivandrum. I also met some young volunteers from various states in the north of India (where Malayalam is not spoken.) We compared our experiences as outsiders in Kerala. Was it better, in my case, to be a foreigner and have everyone recognize you as such? Or was it better, in their case, to be an outsider and have everyone assume you're local? We finally settled on some common ground, the Malayalam language is really hard to pronounce, no matter who you are.

At the conference they screened a documentary that was called India Untouched. It was an interfaith, interstate, look at the continuing caste related struggles throughout India. It showed that not only Hindus, but Muslims and Christians continue to face discrimination based on caste. I found the portion of the movie set in Kerala to be of particular interest. Everyone they interviewed said, "There is no caste problem left in Kerala"or "We have eradicated caste," etc. The next shot was of a boarding school clearly divided along caste lines, with the low caste children forced to do the menial chores while the high caste children played freely. Even in my short time here I can count numerous occasions when people have told me, with complete sincerity, that there is no caste problem in Kerala. I've been fortunate this month to have some really enlightening interactions with members of the dalit (oppressed) community. You can read more about those experiences in "Thursdays with Christopher Achen."

On a side-note about side-projects, I also visited the original burial place of Vasco de Gama in Cochin (before he was returned to Lisbon) and began playing in nightly badminton games which have been happening uninterrupted for over 30 years! The excitement never stops, and neither should your letters, e-mails and warm wishes. Thanks again for all of your support.

Thursdays with Christopher Achen
Christopher Achen is a pastor in the C.S.I. (Church of South India) and a member of the dalit community. At present he travels five hours twice a week to receive dialysis treatment. As a result, work on his doctoral thesis (concering dalit Christians in central Kerala) and his work in the church have come to a grinding halt. His role as teacher and his role as student have been put on hold. But since I met him by chance one month ago, he has become an important teacher to me.

It all began one day when a surprise strike on campus instantly cleared my schedule. One of the graduate students, Albin, approached me and said "I have to go fix Christopher Achen's computer, you are coming with me?" I wasn't sure if that was an offer or a command, but I decided I should probably go with him.

While Albin repaired the ailing computer, Achen and I engaged in general "get to know you" subjects, you know, the effects of capitalism on an agrarian society, the plight of unemployment in Kerala and the dilemmas facing of the church today. Though initially I was reluctant to follow Albin on his errand, when he finished his work I found that I didn't want to leave – this Christopher Achen had some truly fascinating insights about important issues in Kerala today.

Ever since that first meeting I've been visiting Achen every Thursday afternoon. I go Thursday because his treatments are on Tuesday and Friday, and Thursday is a solid in-between day. I go in the afternoon because that's when Kochamma (his wife) makes the most splendid Chai (tea) I think I've ever had.

Every week, Achen unfolds the story of his life a little more. He tells me about his struggles to receive higher education despite discouragement from the synod. He tells me about protest marches to the Bishop's house demanding fair representation for dalits in the clergy (this agitation actually got results). He tells me about the disproportionate aid allotted to the already wealthy congregations instead of to the poorest congregations who deal with crumbling churches and dilapidated parsonages.

Last Thursday he left me with an image that I will not soon forget. Mid-sentence he paused, let out a brief, punchy laugh and stated very matter-of-factly, "Jesus has escaped the church." It actually had the same cadence as, "Elvis has left the building." He paused, I laughed. We both continued in open laughter - I mean, just picture it. Jesus, utterly frustrated, hopping off the cross, busting right out through the stained glass depiction of the last supper, and fleeing with Godly speed down the gravel path. I'm not sure about the theological implications of this image, but the point is valid. If the church looks to Jesus as its model for behavior, some of the behavior it has shown would scare the bejeezus out of Jesus. Christopher Achen is my guide through this dark side of the Church, but he is also my encourager in the hope that remains in this ancient organization.

Election Reflection
The process of announcing a new Catholic Pope is a strange one; it involves multiple colors of smoke and very old men. I would place the posting of the results for the C.M.S. College student government on that same level in terms of oddity.

On the top floor of the Physics department a special committee counts the ballots by hand. Each result is carefully written out on piece of paper and hurled out of the window. Everyone sprints to the piece of paper, someone grabs it, shouts out the results, and every member of the elect's party runs and screams and grabs and jumps and dances in support. This process continues on for a couple of hours until all the positions have been named, then the victorious party processes out of the gates into the city, waving flags and shouting slogans. Meanwhile, a veritable battalion of cops armed with helmets and batons look on in case a rival political faction decides to cause trouble. There was no trouble this year, but school was cancelled the following day as a precautionary measure. I have additional photos of the elections and a video of the victory march posted on my album and blog respectively.

Sukhamano, state-siders - Rob in India

07-08 India - Rob at the floating restaurant
Originally uploaded by YAGM

The Kerala Exchange

October, 2007

Issue Number Two

In Kerala, every day is a surprise. Surprise!There is another college strike today. Surprise! It’s a torrential downpour during the dry season. Surprise! No power or running water today. Surprise! You’re leading a two-hour class and it starts in three minutes. I’m learning a whole new way to be flexible. This culture has instilled in me something that is really true in all cultures – life cannot be trusted to behave.
Though I’ve continued regularly with some of the programs that I mentioned last month (choir rehearsals and interaction with students young and old), October was the month of side-projects. In the beginning of the month I accompanied a group of youths (ages 14-19) on a weekend retreat. These kids were from the Mar Thoma Church, a reformed outgrowth of the Syrian Orthodox Church, which is a unique export of Kerala. I was asked to join them because; you guessed it, they wanted me to lead the singing portions of their camp. Never mind the fact that out of the 30 kids I only recognized two of the faces, I was excited to join in for the ride. The site was located a couple hours from Kottayam town,
so we had to take a bus - we took a public bus actually. How do I describe public buses? Have you ever seen that picture of eight or nine college dudes all smashed into a phone booth? It’s kind of like that, only horizontal and accelerating at 40 to 50 Mph. It’s also exciting
watching thirty people expulse themselves from the bus while strangers help hurl the bags, speakers and musical instruments out of the windows to “catchers” below.
Long story short, I had a great weekend and met a lot of really enjoyable people. I also saw a very large python (in a cage). Keeping with the meeting random church people theme, I spent five days at a “Kerala Pastor’s and
Christian Workers Conference” early in the month. The main speakers, strangely, were Americans, but the true joy of the conference was meeting pastors (Achens) from every corner of Kerala. I heard about pastoral life from the chilly foothills of the Western Ghat Mountains to the impoverished urban slums in the state’s capital, Trivandrum. I also met some young volunteers from various states in the north of India (where Malayalam is not spoken.) We compared our experiences as outsiders in Kerala. Was it better, in my case, to be a foreigner and have everyone recognize you as such? Or was it better, in their case, to be an outsider and have everyone assume you’re local? We finally settled on some common ground, the Malayalam language is really hard to pronounce, no matter who you are.
At the conference they screened a documentary that was called India Untouched. It was an interfaith, interstate, look at the continuing caste related struggles throughout India. It showed that not only Hindus, but Muslims and Christians continue to face discrimination based on caste. I found the portion of the movie set in Kerala to be of particular interest. Everyone they interviewed said, “There is no caste problem left in Kerala”or “We have eradicated caste,” etc. The next shot was of a boarding
school clearly divided along caste lines, with the low caste children forced to do the menial chores while the high caste children played freely. Even in my short time here I can count numerous occasions when people have told me, with complete sincerity, that there is no caste problem in Kerala. I’ve been fortunate this month to have some really enlightening interactions with members of the dalit (oppressed) community. You can read more about those experiences in “Thursdays with Christopher Achen.”
On a side-note about side-projects, I also visited the original burial place of Vasco de Gama in Cochin (before he was returned to Lisbon) and
began playing in nightly badminton games which have been happening uninterrupted for over 30 years! The excitement never stops, and neither
should your letters, e-mails and warm wishes. Thanks again for all of your support.

Election reflection
The process of announcing a new Catholic Pope is a strange one; it involves multiple colors of smoke and very old men. I would place the posting of the results for the C.M.S. College student government on that same level in terms of oddity. On the top floor of the Physics department a special committee counts the ballots by hand. Each result is carefully
written out on piece of paper and hurled out of the window. Everyone sprints to the piece of paper, someone grabs it, shouts out the results, and every member of the elect’s party runs and screams and grabs and jumps and dances in support. This process continues on for a couple of hours until all the positions have been named, then the victorious party
processes out of the gates into the city, waving flags and shouting slogans.
Meanwhile, a veritable battalion of cops armed with helmets and batons look on in case a rival political faction decides to cause trouble. There was no trouble this year, but school was cancelled the following day as a precautionary measure. I have additional photos of the elections and a video of the victory march posted on my album and blog respectively.

Thursdays with Christopher Achen
Christopher Achen is a pastor in the C.S.I. (Church of South India)
and a member of the dalit community. At present he travels five hours twice a week to receive dialysis treatment. As a result, work on his doctoral thesis (concering dalit Christians in central Kerala) and his work in the church have come to a grinding halt. His role as teacher and his role as student have been put on hold. But since I met him by chance one month ago, he has become an important teacher to me.

It all began one day when a surprise strike on campus instantly
cleared my schedule. One of the graduate students, Albin, approached me and said “I have to go fix Christopher Achen’s computer, you are coming with me?” I wasn't sure if that was an offer or a command, but I decided I should probably go with him.

While Albin repaired the ailing computer, Achen and I engaged in
general “get to know you” subjects, you know, the effects of capitalism on an agrarian society, the plight of unemployment in Kerala and the
dilemmas facing of the church today. Though initially I was reluctant to follow Albin on his errand, when he finished his work I found that I didn’t want to leave – this Christopher Achen had some truly fascinating insights about important issues in Kerala today.

"Mid-sentence he paused, let out a brief, punchy laugh and stated very matter-of-factly, 'Jesus has escaped the church."

Ever since that first meeting I’ve been visiting Achen every Thursday
afternoon. I go Thursday because his treatments are on Tuesday and Friday, and Thursday is a solid in-between day. I go in the afternoon because that’s when Kochamma (his wife) makes the most splendid Chai (tea) I think I’ve ever had.

Every week, Achen unfolds the story of his life a little more. He
tells me about his struggles to receive higher education despite
discouragement from the synod. He tells me about protest marches to the Bishop’s house demanding fair representation for dalits in the clergy (this agitation actually got results). He tells me about the disproportionate aid allotted to the already wealthy congregations instead of to the poorest congregations who deal with crumbling churches and dilapidated parsonages.

Last Thursday he left me with an image that I will not soon forget.
Mid-sentence he paused, let out a brief, punchy laugh and stated very matter-of-factly, “Jesus has escaped the church.” It actually had the same cadence as, “Elvis has left the building.” He paused, I laughed. We both continued in open laughter - I mean, just picture it. Jesus, utterly frustrated, hopping off the cross, busting right out through the stained glass depiction of the last supper, and fleeing with Godly speed down the gravel path. I’m not sure about the theological implications of this image, but the point is valid. If the church looks to Jesus as its model for behavior, some of the behavior it has shown would scare the bejeezus out of Jesus. Christopher Achen is my guide through this dark side of the Church, but he is also my encourager in the hope that remains in this ancient organization.

October Newsletter - Laura in India

"Till We Meet Again"

Two months have passed and I have found myself with good friends.
They provide a sense of acceptance I have been longing for. I have
depended heavily on their companionship as they have explained Indian
culture, answered countless questions I am puzzled with, and have been
my loyal translators and tutors. Their patience and understanding is
overwhelming, and although I came with a mission to serve, I am
humbled daily by these friends' willingness to befriend and assist me.
Like any friends, I have grown attached to our daily routines, our
bantering, our conversations.

Now, a few of these dear ones have found their time at Mandiram has
come to a close. They must go. I am not good at goodbyes. Even
here.

ICCA
One resident appachen, Icca, was always one to include me on
adventures. Whether to the hospital where I would watch as he
spoon-fed his fellow man dinner, as I held the patient upright. Or
we'd head to the banana plants above Mandiram to gather the fruit for
the next meals' dish. Icca taught me the juice from the plant stains
clothes. Something was lost in translation, as I learned the hard
way. Or he'd gather tapioca and help me prepare the popular dish in
Mandiram's kitchen. Icca was ready to arrange my marriage to a Kerala
man. "You stay here. In Kerala," he'd often say. But, as Icca sat
on the bus the other morning, I waved goodbye, wondering if I'd see
him again.

LIJI
Most of my friends are three, four times my age, so it wasn't a
surprise that I latched onto Liji quickly. She is the girls' resident
tutor, and as a recent college graduate, too, we'd often joke about
our indecisiveness regarding future plans. We would spend hours
talking, laughing and sitting on the front steps of the girls' home.
Liji showed me the ways around town, the bus system, and how to
eradicate my head of lice. She has been sure to include me on the
programs of the girls, allowing me to a part of their energy and love.
And, naturally, she taught me the ways of the mobile phone: how to
send a missed call, how to recharge the minutes, and the wonders of
texting. But, the final plans have been made, and we were informed
this past week of Liji's wedding on November 15. She will be moving
to live with her new family.

BINU & ALEX
There were four wardens when I arrived. Jijo and Soji are here for a
year, as a pre-requisite for seminary. Binu and Alex were here for
two months, as a part of their theological study. I, again, latched
myself onto these four and their friendship, depending on them to help
translate jokes made at the breakfast table, to inform me of recent
political matters, and to include me on events that made me feel
useful and needed. And, although a girl, I always felt a part of the
warden posse, the man clan. I wrote Binu and Alex each a card the day
their service was completed. On it, I included the lyrics from a hymn
my sister gave me as I left home, "God be with you till we meet
Again." We had a prayer service for Alex and Binu when they departed.
When it came time for Jijo to pray, he began singing in Malayalam.
After a few measures, my eyes began to water. I recognized the tune.
Jijo was singing the same hymn I had copied.

Though many good friends still remain, the reality of the finitude of
our time at Mandiram, in Kerala, in India, has hit. Though I am
growing attached to this home, these people, a time will come where
goodbye will be inevitable.

KATHERINE
Yet, nothing prepared me for the phone call this last week. My dear
roommate called with the news of Katherine Olson. She was gone. But,
how can that be? KO is one of a kind, with a spirit of boundless
energy. Her red, bouncy hair attributed that. Our summer at Flathead
together is one I cherish for many reasons. One: KO and her
styrophoam tube. Mornings in the program office were sure to have KO
doing her physical therapy, rolling and tumbling all over the floor on
that cylinder. Oh, how we'd laugh. And, now, she is gone. I am
confused and shocked, frustrated and bewildered to be mourning here,
and not with fellow friends and family. Why this? Why KO?
Now, the reality of our finitude on Earth is beginning to hit.
Goodbyes seem inevitable.

"God be with you till we meet again.
By good counsels guide, uphold you,
With a shepherd's care enfold you,
God be with you till we meet again.

Till we meet, till we meet.
Till we meet, at Jesus' feet.
Till we meet, till we meet.
God be with you till we meet again."

I am hoping that the promise of reunion is stronger than the sorrow of goodbye.