COUNTRY: India
PROGRAM: UniBreak
PROJECT: Teaching & Care Work
WRITTEN BY: Sally Kirk
Part 1: Life in Transit
It’s 2am and I’m only 8 1/2 hours into an 18-hour plane trip. Already my neck is cramping, my eyes are sore from too many in-flight moviess and the stench of desperation wafting from Singapore’s airport bathrooms is overwhelming.
Around the terminal, sleeping bodies are curled up against walls and clutching their valuables. Others wander the halls, wiping sweat from their faces. It’s no Love Actually opening scene but at least I have a chup-a-chup. Plus the lady in the M&M store upstairs gave me free samples so I’m good to go!
I’m on my way to Goa, India with nine other kids around my age.
India - it’s big, it’s different, it’s loud, colourful, crowded, wonderful, crazy, smelly, incredible... at least that’s what I’ve heard. For a travel-novice like myself, I have no idea how to even picture it.
I haven’t been overseas since I was little. The first time I remember even getting on a plane was around five years ago when my family flew up to the Gold Coast for a week and my three sibilings and I fought tooth and nail over the window seat. Now, traveling OVERSEAS! ON MY OWN! - That level of excitement still hasn’t worn off.
Part 2: The Amphibian Saga, or, “Are we there yet?”
On the next leg of my trip, The Toad Man (as I affectionately named him), snorted and snarled throughout most of our overnight journey from Singapore to Mumbai - snoring and gargling in his slumber, only pausing occasionally to dribble fish curry onto the armrest between us.
My irritation was poorly veiled. I tried to fashion a hat-earmuff thing out of my scarf and pillow – needless to say, it looked very attractive but sadly, did nothing to block out the symphony of snorts.
Part 3: Arrival, or, 9-hours-in-Mumbai-airport-being-slapped-in-the face-by-heat-exhaustion-and-language-barriers.
At Mumbai airport, I spent two hours trying to make my way through customs - pleading for directions from officials who spoke only Hindi.
After waiting in another queue for five million years, I was informed that I’d have to wait another two hours before I could actually check in. At this point (hot, bothered and only just holding onto my sanity) I ran into two other girls from my Antips group. Monique and Megan had spotted me slumped against a wall near the check-in counter (who/what is that red-faced, blonde-afro girl/thing over there, turning on the spot and panting attractively? Isn’t she in our Antips group? I could have sworn, on Facebook, she looked a little less…. Manic?) and took pity on me. Bless them.
We spent eight hours in layover together, skipping the small talk and braving the “Café-Chino!” (the only coffee available at Mumbai airport). After the first hour, I’d calmed down a little but the afro-situation remained problematic.
From Mumbai airport we had a limited view of the city – except to see that it was huge! We could see the slums, cramped up against the distant wire fence - rusting tin rooftops jostling for a position, all about the height of a person. Almost immediately behind there were some taller buildings – comparatively luxurious hotels, tall and clean. I’ve been told before about this kind of juxtaposition in India – cities full of different demographics, mixed up and thrown together. I didn’t expect it to be so obvious or to be exposed to it so soon.
Driving Miss Daisy: Goa from the airport.
Having finally made it through Mumbai airport, we arrived in Goa to a much more mellow scene. Sans obstacles, we were waved through the gates into the smoky haze of the parking lot where Shivram, the assistant manager at the camp, was waiting. We were whisked away in a huge, old box-jeep (notably lacking in seatbelts) onto the highway, where we whizzed past billboards, palm trees, motorscooters, roaming cattle and pedestrians wandering on the side of the road.
Speeding through Goa for the first time (whilst trying casually to pretend I’m not holding on for dear life) I was overwhelmed by the varity of colours (and the number of cows!) Bright splashes of coloured houses appeared between the palm trees; vibrant shades of pink, yellow, purple, orange, green, white-with-blue-trim, red-with-white (a candy cane house!)
From when we landed in Mumbai, I decided to start making mental notes of all the things that are different here but in Goathere’s no comparison. Nothing is comparable. The roads, the houses, the trees, the weight and colour and smell of the air around us - nothing is recognisable and everything is wonderful.
Camp Idex: Chai, Camaraderie, Hammocks, Chai, Bonding and Chai.
There are nine Antips volunteers staying in the camp at the moment but twenty-something volunteers in total. Most of them are from Europe and around the same age. So far, all of them have been lovely.
It helps that the camp is beautiful, and the food, OH MY LORD, so incredible. We’ve even gotten used to the cold shower – always much needed after a sticky day of volunteering - and the western toilet in each room is a blessing.
Dinner and lunches at the camp usually involve some form of naan or roti and rice, two kinds of curry, salad and something sweet. At first, the different pans of food were so unrecognisable and I was so overexcited to not be eating aeroplane food, I kept unknowingly mixing in the desserts with my curry…. papaya and custard combined with spiced eggplant and dahl was, let’s say, an intersting cullinary experience but not necessarily one I’d recommend to a friend.
Five o’clock, Chai o’clock
In the evenings before dinner, a wonderful thing happens. Chai tea here is more than a beverage. It is an out of body experience. It is a sweet, creamy, spicy dream in which you are transported from your sticky, cramped, laboured body to a place amongst the angels of wisdom and joy and a blissfully unknown-calorie-content.
At mealtimes, the Antips crew and the other newbies are a collective broken record. The only phrases we can really utter are variations of OOOOOHH MY GOD, the food is SO GOOD! That thing was SO CHEAP! The children are SO CUTE! The houses! The cows! The shops! The clothes! The sunset is SO PRETTY! Look at this photo! Look at this photo! THE FOOD IS SO GOOD! (Oh but it really, really is though)
Similarly, every time the Chai pot emerges from the kitchen our conversations are put on hold for at least 20 minutes, as we cradle our steaming mugs.
Day 1: Cameras out, Tourist mode: On
On Monday, we began our initiaiton into the sensory whirlwind that is South Goa. First we visisted Old Goa where we toured the church of Bom Jesus Basilica, a UNESCO world heritage site built in 1594.
Our guide, Jeronimo, told us about the Portugese-Catholic history of Old Goa and the story of St Francis Xavier, a famous Portugese saint whose remains are now displayed at the church. I found this all fascinating, so I’m going to parrot it off here as best I can...
Xavier spent a number of years as a missionary in Goa, working to “restore the faith” of the Portugese settlers who arrived in India some 30 years previously.
After travelling and evangelising throughout Asia, Xavier died of dysentry on a boat voyage to China in 1552. He was buried on the beach of a nearby island and when others returned to collect his bones (to be re-buried at his place of birth), the body was found in almost-perfect condition! The men who dug it up hypothesised that this was because of the salt in the island soil and so to test this theory, buried him again in Portugese Malacca. When they dug the body up again nearly five months later, it was again found in almost perfect condition.
Understandly, this is when everyone proceeded to flip out.
I can’t really remember a lot of the story after that… doctors and other experts performed a variety of tests on the body, trying to ascertain how it had been so perfectly preserved to no avail. It must have been magic!
The body was later brought here to Goa where it was initially displayed to the public. People came from Portugal and all over Asia to see and pray at the memorial and many would steal locks of hair, fingernails or skin from the body as souvenirs. Others tried to prick his skin, curious to see if they could draw blood. When Xavier was pronounced a saint, his left arm was cut off (the arm he used to baptise his converts) and sent to the Vatican as a holy relic.
Now the remains are still kept in this Old Goan church – the body now contained in a silver casket and perched high on a ledge at the front of the church. The casket is only brought down every ten years – due to come down again in November this year – when many more tourists and religious figures will make the pilgrimage here to celebrate the occasion.
After the church, we visited a Hindu temple, saw a Bollywood movie and browsed the nearby markets.
In the large shopping mall beneath the cinema, we had our first encounter with Indian street beggars – a gaggle of children who followed us to our car, pulling on our arms and gesturing, with pinched fingers to their mouths (signalling food, food!) It was difficult to ignore but we'd been told "don't give money to the children who beg for it, 99% of the time they are working for someone else. They will not keep the money. They will stay hungry. It is the kindest thing you can do". It was entirely predictable and entirely heart wrenching.
MTV Cribs, aka. Crib, Sweet Crib.
The Christmas decorations in the streets around Goa are, to put it as eloquently as possible, off the chain. I was initially surprised at this – I hadn’t expected a Christian holiday to be so widely celebrated in a predominantly Hindu/Muslim country. Compared to the rest of India, though, Goa does have quite a high Christian population (around 27% Christian, to 66% Hindu) due to the occupation of the Portugese from the early 1500s.
Although this has been in steady decline over the past century, the historical influence of Portugese Catholicism remains visible - in the local culture, as well as the many churches, and insane Christmas decor around Goa. Every second house is decked out with strings of these huge, star-shaped lanterns – about twice the size of my head.
The house we visited for our yoga classes was on a street lined with lanterns, with a huge (9 or 10 feet), cotton wool snowman.
On our first night here, Katrin and Malaya, (two German girls already staying in the camp) told us about this crib competition: a war of the wits between the residents of Goa. The “cribs” are these huge, near-life-size nativity scenes constructed out the front of each participating household, each competing for the most extravagant and creative interpretation of the Christmas story.
The one we visited at the Little Heaven Orphanage today was like a makeshift playground for the children and included a real-brick, mini-Taj-Mahal, about half my height.
The judging of the crib competition is tomorrow, apparently. We’re all waiting with BAITED BREATH but all the cribs we’ve seen so far are spectacular.
The fairy lights strung across my hedges at home pale in comparison.
Day 2: Project visits
We spent today making brief visits to some of the projects we’ll be working on over the next month. Each of us needs to choose a morning and afternoon placement we want to work on.
In the mornings there are a number of teaching placements at the local Government School, day care centre, the Little Heaven orphanage, the Fishermen’s village school, and English classes at the Monte Hill slum. In the afternoons, we can choose between women’s empowerment workshops, adolescent girls, and “Drop out girls” classes (all in the Monte Hill slum) as well as a high school “bridging course” at the orphanage, and painting/building projects in the orphanage and government school playgrounds.
I KNOW. Just reading that, I’m feeling exhausted. And to have to make a choice between all of these? Wish me luck with that.
Day 3: Observation Day
Morning project: The Government School
At the government school, Monique and I are working with local kids aged between 2-5 (the pre-school), while Megan is next door with the older children.
This morning was intended to be an “observation day” on the projects, however since our teacher’s usual helper was absent, she had to cook lunch for the children herself - disappearing into the kitchen for about half an hour and leaving Monique and I to supervise over 20 clamouring pre-schoolers. Neither of us spoke any Hindi, let alone Konkani (the local Goan language), so our spontaneous “lesson” proved quite a struggle.
Shivram has since taught us enough Konkani phrases to communicate a little better with the kids tomorrow –if only to tell them to “boss… BOSS!!”.
I’m looking forward to getting to know the kids a little better – at the moment they’re just a blur of excited faces, and a whole lot o’ NOISE. It’s difficult to know how much they understand. Before they learnt either of our names, they’d all try to attract our attention with a constant stream of “HelloHello! Hello! HelloHello!” or, “teacher, teacher!”
Afternoon placement: The Adolescent Girls
In the afternoon, I visited Monte Hill to meet with the “Adolescent Girls” group. The group is of around 12 teenage girls from the slum, who meet for two hours to finish school work, learn English and socialise. Beverly, the project manager, is wonderful with them - she’s only my age and an incredible mentor. Today, we helped the girls with their homework and planned out study timetables for their upcoming exams. Tomorrow, we’ll have an English lesson where I’ll attempt to teach them “vowels”.
Only now that I’ve started trying to teach English, I’ve realised how little I understand of my own language. Like explaining why “soup” and “paint” and “bread” are plurals (A pencil. Some pencils. Some [not “a”] bread.) or why it’s “an umbrella”, but not “an unicorn”. And then explaining what a unicorn is to a sea of blank faces. Hopefully I’ll get better at this.
The girls, however, are SO keen to learn. At the preschool, the children had clambered over eachother to shove drawings of rainbows and “HELLEPHANTS!” in my face, pulling and scratching, and clamouring for approval. The afternoons are much quieter by comparison but the girls still seem to have endless reserves of energy. They are so happy, so close-knit. They laughed almost non-stop the entire two hours I was there and chattered away incessantly with Beverly, joking, pushing each other around and laughing at my attempts to contribute in Hindi.
I was initially apprehensive about getting involved with the classes at Monte Hill, particularly being the only volunteer on this placement. I thought that the slum would be so much more depressing, or confronting, or SOMETHING, than it has been. Some of the volunteers have found it a little that way – but more than anything, I’ve found it so encouraging. The worst thing I can think of so far is the rubbish heap out the front entrance – that thing reeks to the high heavens. Inside, though, it is nothing like I expected. Eye-opening, yes, and challenging, definitely. But the people are wonderful, always greeting us in the laneways, coming up to take our hands, introducing themselves and eager to show how much English they know. The women and children are beautifully dressed – all in bright sarees and matching sequinned pants. The houses are tiny, tin-rooved, with bare or tiled floors but similarly kept with such pride. The people and the place are filled with so much spirit. I feel so empty and whiny in comparison. I can’t wait to keep coming back here.
Majorda Beach: From Where You’d Rather Be
The past couple of nights we’ve made the trek down to Majorda beach for the evening. On the beach, there is so much to do – jet-skiing, para-sailing, horse-riding.
Although it’s technically winter here, it’s peak season in Goa (there are monsoons through the summer), so there are thatched-roof bars and restaurants open and deck chairs set out all along the beach.
At this time of day, though, the beach is very quiet. We swim, order too many ridiculously cheap cocktails and watch the sunset. I know, I know. I’m jealous of me too.
IN CONCLUSION (Yeah, I know... FINALLLY, right?)
I’ve just realised this entry is nearly 4,000 words long, for which I respectfully say, #sorrynotsorry. This doesn’t even BEGIN to describe the range of sights and experiences and emotions that have absolutely ASSAULTED my brain over the past few days.
I’m currently trying to finish off this post while sitting outside in the hammocks, everyone else chattering around me about our respective days on the projects (it’s 10 minutes ‘til Chai time). I am distracted and everything is warm and breezy and perfect. Even after an entire day on the projects, exhausted, it’s so easy to slip into this vacation-mode.
I almost feel guilty… Aren’t I supposed to feel like I’m giving up something? My time? My energy? Even on the projects, I feel like the children and the girls are teaching me far more than I’m teaching them.
Right now, it’s time for Chai and dear blog-reader, that is something that simply can’t wait.
Until next time, Sally.
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