Judojen vs the World

All I want for Christmas

For Christmas Shaun got bronchitis.

After struggling through a scary night with great breathing difficulty (note-to-self: do not get sick in small rural village outside of the hours of 10 – 4. There are no medical facilities.), we were the third in line at the doctor’s house the following morning. When we finally got to the front, instead of conducting an examination, the doctor whipped out his camera and started taking photos…a memento of the first foreigner who has been to his clinic. By the time we reached home, the entire village knew that Jennifer’s MR. was sick, so people came to the Jesuit house to wish him well.

This Christmas marked my eighth Catholic Mass. Of this eight; only once have I ever heard it in English – all the other times (apart from one German and one Latin Mass) have been in Konkani, the language spoken in Goa and Southern Maharashtra. Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve was no different. Apart from references to Jeysu Krist I had no clue what was going on. After Mass, however, I had a bit more of an idea: we all stood outside, scarves tied over our ears to keep warm, and played “Housie” – Ajra’s equivalent of Bingo: First Prize was a laying hen. Second was a bottle of beer and third was a bottle of Fanta.

Being one of the few foreigners who have been to the place; and due to the fact that I have, at some stage over the past three years, taught the majority of school-aged children in the village; I am very well known in Ajra. The kilometre walk into town can take anywhere from 10 minutes – 3 hours, depending on how many times you stop for tea. I am very used to crouching in single roomed houses, sipping sweet tea and nibbling home-cooked goodies or Parle-G biscuits…often, my communication with our host does not go beyond the pleasantries of How are you, or Your tea is very nice (the phrases my Marathi is limited to).

But we smile and giggle and laugh with each other; and drink tea, tea and more tea (Which would ultimately make me pee, pee, pee and a foreigner needing to go to the toilet in a rural village is a big event which requires numerous attendees).

Unlike other places in India, Religion is no bar: Shaun and I drank tea with Hindus, Muslims and Christians alike. Our record was eight cups of tea before 11am (which equals about 16 teaspoons of sugar…my teeth almost fell out).

We also spent a day in the library set up by Tara.Ed, cataloguing books and stocking the new additions we had brought with us (Donated by the lovely Joy!).

And so, the burning question you have all been waiting for: What was in our Christmas stocking?

A can of deodorant, a homemade, yellow wedding wall hanger and a month old kitten (but I had to give him back)

What else I could possibly want for Christmas!

 

 

 

 

So this is Christmas...

 
It was Annual day in Ajra. All the children from the Tara.Ed Partner School had been practicing a variety of dances, plays and mimes for weeks. It was also the time that the MOU between the school and Tara.Ed was going to be announced to the community. Given an invite from the Fathers, we decided we’d kill three birds with one stone, packed the 50kgs of donated children’s books as well as our Christmas stocking, and booked a train ticket to Belgaum for a little festive cheer (I promptly lost the tickets, so Shaun had to race all over the city trying to have a duplicate printed. Of course, this is India, so he had to fill out approximately 4 million forms and have them Xeroxed and signed – in triplicate).

We arrived in Belgaum on 1.5 hours sleep (the man on the bunk below me snored louder than a freight train…no pun intended), and all the destination boards were in Kannada, so we had no clue which bus to catch to complete our journey to the school. We needn’t have worried.  Being the only foreigner’s in the city in living memory, close to the entire population turned out to help us on the bus, and take a picture with us.

One helpful man appointed himself as our official translator and asked we wanted to go to Bombay? When Shaun said “Ajra” he got very confused.

Why would you want to go there?!

I stepped in to explain: We were going to meet my friends at the school in Ajra and stay with the Jesuit Fathers for Christmas. The old man nodded thoughtfully and then turned to the waiting crowd and announced

“Her father lives in Ajra”

Shaun; tired from the train journey and feeling sick; was not happy to be charged with carrying the pillows. He sat on the bench at the front of the bus facing the other passengers, a scowl etched on his face for the entire 2.5 hour journey. At one point, a mother with a two month old baby sat directly opposite him. A motor-cyclist; headed straight for the bus forced the driver to slam on the breaks. The mother was thrown from her seat and we all watched in horror as the tiny bundle arced over the seats and flew through the air.

It landed in Shaun’s lap: right in the middle of the pillows he had been nursing since Belgaum. Shaun was the hero of the hour. I have no doubt that the story of the strange white boy carrying only pillows; who saved a baby’s life, will be told in Ajra long after we have gone!

“Annual Day” is India’s equivalent of Presentation night. The Guest of Honour is the Sarpaunch. In Every Indian village, you will find a traditional local form of Government, made up of men from the area. The Sarpaunch is the head of this local council, and the man who holds all the power. As a partner rather than a donor, Tara.Ed had to find favour with this man to be able to continue our projects in the village. Sitting, drinking chai with the Sarpaunch, at the pre-event drinks, I realised just how much my life has changed in the last three years. Here I was, in the middle of a rural village; taking tea with the Village Chief…and it was a completely normal event!

His speech at the Annual Day was filled with hope. He spoke about the pride the village and school has, now that a contract has been entered in to. Tara.Ed was presented with a statue of the Hindu god Shiva as a gift to symbolise the cultural exchange that is taking place between Australia and India.

Annual day itself was outstanding. Everything from Hip-Hop to break-dancing to traditional Kolhi dances graced the stage…and of course, what 2010 Annual day would be complete without Waka-Waka?!

The following day was met with yet another school program – this time at the village school in Watangi. I stayed at this school in September as a part of the Tara.Ed tour; sleeping in one of the classrooms alongside 36 girls who live to far away to commute each day.The Chief guest was not the Sarpaunch, but the director of the local sugar-cane factory. The girls had not been told of our arrival, so when I walked in, the school erupted in a chorus of yelling and clapping, scraming, and of course, my signature move…the high five!

 
 
 

I smiled so much, I thought my cheeks would crack and although I also felt like screaming, I was able to compose myself enough to fulfil my role as judge of the star competition (how apt) and also present the awards for the sports day…I thus stood out the front of a little school somewhere in rural Maharashtra handing out prizes for things such as first in the “frog leap” or “Chilli in Jar”. Shaun was also called upon to award some prizes – invited to the stage as “Madam’s Mr”.

 

 

On the way home, Father Joe offered some seats in the jeep to the school kids who were travelling to Ajra to save them a walk or bus trip. No less than 16 bodies squeezed into every available space and sat on every available lap, and sang Christmas carols at the top of their voice. About ten minutes into the journey, they ran out of songs…so one little girl launched into “Happy Birthday…dear Jesus…”

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!

Hey Bro!

There is a kitten that lives at the green grocers (call it a clever marketing ploy: I buy my vegetables from this shop, specifically for this reason). It hides behind the rockmelon and pounces on your toes with ruthless abandon. It is not unusual to find either Shaun or myself sitting on the floor, in the middle of the shop or crawling behind the onion rack in search of said feline.

Savitha, the lady at the store, always has some sort of commentary about this kitten. “He just finished his milk” or “Today he is ill. Cat Doctor is coming”. We nod and smile and try to reply in our broken Kannada (I want a cat - where is the toilet?)

With the craziness of the silly season upon us, Shaun had to go elsewhere and I went shopping solo. Savitha strayed from her usual cat-inspired conversation.

“Where is your brother today?” She asked as she weighed the potatoes.

My brother? I asked; momentarily confused “You mean my husband; Shaun?! He is at university”

It was her turn to be confused. Husband!?  She leaned over the counter to peer at me sitting sprawled on the floor, kitten in lap. “But…you don’t act married!”

Next time I go shopping, I will have to wear my apron.

Keyboard Aunty

The Hindu Religion has approximately 36 000 000 gods and goddesses. There is Ganesh, the Elephant God who is the over-comer of obstacles, Durga, the fierce goddess who’s transport of choice is the back of a lion, and Lakshmi; the goddess of wealth...Surely amidst the divine ranks there is one who looks after computers and other technological stuff?

Whichever one it is, I am convinced he/she doesn’t like me. Ananya has eight desktop computers, ranging from eleven to six years old. On any given day; we can have anywhere from one to all eight working. There is no rhyme or reason for their temper tantrums. One day, the operating system isn’t working, and the next it is (But I suppose, if you had your power cut on a disturbingly regular basis, were kicked on and off by the toes of tantruming students and forced to store an abundance of terrible 1990s Bolly and Tolly wood music, you probably wouldn’t want to start either).

For someone as technologically illiterate as myself (my usual response to computer issues is: Shhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaauuuuuuuun…fix my computer) I have become surprisingly adept at exposing the inner depths of ancient desktops and flicking and jamming various wires in order to convince a particularly stubborn PC that yes; the class had arrived.

What exactly did I do to qualify for this again?

More often than not, I have to teach computers…without computers.

Which has required a little bit of tweaking to some original party games: There is Left Click, Left Click, RIGHT CLICK! (Cough*Duck-Goose*Cough) and Simon Says: Bold, Italic, or Underline. Red light-Green light has transformed into Right Align-Left Align and the current favourite is BACKSPACE! (Which is basically a glorified version of what’s the Time Mister Wolf?).

If we do, (by some divine provenance), have enough computers running, we all make our letters do what we did outside and turn them bold or Backspace them and eat them all up!  I think the kids enjoy my class (even if Lokesh used the mouse as a numchuck to hit Appu when he wanted a turn), because when I was eating lunch, Kavia walked up to me, put her arms around my waist and, with an angelic smile said: Keyboard Aunty…Computer class?

Mum's the word

I remember as a Kindergartener, giddy after blowing paint through a straw, calling my Kindergarten Teacher “Mum”. Embarrassed, I ran out of the room, only to be enticed back by my Teacher’s kind words “Its ok! It happens all the time…I promise I won’t tell anyone!”

And it’s true. It happens all the time! It is a rite of passage that all Primary school teachers’ must pass.

In computer class, with Kiker group, little Lakshmi; engrossed in her word document, called me over with the word “Mama!” She then stopped, her little hands flew to her face, eyes bulging as she realised what she’d said (suddenly the difference between bold and Italic wasn’t so engrossing).

And with that one innocent, little word, I finally joined the ranks of the teaching profession (Dad: another Mars bar coming your way…)

When her blush had finally died down, I whispered, “It’s ok! It happens all the time…I promise I won’t tell the others!”

Tiger

 
After my Jaipur stint in 2006-7, I solemnly swore I’d learn Hindi, so the next time I came back I would know what was going on. I spent hours in a little table and chair at Eastwood primary school, repeating the 36 consonants and 13 vowels after a wizened old teacher.

Two years later, staying in a rural village of Maharashtra, I introduced myself to the locals, only to be met by blank stares. They didn’t speak Hindi. They spoke Marathi. So it was back to the drawing board; and my hindi morphed into a painful Marathi.

In Bangalore, they don’t speak Hindi or Marathi. They speak Kannada (and just to confuse things more, the proximity of school to the Tamil Nadu boarder means that the dominant language at school is Tamil….with a bit of Telagu thrown in…)

Let’s just be polite and say I am linguistically confused

In Kannada, I know three phrases: Illa (No), taaylet tu ga luelli (Where is the toilet?) and the ultimate: Bayku Beku (I want a cat). All three are incredibly useful in emergency situations.

Despite the fact that I only know how to say “I want a cat”, Savitha at the grocery store may be forgiven for thinking we have a dog. In amongst the bananas, instant dosa mix and custard apples filling my basket, there will sometimes be a bag of Schmakoes.

These are for Tiger, one of the 5 million stray dogs that haunt the streets of Bangalore. Unlike the other 4.99 million, Tiger, happens to live directly outside the Enable Child Office, thus has managed to woo the Australian with her charming puppy grin (sucker!). As soon as I arrive on Tuesday and Wednesday mornings, she bounces over tail wagging, and presents a scraggly ear for a scratch. She will then sit patiently on the door step until I finish class, before accompanying me on the one km walk to the Bus Stop.

Best thing is, it doesn’t matter what language I talk to her in

Sidelined

Bangalore played host to a much awaited Movie Premiere: the Movies made by the girls in the Mobius work skills program!

We arranged for a number of people from various local NGOs to attend, put on a glamorous afternoon tea (of mango juice, chips and biscuits) and each girl had to give a speech about their movie and what they did to make it…then it was show-time!

Each movie was filmed, photographed, scripted and edited from start to finish by each girl. After the first few weeks of teaching, my role was simply facilitating. This means that the final product is a true reflection of their thought patterns and skills. I had nothing to do with it!  

It was amazing to see the girls who were once painfully shy, stand up in front of a room of strangers and talk about something they did themselves. They were seriously glowing with pride.

A poem used to be stuck on a notice board in the World Vision office I worked in when I began my India journey in 2004…I agreed whole heartedly with it, but never really got beyond the words.

Go to the People;

Live among them;

Love them;

Learn from them;

Start from where they are;

Work with them;

Build on what they have.

But of the best leaders,

When the task is accomplished,

The work completed,

The people all remark:

"We have done it ourselves"

Even though the project I worked on was as miniscule as guiding seven teenage girls from a slum use a computer, camera and make a movie on a topic they cared about, it gave them a voice.  All I had to do was sit back and watch them speak – I didn’t have to tell them what to say…they really had “done it ourselves”

Next year, the girls are going to be given a video camera for one week each. During that week, they have to identify an issue in their community that concerns them and make a mini-movie about it

…I will be cheering from the sidelines!

 

Comfort Zone

Who would have thought that Sinterklaas could read Hindi and navigate his way around India?

When I woke up on Sinterklaas morning, my thongs were overflowing with Mars Bars, 5 Stars and an Acrostic Poem (Shaun - I mean SInterklaas - must have listened during the lesson with Champa!).

Now that my ankle has mended (well, almost...but strapping tape fixes all) and the package of strapping tape has arrived, I was able to finally get on the judo mat. Of course, I am the only girl and of course, I am the lightest, but it is so nice just to do something that I am good at!

Over the last five months and twenty-five days, I have been constantly out of my comfort zone. At school I have had to make it up as I go along, at home, when faced with a grumpy and homesick husband I have had to make it up as I go along, in the kitchen, with a zillion ingredients and spices that I don’t recognise, I have had to make it up as I go along…

When I do judo, I don’t have to make it up, I don’t have to guess or think…I just do it and I already know how…

As well as training myself, I coach a group of under 12s. The kids come from a completely different background to those I have been teaching at school, but I must have passed the test, because at the end of the session, one of the little girls came up to me – her belt wrapped around her waist four times and her oversized suit reaching her knees – Can you come back next week to play dodge ball with us?

I solomnly swear judo-skills are required for dodge ball!

At school on Monday, I was so sore I could barely move and little Kavia was most concerned at the mat-burn on my wrists and toes and nose. Try to describe mat-burn to a non-english speaking six year old from the slums of Bangalore...it will definately take you out of your comfort zone!

 

The Bias Bus

Being an Ancient History student, there is no insult that hurts as much as the accusation of “bias”. Bangalore has thus presented me with the ultimate insult: the BIAS bus. Thanks to India’s fascination with acronyms, the bus whose destination is Bangalore International Airport (“S” route) is a BIAS Bus…so I can now spit the Ancient Historian’s equivalent of “on yer bike!”

If only I’d known about Bangalore Busses when I was doing historiography in final year: “Go take a ride on the BIAS Bus!”

Busses in India are a very confusing thing. There are so many levels of etiquette that need to be remembered when getting from A to B. On blue busses, women need to get in the front door and occupy the first six seats, while men need to get in the back door. If the blue bus only has one door, men may sit in the women’s section (but not next to a woman) if there are available seats, but women may not sit in the men’s section, even if there are seats.

On a red bus, however, anything goes.

This means each and every morning, commuters face each other in a deadly battle for available seats. It is not a case of “first in first served” it is simply a free-for-all rush in which multiple people end up sitting on top of each other in a race for parking space. I used to do the nice thing and give up my seat for senior cits or let the person who had been standing for longer take a seat, but threw all manners out the window, when, after standing for one and a half hours (with an obviously injured ankle), I went to sit down, only to be dragged back by my hair. The plait-puller took my intended seat and pretended that nothing had happened.

...Now I am just as Indian as my counterparts so, as soon as I see someone gathering their bags, I move in for the kill. If that fails, I have become incredibly adept at balancing on the baggage rack.

The teachers at school all laugh at me when I stumble in after my two hour commute each morning. According to them, I am more Indian than India…bussing is not something a middle-class Indian house-wife should do.

But as far as I am concerned, their views are biased …

Light helps us to see...

Monday Morning: For the first time in history; Lokesh was present and very much accounted for at 10:30am. He was so accounted for, in fact, that he was standing in the middle of the computer lab, jumping up and down screeching “Computer class! Computer Class!”  He followed it up with an energetic dance from a Tollywood movie.

While we all celebrated for this mini-milestone, he had a gaping wound slashed across his throat. Obviously concerned, each teacher asked him what happened. Three different stories emerged…no one knows quite what to believe.

Normally, I am pretty good with the background of these kids, the come and they go – sometimes they stay for a while, other times they simply breeze in and out. Our job is to do the best we can with the time we have. One day is surely better than nothing at all (?)

...but this incident made me cold all over. Who knows what will happen to the scrawny, bald boy performing tamil dances in the middle of my classroom?

Such is the weekly change in the student demographic that when a new student arrives, I barely blink. I actually have a spare exercise book for this regular occurrence. So when a young boy arrived in my Champa class, I asked his name, and continued with my lesson.

This week, the theme is “Light” so I was doing a lesson in which we brainstormed everything we knew about light as a class and then used our collective ideas to write an acrostic poem. I offered Prassana the workbook, but he shook his head and pulled out an English exercise book. Slowly and painstakingly, step-by-step, he was guided through the work with the help of Shaun (who had bunked uni to come to school). Shaun was flabbergasted: “he has no imagination! - he copied the board work quickly, but was unable to do any independent thinking!”

This is a dilemma I have been faced with since my first encounter with an Indian classroom. Working with these kids consistently over the past six months has allowed me to push them ever so gently towards independent thinking, creativity and thinking outside the box – the result is an ability to write their own acrostic poem, as opposed to copying one I wrote. This kid was obviously fresh from a government school – give him a month or so and he’d have found him feet.

Of course, a day at Ananya cannot be complete without drama. While I knew he was fresh from a Government school, I didn’t realise exactly how fresh. Turns out he’d actually started the day at the Government school, had fought with the teacher and ended up jumping out the window, shimmying down the drainpipe and appeared in my classroom forty minutes later.

The situation was thankfully mediated and he went back to his school (I feel sorry for his English teacher who is going to find a mindmap, acrostic poem and smiley face stamp in his workbook the next time she marks it!)

One result of the poem:

Light helps us to see

In the darkness

Growing plants

Helping us to study in the night

Torch