India Travels

The scary train ride home

January 25, 2004

I have not finished my notes on the Mumbai World Social Forum, so will end my uploading with my train ride home from Mumbai to Chennai.

The same rules apply; I must turn up at Victoria Terminus and request a move from the waitlist if I am to travel home. I turn up on the morning of the 21st, and learn I am number 18 on the list. Come back at 6:30 PM. In the meantime I hire a car with a great English-speaking driver and take the tour of Mumbai, or Bombay, depending on how happy you were to see the name change. I have learned the vote is still out in Bombay/Mumbai.

It is great fun to go to all those old places that I remember. I still feel out of place in the Taj Hotel, and am reminded by the touts that I still have not gone to Elephant Island off the Gateway to India. We drive by Juhu beach, no longer white-only, and Chowpatty, downtown. We go to Malabar Hill and Cumballa Hill. We canot find the Parsee Tower of Silence. I see many Municipal Gardens, including one where the vines are trained to grow around wire forms of a giraffe, elephant, horse, cow, dog, rhino and other animals. I have lunch at the hotel where my mom and I used to stay when she would travel into Bombay. The staff welcomes me as I walk in, doubtless thinking I might take a room. When I state my purpose and my 40-year history, one man smiles, “Welcome back”. The lobby has been doubled in size, I recognize this and so am offered a tour of all the changes. The dining room is just the same. In small measure we can sometimes go back . . .

The tour of Mumbai includes two art galleries. In the National Gallery of Modern Art I see the outstanding work of M.F. Hussein, an 80-year-old Indian painter from Kerela, one of India’s greatest painters. I am spellbound. The canvasses span four galleries, going up the spiral staircase one can still see the works on the floors below. Hussein’s treatment of women is so gentle, his modern work so accessible. I love his black and whites, and the sepia canvasses; the colours pull me, too. I buy a book to show my friend Trisha on my return - and perhaps to take apart, frame painting by painting, and hang in my long hallway. I end my tour at Victoria Terminus.

I have returned, as required, at 6:30PM, but no room is to be had on the 8:30 PM train, the one that travels to Chennai in 24 hours. Not to worry, they can squeeze me on the 11:30 PM, 36 hour train. No ma’am, there are no first class cars being on the train. Imagine my delight.

I make it to Dadar on the local train, and wait, with the cockroaches, in the semi-darkness. A couple of young men agree to tell me when the Chennai train stops. Other trains roar by, disturbing the cockroaches, perhaps making them fly?

Finally, the Chennai train pulls in; there are people on it. I see this, although I am at the back of the queue, where I usually seem to land. The young men are at the front, waving me forward. I ought to have been pushier, because it does not begin here, the train will only stay in the station for minutes. I get closer to the doors, and grip the handle to take myself up. The train begins to slowly leave the station. I step, preparing to lift my other foot onto the train, and the platform disappears. The concrete has broken away and I fall into the gaping hole left behind. The train picks up speed as I grab the other handle and look at the shouting men above. They grab my arms, men below grab my hips and legs, with a huge heave I am on the floor of the train. Still sitting, I turn to wave thankfully at the men fading on the platform, then allow myself to be gingerly picked up. These men saved my life. I would not have made it under the train with my backpack. We are all a little breathless; I’m a bit teary. Very bruised, I can feel it already. The conductor arrives to take me to my bench and I murmur inadequate words to my saviours as he leads me away. My berth is the lower one, on the wall, with windows. I learn later he gave me his own choice spot. In my bunk I don’t want to think about my escape. Not my time. Not meant to be. Exhausted, I fall asleep.

And wake to the shouts and shrieks of hundreds of people boarding the train, wave after wave, car after car. I am looking out my window with disbelief. In no time I share my lower berth with three men, one woman, my luggage and the people leaning backwards into the berth, trying to find a resting place on my back. I don’t think I can breathe, and I panic. I get the window open,
Breathe deeply, push the standing people more upright and hunker down, knees to chin, in a corner. Surely these are tribal people going to work, and will leave at the next stop. They seem happy for people going to work, and they are a diverse age group. Hopefully, I decide it must be quite an industrial center to which they travel. Lots of varied employment. I keep waiting for them to leave for work, struggling to stop folks from sitting on me, breathing deeply but not sufficiently, for just over two hours. Suddenly, they are gone. Coffee arrives. The sun is up. I am confused. Who were those people anyway?

I learn they were indeed tribal people, being ‘trained-in’ for a huge political rally; it is election time in India. They are paid Rs. 100 for their time, given food and free travel. No wonder they sounded happy. No wonder they brought the kids. By now it is about 7:30 AM, eight hours down and just twenty-eight to go. Lalith was definitely right, and I shall remember.

The great train adventure

January 13th, 2004 @4:00 AM

SOUTHERN RAILWAY Computerised Reservation Centre, Third Floor, Vilivakum

I hope to travel to Mumbai tomorrow for the World Social Forum , but my ticket is waitlisted. In order to purchase a ticket I must queue up at the centre and hope. Mr. Daniel picks me up in the Mahindra at 4:00 AM; the whole family is awake as doors must be unlocked before I can leave. He drives me to the Station, telling me that Madras is an industrial center for the construction of railway cars. Lalith meets me and we proceed to fill 31/2 hours.

There is a coffee stand nearby, doing a brisk business in the early morning. The coffee is great and the service friendly. We walk, and talk about Lalith's career plans. With a two year diploma and five yeas experience in hotel management/cooking, he wants to get out of India and make real money in the West. He wants to see the world. I wonder if he could work on a cruise ship. But there is no money in that, and he wants to go to the West. By the time we are finished exploring all the options he sees it is not going to happen. He will continue to work towards long-term employment in India. The West does look like a place of glorious opportunity to these young people - I remind them of the jobs we are outsourcing to India, and about the high unemployment in the West.

We take pictures, drink more coffee, and finally it is 7:15. AM. Time to return to our place in the queue; the doors open at 7:30.

At 7:50 AM the five ticket wickets still display their large, wooden 'Closed' signs. Staff huddle at the back of the long counter, by the chief reservation supervisor's desk. An elderly woman wields a duster; I smile to see her routinely tipping up the computers to gather any remaining motes. The reservation hall buzzes with quiet conversation as about 100 women and men, five of whom were here when Lalith arrived at 3:30 AM, sit waiting for their reservation opportunity.

The windows open, the first five dash to the counter. Lalith waits with barely concealed excitement. We are number 6. He asks for my passport and I give it to him; he will organize my ticket. He confirms again, in disbelief, that I want to travel second class with Scotty. I go with him to the counter and listen as he fills in one form to cancel the waitlisted ticket and another to arrange the purchase of a reserved one - all in Tamil of course. Only when the agent informs me I must pay an additional Rs. 1060, above the ticket price of Rs. 365, do I realise that Lalith is booking me into 1st Class, no mater what. By tomorrow I'll know if he was right; for now I finish the ticket negotiations, buy Lalith breakfast, and have a great ride back through early morning traffic - on the back of his motorbike. Wish I owned a scooter.

These are the preferred method of travel in Chennai for singles, families and businessmen. The roadways are filled with lorries and autorickshaws, taxis and motorbikes. There are comparatively few cars in Chennai, the poorest of the four big cities. I see whole families - women and two children perched on the front of the scooter - dad reaching far forward to grasp the handlebars. Other times I will see a mom on the back of the bike, with a small child standing on the seat, pressed firmly between herself and her husband, small smiling face squished but happy. Back to the train . . .

January 14th, 2004

Up at 4:30 AM to make the 6:50 train to Bombay - a stretch after yesterday. On the way to Chennai Central Station by commuter train, we see little fires everywhere; garbage and old stuff that is no longer needed burning, in preparation for the weeklong Pongol or Harvest Festival. These Bhogi fires were declared illegal some years ago, but tradition holds, burning old rubbish to make way for the new. At least they no longer burn tires, says Giftson. This celebration of the sweet rice harvest, and gratitude to the sun, lasts for a week. I am happy to travel to the WSF but sorry to miss Pongal, the most important festival in Tamil Nadu.

I'm glad to strap on my backpack as we leave the city train and head for Track 7 in Central. Without those hot Canadian showers I must find other ways to care for my long back

Scotty booked her ticket early and will travel in a women's car, 2nd class; I'm in the rush seats, same class, with many, many men. I feel so white and ever so female as I work my way to my seat. I see I'm in the middle part of the five foot long padded bench - neither a window nor an aisle seat. The train car seems over-full, except where I sit alone on my bench; two men across from me. This is okay. Then, two minutes before departure, a family of six joins us; young parents with four children aged 2 - 10. As I move over for them I note the blessing; I have a window seat and window that opens. I also wonder how on earth I thought I could do this 24 + hour trip in 2nd class? I'm a long way from 16, when I last traveled those 3rd class Indian trains.

The train car is a circus. Every two to three minutes a man goes by calling out for coffee or chai customers; others offer a variety of foodstuffs, and kids offer shoeshines, snapping their wooden brushes. I will be glad of the many services in the next 24 hours.

The car is set up with facing five foot benches on one side of the aisle, single seats across. On my set of benches there are three cell phones, all ringing imperatively. Mine is silent, and if it was not, how could I tell, in the chorus of ring tones? People shout to one another, children laugh and cry, and the train roars over the tracks.

The PC is more interesting than I, and for the moment it gives me a reason to keep my eyes down. I find it an absorbing challenge to keep the wireless keyboard balanced on my desk; an open novel sitting facedown on my lap. Gives new definition to laptop.

Eventually the coffee calls become siren songs, and as I shut down the PC I can't miss the intense interest of the man beside me. I open it to 'Programs' and hand him the device, with the tapper. He and several others open and close files and programs until they have a sense of the capacity, then return it to me with smiles. Never am I so happy to not be carting a laptop then when people enquire about the cost - which is always, of course. I am ready for the question; Rs. 10,000. Not bad, we all agree.

Aruna packed me a wonderful breakfast in two metal containers; steamed buns called idly, with yogurt chutney, and curried rice with carrots and nuts. How quickly she adapted to my picky food preferences - it is days since I have seen the dreaded greens. How comforting is to unpack my Indian containers on the train and eat with ease, without the use of my left hand. More smiles. Laughing kids. I take their picture, but do not show them the digital screen. I have found it becomes an endless source of amusement for others, and a make work project for me. I am offered a newspaper, The Hindu Times. The man who showcased the PC returns to his seat with a newspaper cone of spicy puffed rice for me. Funny how quickly one can begin to feel a little like part of the company.

16/01/04

Two days later, now in Mumbai at the World Social Forum, finishing off the train post. Too many opportunities presented to meet fellow passengers, so the PC stayed in my bag.

The last 12 hours, or Survival on the Chennai Express:

Towards evening, Scotty came to take me for dinner in her car. Our timing was terrible. Many local people, just off work I guess, boarded the Millrun Express to travel just a few stops. Scotty plowed forward, car after car, but eventually I could not squeeze through one more group of men clustered by the doors. With the grace of a gazelle [I think] and the purpose of an Amazon, I swung myself one handed up the ladder and onto a top bunk. Amazing what we can do when we are squeezed . . .

Eventually I head forward again, but stopp when I hear a group of young men lustily singing hymns in 4/4 time. Turns out they are from the Madras Christian School of Social Work, taking their first year of two towards a MSW. Classes include all the usual, lots of human development and communication skills. Coursework sounds quite clinical, yet these men want to do CD. They are tired of communications. I learn later from a social work grad that many of the texts are Western, and most are 20 years old. This speaks to the clinical focus. I'm invited to the School. BSW students at UCC are invited to the 4th annual International Human Rights Conference; all student-organized. This year the focus is health and human rights. The brochure they give me looks good. Eventually when I get my papers together Michael will receive an extra copy of the conference brochure - for our students.

Eventually it is time to sleep, and the middle berths are set up; I am in a middle berth. With my head on my backpack I close my eyes and fall into something like sleep, until the cold forces me to find something to wrap around myself. With few options I wrap myself in the 6' by 3' scarf from my beautiful new salwar kameez. As I lay back down on the unsanitary bench I think of Lalith; perhaps he was right.

At 4 AM the coffee run begins again - I croak 'yes' -and down two cups in a row. The chill recedes. Two hours later, as the train approaches Mumbai, the seller of coffee brings me a comment card. I think it might be because am a foreigner, but no, it is because I drank the most coffee in my car. Maybe in all the cars?

The train pulls into Dadar Station , Bombay, early in the morning of the 15th - and I walk half a block to the Midtown Pritam Hotel; it's rooftop sign calling me forward. I chat with the concierge, am invited to clean up in the marble washroom - a lengthy process after the train - and have a huge breakfast, built around a cheese omelette. Classical music plays - heaven.

[January 21, 2004. As I edit the above I am sitting once again at Dadar station in Mumbai. The WSF is over and I am waiting to return to Chennai. There are bugs running back and forth at my feet. Two inches long. Half an inch wide. Coloured. I ask what they are - cockroaches. Nothing could so well express my impression of India as a country of awesome divergence. No music plays as I fight to control my full-body reaction, walking slowly away from the bugs, swallowing.]

I get a reasonable rate from a taxi to take me to Goregon, suburb of Mumbai and site of the WSF. I will remember that long trip for Rs. 250 many times in the days to come, as I bargain with the three-wheel bandits for rates to and from my hotel. Suggested charges range from Rs 120 to Rs 250. I know the regular rate is Rs 80. I do not like this face of India; I come to dread the night ride home, when noone is there to bargain with me.

Goregon is a roll through memory lane. The Manager of the New Zealand Hostel takes me through, and wonders if I remember where I stayed. In answer to my ‘second door, left-hand side’ he shows me the apartment where I stayed with my sister and parents. Sadly, there are no rooms. In fact, there may be no rooms in all of Mumbai. After an hour of phoning on my own, I begin to feel a little scared . . . and reluctantly call for help.

Thank goodness for my dear friend Cyrus, who enlists the help of his travel agent. Five hours later I am on my way to the Lakshmi Palace, in Dahisar. Dahisar is a twenty minute auto rickshaw ride from the WSF. I may be at the best location in town. Lucky me.

The Palace is a budget hotel and worker's lodging facility, across from a dairy. It is unbelievably noisy. It is also clean, has a good kitchen, helpful young staff [all men, of course], and a great bathroom. There is no water shortage in Mumbai and my many hot showers in the days to come will be true luxury. My earplugs take care of the noise at night.

I am enormously grateful to have a bed, and I fall into it, exhausted by the past 36 hours and excited about tomorrow, the start of the WSF.

Home, Sweet Home

Starated January 8th, 2004
Final edit and comments January 25th

Eventually Scotty arrives at IWDI to take me home. We load into a motorized rickshaw, no small feat with my considerable luggage, and soon arrive at her home. Her mother, Aruna, father Ebenezer and brother Giftson are all on hand to greet me. Giftson was the second born, a son, a gift, so named.

I am ushered into a huge bedroom, bed with futon mattress, typically firm Indian pillow, and a Western bathroom with a toilet and shower. The only sink for handwashing is in the dining room. Scotty explains that in the home there are two bathrooms, one Indian style and one Western. In this home there is one bath for women [attached to the room I have] and one for men. While I am here this family of four adults will share one bath. My protests are in vain, although a time or two Scotty has slipped in for a shower.

The second floor apartment has a main living/dining/TV room, small attached kitchen that is a marvel of efficiency and organization, and a bedroom off each side of the main room. As I slumber in stately splendor, Scotty, her mom and brother sleep on mats in the other room. Her father, Ebeneezer, wraps himself up and sleeps on the rattan couch in the living room. To say I am greatly inconveniencing this family out does not begin to capture the reality. Yet they seem genuinely happy to have me here; they include me in family discussions and as many activities as possible.

Aruna plies me with coffee. She is the only family member who does not speak English, so the making of coffee and tasting the delicious food she prepares becomes the vehicle for our conversations. She worries that I don't eat my vegetables; I think of my friend Bob and tell her she is in good company. Gradually I gain purchase in the kitchen, washing dishes and occasionally heating milk for coffee. Aruna fears that I will blow up the two element propane counter-stove in my efforts to light the burner. She may not be far wrong, and I am excruciatingly careful.

The food is splendid. Great rice, often served with a delicious lentil soup. Since my arrival carrots and an increased number of potatoes have appeared in the soup, as the greens recede. Dhosa, a 12 inch, very thin crepe, graces the table at any of the three meals, as do chapatis. Pre-formed and very thin chapati rounds, that look a bit like wonton wrappers, are purchased pre-made and quickly deep fried. When served they are crisp and airy, a big potato chip, only better. Side dishes accompany all meals; onions in yoghurt, spicy sauces and chutneys, ground grains gently spiced and reputed to be good for digestion. A treat is a marvellous purple flour dish. It begins as a rice-like grain which is taken to a local miller and coarsely ground in a grinder used only for this grain. Once on the table it is mixed with clarified butter, called ghee, and sugar. Delicious.

Today after lunch I made myself a rice pudding with still-hot rice, boiled milk and sugar. Just like home. Everyone boils the milk in India, which is a great thing for a foreigner - one less disease opportunity to worry about. I drink chai and coffee at street stalls, on the train and at home, because of the boiling. And I eat the most delicious oranges I have ever tasted, grown on hill stations in India and so tender and juicy. I am becoming adept at separating the segments, de-seeding and eating them, all with my right hand. I live in a traditional Indian home where all food is consumed with the right hand. Left handed, I find it becomes easier all the time to bring my right hand to my plate. The first week, I sat on my left hand unless wielding a fork.

Aruna and Ebenezer are my age; she teaches grade two at a Tamil school an hour's travel from her home; tomorrow I will accompany her to the school for the flag launching ceremony, to celebrate Republic Day. Ebenezer is retired. He has given his machining business over to his son, but stays involved in the accounting and sourcing raw materials. The business employs two people, one large man and one 15 year old boy who has finished his first level schooling. Scotty was against his hiring but he begged for the job; ready to leave school and begin to support his family. Giftson mutters about child labour. I look abouut. The four machines in the narrow shop are antiquated, but there is no investment money to upgrade. Meantime, the business is doing enough work. There are several regular customers for the spare machine parts Giftson produces. As I leave the shop I wonder how long this cottage industry can continue to support a family of four and the two employees. We walk across the street to the family home, and Scotty tells me her brother does the work of two men to keep the business going. It is Saturday night, and this mid-twenties charmer plans to work thru the night, completing a rush order.

In the evenings, I join in the family discussions. Last night a 61 year old feminist social worker was discussing violence against women with a TV talk-show host. The host wondered if there are realy more rapes in India, or just more reporting. She reminded him of the growing population and increased violence. He wondered about provocative dress. She educated him about dress. They agreed on the lack of police intervention and the inability of the courts to bring these violent men to justice. She called him a social activist for exposing these problems on his show and gently brought him on side - until she came to the issue of dowry. Dowry was not to be discussed; the host was visibly distressed that she would attempt such a topic.

When the show ended Scotty talked about the evils of dowry, and how her decision not to marry will help her parents avoid the hell of amassing sufficient bride price funds. She tells me her brother will refuse dowry from his bride, but this will make him look quite strange. He laughs and agrees. Ebenezer, a soft voiced and gentle man, offers that in a world with many evils, surely dowry is not so great an evil. He tells me that in his arranged marriage to Aurna, he only accepted Rs 1,000. This was money she would bring to and use within the marriage. As well, he says, dowry is often the only way a woman can claim her inheritance. Scotty is fuming, arguing that her father is so wrong. Too soon they look at me; I am on uneasy ground.

Ebenezer and I agree that dowry or bride price was a good thing when he and his wife married. We talk about the importance of a woman having her own money in a marriage, how this can be empowering. I share a bit of what I learned at the WSF, in a workshop calld 'The Changing Face of Dowry'. Presenters told us that in an insecure, globalized world, dowry seems like a 100% security device for husbands and their families. Dowry practices have resulted in the extreme commodification of women; as global expectations rise and real earnings fall, marriage becomes a lucrative business. Husbands use threats of divorce or murder to coerice more dowry from his wife's family after the marriage. Wives are sent back home to ask for even more money; for a bribe for a better job, for wanted resources, for whatever her husband and family decide. Sometimes she flees to her home, only to be returned by her family. They are unwilling to look foolish in their community. If a man makes good on his threats, and murders his wife, he can remarry, and collect another bride price.

Ebenezer does not want to think about these atrocities; they are outside his Christian belief system. He changes the subject. Scotty is vibrating. I have little to add to what I know will be a continuing discussion, so I smile at everyone and bid them good night. In this fourth generation Christian household I am privileged to be included in the collision of deeply imbedded cultural values with the newer ideals of social justice. It is sort of like watching India refine its democracy. How lucky I am that this family accepts me so thoroughly.

Integrating at IWDI

January 8th and onward, 2004

I leave the hotel on the morning of the 8th, armed with a good night's sleep and an address that has no meaning whatsoever. The taxi travels for miles, to a cacophony of horns and roaring motors. The pollution is just as thick as promised by Fodor; some motorcyclists cover their mouths and noses with bandannas.

We close in on IWDI, the Integrated Women's Development Institute, and begin to collect addresses in closer and closer approximations. Suddenly we arrive in front of a narrow, two story building sporting an IWDI sign - success! The yellow edifice with an exterior staircase is nearly hidden behind the huge India-built jeep, the Mahindra, that sits in front. Eventually I learn that this beautiful piece of machinery belongs to IWDI. Wow. Much shouting from the taxi driver, to determine if I have indeed arrived at the correct location, brings the IWDI crew.

We begin with a tour of the lower floor; one room with a bed, a toilet with shower, a library room with some papers in boxes, and what appears to be a meeting room. We sit, and meet one another.

Mr. Daniel is the social worker, married to Celinal, IWDI’s Executive Director. He tells me, with some translation help, that he social works 24 hours a day, setting up self help groups [SHG's] to foster income generation programs for women. I learn that IWDI has set up 68 SHG's in
Chennai and an amazing 300 in the nearby rural areas. The state government of Tamil Nadu began a small loan program for women in the 1980's, and eventually the administration of this highly successful program moved to NGO's such as IWDI.

In and around Chennai the main group of women served are Dalit women, who live in the slums and struggle for survival for themselves and their families. They are mainly street vendors ready to become small entrepreneurs. Self employment offers escape from the lowest and dirtiest work in India, long proscribed for Dalits - the Hindu untouchable caste. Casteism still flourishes in India, despite the fact untouchability was outlawed in this democractic country in 1957.

Next I meet Mr. Jagannathan, the project officer and proposal writer. Mr. J.'s position is somewhat unclear to me, but it lies in that murky zone between volunteer and contract worker. Lalith, the final man to be introduced, has a certificate in hotel management, five years hotel experience, but no current hotel employment prospects. He is the cook-trainer for IWDI's SHG's.

The women in the office are: Sasicala, a young, bright, recently hired computer operator; her English is very good and she quickly becomes my office politic interpreter. Bagam is the group worker; she has the warm smile and approachable look of someone who works well with people. Sunathy is introduced as the office admin assistant; it will be her job to cater to my every need. No kidding. Sunathy also teaches embroidery and needlework to women in the SHG's.

Some days later I learn that Sunathy also works in the Daniel's home, cooking, cleaning and caring for their three year old adopted child. She is a busy women; I make it a point to have no needs. In a conversation with the three women I talk about the concept of colleagues. They indicate cautious agreement, but I wonder how well Sasi’s translation worked. Later that day I receive three dinner invitations for when I return from Mumbai - I look forward to time with these women, away from the office and on their ground.

Back to the day of my arrival. It becomes clear during the meeting that Mr. D. hopes/expects that I will stay at IWDI's facility and eat at the Daniel's home. I do my best to express my gratitude while explaining that Jagriti already arranged a place with Maryam Scotlin, who I really should call.

We move upstairs to a small, dark office, walls covered from floor to ceiling with resource materials, the long back wall housing four computers. There is a small area at the front door where women are received when they come to enquire about or report progress in the SHG's. Beside this area is a tiny glassed-in office. Here is where I sit, while the fans blast cool air in the main area; once more protected from the chill in Chennai. After a couple of days this room becomes my office, complete with a desk and computer with internet access. I have learned that female staff in the office do not have internet access, so I explain that the Jagriti Foundation prefers that I use cybercafes. But there is little to do right now, so I download pics from my new Canon. This does not require any internet service and it provides great opportunities to chat with the women. Works well for me, too - eventually I hope to get my pics named and on my web site.

For five days I arrive each morning at IWDI, and I do a lot of sitting in that office, mainly with Sasi. She interprets the office happenings for me. Celinal Daniel, the executive director, is not at the office - her mother passed away very suddenly, the day before I arrived. I visit her a couple of times in her nearby home, express my condolences and agree that my program will not start until I return from the World Social Forum in Mumbai. I don't worry about leaving Chennai because while I am gone the office will be closed for the weeklong Pongal [harvest] holiday and then India's Republic Day, on January 26th. I hope to begin my time with IWDI in earnest on January 27th. I am eager to visit the projects managed by IWDI.

So far I have noticed that, like many organizations in Canada that employ both women and men, the men direct the activity of this office. They do so while assuring me that I am in a women-directed organization, with a female ED and board. I think of my colleagues in all-women agencies in Kamloops, and their affirmation that the all-women office maintains program integrity. How much more difficult it is for women's groups in India, where the roots of patriarchy are endless, to engage in true women-directed agency work. I look forward to seeing the dynamic when Celinal returns to the office.

Chennai: City of Care

Written: January 7th, 2004

Chennai airport can't hold a candle to the Singapore airport in terms of ambience and cleanliness, but for courtesy and caring, it may be unparalleled. I arrive at midnight and my first impression is that the temperature is cooler and the humidity much less intense than it was in Singapore. Nice.

It is winter in Chennai. The temp is a pleasant 27 to 30C during the day, and at night I sleep with a light blanket. People have trouble believing I find the weather comfortable; wherever I arrive ceiling fans are turned up to high and, in vehicles, air conditioners blast icy streams 'til I plead for mercy. Some days I chuckle at the image of freezing in India.

At the airport, other impressions - extreme noise; blaring horns audible throughout the barn-like customs shed; hospital green walls; many, many people and long lines to exit customs.

Part way up this line I realize I do not have a customs form; once I get one I find it extremely detailed, and I wonder who could possibly want all this information. But I remember from before - Indians love their forms. The agent glances at my passport, finishes the form for me, smiles and waves me off to the luggage carousel and the taxis.

It is necessary to engage a prepaid taxi from the airport. Hotel reservations are also available. Because I arrived at midnight I did not expect to be met, so I already picked out a Fodor's budget hotel on the plane. I skip the hotel reservations service at the airport. Bad mistake.

The young man working with taxi reservations gives me a slip of paper, offers to direct me to the correct taxi, carries my backpack and cheerfully helps the driver load my [heavy] bag.

We careen through Chennai to the chosen hotel - for a short while caught behind another, 'slower' taxi. His hand continuously beep-beeping the horn and his foot pressed relentlessly on the gas, the driver jockeys for position. On the two-lane highway we slip unscathed between three huge lorries, and emerge to find a narrow space in the curb lane - just wide enough to pass that pesky taxi, with a flourish of beeps. Previously unaware of feeling concerned, I find myself clutching the taxi-slip paper; my talisman.

Most of the many lorries heading into Chennai this early morning are carrying water. Chennai has been in the grip of a terrible drought for four to five years [about as long as that in Saskatchewan . . . ]. The lorries are carrying fresh water for bathing and drinking. Polluted saline water comes from the taps and is okay for some clothes washing and for some bathing, but not the face and hair. I will learn to wash my extremities with saline, rinse with fresh water.

Gaily painted signs on the bumpers of the lorries invite other drivers to "SOUND HORN". One wonders if the invitation is just a courteous recognition of reality.

Eventually we arrive at my chosen hotel; alas, it is full. The Paediatrician's Convention is in town. My driver takes me to another hotel - also full. His third try is lucky, and I am so grateful for his kindness. He does not even suggest rupees above the set amount from the airport, and seems pleased when I pay what I think is the extra.

I am in what he assures me is a budget hotel; the price is budget but the place looks elegant. The room registration form includes my mother's maiden name. I don't bat an eye.

I head for my room with the help of the bellman. After he leaves, I look around: marble floors, a fully marble bathroom, cable TV, armchairs with gold fleur-de-lis on red satin, tables, twin beds, extra blankets. I am ready and grateful for the luxury. In the bathroom a 5 gallon pail and dipper mutely reminds me of the drought, and I have the first of what I know will be many sponge baths.

I'm safe, I'm in India, and tomorrow I'll find the home where I will live for the next two months. Tonight I am just grateful to be clean and in bed.

Singapore: The Lion City

I left Singapore on the 7th and have tried many cybercafes – none can sync my Pocket PC to a computer. So I will transcribe my notes from Singapore, and will eventually find a way to upload all my other writing! My friend Arjun has put me in touch with a computer genius in Chennai and I hope to meet him soon. Arjun also mentioned that I must not rub it in that I am okay with this temperate climate as you are freezing. I agree, but I only meant to say I was not boiling; lucky me.

Tomorrow I leave for Mumbai/Bombay, to attend the World Social Forum with my friend and homestay host, Maryam Scotlin. Scotty is Jagriti Foundation Bridging Worlds Leader, and as I get to know her I can certainly see why. She is so brilliant and articulate – her feminist social analysis is a treat to hear. We have grand conversations. She offered to take me with her to the Forum, and I am most grateful. We leave tomorrow morning by second class train on a trip that will take about 36 hours.

This year the Forum meets for the first time outside of Brazil, where it began four years ago. Member countries came together to expose the outrages of global capitalism in 1999, and they continue to meet and reflect. If you want to read more, you can visit their website at http://www.wsfindia.org/.

On a very personal note, the Forum will be held in a field near Goregon, on the outskirts of Bombay. Imagine my surprise to read that bit of news on the web - Goregon is where I lived when I was in India 40 years ago. There is not a hotel room left in Bombay, but I hope to find a bed at the Aarey Milk Colony, in the New Zealand Hostel, where I stayed with my family. If all else fails, my old friend Cyrus Desai, and his wife Aban, will put me up, but they live 35 km. from the site.

More to follow on the Forum . . .

My first clue on arriving in Singapore was the paper Visa printed “ Warning: Death to drug dealers in Singapore.” This is not a city to be treated lightly. There is a $300 fine for selling gum or dropping a cigarette on the street. Other fines are higher for more serious crimes such as spitting. Signs on the street implore people to not spit. All this results in a very clean city – deep wells beside curbs catch most leaves and paper, and even the canals have very little debris. Given the number of such laws, I was surprised to see only two police officers during my two days in Singapore – both in vehicles.

I took the Singapore city tour, of course, and learned some interesting facts: the population of this tiny island is 4.1 million people – 70% Chinese, 17% Malay and 7% Indian. The language of commerce is English, but the national language is Malay, in recognition of the country to which Singapore previously belonged. Singapore gained independence from England in 1963 by joining with Malaysia, and became truly independent in 1965.

80% of Singapore’s population lives in government-subsidized housing. To qualify for housing people must be married – otherwise young adults live at home, or leave Singapore to work in other countries.

Neighborhood schools are government funded and attendance is regulated by law. Well- to-do families have the option to send their children to private schools. Approaching one on by city bus I thought the track facility must mean I would pass a university. It was the Singapore Chinese Girls Secondary School.

One taxi driver, retired from the police, said he must work in Singapore, such a busy city, or he will die. He lamented the age discrimination against older workers that forces them into involuntary retirement, making room for younger workers.

Using that unfailing instinct of police everywhere, he pointed out an old Indian woman who he said was coming into the downtown core to beg for the day. She takes a taxi into her area, reads palms for the day, purchases necessities for her family, and returns home at night. I asked about poverty in Singapore, and he said while it is evident in some areas, no one is homeless. I asked about the signs in employment agency windows, promising Philippino, Indonesian and Malay maids for a redemption fee of S$$388. These young women come to Singapore to work for two years, attempt to save enough money to go home and start a business. At the end of two years they must leave, whether they have earned sufficient money or not. The driver said these women lead horrible lives; often working for not one, but three or four families. His concern for these abuses was genuine and his wish to create change was evident. His was one of my last encounters before I headed to the airport.

Like most things in Singapore the airport is spotless, ambient, and runs on oiled wheels. Waiting for my plane to Chennai I had dinner at a Japanese restaurant, where sushi and other goodies kept rolling past on a mini conveyor belt at the counter – a metaphor for how Singapore showcases herself.

In Singapore I bought a tiny Canon camera and my first ever cell phone. Pics will follow someday – they are downloaded on another computer, waiting for me to name them and post to my website. This all takes such a lot of time, it seems . . .

My phone number, should you have a moment to call, is 91 44 98400 81172. So far I have had two calls, and disconnected both attempting to answer them. The book on how to set up various services is in English, but might as well be in Tamil. Without Michael or my boys to guide me through the technology, I struggle through the manuals. Now I know why I have avoided them all these years.

For those people who I know will call, when it is 7:00 PM in BC it is 8:30 AM in Chennai. And now I must run. More interesting posts follow, someday . . . For now, it is sufficient to say I am having a safe, happy and very wonderful time. People are kind, helpful, interested and ever-respectful. I believe it is true, Mickey – I was meant to come to India.

Ready, set ...

Over Christmas I ate and 'travel shopped' with great girlfriends in Calgary, spent New Year's Eve with my delightful mother in Victoria, and am now at my last stop, Vancouver, for a few days with sons Chris and Shawn. Chris bought me a HUGE Samsonite suitcase for the trip - what fun it was to pack that with tons of stuff. The wheels will make airport negotiation a breeze, even after a 17 hour flight. I wonder how I thought I would manage with my beautiful flea market find - an old maroon Samsonite. It is still useful; I will pack all my winter gear home to Connie.

Two days 'til I fly to Singapore, where I'll spend three days sightseeing/recovering from jet-lag, then hop a short flight to India. During the day I drift between somewhat scared and guardedly excited. At night my vivid dreams shift from crowd scenes and no bottled water to personal safety and physical protection. Awake, I wonder about my limited knowledge, and if I will be useful to the two NGO's that graciously agreed to act as my hosts. My task is to learn about their operation and outreach, then work with a team to write funding proposals/develop proposal writing workshops. Most of the new suitcase is taken up with books and articles on grant writing! Many thanks to Dodie and Linda for sharing their resources.

For those of you who don't know, I will spend January and February in Chennai [Madras] and April, May, June in Bangalore. Both are in southern India and have rich spiritual and cultural histories. I look forward to weekend mini-trips. In March I will travel north to Dharamsala, the exile home of HH the Dalai Lama, where His Holiness will teach from March 6 to 18th. I bought a tiny FM radio with headphones, for the English translation. It is cold in northern India in March, but I will wear a long and lovely blue woolen gown, whipped up by my friend Saskia one afternoon before Christmas. Amazing, yes?

To all my amazing friends, may this year bring you a few dreams come true and some challenges that keep you engaged. I hope you will write me brief email notes, so I can keep up with the goings-on at home. I will answer emails, post to this webpage and send the odd postcard. Bob, you will smile to know you were right - snail mail is quite quick. The letters of introduction I sent to universities in India, sometime in mid-December, already arrived ... I opened an email yesterday, from the University of Madras, inviting me to meet the faculty, give a guest lecture, and generally get acquainted. Nice.

All my warmest wishes to you for 2004, Jane