Imagined Realities

On the Real India:
Recently, conversation with some friends here has meandered onto the subject of “the Real India.” The somewhat muddled and troubled concept came to my attention well before leaving home. During PiA orientation, a fellow intern made a rather offhand (and unfair!) comment that implied my position was not “real service” and would be an inferior PiA experience because Kodaikanal, and KIS, was not “Real India.”
I will neither waste this space responding to the argument that teaching isn't service, nor will I validate the idea that PiA posts can be compared in any meaningful way, let alone ranked.
However, the question of whether Kody is Real India might be worth pursuing, and you can count on my returning to the topic in the future. Thoughts thus far:
*There is no The Real India (singular). That’s a well-accepted idea. As a political entity, India exists [of course, only to the extent that any state “exists.” Nation-states are imagined, aren’t they?] But everyone knows that politics aside, India is better defined as a hundred nations in one, as the most diverse nation in the world, best characterized as uncharacterizable in its confounding diversity.
*The idea of Real India (or Real Indias) is not just a Westerner’s concept. It has also been implied by comments made by several my new Indian friends. I can’t imagine of what their notion consists. But I can imagine, that as a figment of Western imagination, Real India must be made of: temples, dusty rural poverty, filthy urban slums, a small but incredibly wealthy urban elite, blaring Bollywood music and a rainbow of saris, dusty crusty poverty, squat toilets and cows and eating with one’s fingers, begging poverty, colourful zany Hindu temples, maybe with the odd mosque or church or turban thrown in, Raj remnants, more poverty, elephants, incense and yoga and spice.
*As a figment of Western imagination, Real India is diverse. But this diversity has impermeable outer borders. In other words, people and influences from outside aren’t part of Imagined Real India. (Exception: the Raj is Real India, because it is Real history that has shaped the Real present.) Outside influences are threats to Real India (so what happens when this present becomes history?) A person who imagines such a Real India might think that KIS, founded by American Missionaries and consisting of about 50% non-Indian students and teachers, is not Real India. All the food and water consumed at KIS is imported from Europe at 6-week intervals. And every time the hot water geyser stops working, a plumber flies over from Cleveland to fix it. Best of all, we get paid American salaries in USD. Hah, hah.
*Last weekend I chaperoned the 11th grade trip to Poondi camp. I ran the Zip Line. High Ropes courses on the outdoor education properties of private IB-curriculum schools are not part of Imagined Real India. But the path through the woods leading to the Zip Line was also used by wild bison, water buffalo and wandering cows. Walking back to camp at the end of the day, I slipped and fell on a particularly fresh, slimy green cowpie. It was definitely Real.

On the Real Kody:
Wednesday night, I had dinner at my friend’s cozy little flat on main campus. Over ratatouille and a precious bottle of red wine, then plum cheesecake and black coffee, we wondered at the fortune a similar flat would cost in Boston, Paris, Sydney. But for the occasional blackouts, we could have been in any of those places. Surely not the Imagined Real India. Is our community a bubble, picked up from Somewhere Else and plunked down on this mountain top? It's more complicated than that--too complicated to be able to draw a line between some Real India, and whatever this place is. The world today is more complicated than that. A snapshot of the following day (maybe this is Real Kody?):
After school Thursday, I went to the bank. The bank tends to be a trying errand--crowded, hot, and incredibly confusing. I am used to plastic cards and pins; here, I actually have to fill out a paper slip to deposit or withdraw, then stand in a "line" for the wicket. Eventually to hand over the slip to a man sitting in front a of a giant safe whose door is periodically opened, in full view of the entire bank. While "waiting in line" (i.e., using elbows and a nasty glare to hold my ground), there was a sudden commotion near the bank door. I turned to see a man, holding the door ajar, kicking at something near the ground. A flash of brown; a monkey's retreating tail, the door slammed and bolted shut. About a dozen monkeys were camped on the bank steps, some of the larger ones especially interested in the door handle, others peering through the glass. Any time someone tried to leave, the monkeys would crowd the door, and it was slammed shut again. We were held up (ahem) for 10 minutes, and I was nearly late for staff yoga.
It's not the Ashtanga I know and love and learned in France and Canada (not in India, not Real Yoga?). A different yoga, a breath-ier, slower yoga. It’s not insta-butt-sculpting yoga. Easier on the body, but so much more difficult (more Real?) Taught by an English colleague (less?) When I put the crown of my head on the ground and rise up in headstand, Indian ground supports my weight.
Walking home after yoga, I navigated around zooming motos and cows, past stalls manned by thin, poor, brown Real Indians. Was stared at, whistled at, leered at. By Real Indians. Even in this town. A foreign white giant woman outside invader of Real India. Almost home: just past the Temple (Hindu), then round the corner and up the hill. Thunder overhead and the monsoon nightsky opened—through the pounding rain I could faintly hear the Muslim call to prayer drifting up the hill.
Through the gate. My umbrella is leaking, my sneakers soaked through (Real rain, Real puddles). Laughter, singing, guitar strumming coming from the dorm common room. It is dorm devotions night: as a study break, the boys gather for a led prayer or song or Bible discussion. I pause in the doorway to look in: two dozen teenagers, about half the faces a palette of Indian Browns, the other faces mostly Korean, framed by incredible moussed and blowdried 'dos, every one of them singing about Jesus. Real voices, Real smiles.
Later there’s a knock at the door. “Ma! Ma! Dhobi, ma.” I open and the dhobi hands over a stack of pressed, folded linens, tshirts, and jeans; I hand him 20 rupees (about 50 cents). My clean (slapped and pounded against a rock in a river, a river fed by overflow from mercury-tinged Kody lake, a river fed by monsoon rain that washes the shit and dirt from Kody roads before rushing downhill towards Dhobi Town) clothes smell faintly of smoke; in this wet season clothes are dried on scaffolding set up over eucalyptus fires.
The Dhobi walks off into the dark, wet Indian night. I return to my French marking, but within minutes, the room disappears into blackness. Power’s out again. Outside, the generator thuds into action; through the windows I see some dorm lights flicker on. Mine do not. Sigh. Rotten luck—or maybe not. Papers can be marked in the morning; teeth can be brushed by candlelight; delicious sleep delivered early by deepest darkness and drumming rain.

On Time and Space

The new year has always begun in September not January, and I’ve always thought an academic annual rhythm would survive the end of my student days. Certainly, it would persist if I taught! But—here I am, September coming tomorrow, already 6 weeks into a school year half a world away...and time has lost meaning. It didn’t feel like September 6 weeks ago, either. August 31st brings news from my other worlds: last swims in the ocean, last waterskis, last visits, blackberries galore, frantic shopping, packing, relocating, returning. Reports of both jitters and of weary sighs: new semesters, new jobs, new programs; or back once again to the same-old. It’s hard to imagine: I left in early July, when the Canadian summer was just warming up, and in my mind home remains frozen in that spacetime. Meanwhile, over here, a shocking reminder from the principal: quarter reports due in 10 days. Quarter?!?! (I’m still operating without a semester plan for most classes). Reports?!?! (You mean actually assess these kids? But we were having so much fun just learning…)

Poondi Camp

I slipped on a cow patty on Saturday.
Walking up the hill at our outdoor ed. camp.
But we had s'mores and banana-chocolate boats at campfire.
So we'll call it even?

Feeling Regal

Indian Independence Day (Friday August 15th) at KIS: a sleep in, 3 hours of speeches, dance and music recitals, and an early start to the weekend. It was really all about the clothes. Our diverse students and staff came out for the morning in national dress…and those of us from rather dull Banana Republic (ha, ha) or GAP nations adopted Indian dress rather than wear jeans and tee’s.


Every woman in the world should dress like Indian women dress. (A gross generalization—not of every woman in the world, but of how Indian women dress—because this nation is really several dozen nations, each with its own styles of clothing. But I am talking, generally, about the sari and variations on the sari; and about the salwar kameez, and variations on the long tunic and pants.)

Both are cool and comfortable; varying fabric, style, and accessories make the sari and SK into appropriate wear for everything from manual labour, through school/office and weddings.More importantly, the sari and the salwar kameez can flatter any size or shape of body. (I have yet to see a woman, of any national origin or physique, wearing one, and think ‘oh, dear—not the best choice for her!'). Whatever the body underneath, these garments can be stunningly beautiful on their own: beaded or embroidered cottons and silks in every colour.

Every woman in the world should wear saris because one feels beautiful in them. My friends here concur—we plan to make Wednesdays sari day at school (otherwise all those gorgeous new purchases will sit in the closet). No more painting or clay on Wednesdays. One feels more than beautiful: graceful, regal, and respected; like you should be looked at, for all the right reasons.
That’s all I have to say on saris. I’ll show off now: pictured; Ficus with her favourite Korean student (I was way more comfortable than she was!)

J'aime le weekend

Ah, weekend. Still trying to strike the right balance of hiding out to recover from teaching, and going out to make the most of being here

Two weeks ago I packed it too tight: a Saturday hike, dinner with friends,shopping, the Tibetan Engagement Party [In brief: we have a sizable Tibetan population in Kody and teaching at KIS; one staff member's daughter, a KIS alum, flew in from London with her new fiance for speeches and a meal (followed by top-secret dancing for the Tibetan community only?!?) at the local country club.]  It felt a little awkward given that I didn't know the family at all, but the fun of dressing up Tibetan-style and eating lots of delicious momos triumphed.

Pictured: Smiling Red Ficus and a Tibetan Rainbow (there are only so many shops in Kody...). I've got no pics of the couple or their ceremonial table, as per the family's request. 

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This past weekend I bailed on the hike (sinus infection continues...) and made no firm commitments or plans. Two completely unstructured days led to:

1. The discovery of a little coffeshop/bakery. A decent one. Right here, in Kody. With two little tables out front. Where I can actually sit and watch other people. And maybe pull out a notepad. They brew it (not instant!) strong enough that it'll take milk, and they'll hold the sugar when asked. Sipped from a tiny paper cup (or two), yummy buttery date pound cake served on the side on a garish (mangoes, oranges, roses and greenery) plastic tray. The Daily Bread will be seeing much more of me. 

2. Walking Sunday market...Heaps of produce and the odd vendor of trinkets, clothing, housewares, pulses. Trucks arrive loaded with more coconuts, potatoes, squashes arriveand people, motorbikes, cows somehow squeeze around. Vendors hiss a cow down the street; it passes the hotel just as a puppy wobbles out to the gates. The puppy barks at the cow with such force enough that he is propelled backwards; the cow stops and gazes vaguely in its direction. The puppy continues to yap; the cow blinks and releases a rush of steaming piss. The nearest vendor leaps up to roll back his tarp and wares (hair pins and scrunchies); the puppy silenced. A visual of  why I have pretty much gone veg...chickens are butchered right on top of their cage, with the tethered goat as witness. It's just a little too much. For now, at least. 

3. Sunday morning I woke to drumming--hard, fast, and coming down from the hills behind Bruten dorm. Soon it was street-level, and when I left for market it seemed to have stopped. Anyone I asked said, "bah, it's just some Hindu thing," (time to make some friends out side the KIS community?) Three hours later, walking home, the drums suddenly started up again; closer this time. Rushing out with a camera, I caught the procession as it turned onto the main road behind our dorm....and am trying (failing) to get a video upload here. 

These lovely ladies were watching the procession too:

A la prochaine. 

Shaky Foundations, Plugs and Voltage

Night falls, and I’ve just returned from cafeteria dinner to my annex apartment. Thank you, Universe, for (somewhat) functioning electricity and three out of four wireless bars. Some of my neighbours— two dozen high school boarders—are playing football in the driveway, their laughter and shouts nearly drowning out Dorm-mother, who yells that it’s time for study hall. Prayer-call drifts up the hill from a mosque (I’ve been told it’s the adhan, but it doesn't match my memory, and I wonder whether Tamil-accented Arabic is as distinct from Arabic and incomprehensible as Tamil-accented English is from English).

I’m putting aside a pile of French tests that need marking, and some demo-fish that need painting, and an IB assessment guide that needs reading…to write, and relax, and rest. I’ve got a nasty headcold (thank you, germy children!) and taught one too many classes today. The schedule's been finalized. Art/ESL somehow became French/Art/Math/3rd and 4th grade Language Arts. My favourite age-group and subject, YAY! And I have been encouraged to incorporate a lot of visual arts into their lessons. Double YAY! And the 6th graders report that they like French because I make it fun (triple yay, but whispered cautiously, because now I wonder whether it's too fun).

The youngest ones continue to be a real (and unpleasant) challenge. I feel like a babysitter. A grumpy one. With a sinus infection. Walking up the hill from elementary campus this afternoon, feeling sour and sorry for myself, I looked up and notice that I was schlepping along behind three Tamil women. Barefoot, in dusty saris, gracefully navigating the cows, motos, buses, taxis. Balancing on their heads bundles of firewood, each bundle at least five times as big around as one of their waists...

It wasn’t that moment. It wasn’t a piercing realization that I can’t complain of having 3-year-olds in my art room twice a week, when these women carry firewood on their heads, uphill all day long every day, for a hand-to-mouth living. It wasn’t; I’m not quite there yet. And I’m not sure I will get "there" anyway, not sure it ever means much to compare fortunes or misfortunes, because each of us can only ever have our very own experience for reference. But I did notice, I did stop to think.

To those of you who snuck a peak (via my friend’s blog or facebook) at pictures from the Tibetan Engagement party that I haven’t yet written about…booooo! Tsk! I’m waiting to get better pics from another source.

Being an over-prepared and organized traveler, I bought several plug adapters in Toronto. They’d be widely available and cheap here, I was told, nonetheless I wanted some on hand (the main reason: recharging my laptop in Frankfurt airport. FYI, there are no accessible electrical outlets in all of Frankfurt airport). While shopping, it seemed strange that the various universal plug adapters were labeled with every region or nation in the world save India, and that India was missing among country-specific adapters. India is not exactly an obscure, untravelled destination. The closest I got to an explanation came from a MEC salesperson (http://www.mec.ca, these guys are normally fountains of hard-core travel information) who frowned, picked up this plug (the small, black one)  and said, “wellll…..hmmm….yeah, I think this one is the right one. I’m pretty sure. Take this one.”
Cool. I’ll trust the MEC guy. Two flat prongs become two round prongs. Simple. Except that also pictured above are two varieties of adapters that I bought here...they've each got 13 holes on the flip side, none of which fit my two-round-prongs and my local appliances. It gets stranger:

Plug on a local appliance; fits some of the variety of outlets in my apartment. Also, two of the variety of electrical outlets in my apartment, note that the two-round-prong plugs do NOT fit any of the holes in any of these outlets. 
 You’d think they would.
Confused? I was merely confused, even amused. Until last night, when I needed to plug in phone charger (local), camera battery (not), speakers (local), and computer (not), all at once.
Speaker plug (local) + adapter #2 (local) + outlet in sitting room wall (obviously local) = BIG sparks + smoke + charred speaker plug + scary knocking sound all around in the walls - functioning outlets in half my apartment. Confused becomes amused becomes petrified, though not electrified, and relievedtobealive-but-withoutpower-withoutnewspeakers-annoyed.

In even the littlest ways I guess we live closer to the edge, farther from everything tested, inspected guaranteed functional, sanitary, safe. Maybe I’ll tell you about Almost Dying at the KIS infirmary next time.

At least it wasn’t an encounter with E. coli

New Friends; Disaster Class

Last night I had dinner at a new Keralite friend’s place. Channa masala (chickpeas in spicy tomato sauce), chapattis, carrot-coconut-coriander salad, and Bird’s custard (!!!) with pomegranate. I stopped by in the afternoon so that we could go shopping together—I’m looking for some salwar kameez and she offered to help sort through the overwhelming choice of pattern, colour, style, not to mention help with bargaining. T was prepping for dinner and I walked in to the loud hammering of coconut on cement floor. T is a tiny, tiny woman and wasn’t having much luck getting the coconut open sans axe. We took the coconut upstairs to a neighbour, who loaned an axe and some upper body strentgh—coconut in left hand; axe in the other, and THWACK—the axe came right down into the coconut, cracked it, and stopped just shy of the left thumb.




The rhythm of life here so far feels very much like University—minus the swimming. Most of the day is spent working on campus. Occasional jaunts outside the gates to shop or eat are usually in the company of diverse, warm 20-something staff members who hail from all over India and the world. I think I’ve spent more time socializing in the last three weeks than I did all of senior year at Princeton…which probably says more about my general nerdiness and antisociality than it does about life in Kody.

This morning was a total teaching disaster. I’ve got pre-K through grade 2 all together in the same art class, and haven’t figured out yet how to give multiple lessons at once. (Necessary to keep it age-appropriate. I can’t even figure out what is age-appropriate, let alone teach a 5-year age span at once. So far every lesson has vastly overestimated their basic vocabulary and skill levels. The 3-year-olds can’t draw stick figures, wash their hands, or really do anything without supervision; the 7- year-olds are ready for realistic drawing, theme studies and beyond…but still young enough to want constant attention and feedback). Let’s just say it ended with twenty sheets of lovely, hard-to-come-by extra-large sheets of paper gone to waste, a 30-point raise in my blood pressure, and paint all over half the kids. A winter jacket ruined. Why did she put her winter jacket back on OVER the smock when my back was turned? How did she manage to paint the ENTIRE sleeve and hem before noticing her arm was dragging on her neighbor’s painting? Why are these kids even wearing winter jackets in August in south India?!?!.

On the flip side, I was sitting behind some 4th and 5th graders at lunch and caught my name ("Miss Mac"). "Who?" Asked a 6th grader sitting with them, who I don't have this semester. "Miss Mac!" They said. "She's teaching lots of things. And she's our favourite."
So....it might be worth it. At least with the older ones :)

Orienting

It’s 3 weeks, now, since a taxi dropped me at the school gates. I’m still riding the arrival roller coaster; going so fast I can neither see the surroundings, what’s coming next, nor appreciate whether we’re rightside up or upside down. There are clearly ups and downs, though, even without sight…the stomach never lies!

Kody is a town of about 30,000 that over the last 100 years has grown up, in and around an American missionary school. KIS campuses are scattered around a large, man-made lake; steep streets meander away from the school, lined with restaurants, hotels, countless touristy shops (clothes, carpets, cushions, jewelry, knick knacks from Kashmir, Tibet, Kerala), and a handful of useful shops (grocery, general, tailors, hardware, dispensary). Beyond to the outskirts spread homes, schools, shops and chai stalls servicing the people who are here to serve the school community; the outlying hills and valleys are farmed, forested, and sprinkled with villages. On weekends, the hillstation that grew to support the school becomes clogged and crowded with busloads of tourists up from the hot plains. Families ride horses or walk around the lake, go for paddleboat rides, and shop in the touristy Tibetan, Keralan, and Kashmiri shops; herds of young men come for local weed and for the views—namely, of foreign women. Their stares and catcalls trump even those of Kuwaiti Geezie’s. I’ve got tailoring orders in for especially conservative local dress to save just for weekends.

You could read that description of Kody in any guidebook, and I haven’t had time yet to delve much deeper. Work started the day after arrival, with orientation, meetings, and a staff retreat. Before jet lag even wore off, and before I had a place to live, classes began. Panic! Planning and getting organized has been extra challenging because my schedule and responsibilities keep changing. I was hired to teach elementary art, ESL and French; as of Friday I’m teaching some art, a lot of French, no ESL, a 12th grade art class, and 3rd grade math (and who knows what will have changed as of tomorrow morning). To be honest, so far, I really don’t like teaching. That might change once I figure out how to plan units and lessons, but…well, it was a gut reaction that hasn’t really wavered. At least the kids are sweet and I’ve got a solid team to work with.

3 weeks to backlog, but Monday morning looms…à la prochaine.