Before I came here, I was told that living and working in Kolkata would be a challenge. Well, it has but not in the way I expected. Things that shouldn’t pose any difficulty to me are causing me a lot of frustration lately. Things like my phone for example. Seeing as I started a rant about my phone last week, I might as well continue. I hate phones. I hate phones that don’t work even more. What could be worse than a phone that doesn’t work? How about a phone that half works? My phone can make and receive phone calls. It gets text messages but can’t read them because the screen has stopped working. People are actually starting to feel sorry for me. Perhaps this is a good thing. It’ll teach me not to carry my phone around when washing paintbrushes after a hard day’s work. Yes, I have come to India to paint. As another volunteer said, “I do what I’m told.” One of the projects needed a good cleaning and a lick of paint. The chicken coop also needed to be moved out of the playground. It sounded simple in theory. Naturally, it wasn’t. Before knocking the chicken coop, we had to build a new one or else the poultry would be eaten by the “white cats.” We knocked the old hen house with a combination of hammers and logs. Then it started to rain and the ducks came racing from their pond into what they thought was the shelter of their house. But they got drenched and so did we, as we had to finish the new coop before nightfall. A little thing like rain wasn’t going to stop us despite the stares from the locals. Once we completed the hen’s new home, we began painting the living quarters. We used a type of paint called “distemper,” which had to be diluted. On the first attempt, it achieved the consistency of water. One of the rooms was tricky because it had a high ceiling and the rollers couldn’t reach the edges. So I found myself inching up a wobbly ladder, which was balanced precariously on an uneven floor. I guess all those summers spent trimming hedges on a stepladder were well spent. I got it done without incurring any grievous bodily harm. We were just about to head home when we saw flashes in the sky and heard the distant rumble of thunder. We decided to stay put under the gazebo rather than get stuck in traffic. We were there well over an hour and the heavy rain and lightning showed no signs of abating. So Gora came and picked us up. I was hoping he’d show up in one of the jeeps but instead, he arrived in a tiny Tata Indica. There were five of us crammed into the back of a car designed to seat three people comfortably. I had the door handle sticking into the back of my leg. Still, it was better than getting soaked to the skin. I went to bed before nine and passed out until around 7am. I needed it. Now if I could only clean the clothes I shouldn’t have worn painting…
I have an Indian friend who says that the British left behind all that was bad about bureaucracy and the Indians made it worse. My personal experience of this has been getting an Indian SIM card. It’s much more complicated than simply walking into a shop, handing over a few bits of change and walking out. I needed a passport. And I had to fill out a form that asked me for my full name and my father’s/husband’s name. No name for a wife? Well, I guess that ends my chances of ever getting married. So after about a week of listening to an Indian woman saying, “All the services of this mobile card have been temporarily suspended,” I finally managed to get a working phone. I don’t like phones. I like them even less when they don’t work. Which is what mine started doing last week. I went back to the shop I hoped I would never have to set foot in again. And they told me to come back with a passport, passport-sized photo and go through the whole tedious process again. Why would I have to go through this again? Today, I discovered that the photocopy of my visa “wasn’t clear enough.” I knew I should’ve left my phone at home and accept the fact that by living in this city, I am effectively going back in time. So I went through the rigmarole again. When I asked them when the phone would work again, they told me 48 hours. It seemed to me that the phone wouldn’t work “without orders signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, lost, found, queried, subjected to public inquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled as firelighter.” Thanks to Douglas Adams for that insightful line.
Saturday was Foundation Day, The Hope Foundation’s 10th anniversary celebrations. Our day began when five of us crammed into the back of ambulance. Everyone else was dressed up in Punjabis and saris. I chose to stay Western because I didn’t want to wear something that looked like a dress. Gora, who works in the liaison office, was delighted when he saw that he wasn’t going to be the only one wearing jeans and a shirt. After a bumpy ride through the streets, we arrived at Science City where the festivities were taking place in a large auditorium. There were kids everywhere. And they were all hyper. I took a seat in the front row and promptly left because I was afraid the speakers would blow my eardrums out. There were a few speeches and then the lights went down for the main gig. It started with some children holding candles. We were promised something spectacular and they didn’t disappoint. The children had been up since 6am getting ready for their big day. They had been practicing endlessly for the last few weeks and it showed. Myself and Eoin found seats among a group of kids up towards the back. It was terrific entertainment. They went berserk whenever we took out our cameras. I had great fun doing Indian handshakes with them. Towards the end of the show, some popular Indian songs came on and the kids went wild. I could see them dancing in the aisles down the front so I went to join them. I can’t get enough of Indian music and dancing. I was thrilled when they played Jai Ho! But I wished they hadn’t cut it short. And then it was all over for another year. I’d come back just to do it again.
Last Thursday night, I had my first proper bus ride in this city. It was more of a bone-rattling alternative to walking than a means of public transport. The bus would barely get going from a traffic light when it would slow down to pick up more passengers. It reminded me of the ancient, noisy buses I used to get to school everyday, only most of the interior was made of wood. My housemate spotted another Puja parade and suggested we get off. I had no objections. The parade was made up of drummers, dancers, musicians and a large, brightly-lit effigy. We took a few photos and then it trundled down a side street and we continued on the main road. Then we heard more drums on the other side of the road. As we stood on the fence dividing the road to take photos, some of the dancers spotted us and dragged us straight into the mêlée. The were sweating as if they had been dancing for hours and their faces were caked with some kind of colourful powder. Without warning, I was doused in bright purple powder as I danced with the locals. The stuff went everywhere but I barely noticed. I was too caught up in dancing like a loon. The noise from the drums was ear-splitting. Suddenly, I found myself shouting “India is great!” with the dancers. If I tried that at home, I'd be locked up for disorderly conduct in a public place. It was only when I saw my two friends that I discovered how purple we had become. Our heads looked like a bunch of inflated grapes. After ten minutes of frenzied dancing, the powder had bonded nicely with the sweat and my skin. Well, I just had to laugh after I saw my photo. We got a combination of stares and smiles from the people we passed on the street. At last, I got what people back home warned me about. We looked like a trilogy of clowns let out of the circus for a night on the town. We gave our other housemates a good shock when we walked in the door. It took ten minutes of scrubbing in the shower to get most of the stuff off. I have been converted.
Eating food in Kolkata is hard work. Last week, I had dinner in what is probably the smallest restaurant I've ever been in. It has two tables and five chairs. It'll take four people at the most. The first time I went there, I thought it was just a take-away. And I wasn't very impressed with the watery boiled rice. So the next time, I got fried rice and it was much better. Every time I go into a restaurant to eat, they warn me that the dish I've just ordered is spicy. I think they're more used to Westerners that are terrified of spices. I can't get enough of them. And I've yet to have a dish that's spicier than anything I've eaten back home. But still, it's hard work because the restaurant is so small and the plate is like a miniature furnace. It may be the last day in October but it's still warm. I'm walking around in shorts and a t-shirt at nine o'clock at night. So, as usual, I start sweating. The people in the restaurant think there's something wrong with me. They think I can't handle the spices of the dish in front of me. What I have trouble with is the heat rising off the plate. I still enjoyed it immensely. I enjoyed the risk of sitting in a restaurant, watching the cook slice up a chicken that looked like it was killed earlier that day. It can't make me ill. The gas flames looked hot enough to melt teeth. I'm going back there because it's nice to be remembered with a smile and a greeting. Tourists talk about how “friendly” Irish people are. What a bunch of lies. They should come to India and discover what friendly people are really like. People like Raz, the guy who helped me out in the post office one day. I thought I'd never see him again until he greeted me one morning outside the liaison office. I was so surprised that I'd forgotten who he was. But I hadn't forgotten that he's going to college in Leicester, England next year. He hadn't forgotten where I said I was from. I didn't need to tell him to visit Ireland. Most of the people I've met have told me I come from a beautiful country. I feel humbled because India is just stunning. I can't wait to see more of the countryside...
Last weekend, myself and my housemate took a boat trip on the Hoogly River. We walked across some flat river barges to get to this old boat lit up like a Christmas tree. As the evening began to darken, we were treated to a spectacular sunset over the river. The music was intoxicating. At last, I felt like I was in India. Once night fell, the fireworks began exploding on the far side of the river. As the boat passed near the river bank, I watched immersion ceremonies taking place as part of Kali Puja. After an hour on the river, the boat returned to the start point. My housemate, who is also named Eoin, was glad we didn't get the three hour cruise. I felt an hour was plenty. We walked back into town. Every now and then, some random person would come up to us, greet us and shake our hands. We could only smile and said hello back. However, I'm surprised that people don't take more notice of us. I was told that people will stare constantly but I haven't experienced this. Just as we were about to descend to the metro station, I heard the sound of drums and saw what looked like a parade on the far street. I said “Parade” and Eoin was off like a shot once he saw what I was referring to. There was a brass band, lots of drums, dancers and one guy on a cycle rickshaw playing a tiny keyboard with his left hand. There were two statues surrounded by colourful, twinkling lights being powered by noisy, dirty engines. We stuck with them for a while but eventually found their progress too slow for our liking. We walked on past Eden Cricket Stadium and down to the river, where we witnessed more immersion ceremonies up close. There were so many statues being thrown into the river. I wondered where they ended up. We eventually decided to head back as our feet were wrecked. But it was a worthwhile detour. Just before we reached our apartment, we wandered down a side street to see one of the many small temples set up for Diwali. On closer inspection, we were amazed to discover that the intricate designs were made from Styrofoam.
Last week, I started teaching the keyboard to some boys in one of the homes. It went very well although every time I go back, there are more and more keys missing from the already battered keyboard. But it works for me and that's all that matters. It was during one of these sessions that I got a call from one of the other volunteers asking me did I want to go on a weekend trip to some place in India. I barely heard the name at the time. I was willing to try anything. I later got a text telling me we were going to the Sundarbans Tiger Reserve. Fantastic! When I told one of my friends back home where I was going, he replied, “Hope those tigers can't swim!” That's exactly what they can do. The Sundarbans mangrove forest is the world's largest estuarine forest and are part of the world's largest delta formed by the Ganges, Brahmaputra and Meghna. I met four others volunteers and our tour guide at the unearthly hour of 6.30am. We were told we were getting on a boat approximately 100km south of the city. The drive would take two and a half hours. Wait, what? How could it take that long? I had forgotten that India has a population of nearly 1.2 billion people. There were people everywhere, going somewhere on foot, bicycle, motorbikes, trikes, mopeds, buses and trucks. It was not unusual to see sixteen people crammed into a auto-rickshaw the size of an old Mini Cooper. None of this deterred our driver who hooted and swerved his way around obstructions for most of the 100km trip. It was terrifying yet thrilling. We reached the boat that was to be our accommodation for the next two days. It was very basic but I simply didn't care. As I sipped coconut through a straw, I thought to myself, “this is bliss!” While cruising through the many tributaries, we saw rhesus monkeys, spotted deer, great egrets and blue-eared kingfishers. We didn't actually see any tigers. We saw their paw prints descending to the water. It wasn't much of a surprise because there are only about 250 of them spread out over an area of 2,000sq km. I didn't really mind. The weekend was spent sitting on a boat, playing cards in the dusk and swatting at the bugs that swarmed around us at night. It was about getting away from the noise and pollution of Kolkata, if only for two days. On the boat ride home, we stopped to explore the river bank. This turned into a walk through a rural settlement surrounded by paddy fields. The thatched houses were made of mud and bamboo. There were sheep, goats and cows grazing on what little grass they could find. The people were brightly dressed and happy to have their picture taken. The only evidence of the outside world was one boy holding a radio and fluorescent lights hanging on the trees. Our trip back was in stark contrast to our isolated boat trip. There were even more bicycles and motorbikes but I only saw one person wearing a helmet. As twilight descended, nobody turned on their lights. They were only used intermittently to warn other road users of their presence. We passed through one town in which a soccer game was being played. Try to imagine the streets surrounding a large stadium before or after a sports event. Now half the area and treble the number of people. The jeep was completely smothered by smiling Indians. But we never once felt threatened by the huge numbers surrounding us. We arrived back in Kolkata in one piece. If I was guaranteed the sight of a man-eating Royal Bengali Tiger, I'd do it again.
BOOM!!! That was the sound of a firework going off. I'm staying in an area of Kolkata known as Tollygunge. I'm sharing an apartment with three other volunteers. I got in on Monday night and was met by my volunteer coordinator, Alicia. It wasn't too terrifying as I had met her before. A combination of hunger and jet lag caused me to forget her name. She forgave me. The taxi ride back into the city was terrifying. The roads are two or three lanes wide in places but there are no road markings. Trucks, buses, taxis, motorbikes and auto-ricksaws compete for space to a cacophony of horns, bells and whistles. Drivers change lanes without any warning. Some drive without lights. Others drive the wrong way up the road. It's like they took the rule book, glanced at the first page and then tossed it aside while muttering, “too much effort.” Finally, I was dropped outside my apartment block and did a double take on seeing the sign. The Executive Suite? I didn't come here to stay in a place called The Executive Suite. It was very plush and I suppose it was a good way to settle in. I was moved out three days later. On Tuesday morning, I took a walk through the streets. At first, I was expecting something more. Where are all the throngs of people? Why amn't I covering my ears from the noise? Perhaps it was a quiet morning. I found an ATM and was delighted when it gave me a couple of hundred rupees. I was told to relax so I went back to my apartment for a snooze. Later that afternoon, Alicia picked me up and brought me to the boys home. We then visited another one of the homes where one of her students was staying. He introduced himself, shook my hand and asked me my name. I watched a group of guys playing a game involving round plastic discs on a table with pockets at each corner. It looked like a combination of air hockey and pool. When they asked Alicia to play, she declined. Her student then said, “if you don't try, you'll never learn.” I was very impressed by this and resolved to remember it.
The next day, I met up with a group of fundraisers from the UK branch of the Hope Foundation. We were taken on a tour of the various projects scattered around the city. I won't go into too much detail about them as I've written about my experience for the Hope Foundation's website. I will say that it was both harrowing and inspiring. I want to share an example of the Indian sense of humour that we encountered in one of the slums. As we walked through the settlement, two men rode by us on a bike. One of them said, “where are you going?” in a mocking voice. I found this amusing but I'm not sure why. One of the UK group then recounted a story of the time he was in Madagascar and one of the children came up to him and repeatedly said, “what's my name?” Despite their horrendous living conditions, people here always find something to smile or laugh about. They are always happy to see us and express delight when we share their local handshake with them. It involves sticking out one's index and baby finger and joining them with another person's fingers. The hand then rotates around the thumb into a handshake. Sometimes, the kids jerk away their hands and run it through their hair. They laugh when we attempt to do the same. So far, Kolkata has surprised me. This city is bursting with life and vitality. It is not a place that is easily described. It must be experienced to discover why it is known as “The City of Joy.” Apart from the heat, I'm having a wonderful time here. Today, Bengalis celebrate Diwali, the Festival of Light. Tonight should be spectacular...
Before I came here, I was told that living and working in Kolkata would be a challenge. Well, it has but not in the way I expected. Things that shouldn’t pose any difficulty to me are causing me a lot of frustration lately. Things like my phone for example. Seeing as I started a rant about my phone last week, I might as well continue. I hate phones. I hate phones that don’t work even more. What could be worse than a phone that doesn’t work? How about a phone that half works? My phone can make and receive phone calls. It gets text messages but can’t read them because the screen has stopped working. People are actually starting to feel sorry for me. Perhaps this is a good thing. It’ll teach me not to carry my phone around when washing paintbrushes after a hard day’s work. Yes, I have come to India to paint. As another volunteer said, “I do what I’m told.” One of the projects needed a good cleaning and a lick of paint. The chicken coop also needed to be moved out of the playground. It sounded simple in theory. Naturally, it wasn’t. Before knocking the chicken coop, we had to build a new one or else the poultry would be eaten by the “white cats.” We knocked the old hen house with a combination of hammers and logs. Then it started to rain and the ducks came racing from their pond into what they thought was the shelter of their house. But they got drenched and so did we, as we had to finish the new coop before nightfall. A little thing like rain wasn’t going to stop us despite the stares from the locals. Once we completed the hen’s new home, we began painting the living quarters. We used a type of paint called “distemper,” which had to be diluted. On the first attempt, it achieved the consistency of water. One of the rooms was tricky because it had a high ceiling and the rollers couldn’t reach the edges. So I found myself inching up a wobbly ladder, which was balanced precariously on an uneven floor. I guess all those summers spent trimming hedges on a stepladder were well spent. I got it done without incurring any grievous bodily harm. We were just about to head home when we saw flashes in the sky and heard the distant rumble of thunder. We decided to stay put under the gazebo rather than get stuck in traffic. We were there well over an hour and the heavy rain and lightning showed no signs of abating. So Gora came and picked us up. I was hoping he’d show up in one of the jeeps but instead, he arrived in a tiny Tata Indica. There were five of us crammed into the back of a car designed to seat three people comfortably. I had the door handle sticking into the back of my leg. Still, it was better than getting soaked to the skin. I went to bed before nine and passed out until around 7am. I needed it. Now if I could only clean the clothes I shouldn’t have worn painting…
