Chronicles of Kolkata #1 of 6: The Summary in Pictures

I've been back from my two-week journey to Kolkata and Chennai, India, since February 1st, but it has taken me a while to "unpack" and restart the new year here.  Christmas and New Year's were extra busy since we only had 9 or 10 weeks to get ready. I faithfully journaled and emailed a few snippets, but thought I better begin these chronicles with a captioned slideshow summary (click here) and photos of the neat little activity book our friend Kristi created for us to process our experiences as we went (click here). Expanded tales will be added asap (as soon as productive). Thanks again to the scores of encouragers, prayers and supporters of the work Lynn Marie and I were privileged to participate in during our travels!

Chronicles of Kolkata #2 of 6: The Journey to the City of Joy

April 1st is right around the corner, and eight weeks after my two-week trip to Kolkata and Chenna, India, I'm finally posting some notes I journaled along the way. People continue to ask when I'm going to have a share time . . . realistically, this is  it (Those who'd rather watch a captioned slideshow can click here. Those who wonder why we took this trip, click here ). Those who feel like my next several "chronicles" aren't enough, let's have dinner . . . minus the Indian cuisine. . .

17 January 2010 Setting Out. Sunday morning is usually reserved for worshipping in community, but this morning was spent getting as clean and well-fed as possible before arriving at the airport. Though everything was meticulously listed, weighed, packed (and repacked), my mind must have been on overload because yesterday I ran a red light, and today I had already used the men's bathroom at Cracker Barrel before I even wondered why the women's restroom had urinals. Foreshadowing of many restroom anxieties . . . Happily, there were no big glitches at the airport  . . . the long layovers might be tedious, but allowing for them actually cut down our travel tension.  It was also such a treat to have so many friends and supporters praying for us . . . some even brought some last-minute junk fixes to the airport! Most of that frustration centered on Continental's ridiculous fees to carry our luggage for only two of our twenty-two hours in the air.  The rest of my concern was over Emirate's restrictive luggage policy . . . economy class passengers were only allowed ONE piece of carry-on baggage with dimensions less than 22" X 15" X 8" and weighing less than 15 pounds. This presented a dilemma . . . my rolling bag weighs 7 lbs. with nothing in it, so how would I ever fit in a change of clothes (never cross the international date line without one), my laptop, cosmetics, jewelry,  neck pillow, blanket, medicines, snacks, documents and 33 hours worth of entertainment? After changing to a (non-matching) bag weighing only 4.5 lbs empty, I dealt with it . . .  except with my camera, Ipod and electronic Yahtzee game it weighed 16 lbs. I decided to live dangerously--if they dared to say anything I would stuff my neck pillow under my shirt and wear my blanket as a hijab.  When we got to Houston, we were ecstatic to learn that our $90 baggage fee enabled Continental lackeys to transfer our bags over to Emirates and check them all the way to Kolkata; however, we had a few tense moments when the terminal workers began walking through the passenger waiting area, scanning and lifting up people's carry-ons.  I rehearsed my speech about why I wouldn't pay USD175 for the extra pound
. . . until I was jarred by the hubbub created by a European lady who was told she had to check her THREE oversized carry-ons and take only the essentials in a complimentary, grocery-sized Emirates bag.  She sniffed defiantly, "It's impossible . . . I need EVERYTHING." After some back and forth, the staff relented. Note to self: Stop being such a rule-follower. By the time we boarded our 14 hour, 40 minute international flight ("Economy passengers remain comfortably seated"), I realized that even if I could have fit my carry-on bag fully under the seat in front of me, I would never be able to get it out or open it up without much ado. Resigned, I put it in the overhead bin and settled in with my neck pillow, blanket and a grocery-sized bag of essentials.

Seatmates. It felt so comfortable to travel halfway around the world with a good friend, and LM and I carefully chose our seats for the longest leg of travel. Not the bulkhead rows (reserved for babies and bassinets). Not the center rows (higher probability for unpleasant company). We chose aisle and center seats on a row for three and hoped for the best. The friendliest, most interesting Afghani man had the window seat and he entertained us for hours with stories about his home country, working as an environmental consultant for the World Bank, and family life in my native Houston. The time couldn't have passed more pleasantly, especially since most of my reading material was stowed overhead. In such tight quarters, it was a gift to share space with someone who expanded our universe and lightened the mood. By the time we parted in Dubai, we were old chums, though we never exchanged names or saw each other again.

18 January 2010 Sanity. It's not easy to maintain good manners on a 15-hour flight. My only other overseas flight was between L.A. and Thailand, so I had already faced the mental  anguish of calculating how on earth a plane can stay in the air for so long, and what on earth I would do if we had to make an emergency landing in the ocean. This freed me up to concentrate on how on earth to pass so much time upright and tightly confined.  1) Best travel purchase: Memory foam neck pillow from the Relax the Back store. 2) Best emotional move: my own blanket from Sari Bari. 3) Best airline booking: Emirates' entertainment and food service. Every seat had it's own ICE system (Information Communication Entertainment), with a personal touchscreen and remote/game pad/internet phone. Each passenger could track the flight plan (cockpit view, under-plane view, GPS view); play unlimited video games or keep up on news in multiple languages; pause and play all kinds of movies, symphonies, television or music playlists in dozens of genres and languages. Who needed electronic Yahtzee? The food was just as plentiful, though not mainstream fare. I was happy to choose curry lamb for dinner, but it was a little disconcerting when breakfast and lunch menus all looked the same. 4) Best mid-air surprise: plentiful fresh fruit and juices, some fermented.

19 January 2010 UAE Layover. We had heard that the Emirates terminal in Dubai would provide everything we needed for an 8-hour layover, and we weren't disappointed, especially in the people-watching department. Observing people of every shade of brown made our skin seem very foreign and uninteresting. Second to this was the parade of turbans, hijabs, and beautiful variations of fashion moving in and out of the upscale, quite western duty-free shops in this international mall. McDonalds, Burger King, Starbucks, Baskin-Robbins, Haagen Daas, etc. were mixed in with shops selling cosmetics, perfume, electronics, liquor, expensive clothing, and stereotypical souveneirs like chocolate camels, hookah pipes, and travel-sized prayer mats.  Other surprises were gender-specific prayer rooms, a free internet kiosk, and western toilets supervised by mostly SE Asian workers.  It was hard to believe that we were able to eat a McChicken sandwich with Starbucks coffee and Gmail chat with friends and family while changing our Facebook status--the only weird part was typing on an Arabic keyboard that rendered Elaine as "Elsie".  A change of clothes, a washed face and aromatic lotion made the red lounging chairs almost delicious for resting in a more sleep-like position. We didn't care that we were the only women in the dimmed section near the Bahrain boarding gate. LM synced up her dual country travel watch then we let our bodies tell us when to sleep or eat. From time to time I would peer out from under my Sari Bari to calculate the time until our last 5-hour jaunt to the City of Joy.

19 January 2010 Immigration. Somewhat bedraggled when we arrived in Kolkata, we still managed to follow our instructions about proceeding through immigration and customs without standing out any more than necessary . . . and all of our bags arrived safely . . . thank you for praying! Our four giant electric blue suitcases didn't help us keep a very low profile, but both of us managed to get our papers processed without being searched. The first clue that we were in Kolkata was the cat in the lobby and the sea of faces staring at us as if we were aliens.  Brent was no where to be seen until we got a little more oriented and picked out his smiling white face behind a barricade outside the terminal for un-ticketed visitors. We had almost forgotten the recent high alert . . . pretty sure that Kolkata is low on the terrorist hit list, still we wondered how we could have safely navigated our bodies and luggage into a "legitimate" taxi without Brent's cultural and language skills.  It took a big chain to hold the taxi's trunk closed, but we stuffed ourselves in and off we bumped across the city, wide-eyed and full of anticipation! 

Kolkata Chronicles #3 of 6: First Impressions

We were so grateful for a great trip with no problems at all: schedules, visas, customs or anything--we even found western toilets in Dubai.  Our only question mark moment, was why the exit signs showed a person running?!  Once Brent had haggled with the taxi drivers who fought to get our business, the long, slow drive from the airport was everything we expected (yet we didn't scream). We couldn't look right or left quickly enough to take it all in, except when the traffic backed up and all the cars and buses turned their motors off. Schools had dismissed early for another religious holiday, so we scooped up the girls, then chugged off in our big yellow taxi with the two little pixies on our laps.

Melinda would arrive to meet us later. At the Snader's flat, we couldn't believe that we still hadn't cratered. We loved looking at all the little touches that made their apartment so dear, and as we peeked out of every door and window and balcony, we could see and hear (and smell) the funeral feast cooking in the courtyard over an open fire--and also viewed the laundry of every last neighbor! We had heard how unbearably hot Kolkata can be, but this was wintertime, so it felt great compared to Nashville's January--what lucky timing!

We laughed and cried and hugged when Melinda finally came in the door, realizing that a home is a home is a home wherever old friends are reunited. After a little nap, we started to unpack and organize a little. The only thing MIA was one of the three flat-rate boxes I mailed six weeks earlier. When we unpacked the other two, we were glad to find the inflatable body roller for the children's retreat, but the box with children's bibles and storybooks hadn't arrived (they had not been confiscated as we suspected and arrived couple of weeks after we returned to the States). After an evening walk through the neighborhood to a quaint hotel restaurant, we went to bed early and slept in late . . . surprisingly, we felt wonderful with virtually no jet lag.

20 January 2010. The second morning, we celebrated Brent and Melinda's 9th anniversary (precious to me, since I was a bridesmaid in their wedding). Brent made delicious crepe-like pancakes and we decorated them with western delicacies that had been Christmas presents--M and M and Nutella eyes, noses and mouths. Later, we took a taxi to the "nice" side of town, to shop at a beautiful mall decorated like Christmas for its 2nd anniversary. We had to pass through a metal detector and check our bags to get in (all shop owners have the right to decide who's good enough to shop in their stores). Of course, big white westerners are always welcome. Everyone in town was dressed in their very best for the religious holiday (puja) . . . this one was not as scary as some, honoring only the goddess of education. Like Christmas trees, there were whole lots filled with the goddess' image in paper mache`.

Within the mall, we went grocery shopping at a very upscale place with labels in many languages, but few in English. It was so much fun to see all the interesting things they sell in their version of a Walmart.

We bought some supplies and snacks for our Chennai trip, then met the Nepal team for lunch at a Domino's Pizza. They had traveled about 35 hours by train and bus to fly with us to Chennai for the retreat. This was the first time we were introduced to the Nepali, North American and Bengali staffers. U* immediately won me over (*names protected).

"Hello! Your heart is so sweet to come to us!" he beamed.

We also met one of the girls who would be in our children's group, adorable, but painfully shy. After we ate our pizza and Coke, I started cleaning up the box and napkins, like I would at any fast food place, but one of the helpers who had been hovering nearby stopped me as if it was shocking that I would clean my own table. 

Then it happened for the first of many times. As we left the restaurant, we were followed and tugged on by women holding babies and young children in rags, who knew enough English to cry out "Food, money, please madam"!  We were told that most of these poor souls were actually controlled by "handlers", who send out random women with a fake baby and child. . . but they get little if any of the money given. It was very difficult to follow our instructions to firmly answer "Namaskar, donebah" (Hello, I will not give). Only the first disturbing revelation of many about the real Kolkata.

After lunch we took a cab to the Mother House, where our friends' mail is delivered. The Mother House is the convent where Mother Teresa once lived. We got to tour it, even the tiny room where she slept from 1953 until her death in 1997 . . . her TOMB was placed in a sunny room with benches and people come there to sit and meditate and pray. On top of the stone area above her resting place, dried marigold petals spell out "Our ideal is Jesus alone. The rest is bordered by fresh red rose petals. Standing by her tomb, we sensed that we were in a special place . . . all of the rush and poverty outside was subdued by the peaceful hush of  respectful Christian, Muslim and Hindu visitors.

The Sisters of Charity,  in distinctive blue and white habits, still live and work and worship there. Volunteers from all over the world meet there every morning except Thursdays, to receive their piece of bread and a banana before dispersing all over the city to volunteer at hospitals for the dying, lepers colonies or homes for the disabled. Some days they actually turn away volunteers because so many people pilgrimage to work there. Unfortunately, our schedule didn't allow us to join in that week.

A group of Asian high school students from another part of India were touring the Mother House when Melinda and the girls and I were resting on a courtyard bench and Lynn Marie was browsing through a museum room with Mother Teresa's writings and tools.

"Photo with you please?" the kids smiled.

Guess we were a spectacle they wanted to show their friends back home . . . but wait, they didn't want Melinda and her Indian and Chinese daughters in the frame . . . only the older white lady.

That afternoon, we started packing (well re-packing) for our week in Chennai. Once again, we had bag and weight limits for the flight, so we had to figure out how to get all our retreat supplies and four days of clothing into one big bag each.  K*, the mother of a Bengali staffer, came over to cook a wonderful meal of chicken, vegetables, rice and dahl (thick broth). She was so tiny and cute, and it was fun to watch her chopping vegetables on the kitchen floor with a miniature machete, then balancing on an orange "bucket" to reach the stove. She insisted that we take a break from our packing to enjoy some Chai and biscuits with her. The dinner was lovely . . . even eaten with our hands, Indian style.

Most educational of all was our first bath, a unique cultural experience. The bathroom floor is cement with a faucet set low on the wall. A big silver bucket sat under it. First you fill the bucket with water, then place a special heating coil down in it for about ten minutes (counter-intuitive, huh). Now that's really hot water! I want one for my home. Nearby are two 5-gallon plastic buckets you might use in a garden, a little step stool and two large plastic measuring cups for however you want to get clean . . .

I wish we had a demo of how you pour the hot water into one bucket, then refill the silver bucket part way with cold water to make it just the right temperature. Then you stand in the other blue bucket and use the cups and a washcloth to pour water over yourself . . . or sit on the little stool and put your feet in the warm water to wash the lower part of your body. I laughed at myself when I thought about how much I'd like to soak in that warm bucket of water, but it would have been embarrassing to get stuck and have to have someone come pull me out.

When I was done, I had to empty the buckets of soapy water in the corner of the room with a drain for the water; then "squeegie" the floor so the next person wouldn't kill themselves when they used the toilet (western style thankfully) or brushed their teeth (only with bottled water). It was exhausting! Some nights we just heated a little water if a sponge bath would do.

 

As we dropped into bed before our 4:45 departure for the airport, I couldn't believe all that we had packed into our first two days. My first impressions were full of paradox. Looking back, our pictures make it look like our friends live on a quaint quiet street from a different era; but they don't fully capture what is going on inside the courtyard gates and outside on the street. What happens every day in one square block square of their building is wonderful, disgusting and shocking all at once . . . That will be the subject of another post. First, some tales from our visit to the fourth largest city in India (Chennai in the south).

Kolkata Chronicles #4 of 6: Six Flags over India

                                     

It was harder to go to sleep that second night . . . knowing we had to wake up at 4:00 a.m. to board an Air India flight for Chennai. Amazingly, we quickly recovered from our jet lag and felt ready to travel again. We had to work hard to distribute all of our clothes and the children's retreat supplies between six bags (one each). We were a little apprehensive about leading a four-day retreat for ten Nepali, Thai and Indian children ranging in age from 18 months to 10 years . . . in a hotel room no less (the only reason I wasn't totally croaking was because I once coordinated a week-long children's program for 50+ kids in a Thailand hotel).

21 January 2010. I fell asleep wondering if the cab Brent had reserved would show up, since, allegedly nothing happens early in Indian culture. The alarm went off at 3:30 a.m. (LM accidentally set it to Nashville time). We left the flat at 4:45 and nearly tripped over the security men sleeping in the courtyard between the residents' cars. We were appalled.

"They get to sleep on cots," Melinda whispered (in other words, they would be sleeping on the street if not on a comfortable cot).

I was already growing attached to Sing-gee, who hovered over us like a kindly father and watched over the children when they played downstairs. Like soldiers, he and his partner opened the gate as the building residents came and went . . . and he served as the (singing) priest of the small shrine in the courtyard (more on that in another post). They jumped up from their sleep to help cram our bags into the waiting cab across the street. The driver was asleep on the back seat, as many taxi drivers live in their cabs. 

Security! Once in the airport, it was a little embarrassing to be motioned to the front of the long security line like dignitaries. We had no idea why, and no one acted angry. Women and men were divided into different queues for security checks. Each person entered a curtained area to be scanned and patted down by very respectful person of their gender. On the other side of the terminal we met up with the other teams from Nepal and Thailand. Mostly in English we visited with new brothers and sisters, so our waiting time flew by quickly. It was so nice to have people in the know to lead us  from taxi to terminal to bus to plane, etc. Our domestic flight gave no opportunity to complain (i.e. padded seats, bathrooms, jet engines) and I appreciated the couple of hours of quiet, to prepare for the rigors of the children's retreat we were about to lead.  

Once we arrived in Chennai, we found our way to the large tour bus that that would carry us through the city to the beach resort where we would stay. Melinda had flown down to help make arrangements and we knew that the Bay of Bengal was too rough to safely swim in. We also heard that we would not be using the swimming pool. However, the pictures of the rooms looked simple but nice, and she described the grounds like this: to us they would look like abandoned medieval ruins, but most Indian people it would feel like Disneyworld. That was fine, because I already felt a little guilty that we were spending five days on the beach. After an enjoyable, windy, warm bus ride through the city, we abruptly turned into the Golden Beach Resort. . . the "Last Resort" we would come to say.

   

When we entered the walled compound, the first thing we saw was a giant, colorful flying  . . . some creature . . .  all of us must have been so taken back that none of the six sets of pictures captured it!  There would be hundreds bizarre statues and murals on the massive grounds.  Once we got out of the bus and rolled our bags to our garden rooms, we had seen the beautiful and garrish side of this place.

The room. Upon first glance we saw a large, open space that would work fine for the kids, white tile floors, two twin beds, a couch, desk, two end tables, a short turquoise fridge. The small, wall mounted, flat screen TV (despite nothing in English), two ceiling fans and an AC unit with remote control seemed luxurious. Romantic push-out windows made the cool winter breeze feel exotic, but by dusk we realized that they also let in flies, mosquitoes and geckos.

I am not usually a neat-freak or germ-o-phobe but upon closer inspection, "not clean" was a huge understatement. Lynn Marie and I quickly assessed that the threadbare bed sheets were hung to dry outdoors and they had suspicious red marks all over them. I will admit that I do have some texture issues, and the blankets could have been in an American Revolution movie (scratchy TB carrying wool). Everything was so dusty that we wondered if  it had been years since anyone had stayed there. We immediately tried to lower our expectation of "resort." Not wanting to show our ethnocentrism, we walked to a nearby store and bought all-purpose cleaner to wipe everything down.  After all, we would be caring for ten children in our bedroom,

The bathroom.  I'll start with the positives. There was a somewhat western toilet; however, toilet paper was like GOLD around there. The shower was simply a curtain across the floor. The shower head worked, but the down low faucet and bucket seemed more functional. Above eye level on the outside wall, there was a slatted, open window without a screen. It let in every sound and thus, it let OUT every sound. Too late, we would realize that everyone else had screens over their slats. The mini water heater overhead had a switch to flip. My first shower was cold (not a bad thing) but LM discovered that BLUE was hot and enjoyed a warm one. Towels were also a precious commodity. We didn't get more than one and had no washcloths or hand towels, tissues or paper towels. Thankfully, we brought a roll of reusable cloth "handy wipes" for the kids and voila, we were back in business! The roll of fabric (think table cloth sized dishcloth) would be dipped in a bucket of water on the front porch to wash our feet entering the room each time.

Light switches.  Once again, we were totally baffled by the multitudinous switches on every wall and could never remember which did what.  Most didn't work at all. It would make a good sitcom to watch us cut the power entirely off or switch on Hindi TV or cut the power to every plug . . . this happened daily, hourly! We were sure the fridge and phone and AC were broken. The phone rang and rang, yet we couldn't get anyone to answer our calls. Then we assumed they were ignoring the room with the demanding western women . . . we would flag down every young man who came near our room.

"Our phone is not working."
"We have no water (no, not refilled bottles without sealed lids)"
"Could we please have toilet paper . . . towels . . .  a BROOM?" (no broomsick, just long branches tied together like a  whisk). We even offered to pay a lady sweeping the sidewalk, but she just shook her head when we waved Rupees and motioned her to come inside.

Be Positive. The doorbell had the sweetest chirping sound. The refrigerator actually got cold when we discovered the right switch. The light bulbs were compact flourescent (though the staff seemed miffed that we wished for all of them to work). We finally got a new phone--it was broken--but still, no answer when we called for assistance . . . EVER.

Private time. When I finally had time to journal a day or two later, I wrote: "Just finished a cup of Nescafe with two sugars to kill the taste. It's delivered each morning at 7:00, but don't get the wrong idea about where we are--it's a cross between Gilligan's Island and Camp Arnold for Girl Scouts. Mosquito nets would have been a good idea, because they completely ate my face the first night. I woke up to about ten flat, dark purple dots across my cheekbones--they don't really itch but they don't easily cover, either.  No one else seems to have a bite. Last night I tried to cover my head with my Sari Bari blanket, but it was hard to breathe unless I held it up like a tent (not good for sleeping). I put bug cream on my face, so I only saw one little new one on my neck. Glad to have our $8.50 each malaria pills--I will try to buy 14 more at the chemist shop when we get back to Kolkata."

The food.  We were a little worried about eating in Chennai because we wouldn't have much control over the menu. Even the staffers were expecting it to be awful. The hotel staff planned our meals and served us in a special dining room. Especially LM had big concerns about her history of stomach problems with American food. She never got sick--way to pray, partners--and was such a good sport, never complaining or expecting special treatment. We had great bananas, apples and huge tangerines almost every day. We just added a few protein bars, dry cereal and peanut butter to fill in the gaps. We were able to enjoy something of each meal, though it was not my preferred style. Our Bengali and Nepali friends didn't like the saucy, spicy screaming taste either.

Each morning, breakfast was at 9:00. I enjoyed the big, rectangle-shaped white toast with red jam and butter with a flat thin egg "patty." I kept putting a cake "donut" on my plate, expecting something sweet . . . nope, never.  I wasn't sad to say goodbye to the lunches or dinners . . . everything had sauce the consistency of chili and it was starch-city with all the nan, rice and puffed bread . . . then "BEEF" (assuming that non-Hindus would crave it they kept pushing it on us). We were sad to pass up fruit plates and raw veggies but followed Dr. Brent's advice. I did love the little spicy fried green beans and chicken "bones", which thrilled our pushy buffet host .The best were little strawberry ice cream cups, so soothing to our screaming palates and our yellow stained fingers (when in Rome . . . ).  

Excursion. Our last full day offered us the longest block of free time. I didn't want to spend it setting up for another kid's session or collapsing for a quick nap so I joined the group at an amusement park that adjoined the resort.

We had free tickets to get in, but it was quite an ordeal to walk there, stand in line, trade the tickets for entry passes, get our bags searched for cameras (10 rupees/20 cents) to take photos in the park. Oh Brother, even in India.

The whole resort looked like a set from "Survivor" or a run down Six Flags over India. The whole resort had the craziest statues and structures, almost in ruins from lack of maintenance, yet magnificent in dramatic effect. It was obvious that at one time, these grounds were luxurious. At the park there were some pretty fun rides between stretches of closed ones. They wouldn't turn on a ride until a line formed, so it was hard to know what to do next. They had the standard log ride and ferris wheel and we chose to ignore the unregulated feel of the place. It was so much fun to ride the kids' rides with Anna since Brent and Melinda didn't do "round and round". Asha, on the other hand, had her fill after one or two rides and would not consider boarding the ferris wheel with her family. "As I said before, I am riding NOTHING" she lisped, so I stayed behind with her. Too bad for us, they said the view of all the murals and gods was wonderful!

After all the winter heat we could take, we walked to a Gelatorium and enjoyed a fabulous chocolate speciale gelato in the air conditioning (until the power went out).  I  probably downed two to four 2-liter bottles of water each day, yet my feet stayed swollen from the heat and sodium. That didn't keep us from walking on the beach later that afternoon. Remember, this was a beach resort.

It was nice to feel fine GOLDEN sand on our bare feet, but our walks required constant watchfulness to avoid tons of trash all over the beach (no trash cans). The Bay of Bengal (Indian Ocean) was grey-black with very strong currents. The  Indian women were fully clothed in their long saris, not one female wore a swimsuit; however, we saw several men's rear ends as they peed in the ocean, dropped their longhi skirts to poop in the green dune grass or lifted them up to rinse off the sand and salt. . . but the skies and waves were so beautiful and relaxing that we just laughed at each collision with culture.

Checkout. The last morning I wrote: "Last day in Chennai. Last night I was so glad to see 10:00 on my clock as I turned off the light, for I've come to dread sleeping the last two nights. My face has been eaten by mosquitoes--the final count seems to be 43-- 39 on my face and 4 on my neck. I've slept lightly every night, a twilight sleep, and last night was harder because it was so hot (LM freezes if the AC is on because it blows directly on her) and my Sari Bari now smells like DEET. Jumped right up in the early hours at the thought that I wouldn't have to sleep in this bed again! The pillowcase pulled back a little and I saw thatbthe rock-hard pillow was moldy green . . . enough! I enjoyed a bucket bath with warm water now that I know the trick."

Actually, we hated to say goodbye to the lovely green manicured spaces, the palm trees, pods and coconuts; the ladies in saris sweeping the drives and sidewalks with reed brooms; the bizarre statues of robots, Khan-like soldiers, flying cows (that is what was at the entrance gate), giant elephants, dinosaurs, chariots and various gods (including Jesus); the colorful laundry hanging to dry (I was right, our towels were dried on clothes lines, no wonder they were a little crunchy . . . but not the sheets. They were laid out to dry on the grassy area outside our window. The red dots? Mosquito blood. Guhl . . .

To summarize the RESORT part of the week, the last count of my bites was 48, including those found on my "elf" ears on the last morning. Curiously, I have ZERO bites anywhere else on my body, so we assume they bit me as I slept. This really took me back to girl scout camp in the Texas Piney Woods. Lynn Marie had less than five bites on her entire body, but I'm not bitter. Asha had as many as I did, though they didn't show much under her dark brown skin. She called us the "Oowie twins." How could I complain about that? After all, we hadn't come for a vacation, but to minister to the WMF Asia team by providing a fun and meaningful time for their children while the adults had their meetings. Those memories will be shared in the next chronicle.

Love, "Dotty"

   

Kolkata Chronicles #5 of 6: Jesus Loves the Little Children of the World . . .

So after we returned to Kolkata from the retreat, I emailed those who had prayed that our hearts would be knit to the children and said to STOP. Each time we had to say goodbye to another one, I cried (big surprise). Today I'm reminded of my promise to stay in touch with the two oldest girls from Kolkata and Kathmandu.

The children's retreat was a success, considering the age range (18 months to 10 years) and the inherent limitations of  VBS in a suitcase. The parents were so grateful that we came so far to allow them to fully engage in their sharing sessions. Each of the eight children were dear and fun in their own way, but each had a challenging side that kept us on our toes during six sessions. Not everyone spoke English well (or at all), and there were some cultural differences affecting disciplinary expectations,so we had to be winsome and energetic to manage everything with grace. Children are universally SNEAKY!

Our years of refugee work have really helped us flex and organize kids in small spaces without equipment to make things safer or more efficient.  Keeping four younger ones interested and four older ones stimulated was hard, especially in a large hotel room. But we managed to have some meaningful and creative experiences indoors and out.  Every day we had a time of dancing to silly songs, then worship time, Bible story and creative activity.  Then we would go outside and play bubbles, go on a nature walk or explore the grounds. We even had an inflatable body roller for the garden!    

FOUR adults for a 1:2 ratio was a luxury. Our last session was during Sunday worship and was really laid back, since almost everything was already packed and we were in no rush to learn songs or finish art projects. Even the littlest ones seemed to sense that this was our last time together.

Best moment. Singing the Shema in English: "Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, with all your strength; These commandments that I give today, will be upon your heart, upon your heart; Hear O Is-ra-el, the Lord our God, the Lord is ONE" . . . except the Spirit had given me the idea to have each child insert the name of their country when we sang the chorus:

"Hear oh Nepal, The Lord our God, the Lord, is one."

"Hear, oh Thailand, The Lord our God, the Lord is one."

"Hear, oh India, the Lord our God, the Lord is one."

I can't describe how moving it was to watch these beautiful faces looking up at me .  . . and to hear the clear voices and accents of children singing that "the Lord is ONE."  It meant even more, knowing that most of their parents first generation believers, suffering real loss for their faith. Because of generous financial partners like you, we sent each family home with children's books, Bibles and "Ask Me Whooo" CDs with the catechism songs we teach our kids at Grace.. We were absolutely smothered in hugs and kisses . . . and our laps runneth over! My ears still miss the lilt of children calling  "Auntie" or"Lainee" in Bengali and Nepali tongues.

             

Some of the staffers whose children we took care of

Family time. Though we hated to miss the daily team reports during the adult sessions, we had all of our meals together and tried to sit with different staffers to ask about their ministries. We knew we would have more time with the Kolkata team, so we treasured the conversations we had with the other regional teams who would be leaving us. Pastor S* (former Hindu) and his wife, J* from Kathmandu have a home for widows. Their 10-year-old daughter was in our children's group. Beautiful R* and G* direct a home for children. They have 3 biological and 12 adopted children, and were like honeymooners since they left them all in Nepal. A young North American woman who directs a ministry for addicted adolescents and adults told dramatic stories of miraculous signs and healings following six dry years of no fruit. Not hearsay, but directly witnessed, she witnessed things you would read in the NT.

Do I truly anticipate or desire that God will do the same in America? I left that conversation very challenged. The last night of the retreat I woke up before morning, pretty alert, remembering the story that B* and her two friends had independently been awakened one night after agreeing to pray more earnestly for the people they were living among . . . so in those moments I started praying for the people I am burdened for . . . after a while, as she had described, I found that I wasn't tired and kept praying almost to morning with unusual stamina. Since my return to the States, I've been surprised (why?) about the things that have happened after more intentional times of prayer--I want to guard against something Richard Foster wrote: "We're afraid of falling off the deep end, but I fear that more often we have fallen off the SHALLOW end."

Retreat Afterglow. What an amazing cultural tour, driving through Chennai as we came and went from the airport--better than any planned Grey Line route--about 45 minutes from airport to resort; 45 minutes from resort to the WMF children's home; 45 minutes from the children's home to St. Thomas Mount (where Apostle Thomas is said to be martyred and buried); about 15 more to the airport. In between we observed almost every level of humanity and dwelling and economic status (and one monkey on a chain) on the winding, bumpy POLLUTED ride.

Pastor P* and his wife V* and their two grown daughters direct a children' s home in Chennai. Before we flew back to Kolkata we got to visit there. When we pulled up to its gates, smiling children (ages 4 to 18) were waiting for us. We worked our way up some narrow stairs to the entry hall and were served glasses of water while P* explained how they find abandoned children throughout the city.

Then we moved upstairs to see totally empty sleeping rooms with tile floors, clean as a whistle and one wall of cupboards, each containing the total possessions of each child. After being seated in plastic chairs in the upper hall we were served dixie cups of  hot Chai. The children (about 20 of them) sat on the floor, lined up from oldest to youngest like the Von Trapp family in the "Sound of Music."

First they told their name and grade, then sang a song in Tamil (the language of their state).  Our group taught them a Bangla song about Jesus and I tried to sing along too. Finally, we all gathered around the children and prayed over them "Asia style", meaning that everyone prayed out loud at the same time in whatever language they spoke--a very heavenly picture! The pastor from Nepal prayed the longest and loudest--no one translated but it was very passionate.

Downstairs again, we were reseated nd our gracious hosts served sponge cake and small talk for a while longer. After only an hour in that home I was overcome and really cried when we had to say goodbye--as I explained to Anna and Asha, who looked at me like I was crazy, that when my heart gets full, it squirts out my eyes! To think that these children were once alone and impoverished on the streets, and now live behind the gates of a safe and loving home where they live and learn together until they graduate from high school overwhelmed me. What a beautiful example of being redeemed.

Two months later, still processing this, I hear my heart arguing, "But this is not true for every street child in that city, much less throughout the world."  Jesus loves the little children, but do we?

Kolkata Chronicles #6 of 6: Life in the City of Joy (?)

When I was in school we still pledged " . . . one nation, under God, with liberty and justice for all" every morning at my middle class all white school in Houston, Texas (population 5.7 million). Almost fifty years later, few of the kids that enter my old school building fit that demographic. I wonder how many parents, regardless of background, really understand or believe the Pledge of Allegiance to the American flag? (see CNN video here)

Until I read Good News about Injustice five years after it was published (1999), I'm not sure I had ever reflected about the subject of Injustice--much less what God thinks about it. My work with African refugees since 2004, began to open my eyes in ways that shook my comfortable world then . . . and does even more so now.  Kolkata is full of people who visit or move there to try to make a difference in the huge amount of poverty and class division that separate its 16 million citizens. People wonder, "Why doesn't the government do something (about poverty, suffering and human rights abuses)?"  This question was high on my list as I braced myself for the two weeks that we would be in one of the poorest cities on the planet.

The definition of "living simply" can generate some great and sometimes volatile discussions, especially among Westerners. It was interesting to observe such a diversity of examples: people who literally laid down to sleep on the street; vendors who slept in their booths or taxis; families who huddle under lean-to shelters in slums; and luxury apartments within gated condominiums. Defining a so called "middle class" lifestyle in this city creates heated debates, but the point is that most of those who come to Kolkata to "help" have a choice about how long they will live that adopted lifestyle.

During our second week we visited a missionary family from another organization. They lived in a modern, upscale, gated flat and employed a driver, cook and housekeeper, Their children enjoyed cable television that with episodes of "Lost" every evening at 6:00). The organization my friends work for have the conviction that there is a crucial difference between working with a people group versus living among the people group. Since WMF reaches out to women in brothels, they feel strongly about living as near to the red light district as possible and foregoing comforts like air conditioning . . . and toilet paper.

At the time of our visit our friends were struggling to determine what lifestyle was sustainable for a family with young children. This would eventually become one of several "deal breakers" that led them to relocate to a different Indian city. LM and I, as outsiders, had several days to really enter into the non tourist, day-to-day stresses and delights of living very modestly and interacting daily with every strata of humanity. 

The most exciting event of our two-week trip was one that, unfortunately, I'm restricted in discussing. Our visits to two organizations that offer a new life for women who have been victims of human trafficking, allowed us to interact with women who have found a viable way to walk away from the slavery of prostitution and sex trafficking. It was difficult to honor the privacy policies that prevented us from taking photographs, from giving the women small personal gifts, or even writing specifics about the personal encounters we had with real women whose names we know and faces we long to remember. Soon after we left India, one of the young women was murdered by a former customer, so I can finally accept the love that is behind such strict privacy policies.

The Workrooms. We couldn't wait to visit the workrooms where women make lovely blankets, bags and accessories from recycled sari fabric. We already felt totally invested in one organization, financially, emotionally, and spiritually through partnering with North American friends who have made extreme personal sacrifices to develop this work and disciple these women.

We hoped to contribute directly through our ESL training for the staff (Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages). We were also excited about the artistic print an artist friend designed just for them . . . a humble, dignified Indian woman surrounded by butterflies . . . with a living message for the capricious gods they have left for the one Creator of all peoples: "And the Lord will give you a new name . . . for the Lord delights in you and will claim you as his own . . . then God will rejoice over you as a bridegroom rejoices over his bride." Isaiah 62

When we finally entered their newest location, we felt the fullness of joy and grace in every square inch of the building (even the one "squatty potty" we had to use on our trip). One my favorite things about both locations (that I sketched in my journal, but can't share here) were the bright white walls and shiny red baseboards, shutters, and trim.  I spent alot of energy to memorize the cheerful space: Clean washed walls, pure as milk, not stark. Long flourescent tube lights, yet  lots of soft light and fresh air from open windows adorned with pretty, twisted wrought iron bars. Colorfully painted stone courtyard walls surrounded the little building, so that one sensed a quiet distance from the streets where the women were so terribly exploited. Finally, the shiny, fire engine red trim was not garrish at all.  Instead, the red trim around the ceilings, doors, windows and floors reminded me of the  Passover blood a boundary of protection and a sealing of the women into the rooms where their lives become whole again. You could feel the peace and contentment that flowed between them as they worked on their beautiful pieces.

Dr.Brent only practiced medicine informally in Kolkata--another reason they eventually moved north. But  this day he prepared an inspiring talk in Bengali, based on the picture our friend designed. As our time for devotion began, a Bengali woman led the prayer and singing. In Chennai, the week before, we had seen nothing of her incredible leadership because her English was limited. Here, she was bold and confident as she humbly led the workers.

The ladies were surprisingly responsive to us and really seemed to understand the symbolism Brent communicated in their heart language (e.g. butterflies, woman, sari, jewels). They loved correcting his Bangla, especially since they are the strugglers during English lessons. After Brent finished, I asked if we could sing my favorite song from Isaiah 62, and another staff member translated the lyrics before our song echoed off of the cool stone walls to the women. They were visibly moved and we so wanted them to hear and believe that God Himself was singing over them, "I will change your name; you will no longer be called, 'wounded', 'outcast', 'lonely' or 'afraid.' I will change your name; your new name will be 'confident', 'joyfulness', 'overcoming one'; 'faithfulness', 'friend of God,' 'one who seeks my face.'"

More lessons. LM went on to teach an English lesson, then a more advanced class for the staff during their lunch hour. They love the English and literacy lessons and tried to soak up every gesture and facial expression we used. Then it was time for work, and it was so much fun to watch them spread out the saris and thread on the floor, or do finish work between the two big sewing machines the master tailor uses to construct the purses and totes. A young Muslim man hung on every word spoken, and even clothes-pinned his copy of the print over his work station.

For two hours we sat with the workers and managed some conversation with several. One older lady pulled out a photo of her family and we were able to have a good exchange about our husbands and children. I don't know what I expected the women to look like, but it was pretty ordinary, like any other West Bengal citizen of that socioeconomic background--some even had cell phones. I assumed they look older than their chronological ages, but none looked wasted or vacant as I expected. Many of their eyes looked full of light!  All seemed to enjoy their work, though some gabbed more than they sewed and got scolded.

"Talks much, works too slow" sighed their supervisor. Like the principal of the school, she called out, "What happening here?" During the staff ESL lesson, "lazy" was a new vocabulary word. Immediately, the supervisor gave me a knowing look and cocked her head toward the workroom, repeating the new word many times.

Later she explained the entire process of blanket-making. The North American director is nicknamed "the mastermind," and the Bengali manager  is the dear young man I met at Domino's the second day. These two buy used saris from nearby shops, a kind of Indian "Goodwill" shop on the sidewalks. They decide which colors and patterns go together well, then other staff members measure and cut the pieces to be sewn together. The rest of the work, the "quilting", is done by hand, after little stickers are placed on holes or fragile places that need repairing.

Each woman has a little cardboard box full of embroidery thread, cut in very long strands. Right there, sitting on the floor, the women stitch in-and-out, in-and-out, in-and-out, in-and-out. . . in long perfectly straight lines with no guides. One woman makes one blanket. No iron is used in the entire process. The Sari Bari  logo and a tag with the name of the woman who made the item, is sewn into each one. I watched the tags being cut from a long roll. The worker squatted on the cement floor and singed the edges to prevent fraying with a single "advent" candle that stood up, waxed to the floor. After a number of blankets have been completed, they are washed and packaged, then the whole process starts again. Although there is at least one computer in each workplace, the Indian staff still writes all of the bookkeeping by hand in large traditional record books.

After a while, I realized that I was sitting beside the woman who made my most recently purchased blanket (they are distributed mainly in the U.S. and U.K.). I was able to make her understand that she had made the blanket and purse and that I have prayed for her by name. She began to embrace me and both of us began to cry. It may have been the first time we both realized the full circle of fair trade businesses.

She was trained and paid to make a blanket, to be sold in another country she cannot even picture, to a person who despairs over injustice but has no way to stop human trafficking or poverty, but longs to make a difference. This overcoming woman has received significant wages that I barely missed, and now supports her family in a sustainable and  honorable way. Now we stood face to face, mother to mother, locked together like long lost siblings.

Too soon, it was time to say goodbye, and go back to my rich lifestyle of luxury (relatively you must admit) but I pray I will never be the same, and that NJ* and I will will meet again when God finally brings liberty and justice for ALL.