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Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
THREE TIME’S A CHARM…
In February 2007, when I led the first group of Rotarians to India to participate as common laborers in a work project in a remote and desolate Muslim village about seventy-five kilometers south of New Delhi, I could not have dreamed what impact our presence would have on the villagers, as well as on us. Several people from our district joined me that year, including Jayne Britton from Fryeburg, Joan Nickel from Portsmouth-Sunrise. When we arrived in the village of Chahalka to begin work, some of the villagers were waiting in the schoolyard where our bus was to drop us. Little did I know that I was the first white westerner these people had ever seen – and what a scary sight, since I am a pretty good sized guy, especially in comparison with the stature of the people in this village. It took a while before the villagers began to warm up to us, although all of the women and the girls kept their heads and faces covered, particularly when in the presence of the men in our group. They were naturally shy and very careful never to show their faces to us.
The project that year was funding and constructing two washing platforms at one end of a common area, shared by the grade school at one end and the town’s water supply that was covered with a well tile, about sixty feet in diameter. Up until our arrival, the women and girls would come to the well each day, maybe several times a day, dip their buckets down on a rope through one of the three openings in the well tile cover, pull out buckets of water, transfer the water to earthenware jugs, other buckets or gleaming brass jardinières which they then placed on top of their heads and carried the water back to their huts. This was the case, with the exception of those who had brought their laundry, their pots and pans and their water buffaloes, which they proceeded to wash there, on top of the well cover, with all of the filthy water spilling back down through the same openings from where they had dipped their water. Dozens of the children were getting terribly sick from dysentery, and some were dying. The people of the village did not equate the polluted water with their ailments.
Our group passed about twenty-five thousand bricks in brick lines from the neatly stacked caches of bricks to where they were needed. We watched as boys wearing flip-flops or nothing on their feet, mixed the cement or the concrete (called masala – Hindi for mixture), we carried basins of large rocks, smaller rocks, crushed stone and sand. We carried basins of masala on our heads and dumped it where directed by Ramish, the brick mason from the next village. On day three of our work, Ramish finally invited me to actually lay bricks and mortar them into place in the walls we were building – having dug the ditches, dumped larger to smaller rocks, then masala and created the footings for the walls. At the end of a week of work, we had completed the construction of two washing platforms, which would have spigots for water installed, and which the ladies and girls (hopefully) would use for washing their household laundry and cooking utensils (water buffaloes were not to be allowed in this area ever again). To ensure the non-use of the well cover for washing purposes, we dumped a fairly coarse masala concoction on top of the well cover, to make it impossible for the women to use for anything other than dipping to get their water. While we worked for that week, many of the men, both young and old, sat and watched as we worked, and probably had no clue as to who we were nor why we were there. We were working cooperatively with members of the Rotary Club of Delhi-West, and the wife of one of the members came to the work site one day and asked me if the men sat there all the time. I told her they did, so in a minute or two, she turned to them and blasted them for sitting idly by, while, “these people from seven seas away, have left their families and their businesses to come to your village and to improve your lives through this construction project.” They immediately dropped over the back of the wall and stayed in the mosque for the remainder of that day.
At the end of our week of work, we were invited to a blessing ceremony, conducted by the local mullah, who offered prayers of thanksgiving to Allah for our work, and thanked each of us by sharing a puffed rice sweet with each of us – a very traditional practice during special occasions. We left on the travel portion of our trip and some looked forward to the potential for other projects in the same village.
Fast forward to early 2008 – a group of fifty-four Rotarians and Friends of Rotary from seven countries gathered at Chahalka to renovate an unused, vacant and derelict government building, adjacent to the site of the washing platforms to transform it into two facilities for the benefit of the village. First, we raised funds from individuals and clubs to not only pay for the renovations, but also to purchase some thirty computers, desks, chairs that would be placed in one end of the building. The concept of THE ROTARY CENTRE FOR COMPUTER TRAINING OF CHAHALKA was not only born, but it became a reality for us and for the town. The other third of the building was transformed into THE ROTARY DAY-CARE CENTRE OF CHAHALKA. Out team came from several states in the USA, three provinces from Canada, Ireland, England, Sweden, Australia and France. What an amalgamation of talent and enthusiasm! Three members of the Rotary Club of Sanford-Springvale joined me and truly came to understand the strength and the breadth of Rotary on an international basis.
When in 2007 the villagers had been somewhat shy and hesitant to greet us, 2008 was entirely different. Our six buses arrived at the work site on the first morning, and Ramish, the brick mason, who had taken nearly three days to allow me to lay bricks at the construction of the washing platforms, was actually waiting at the drop-off point and smiled when he saw my face, came and took my hand, and we walked immediately to the project site and I knelt beside him and we worked together to lay bricks for the construction of the wall that would surround the day-care play yard. A few barriers had been broken down, to say the least. Within a few minutes of our arrival, we would hear Mark Little from England holler out, “Okay, everyone line up for a brick line!” The number of bricks we would be passing over the week of work would be exponentially greater than the twenty-five thousand from the previous year.
The Rotary Dream Team – India 2008 would successfully dig trenches for the footings, carry basins of various gradations of rocks and then sand and then coarse masala and then fine masala, and then begin to lay rows and rows and rows of bricks until the height of the walls surrounding the two “green” areas reached a height of five feet. Meanwhile, the Brits and our friend from France were working on the patching and the painting of the walls and ceilings inside both sections of the building, as well as the exterior walls of the building. Inside the end where the day-care center was to be located, one of the chaps from England sketched a mural covering the entire end wall, depicting animals and birds and fishes and butterflies on a flowery landscape. Many of us took a turn at brushing on some paint and even a local girl, Arasthun befriended one of the younger children we had in our group from Minnesota, and sketched some flowers to create a welcoming border to the mural.
Because of government regulations in India, when such a project is undertaken like the computer training center, the requirement is also to fund the salary of the instructor for a minimum of three years, along with the salary of the care-giver for the children and the watchman. All in all, members of our group had not only spent their own money to travel to India to participate in the National Immunization Day against polio and the work project, but they also had raised sufficient funds to underwrite this project for a three-year period. During the course of the week, small groups of team members wandered through the narrow streets of the village, speaking with and befriending several of the villagers. Although the women and the girls of the village continued to keep their heads covered, the veils covering their faces began to drop away, and smiles covered their faces. Some of the little children, both boys and girls, even joined the brick lines and helped by retrieving the empty masala basins, carrying them back to the pile of wet mix to be re-filled and passed back along the line for depositing wherever Ramish directed. It seemed there were fewer of the men sitting on the wall overlooking the project. Had a message rung through to them? Time would tell. In addition to personal clothing and work gear, our team managed to bring well over twenty thousand gifts – trinkets, toys, stuffed animals, school supplies, etc., for the children of the village. Some of the folks took on the responsibility of sorting through all of these items to be distributed to the children of the village on our last day.
We planned to provide prize bags to the top three students in the first five grades in the elementary school, to reward them for their continued hard work, and to inspire and encourage them to remain in school in the future. With the hope of being able to get training in computer technology by passing the tenth level of education, and possibly land employment at higher than base wages of the equivalent of five or ten dollars a month, little by little this village and its people could enjoy what the Indians refer to upliftment. We were providing some of the tools to help them pull themselves up by their bootstraps and move forward into productive lives for years to come.
Each day, when members of the team walked through the streets and alleys of the village, more and more children followed them – they had become the attraction, with their light skin and their baseball caps or tee shirts and jeans. One day, I remember walking up the main street (a dirt road with its own speed control system comprised of huge potholes filled with urine and muddy water), I saw a man at the top of the hill, standing behind a cart. On the cart, he had stacks and stacks of eggs (are brown eggs, the local eggs always best?) as well as a burner fueled by a propane tank. As our group drew closer, we noticed he was cooking omelets. However, these were not your ordinary omelets – these were omelet sandwiches. He made the egg mixture, added chopped red onions, capsicum (green bell peppers) tomatoes and coriander leaves (cilantro). He dumped the mixture into the large frying pan, partially cooked it and then as he turned over the omelet-in-the-making, he put a slice of white bread in the center, flopped the egg on top of it and nearly magically, after folding everything together, he had created an omelet sandwich! I ate one, much to the concern of the other team members, and it was delicious. We then moved on around the corner to see the laundry presser – using an enormous flat iron the bottom of which was filled with burning charcoal. We stopped at the tailor’s shop and bought a hand-loomed head covering, about the size of a card-table cloth, and the men tried to teach me how to create a turban with it.
The impact we may have made on the village and its people was to be shown on our final day. Where the previous year we had been asked to join in a blessing ceremony by the mullah or priest from the mosque, this year would be entirely different. All of the school children had been gathered in the yard outside the drably painted school building. In front of the children, several benches and chairs had been set for our team members had been invited to sit. Rotary International Director Kjell-Ake Akesson from Sweden and I were asked to sit front and center. The sar panch – or head of the Gram Panchayat or elder council, began to speak to the gathered crowd of several hundred people. With a translation from one of our team members, the villagers were being told that our team had made a tremendous impact through our hard work, but also our smiles and our friendly manner as we had come to know a number of the villagers. As a token of their appreciation and as a tremendous honor to each of us, all of the men and boys in our group were turbaned by a member of the Gram Panchayat, and all of the women and girls in our group were given head scarves by some of the ladies of the village. Basically, we had been handed the key to the city, on a very personal and deeply meaningful way. In turn, when we recognized the top three students in all of the classes, we passed book bags to each one, filled with goodies and gifts. We boarded our buses to depart on the travel portion of our trip, and I am sure it was quite difficult for many of us, as well as a number of the villagers to say, “Good-bye”. Some of us promised to return.
And return we did… in late January 2009, the first group of our Rotary Dream Team – India 2009 arrived to begin work on a third project – the construction of sanitation enhancement facilities (toilet blocks) for which we had raised funds and obtained a Matching Grant from The Rotary Foundation. The building will contain thirty-five toilets and thirty-five showers, to be used by the women and girl children of the village. At present, the women due to modesty are forced sometimes to walk two kilometers away from the village not only to complete their toilet but also to bathe in privacy. This year, the members of the Gram Panchayat met us at the work site, placed garlands around each of our necks, and greeted us warmly, with hints of recognition for some of us. The children became a permanent fixture, once more, but since there was no wall, there were very few men who squatted and served as Monday morning quarterbacks. There were other differences too, but the most obvious difference was the fact that many women and girls no longer covered their faces or their heads in our presence. Some of the local ladies invited the women on our team into their homes. Children and of course the camel driver learned our names and called us by our names, sometimes with their own unique pronunciation. We saw smiles on almost every face. More and more children and some adults joined the brick lines and the masala passing lines. This third year of a sustainable relationship was so different from the first two. One barrier after another had been torn down. Throughout the week of work for the first group of the team, and then again throughout the week of work for the second group, one step after another was taken, not only by our team but more importantly by the villagers. During the first week, a tiny child of eighteen months had died and her family invited our entire team to come and sit with them in their home and drink a cup of tea with them as they pondered their tragic loss. During that same week, when the team members had walked into town, some children presented Dianne and Boone Powell from Texas with a nearly newborn baby goat, still damp from birth.
During the second week, the team was invited to join a wedding feast – a Muslim wedding feast, nearby the project site, where they were invited into the home of the soon-to-be-married couple. This was an arranged marriage of a young man from Chahalka, seventeen years of age, and a girl from another village, fifteen years of age. The team enjoyed a lunch prepared and served by the groom’s family. We were invited to return that evening, when the groom and his bride would return from the actual marriage ceremony that had taken place in her village. We waited as darkness descended and finally, the SUV arrived carrying the bride and her attendants, along with the groom. Fireworks exploded into the night sky, cheers went up from the gathered crowd of villagers, and the bride, her face totally covered as demanded by tradition, was escorted into her new home. Not only was she escorted into her new home, but also the women in our group were invited to enter her living quarters and to greet her, as she uncovered her face to them. When we were about to leave, the grandmother of the groom came out of the house, and although only about four feet two inches in height, she stood on a step and placed her hand on my head and kept it there, blessing me. I bent down, touched her feet and she said, “Nay, nay,” and took my two hands in hers, invited me to stand and together, she and I walked hand-in-hand to where our buses were waiting to take us to the farm. Anyone who has traveled with our groups knows full well that men and women do NOT walk holding hands with one another, and certainly not a white westerner with a Muslim woman from the village, who incidentally did not have her face covered. She smiled and displayed a toothless grin on her wizened and craggy face.
What had just happened? What had been happening during the two weeks of work? What had been happening over the course of three years? Slowly, as with one brick at a time, walls of forbidden practices and traditions had been knocked down. One handshake at a time a greater level of understanding, respect, honor and yes, even love served to help to someday create a lasting peace among the peoples of the world. Whether it is two drops of polio vaccine on the tongue of a tiny child, three cups of tea, the turbaning ceremony, the tacit embracing by our team of a grieving mother and father, or the toothless grin of a proud grandmother, the members of the ROTARY DREAM TEAMS – INDIA 2007, 2008 & 2009 have truly impacted this village and Shared Rotary and helped to Make Dreams Real, all the while proving that The Future of Rotary (and yes, Peace) Is In Our Hands.
The project that year was funding and constructing two washing platforms at one end of a common area, shared by the grade school at one end and the town’s water supply that was covered with a well tile, about sixty feet in diameter. Up until our arrival, the women and girls would come to the well each day, maybe several times a day, dip their buckets down on a rope through one of the three openings in the well tile cover, pull out buckets of water, transfer the water to earthenware jugs, other buckets or gleaming brass jardinières which they then placed on top of their heads and carried the water back to their huts. This was the case, with the exception of those who had brought their laundry, their pots and pans and their water buffaloes, which they proceeded to wash there, on top of the well cover, with all of the filthy water spilling back down through the same openings from where they had dipped their water. Dozens of the children were getting terribly sick from dysentery, and some were dying. The people of the village did not equate the polluted water with their ailments.
Our group passed about twenty-five thousand bricks in brick lines from the neatly stacked caches of bricks to where they were needed. We watched as boys wearing flip-flops or nothing on their feet, mixed the cement or the concrete (called masala – Hindi for mixture), we carried basins of large rocks, smaller rocks, crushed stone and sand. We carried basins of masala on our heads and dumped it where directed by Ramish, the brick mason from the next village. On day three of our work, Ramish finally invited me to actually lay bricks and mortar them into place in the walls we were building – having dug the ditches, dumped larger to smaller rocks, then masala and created the footings for the walls. At the end of a week of work, we had completed the construction of two washing platforms, which would have spigots for water installed, and which the ladies and girls (hopefully) would use for washing their household laundry and cooking utensils (water buffaloes were not to be allowed in this area ever again). To ensure the non-use of the well cover for washing purposes, we dumped a fairly coarse masala concoction on top of the well cover, to make it impossible for the women to use for anything other than dipping to get their water. While we worked for that week, many of the men, both young and old, sat and watched as we worked, and probably had no clue as to who we were nor why we were there. We were working cooperatively with members of the Rotary Club of Delhi-West, and the wife of one of the members came to the work site one day and asked me if the men sat there all the time. I told her they did, so in a minute or two, she turned to them and blasted them for sitting idly by, while, “these people from seven seas away, have left their families and their businesses to come to your village and to improve your lives through this construction project.” They immediately dropped over the back of the wall and stayed in the mosque for the remainder of that day.
At the end of our week of work, we were invited to a blessing ceremony, conducted by the local mullah, who offered prayers of thanksgiving to Allah for our work, and thanked each of us by sharing a puffed rice sweet with each of us – a very traditional practice during special occasions. We left on the travel portion of our trip and some looked forward to the potential for other projects in the same village.
Fast forward to early 2008 – a group of fifty-four Rotarians and Friends of Rotary from seven countries gathered at Chahalka to renovate an unused, vacant and derelict government building, adjacent to the site of the washing platforms to transform it into two facilities for the benefit of the village. First, we raised funds from individuals and clubs to not only pay for the renovations, but also to purchase some thirty computers, desks, chairs that would be placed in one end of the building. The concept of THE ROTARY CENTRE FOR COMPUTER TRAINING OF CHAHALKA was not only born, but it became a reality for us and for the town. The other third of the building was transformed into THE ROTARY DAY-CARE CENTRE OF CHAHALKA. Out team came from several states in the USA, three provinces from Canada, Ireland, England, Sweden, Australia and France. What an amalgamation of talent and enthusiasm! Three members of the Rotary Club of Sanford-Springvale joined me and truly came to understand the strength and the breadth of Rotary on an international basis.
When in 2007 the villagers had been somewhat shy and hesitant to greet us, 2008 was entirely different. Our six buses arrived at the work site on the first morning, and Ramish, the brick mason, who had taken nearly three days to allow me to lay bricks at the construction of the washing platforms, was actually waiting at the drop-off point and smiled when he saw my face, came and took my hand, and we walked immediately to the project site and I knelt beside him and we worked together to lay bricks for the construction of the wall that would surround the day-care play yard. A few barriers had been broken down, to say the least. Within a few minutes of our arrival, we would hear Mark Little from England holler out, “Okay, everyone line up for a brick line!” The number of bricks we would be passing over the week of work would be exponentially greater than the twenty-five thousand from the previous year.
The Rotary Dream Team – India 2008 would successfully dig trenches for the footings, carry basins of various gradations of rocks and then sand and then coarse masala and then fine masala, and then begin to lay rows and rows and rows of bricks until the height of the walls surrounding the two “green” areas reached a height of five feet. Meanwhile, the Brits and our friend from France were working on the patching and the painting of the walls and ceilings inside both sections of the building, as well as the exterior walls of the building. Inside the end where the day-care center was to be located, one of the chaps from England sketched a mural covering the entire end wall, depicting animals and birds and fishes and butterflies on a flowery landscape. Many of us took a turn at brushing on some paint and even a local girl, Arasthun befriended one of the younger children we had in our group from Minnesota, and sketched some flowers to create a welcoming border to the mural.
Because of government regulations in India, when such a project is undertaken like the computer training center, the requirement is also to fund the salary of the instructor for a minimum of three years, along with the salary of the care-giver for the children and the watchman. All in all, members of our group had not only spent their own money to travel to India to participate in the National Immunization Day against polio and the work project, but they also had raised sufficient funds to underwrite this project for a three-year period. During the course of the week, small groups of team members wandered through the narrow streets of the village, speaking with and befriending several of the villagers. Although the women and the girls of the village continued to keep their heads covered, the veils covering their faces began to drop away, and smiles covered their faces. Some of the little children, both boys and girls, even joined the brick lines and helped by retrieving the empty masala basins, carrying them back to the pile of wet mix to be re-filled and passed back along the line for depositing wherever Ramish directed. It seemed there were fewer of the men sitting on the wall overlooking the project. Had a message rung through to them? Time would tell. In addition to personal clothing and work gear, our team managed to bring well over twenty thousand gifts – trinkets, toys, stuffed animals, school supplies, etc., for the children of the village. Some of the folks took on the responsibility of sorting through all of these items to be distributed to the children of the village on our last day.
We planned to provide prize bags to the top three students in the first five grades in the elementary school, to reward them for their continued hard work, and to inspire and encourage them to remain in school in the future. With the hope of being able to get training in computer technology by passing the tenth level of education, and possibly land employment at higher than base wages of the equivalent of five or ten dollars a month, little by little this village and its people could enjoy what the Indians refer to upliftment. We were providing some of the tools to help them pull themselves up by their bootstraps and move forward into productive lives for years to come.
Each day, when members of the team walked through the streets and alleys of the village, more and more children followed them – they had become the attraction, with their light skin and their baseball caps or tee shirts and jeans. One day, I remember walking up the main street (a dirt road with its own speed control system comprised of huge potholes filled with urine and muddy water), I saw a man at the top of the hill, standing behind a cart. On the cart, he had stacks and stacks of eggs (are brown eggs, the local eggs always best?) as well as a burner fueled by a propane tank. As our group drew closer, we noticed he was cooking omelets. However, these were not your ordinary omelets – these were omelet sandwiches. He made the egg mixture, added chopped red onions, capsicum (green bell peppers) tomatoes and coriander leaves (cilantro). He dumped the mixture into the large frying pan, partially cooked it and then as he turned over the omelet-in-the-making, he put a slice of white bread in the center, flopped the egg on top of it and nearly magically, after folding everything together, he had created an omelet sandwich! I ate one, much to the concern of the other team members, and it was delicious. We then moved on around the corner to see the laundry presser – using an enormous flat iron the bottom of which was filled with burning charcoal. We stopped at the tailor’s shop and bought a hand-loomed head covering, about the size of a card-table cloth, and the men tried to teach me how to create a turban with it.
The impact we may have made on the village and its people was to be shown on our final day. Where the previous year we had been asked to join in a blessing ceremony by the mullah or priest from the mosque, this year would be entirely different. All of the school children had been gathered in the yard outside the drably painted school building. In front of the children, several benches and chairs had been set for our team members had been invited to sit. Rotary International Director Kjell-Ake Akesson from Sweden and I were asked to sit front and center. The sar panch – or head of the Gram Panchayat or elder council, began to speak to the gathered crowd of several hundred people. With a translation from one of our team members, the villagers were being told that our team had made a tremendous impact through our hard work, but also our smiles and our friendly manner as we had come to know a number of the villagers. As a token of their appreciation and as a tremendous honor to each of us, all of the men and boys in our group were turbaned by a member of the Gram Panchayat, and all of the women and girls in our group were given head scarves by some of the ladies of the village. Basically, we had been handed the key to the city, on a very personal and deeply meaningful way. In turn, when we recognized the top three students in all of the classes, we passed book bags to each one, filled with goodies and gifts. We boarded our buses to depart on the travel portion of our trip, and I am sure it was quite difficult for many of us, as well as a number of the villagers to say, “Good-bye”. Some of us promised to return.
And return we did… in late January 2009, the first group of our Rotary Dream Team – India 2009 arrived to begin work on a third project – the construction of sanitation enhancement facilities (toilet blocks) for which we had raised funds and obtained a Matching Grant from The Rotary Foundation. The building will contain thirty-five toilets and thirty-five showers, to be used by the women and girl children of the village. At present, the women due to modesty are forced sometimes to walk two kilometers away from the village not only to complete their toilet but also to bathe in privacy. This year, the members of the Gram Panchayat met us at the work site, placed garlands around each of our necks, and greeted us warmly, with hints of recognition for some of us. The children became a permanent fixture, once more, but since there was no wall, there were very few men who squatted and served as Monday morning quarterbacks. There were other differences too, but the most obvious difference was the fact that many women and girls no longer covered their faces or their heads in our presence. Some of the local ladies invited the women on our team into their homes. Children and of course the camel driver learned our names and called us by our names, sometimes with their own unique pronunciation. We saw smiles on almost every face. More and more children and some adults joined the brick lines and the masala passing lines. This third year of a sustainable relationship was so different from the first two. One barrier after another had been torn down. Throughout the week of work for the first group of the team, and then again throughout the week of work for the second group, one step after another was taken, not only by our team but more importantly by the villagers. During the first week, a tiny child of eighteen months had died and her family invited our entire team to come and sit with them in their home and drink a cup of tea with them as they pondered their tragic loss. During that same week, when the team members had walked into town, some children presented Dianne and Boone Powell from Texas with a nearly newborn baby goat, still damp from birth.
During the second week, the team was invited to join a wedding feast – a Muslim wedding feast, nearby the project site, where they were invited into the home of the soon-to-be-married couple. This was an arranged marriage of a young man from Chahalka, seventeen years of age, and a girl from another village, fifteen years of age. The team enjoyed a lunch prepared and served by the groom’s family. We were invited to return that evening, when the groom and his bride would return from the actual marriage ceremony that had taken place in her village. We waited as darkness descended and finally, the SUV arrived carrying the bride and her attendants, along with the groom. Fireworks exploded into the night sky, cheers went up from the gathered crowd of villagers, and the bride, her face totally covered as demanded by tradition, was escorted into her new home. Not only was she escorted into her new home, but also the women in our group were invited to enter her living quarters and to greet her, as she uncovered her face to them. When we were about to leave, the grandmother of the groom came out of the house, and although only about four feet two inches in height, she stood on a step and placed her hand on my head and kept it there, blessing me. I bent down, touched her feet and she said, “Nay, nay,” and took my two hands in hers, invited me to stand and together, she and I walked hand-in-hand to where our buses were waiting to take us to the farm. Anyone who has traveled with our groups knows full well that men and women do NOT walk holding hands with one another, and certainly not a white westerner with a Muslim woman from the village, who incidentally did not have her face covered. She smiled and displayed a toothless grin on her wizened and craggy face.
What had just happened? What had been happening during the two weeks of work? What had been happening over the course of three years? Slowly, as with one brick at a time, walls of forbidden practices and traditions had been knocked down. One handshake at a time a greater level of understanding, respect, honor and yes, even love served to help to someday create a lasting peace among the peoples of the world. Whether it is two drops of polio vaccine on the tongue of a tiny child, three cups of tea, the turbaning ceremony, the tacit embracing by our team of a grieving mother and father, or the toothless grin of a proud grandmother, the members of the ROTARY DREAM TEAMS – INDIA 2007, 2008 & 2009 have truly impacted this village and Shared Rotary and helped to Make Dreams Real, all the while proving that The Future of Rotary (and yes, Peace) Is In Our Hands.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
GO TO YOUR ROOM! (Feb. 15 - part 2)
From the airport, we drove into the city. What a welcome sight to see lots of cars and trucks and auto-rickshaws and even some bicycle rickshaws. The city was bustling and simply had a more pleasant aura about it than Biratnagar. We drove down the main streets, without having to duck down back alleys as a matter of survival. Once into the city proper, we did turn onto side streets and finally reached the gate at the Golyan residence, as announced on the very prominent, highly-polished (actually glistening) plaque at the left of the front gate. Naturally, the driver honked and honked and honked the car horn (or should I say beep-beeped it?) until a uniformed guard from within, opened a tiny door, stepped outside and checked that the car on the outside of the gate belonged not only to the Golyan family, but had passengers inside who were supposed to be there. After speaking with the driver and peeking his head in the driver’s side window, and gazing upon the “Big fat white guy”, he went back inside, and opened the main gate. Two dogs were barking and racing through the yard, and I was told to remain in the car until they could be kenneled. Evidently the beautiful golden Labrador Retriever did not like strangers and bared his teeth to prove it.
We got out of the car, beneath the port-cachere and two men from inside the house took my bag and my briefcase into the foyer. And here I thought the Golyan home in Biratnagar was huge and lovely – it paled by comparison to this one and I could only see the foyer and the sunken living room and a dining area. There was some discussion between Mahesh and the man who seemed to be more in charge than the second, and it was decided I could take some tea, but it would be upstairs. I tried to carry my own briefcase but was tacitly admonished by the man in charge as he and the other man each carried one bag upstairs for me. I was ushered into a type of sitting room with a huge plasma flat screen television at one end of the room, bookshelves filled with lots of Barbie Doll trappings, as well as tons of Winnie-the-Pooh paraphernalia. There were photographs on the wall, and since I knew that Basu only had two grown sons, I determined that this home was the principal residence of his brother (who looked like Basu’s clone in one or two photographs) and I was perhaps ensconced in the TV room for the daughter, who must either be away at school or perhaps even married. I was more or less told to sit on the bed-couch at one end of the TV room and to wait. Mahesh had already taken his girlfriend, as I had learned, and left for the night. I was going to be staying in this enormous and lavishly appointed home, alone with the servants. I decided to get up and open the door we had entered from downstairs, and perhaps take my tea downstairs. When I descended the stairs, I was met my Mr. In-Charge at the bottom and motioned to return back to my room. Tea was definitely being served to me in the TV room. Of this, there was absolutely no question!.
Within a few minutes of my returning to the TV room, Mr. In-Charge arrived with a tray on which was a tea cup, saucer, and a plate of biscuits, as well as a china teapot. He poured my tea for me and then promptly left the room. I guess I was to enjoy my tea in my cell. About a half-hour later, Mr. In-Charge entered the room and told me, as best he could, that he would bring my dinner in one hour. He found the remote for the television and turned on the TV and showed me how to change the channels. He wanted to insert a DVD, but I happened to recognize one of the programs – CSI, on the screen and told him I preferred to watch this program.
We got out of the car, beneath the port-cachere and two men from inside the house took my bag and my briefcase into the foyer. And here I thought the Golyan home in Biratnagar was huge and lovely – it paled by comparison to this one and I could only see the foyer and the sunken living room and a dining area. There was some discussion between Mahesh and the man who seemed to be more in charge than the second, and it was decided I could take some tea, but it would be upstairs. I tried to carry my own briefcase but was tacitly admonished by the man in charge as he and the other man each carried one bag upstairs for me. I was ushered into a type of sitting room with a huge plasma flat screen television at one end of the room, bookshelves filled with lots of Barbie Doll trappings, as well as tons of Winnie-the-Pooh paraphernalia. There were photographs on the wall, and since I knew that Basu only had two grown sons, I determined that this home was the principal residence of his brother (who looked like Basu’s clone in one or two photographs) and I was perhaps ensconced in the TV room for the daughter, who must either be away at school or perhaps even married. I was more or less told to sit on the bed-couch at one end of the TV room and to wait. Mahesh had already taken his girlfriend, as I had learned, and left for the night. I was going to be staying in this enormous and lavishly appointed home, alone with the servants. I decided to get up and open the door we had entered from downstairs, and perhaps take my tea downstairs. When I descended the stairs, I was met my Mr. In-Charge at the bottom and motioned to return back to my room. Tea was definitely being served to me in the TV room. Of this, there was absolutely no question!.
Within a few minutes of my returning to the TV room, Mr. In-Charge arrived with a tray on which was a tea cup, saucer, and a plate of biscuits, as well as a china teapot. He poured my tea for me and then promptly left the room. I guess I was to enjoy my tea in my cell. About a half-hour later, Mr. In-Charge entered the room and told me, as best he could, that he would bring my dinner in one hour. He found the remote for the television and turned on the TV and showed me how to change the channels. He wanted to insert a DVD, but I happened to recognize one of the programs – CSI, on the screen and told him I preferred to watch this program.
SUNDAY - FLY TO KATHMANDU (Feb. 15)
After quieting my nerves a bit following the bandh incident last evening, we were going to do a bit more exploration for potential projects. Biratnagar showed so many needs where Rotary could be of assistance to the people there, but the concern for the safety and well-being of the members of future teams is also crucial when making a decision as to where to go and what we might accomplish. I forgot to mention that after reaching Basu's home, we freshened up a bit and then drove back into the city, to a hotel (this one was REALLY nice) where we met some folks from New Zealand and from England, who were traveling to monitor the situation with ShelterBox - several Rotary Clubs from around the world are involved with this program, that originated in the UK, but has spread throughout the world as a means for responding to disasters and providing immediate, if not temporary shelter for victims of disaster. We dined with them and learned of some of the concerns they have regarding the recent projects initiated for the victims of the floods in the area. Thousands of families were displaced and forced to go to makeshift shelters in public school buildings and the like, until ShelterBox could respond with sending literally hundreds and hundreds of tents and other necessary basic implements for survival.
On the 15th, after finishing breakfast, Basu and I went on a quick tour of his factory, which is immediately adjacent to his home. The products include pashmina sweaters, shawls, etc. and are for export throughout the world. Benetton is one of the company's customers. When we had finished the tour, Basu had chosen a sweater for me, and to say the hand is like cashmere would not pay justice to it - it was like slipping one's hand into sifted baking flour, it was that soft. We left the factory and drove (again on back alleys) to the hotel, to pick up the folks from New Zealand and England and off we drove to meet with the local and the district commissioners who oversee all of the ShelterBox projects in the area. We were forced to be there at a very particular time, since the local collector or commissioner seemed to be booked for the entire day, with only one window of opportunity available to us. I listened with great interest as the local collector (the district collector was there for moral support and to spend most of the time on his mobile phone) described how successful the ShelterBox emergency village had been. He indicated that of all of the tents or shelters provided, the ones in these two projects were most highly sought after. He indicated further that clearly one-third of the victims of the floods would be able to return to their own homes, having to do little if any rehabilitation of their homes. Next, one-third would have to do extensive re-building or total new construction. Finally, there was the remaining one-third, who might be forced to remain in the temporary tent villages indefinitely. We would travel and visit one of the sites, and possibly the second. After hearing of some discrimination being exercised against victims from India (not allowing them to take advantage of the village provided by ShelterBox simply due to their ethnic background) I walked away with a good deal of concern. After all, were not these people also victims? Had they not suffered equally? Or because they were from across the river in India, they need not receive care. To me, this is unconscionable.
We left our meeting and drove to the village along the riverbank. When we arrived, again we became the attraction. The victims, who had basically set up a village, gathering some of the tents in neighborhoods, and setting up two large tarp-covered structures to serve as schools, seemed to be doing fairly well. Seeing and meeting them took me back to meeting the victims of the tsunamis when I brought a team with me to south India in April 2005 - almost a blank stare and looking for any source of solace from us, dispensing with barriers and welcoming an embrace from us as they trembled in our arms and sobbed for their losses. The propane cook stoves had almost all been sold by the people in the village and replaced with hand-made cook stoves so much the custom throughout India and now Nepal. In these stoves, the people could burn wood as well as dung patties and they were used to this means of cooking and heating. Some of the tenters had also painted designs on the outside of their tents, using typical local designs, particularly to serve as a welcome sign at the entrances to the tents.
A couple of disturbing things I noted: First, a few tube wells had been dug and were operational. The problem being that people would come and get water and then remain at the well and bathe themselves as well as to wash their clothing and their cooking utensils. Guess where the filthy water went? Right back into the ground to pollute the water from the well; Second, at the location of several of the tube wells, another enclosure (made from bamboo sticks and fabric for walls) was within ten feet of the well - you guessed it, these were toilets! Guess where THAT waste was going? Could it be seeping into the ground and polluting the water supply? Finally, I noted there were a number of these toilet enclosures placed within less than fifty feet from the river - still one more incident of non-education regarding basic hygiene. I was informed these toilets belonged to the Muslims in the temporary village. You see, most of the toilets had been placed side-by-side-by-side at the rear of the village, away from the river. However, these privies were set on an East-West tangent and this was against the practice of the Muslims. Their toilets had to be on a North-South axis, so they took it upon themselves to set their toilets where they pleased, with total disregard for the health of the villagers with whom they lived. On another note, I saw an entirely new design for gathering dung into burnable fuel - these folks did not make dung patties but rather took some wet reeds or grasses and then formed a long stick of dung and then placed them in a criss-cross pattern of a stack, about four feet high, to dry in the sun. Envision a giant Popsicle, made of dung and straw or reeds and you have the idea.
My friend, Basu, seemed to always find a way to become embroiled in a discussion, and usually a heated one at that. We were trying to leave to move onto the next area (since the Kiwis and the Brits were remaining back to make further observations at this village) but there was good ol' Basu finding himself in a bit of a shouting match with some of the victims, who were complaining that some of the tents from ShelterBox were beginning to show signs of mold and further they were too hot. I had noticed that very few of the tents had their vents opened during the time we arrived, about 10:30 in the morning, so how could they possibly avoid being hot throughout the day and the nights? I told the driver to just get the car and to turn it around, and he and the incoming Rotary Club president from Basu's club and I got into the car and honked the horn until Basu arrived and we drove away. We visited another two or three sites, but this one had probably been the best of the lot.
It was nearly lunchtime (2:00 p.m.) and I knew I had to be at the airport in Biratnagar within a short period of time. However, Basu knew differently - he said I only had to be there fifteen minutes ahead of the departure time. I told him I would feel much more comfortable in not pushing the envelope and that I would like to be there an hour ahead of scheduled departure. First, however, we returned to downtown Biratnagar, went to the local Obstetric-Gynecological Hospital. A doctor who is a member of the Biratnagar Noontime Rotary Club - comprised almost totally of women, administers this hospital. I was to meet with as many of them as could gather, to discuss possible projects they might implement, with or without the help of international partners. The women told me of the support they provide to one school. I shared with them information about some of the places I had visited in the last forty-eight hours and suggested they work cooperatively with the other two Rotary Clubs in Biratnagar, and make a serious impact upon those less fortunate. They agreed to look into possibly sponsoring a project, and asking for the assistance of the other two clubs. This would be a switch, since the ladies' club was in its relative infancy, and for them to initiate a project I felt would be very empowering for them. One of the members asked where we were to have our lunch and Basu told them (in between fourteen phone calls in about five minutes, using both mobile phones) we had not yet planned lunch. She indicated we would be her guests at the restaurant owned by her husband, right in the downtown area. We accepted her kind invitation and left the hospital. I know these women will make a considerable difference in this community. They will become the leaders in Rotary here.
We enjoyed some excellent food at lunch - I opted for south Indian food. The husband had decided several years ago to leave his employment and to open a bakery and a restaurant and in two different locations - one in Biratnagar and one in Darjeeling, India, from where he had migrated many years before. The food was delicious and once we were finished, I really implored Basu to have his driver take me to the airport. He agreed and I was off to fly to Kathmandu.
The flight was uneventful, other than the magnificent view of the sunset bouncing off the snowcapped peaks of the Himalayas. So picture this - looking out the left side of the plane, we could see the crimson and mango colors radiating from the setting sun; out the right side of the plane, we could see the mountain peaks awash with a diluted and somewhat muted collection of the same tones. Man oh man, what a blessing it is for me to witness the highest peaks in the world, and in vivid, electric colors.
When I arrived at the airport, I was prepared to meet a member of the Rotaract Club in Kathmandu. I did not have a name or a description, but I was confident with the fact that my bag has a GOOD-BYE POLIO – THANKS ROTARY bumper sticker on it, so anyone familiar with Rotary would spot the bag with me on the other end of the handle. True to my suspicions, a young couple moved forward to me, and welcomed me to Kathmandu. The young man was named Mahesh and the girl with him was named Sabina. Another man, presumably a driver, took my bag and we walked toward a small car in the parking lot and loaded the bag and all of us into the car. On the way to the city, I asked Mahesh how he recognized me, especially since there were other white westerners on the flight. He said, “Mr. Basu told me to look for a big fat white guy and that would be Mr. Elias!” I may be overweight, but I took exception to the description and made a mental note to discuss the description with Basu when I saw him the following day (since he had business in Kathmandu and would fly there on the 16th).
On the 15th, after finishing breakfast, Basu and I went on a quick tour of his factory, which is immediately adjacent to his home. The products include pashmina sweaters, shawls, etc. and are for export throughout the world. Benetton is one of the company's customers. When we had finished the tour, Basu had chosen a sweater for me, and to say the hand is like cashmere would not pay justice to it - it was like slipping one's hand into sifted baking flour, it was that soft. We left the factory and drove (again on back alleys) to the hotel, to pick up the folks from New Zealand and England and off we drove to meet with the local and the district commissioners who oversee all of the ShelterBox projects in the area. We were forced to be there at a very particular time, since the local collector or commissioner seemed to be booked for the entire day, with only one window of opportunity available to us. I listened with great interest as the local collector (the district collector was there for moral support and to spend most of the time on his mobile phone) described how successful the ShelterBox emergency village had been. He indicated that of all of the tents or shelters provided, the ones in these two projects were most highly sought after. He indicated further that clearly one-third of the victims of the floods would be able to return to their own homes, having to do little if any rehabilitation of their homes. Next, one-third would have to do extensive re-building or total new construction. Finally, there was the remaining one-third, who might be forced to remain in the temporary tent villages indefinitely. We would travel and visit one of the sites, and possibly the second. After hearing of some discrimination being exercised against victims from India (not allowing them to take advantage of the village provided by ShelterBox simply due to their ethnic background) I walked away with a good deal of concern. After all, were not these people also victims? Had they not suffered equally? Or because they were from across the river in India, they need not receive care. To me, this is unconscionable.
We left our meeting and drove to the village along the riverbank. When we arrived, again we became the attraction. The victims, who had basically set up a village, gathering some of the tents in neighborhoods, and setting up two large tarp-covered structures to serve as schools, seemed to be doing fairly well. Seeing and meeting them took me back to meeting the victims of the tsunamis when I brought a team with me to south India in April 2005 - almost a blank stare and looking for any source of solace from us, dispensing with barriers and welcoming an embrace from us as they trembled in our arms and sobbed for their losses. The propane cook stoves had almost all been sold by the people in the village and replaced with hand-made cook stoves so much the custom throughout India and now Nepal. In these stoves, the people could burn wood as well as dung patties and they were used to this means of cooking and heating. Some of the tenters had also painted designs on the outside of their tents, using typical local designs, particularly to serve as a welcome sign at the entrances to the tents.
A couple of disturbing things I noted: First, a few tube wells had been dug and were operational. The problem being that people would come and get water and then remain at the well and bathe themselves as well as to wash their clothing and their cooking utensils. Guess where the filthy water went? Right back into the ground to pollute the water from the well; Second, at the location of several of the tube wells, another enclosure (made from bamboo sticks and fabric for walls) was within ten feet of the well - you guessed it, these were toilets! Guess where THAT waste was going? Could it be seeping into the ground and polluting the water supply? Finally, I noted there were a number of these toilet enclosures placed within less than fifty feet from the river - still one more incident of non-education regarding basic hygiene. I was informed these toilets belonged to the Muslims in the temporary village. You see, most of the toilets had been placed side-by-side-by-side at the rear of the village, away from the river. However, these privies were set on an East-West tangent and this was against the practice of the Muslims. Their toilets had to be on a North-South axis, so they took it upon themselves to set their toilets where they pleased, with total disregard for the health of the villagers with whom they lived. On another note, I saw an entirely new design for gathering dung into burnable fuel - these folks did not make dung patties but rather took some wet reeds or grasses and then formed a long stick of dung and then placed them in a criss-cross pattern of a stack, about four feet high, to dry in the sun. Envision a giant Popsicle, made of dung and straw or reeds and you have the idea.
My friend, Basu, seemed to always find a way to become embroiled in a discussion, and usually a heated one at that. We were trying to leave to move onto the next area (since the Kiwis and the Brits were remaining back to make further observations at this village) but there was good ol' Basu finding himself in a bit of a shouting match with some of the victims, who were complaining that some of the tents from ShelterBox were beginning to show signs of mold and further they were too hot. I had noticed that very few of the tents had their vents opened during the time we arrived, about 10:30 in the morning, so how could they possibly avoid being hot throughout the day and the nights? I told the driver to just get the car and to turn it around, and he and the incoming Rotary Club president from Basu's club and I got into the car and honked the horn until Basu arrived and we drove away. We visited another two or three sites, but this one had probably been the best of the lot.
It was nearly lunchtime (2:00 p.m.) and I knew I had to be at the airport in Biratnagar within a short period of time. However, Basu knew differently - he said I only had to be there fifteen minutes ahead of the departure time. I told him I would feel much more comfortable in not pushing the envelope and that I would like to be there an hour ahead of scheduled departure. First, however, we returned to downtown Biratnagar, went to the local Obstetric-Gynecological Hospital. A doctor who is a member of the Biratnagar Noontime Rotary Club - comprised almost totally of women, administers this hospital. I was to meet with as many of them as could gather, to discuss possible projects they might implement, with or without the help of international partners. The women told me of the support they provide to one school. I shared with them information about some of the places I had visited in the last forty-eight hours and suggested they work cooperatively with the other two Rotary Clubs in Biratnagar, and make a serious impact upon those less fortunate. They agreed to look into possibly sponsoring a project, and asking for the assistance of the other two clubs. This would be a switch, since the ladies' club was in its relative infancy, and for them to initiate a project I felt would be very empowering for them. One of the members asked where we were to have our lunch and Basu told them (in between fourteen phone calls in about five minutes, using both mobile phones) we had not yet planned lunch. She indicated we would be her guests at the restaurant owned by her husband, right in the downtown area. We accepted her kind invitation and left the hospital. I know these women will make a considerable difference in this community. They will become the leaders in Rotary here.
We enjoyed some excellent food at lunch - I opted for south Indian food. The husband had decided several years ago to leave his employment and to open a bakery and a restaurant and in two different locations - one in Biratnagar and one in Darjeeling, India, from where he had migrated many years before. The food was delicious and once we were finished, I really implored Basu to have his driver take me to the airport. He agreed and I was off to fly to Kathmandu.
The flight was uneventful, other than the magnificent view of the sunset bouncing off the snowcapped peaks of the Himalayas. So picture this - looking out the left side of the plane, we could see the crimson and mango colors radiating from the setting sun; out the right side of the plane, we could see the mountain peaks awash with a diluted and somewhat muted collection of the same tones. Man oh man, what a blessing it is for me to witness the highest peaks in the world, and in vivid, electric colors.
When I arrived at the airport, I was prepared to meet a member of the Rotaract Club in Kathmandu. I did not have a name or a description, but I was confident with the fact that my bag has a GOOD-BYE POLIO – THANKS ROTARY bumper sticker on it, so anyone familiar with Rotary would spot the bag with me on the other end of the handle. True to my suspicions, a young couple moved forward to me, and welcomed me to Kathmandu. The young man was named Mahesh and the girl with him was named Sabina. Another man, presumably a driver, took my bag and we walked toward a small car in the parking lot and loaded the bag and all of us into the car. On the way to the city, I asked Mahesh how he recognized me, especially since there were other white westerners on the flight. He said, “Mr. Basu told me to look for a big fat white guy and that would be Mr. Elias!” I may be overweight, but I took exception to the description and made a mental note to discuss the description with Basu when I saw him the following day (since he had business in Kathmandu and would fly there on the 16th).
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
AND THE BANDH PLAYED ON… (Feb. 14 part 2)
On the afternoon of 14 February, following a tour of a number of potential projects for the future, my host, Basu dev Golyan and another member of his Rotary Club and I, as I stated earlier, attended a part of a Rotaract Club function - the junior Prince and Princess competition. The hall where the event was held was an elegant building, which in its day must have been rather spectacular. When we drove to the function, part of the road had been blocked off by piles of rocks strewn across the major portion of road surface. We left the function, got back into Basu's car and backed out of the parking area out onto the road (a dusty gravel road). We proceeded down the road and when we reached a right-hand turn intersection, but wanted to proceed forward, we noticed the roadway had been completely blocked off with more piles of rocks. There was no way, other than if we had a Range Rover or a Hummer that we would be driving over these piles of sharp rocks in the road. Basu stopped the car, and as he did, I saw a rather sizeable group of young men approaching our car.
You must understand that although it was only about six o'clock in the evening, it was totally dark, other than for an occasional flickering oil lamp in a window or a smudge fire in front of a shop. The group of young men began shouting as they neared the car, and the shouting got louder and louder the closer they got. When they reached the car - with Basu in the driver's seat, the other man in the back seat, with me in the front passenger seat, they yelled something at Basu, opened his door and roughly pulled him from the car. They did the same to the man in the back seat, all the time yelling at both of them. The hoodlums, for lack of a better description, continued screaming at Basu, shoving him, slapping him and pushing him back against the car. You can imagine how safe and content I was feeling about this time! They told him the road was closed, that there was a bandh ( from Wiki-Pedia: Bandh (Hindi: बंद), originally a Hindi word meaning 'closed', is a form of protest used by political activists in some countries in South Asia like India and Nepal. During a Bandh, a major political party or a large chunk of a community declares a general strike, usually lasting one day.) throughout all of Biratnagar, and that he had no right to be driving anywhere in the city, but especially on this dirt road. Now I was beginning to realize the reason I had not seen any, or very many cars since I had arrived in Biratnagar. Moreover, I determined just why we had traveled from one part of the city to another, going by back alleys and the like. The bandh had been happening for at least five days, and these young men were very angry that Basu had the temerity to even dream that he had the right to travel over a closed road, to say nothing of actually driving on it. The reasons they voiced for the bandh were the fact they had pleaded with the local government to pave several of the roads in Biratnagar and the government, thus far, had refused. The dust filled their homes, their shops and their lungs. Even though many of the residents and shopkeepers sprinkled buckets of water on the road in front of their homes or shops to keep the dust to a minimum, such practice yielded little relief.
Meanwhile, back at the car, the thugs were really roughing up Basu and the other Rotarian. One of them grabbed the keys out of the ignition. Basu protested and somehow was able to retrieve the keys. He put them back into the ignition, but when nobody was looking, I removed the keys and put them into my pocket (to what possible end, I have no idea). Basu tried to get back into the car, but was pulled out again into the street and smacked on his chest for doing such a thing. The yelling persisted with a lot of rough talk. Basu told them he was a Rotarian and they were having none of that, either. They could care less about Rotary (only not put so calmly, and with a lot of expletives and not deleted!) I was still sitting in the front passenger seat, when I saw two rather strong-appearing young men approaching the front of the car. They reached under the front bumper and began to pick up the car and tried rocking it. I was totally convinced they intended to roll the car over either sideways or by flipping it, and with me inside! This was NOT good.
I am unsure as to whether or not Basu actually saw these guys doing this, but somehow he managed to quiet them down a bit and pointed to me in the front seat. He explained to this very angry crowd that had grown to about fifty or sixty men, he had a friend who is a foreigner in the front seat of the car and what kind of an impression do they think I am feeling from their behavior. He went on to tell them that if they continued with this behavior, I would have no other recourse than to tell people at home how poorly behaved they were (now THAT was an understatement if I ever had heard one). The two men set the car down, allowed Basu to get back in, as well as the other man, and he panicked a bit when he did not find the keys in the ignition. I tapped him on the shoulder and passed him the keys. He started the engine and even while trying to go a few feet ahead to be able to have room to turn the car around, the men pounded on the hood of the car and on the windows, yelling at Basu again that he could not go down that road any further. He was able to turn the car around and we proceeded down a side street, and into some very dark alleys, eventually making it to the main road, to drop off our friend in the back seat and then to proceed back to Basu's home. However, before seeing his friend to his home, Basu insisted on proceeding down the main street even further to where a wedding was taking place, right next to an open area which he owns where there was a Valentine's Day dance being held. We arrived at the wedding venue, a hotel in which Basu had a financial interest. He had taken me there in order to show me what accommodations a future group of Rotarians coming for a work project would be housed. The hotel (?) may once have been splendid, but I believe all of the stars had been painted out on the front of it. The stench of fresh urine was nearly overpowering and the noise from the generator was deafening. Other than that, I am sure the facility would meet our needs - NOT.
While driving home, I asked Basu if it is not a worry to him the kind of action we witnessed earlier and he seemed to brush it all off with nonchalance. I guess he was actually trying not to worry me, but that attitude did nothing but make me more apprehensive.
We arrived at his home and I excused myself to go to bed. I had experienced far more than I wished to that day and needed sleep. I went to my room. I closed one window (the one with the torn screen) opened another window, quickly got ready for bed and fell onto the king-sized mattress and fell blissfully asleep. Not even ONE mosquito bothered me during the night.
You must understand that although it was only about six o'clock in the evening, it was totally dark, other than for an occasional flickering oil lamp in a window or a smudge fire in front of a shop. The group of young men began shouting as they neared the car, and the shouting got louder and louder the closer they got. When they reached the car - with Basu in the driver's seat, the other man in the back seat, with me in the front passenger seat, they yelled something at Basu, opened his door and roughly pulled him from the car. They did the same to the man in the back seat, all the time yelling at both of them. The hoodlums, for lack of a better description, continued screaming at Basu, shoving him, slapping him and pushing him back against the car. You can imagine how safe and content I was feeling about this time! They told him the road was closed, that there was a bandh ( from Wiki-Pedia: Bandh (Hindi: बंद), originally a Hindi word meaning 'closed', is a form of protest used by political activists in some countries in South Asia like India and Nepal. During a Bandh, a major political party or a large chunk of a community declares a general strike, usually lasting one day.) throughout all of Biratnagar, and that he had no right to be driving anywhere in the city, but especially on this dirt road. Now I was beginning to realize the reason I had not seen any, or very many cars since I had arrived in Biratnagar. Moreover, I determined just why we had traveled from one part of the city to another, going by back alleys and the like. The bandh had been happening for at least five days, and these young men were very angry that Basu had the temerity to even dream that he had the right to travel over a closed road, to say nothing of actually driving on it. The reasons they voiced for the bandh were the fact they had pleaded with the local government to pave several of the roads in Biratnagar and the government, thus far, had refused. The dust filled their homes, their shops and their lungs. Even though many of the residents and shopkeepers sprinkled buckets of water on the road in front of their homes or shops to keep the dust to a minimum, such practice yielded little relief.
Meanwhile, back at the car, the thugs were really roughing up Basu and the other Rotarian. One of them grabbed the keys out of the ignition. Basu protested and somehow was able to retrieve the keys. He put them back into the ignition, but when nobody was looking, I removed the keys and put them into my pocket (to what possible end, I have no idea). Basu tried to get back into the car, but was pulled out again into the street and smacked on his chest for doing such a thing. The yelling persisted with a lot of rough talk. Basu told them he was a Rotarian and they were having none of that, either. They could care less about Rotary (only not put so calmly, and with a lot of expletives and not deleted!) I was still sitting in the front passenger seat, when I saw two rather strong-appearing young men approaching the front of the car. They reached under the front bumper and began to pick up the car and tried rocking it. I was totally convinced they intended to roll the car over either sideways or by flipping it, and with me inside! This was NOT good.
I am unsure as to whether or not Basu actually saw these guys doing this, but somehow he managed to quiet them down a bit and pointed to me in the front seat. He explained to this very angry crowd that had grown to about fifty or sixty men, he had a friend who is a foreigner in the front seat of the car and what kind of an impression do they think I am feeling from their behavior. He went on to tell them that if they continued with this behavior, I would have no other recourse than to tell people at home how poorly behaved they were (now THAT was an understatement if I ever had heard one). The two men set the car down, allowed Basu to get back in, as well as the other man, and he panicked a bit when he did not find the keys in the ignition. I tapped him on the shoulder and passed him the keys. He started the engine and even while trying to go a few feet ahead to be able to have room to turn the car around, the men pounded on the hood of the car and on the windows, yelling at Basu again that he could not go down that road any further. He was able to turn the car around and we proceeded down a side street, and into some very dark alleys, eventually making it to the main road, to drop off our friend in the back seat and then to proceed back to Basu's home. However, before seeing his friend to his home, Basu insisted on proceeding down the main street even further to where a wedding was taking place, right next to an open area which he owns where there was a Valentine's Day dance being held. We arrived at the wedding venue, a hotel in which Basu had a financial interest. He had taken me there in order to show me what accommodations a future group of Rotarians coming for a work project would be housed. The hotel (?) may once have been splendid, but I believe all of the stars had been painted out on the front of it. The stench of fresh urine was nearly overpowering and the noise from the generator was deafening. Other than that, I am sure the facility would meet our needs - NOT.
While driving home, I asked Basu if it is not a worry to him the kind of action we witnessed earlier and he seemed to brush it all off with nonchalance. I guess he was actually trying not to worry me, but that attitude did nothing but make me more apprehensive.
We arrived at his home and I excused myself to go to bed. I had experienced far more than I wished to that day and needed sleep. I went to my room. I closed one window (the one with the torn screen) opened another window, quickly got ready for bed and fell onto the king-sized mattress and fell blissfully asleep. Not even ONE mosquito bothered me during the night.
Friday, February 27, 2009
CUPID SHOT HIS ARROW (Feb. 14)
Shortly after breakfast, the driver (aka Mario Andretti) brought the car around to the front of the house and Basu and I were driven to Rotary House – the building where the various clubs meet in Biratnagar and which is owned by them. There is only one Rotary Clubhouse in our district and that is in Boothbay Harbor, so I was interested in learning the Rotarians in Biratnagar use this common meeting place for their weekly gatherings, as well as eye camps and health clinics throughout the year. It was a pleasure to meet so many new friends, and to have them explain how they waited and waited for me to arrive the night before. Basu explained my difficulty in entering their country at all, so they were a little easier on me. There were some other Rotarians from California attending the meeting, as one of them has helped to raise funds for a women’s hospital that should be completed in two more years. Both Carol and I were invited to speak to the members of the two clubs gathered. There were also some Rotarians, who were surgeons by profession, who are working with Carol to offer cleft palate and cleft lip reconstruction free of charge to the neediest of people throughout the country. I spoke with them following the meeting and told them about our district’s participation over the past ten years in Rotaplast.
Following the meeting, Basu and the incoming presidents for the two clubs met with me to discuss why I was here. I had already explained during my remarks to the general membership about the NID – Work Project Groups I have had the honor of leading for the past five years and the one I am leading this year. I told them I was interested in learning about potential projects in Nepal where I might bring a team in the coming years. I further detailed the projects over the period from 2007 to the present in Chahalka. I indicated it made good sense to begin with a small scale project and build upon that to establish a sustainable relationship with the village over a period of three or four years. We agreed to meet after lunch and to visit a few areas where Rotary might be able to make a difference.
As we were driving along, it seemed everyone was on his mobile phone – with Basu sometimes speaking on two mobile phones simultaneously. I am beginning to catch a few words and phrases in Hindi, so when one of the incoming club presidents was speaking over his mobile, and told us he had been speaking with his wife, I figured out that we were all going to his house for lunch and that he expected his wife to prepare a luncheon for five hungry men, and “oh, by the way, we will be there in five minutes!” We in fact arrived in about three minutes, because there was virtually no automobile traffic, and we met his wife who had prepared lunch in the minutes before she had to leave for her own Rotary Club meeting. I told him it is lucky his wife is also a Rotarian, so at least she understood. However, when lunch was served, I was astounded at what was placed before us – plate after plate and serving dish of one VEG dish or another.
Following lunch, we all piled into Basu’s SUV and off we went to a remote village where the children are suffering from dysentery. There are about 150 people in this village, and once I took a walk about, I saw one of the chief reasons the kids were getting sick -some of them had died in the past few months. The location of the hand-pump tube well was literally five feet from the toilet. Even though I was also told not many people use the toilets because they do not have sides and a roof to provide privacy and shelter from rainstorms, you could not prove it by me. There always seems to be the telltale stench of stale urine which assaults the nasal passages of those not accustomed to such odors. Such was the case here. The toilets were comprised of a porcelain plate – about two feet square, with places for one to place one’s feet and an oblong hole in the center. Beneath the hole was a scooped out hole with a possible capacity of two or three gallons. Trust me, these were bring used, and recently too!
As it turns out, one of the Rotarians with us told us his father had given this land to the villagers and had actually deeded each tiny parcel to the person who was then allowed to build his house and enjoy it with his family. There was also common land for gardens and area for pens for goats and chickens. We asked about education and were told nobody goes to school because they must stay in the home and work at farming. Some of the teenaged boys did work in local factories. In speaking with the Rotarian, I discovered that if asked by us (meaning by me and those in future groups) he would be willing to deed additional land to the villagers who would build and maintain a proper bath facility – perhaps a tiny scale of what we are presently doing in Chahalka.
Since I was leaving the following afternoon to fly to Kathmandu, I wanted to view as many potential projects as we could in that afternoon. We visited a larger town and across the road from where the townspeople were celebrating a religious holiday (I think there are more Hindu holidays or holy days than in any other religion) we visited a government school for boys. At present, about half of the rooms are being used, while the others remain empty, unproductive and stinking. After some discussion with the teacher (who was also incidentally a judge for a contest or competition across at the holy day celebration) we determined we should be able to have the government deed over to us one double room and one single room, in exchange for our creating a computer training center, much the same as we had done with the derelict building in Chahalka this past year. The small room would be converted into an efficiency studio apartment for an instructor, whom we would have to hire and pay wages for them. Basu and I walked from the small room over around the veranda to what would be the best location for a computer lab, so to speak. As we turned the corner, he pointed out, “That is the toilet room” and as quickly as possible, I informed him he did NOT have to tell me where the toilets were located – I could and had already smelled them several yards prior. As we spoke with the instructor, about two- dozen of the boys who are students at this school, began to gather round us to hear what we might be able to plan for the future. They all seemed very eager and promised if we were successful in mapping out such a project, then they were going to study harder so they could get into the school and excel in computer training classes. It was heartening to find out how enthusiastic they all were to improve their lives. We departed from the school and headed back to Biratnagar. Basu wanted to drop off the other Rotarians, meet another one, and show me the hotel accommodations our team might enjoy if we were able to put a project or two together. Basu seemed to have his finger in a lot of pies – being a sponsor of one of the local banks, being a sweater manufacturer, being involved in the plastics industry, being a part owner of the hotel, etc.
That evening, we were to meet some folks from New Zealand and the UK, who were visiting SHELTER BOX projects nearby. First, however, Basu and I were to attend an event hosted by the local ROTARACT Clubs. This was a JUNIOR PRINCE AND PRINCESS BEAUTY AND TALENT CONTEST, being held at one of the vacated government buildings. I think I mentioned previously, perhaps in an earlier posting the visible lack of automobiles on the roads in and around Biratnagar. When I questioned Basu about this and why we seemed to always be driving down back alleys and side roads, he explained some of the locals were upset with the government for not paving the roads which are located directly in front of their homes or businesses, creating clouds of dust with every passing car or truck. He assured me this was not an unusual occurrence but that I should not be concerned. Famous last words…
We did, in fact attend the event. Basu was driving us. We had stopped at the home of another Rotarian to have him join us for the Rotaract event. There are laws both in India and Nepal that state if one is caught driving while using a mobile phone, the person can be arrested and forced to pay a sizable fine to the government. I guess Basu was not too worried, though, because evidently a law had yet to be written where it states the punishment for someone talking on TWO mobile phones at the same time, all the while driving using both of his elbows for steering! We arrived at the function and the auditorium was packed – both with Rotaractors, as well as families and friends of the contestants. The decibel level of the PA system was anything but healthy. I mean to say, the eardrums were assaulted and in some cases may have even burst. If a normal decibel level for loud music is 500, then this had to be at least 10,000. That is no exaggeration. I could not even hear what was being sung, let alone what the man next to me was trying to say.
MORE ABOUT THIS LATER... am off to catch a plane, but will return to BLOG soon.
Following the meeting, Basu and the incoming presidents for the two clubs met with me to discuss why I was here. I had already explained during my remarks to the general membership about the NID – Work Project Groups I have had the honor of leading for the past five years and the one I am leading this year. I told them I was interested in learning about potential projects in Nepal where I might bring a team in the coming years. I further detailed the projects over the period from 2007 to the present in Chahalka. I indicated it made good sense to begin with a small scale project and build upon that to establish a sustainable relationship with the village over a period of three or four years. We agreed to meet after lunch and to visit a few areas where Rotary might be able to make a difference.
As we were driving along, it seemed everyone was on his mobile phone – with Basu sometimes speaking on two mobile phones simultaneously. I am beginning to catch a few words and phrases in Hindi, so when one of the incoming club presidents was speaking over his mobile, and told us he had been speaking with his wife, I figured out that we were all going to his house for lunch and that he expected his wife to prepare a luncheon for five hungry men, and “oh, by the way, we will be there in five minutes!” We in fact arrived in about three minutes, because there was virtually no automobile traffic, and we met his wife who had prepared lunch in the minutes before she had to leave for her own Rotary Club meeting. I told him it is lucky his wife is also a Rotarian, so at least she understood. However, when lunch was served, I was astounded at what was placed before us – plate after plate and serving dish of one VEG dish or another.
Following lunch, we all piled into Basu’s SUV and off we went to a remote village where the children are suffering from dysentery. There are about 150 people in this village, and once I took a walk about, I saw one of the chief reasons the kids were getting sick -some of them had died in the past few months. The location of the hand-pump tube well was literally five feet from the toilet. Even though I was also told not many people use the toilets because they do not have sides and a roof to provide privacy and shelter from rainstorms, you could not prove it by me. There always seems to be the telltale stench of stale urine which assaults the nasal passages of those not accustomed to such odors. Such was the case here. The toilets were comprised of a porcelain plate – about two feet square, with places for one to place one’s feet and an oblong hole in the center. Beneath the hole was a scooped out hole with a possible capacity of two or three gallons. Trust me, these were bring used, and recently too!
As it turns out, one of the Rotarians with us told us his father had given this land to the villagers and had actually deeded each tiny parcel to the person who was then allowed to build his house and enjoy it with his family. There was also common land for gardens and area for pens for goats and chickens. We asked about education and were told nobody goes to school because they must stay in the home and work at farming. Some of the teenaged boys did work in local factories. In speaking with the Rotarian, I discovered that if asked by us (meaning by me and those in future groups) he would be willing to deed additional land to the villagers who would build and maintain a proper bath facility – perhaps a tiny scale of what we are presently doing in Chahalka.
Since I was leaving the following afternoon to fly to Kathmandu, I wanted to view as many potential projects as we could in that afternoon. We visited a larger town and across the road from where the townspeople were celebrating a religious holiday (I think there are more Hindu holidays or holy days than in any other religion) we visited a government school for boys. At present, about half of the rooms are being used, while the others remain empty, unproductive and stinking. After some discussion with the teacher (who was also incidentally a judge for a contest or competition across at the holy day celebration) we determined we should be able to have the government deed over to us one double room and one single room, in exchange for our creating a computer training center, much the same as we had done with the derelict building in Chahalka this past year. The small room would be converted into an efficiency studio apartment for an instructor, whom we would have to hire and pay wages for them. Basu and I walked from the small room over around the veranda to what would be the best location for a computer lab, so to speak. As we turned the corner, he pointed out, “That is the toilet room” and as quickly as possible, I informed him he did NOT have to tell me where the toilets were located – I could and had already smelled them several yards prior. As we spoke with the instructor, about two- dozen of the boys who are students at this school, began to gather round us to hear what we might be able to plan for the future. They all seemed very eager and promised if we were successful in mapping out such a project, then they were going to study harder so they could get into the school and excel in computer training classes. It was heartening to find out how enthusiastic they all were to improve their lives. We departed from the school and headed back to Biratnagar. Basu wanted to drop off the other Rotarians, meet another one, and show me the hotel accommodations our team might enjoy if we were able to put a project or two together. Basu seemed to have his finger in a lot of pies – being a sponsor of one of the local banks, being a sweater manufacturer, being involved in the plastics industry, being a part owner of the hotel, etc.
That evening, we were to meet some folks from New Zealand and the UK, who were visiting SHELTER BOX projects nearby. First, however, Basu and I were to attend an event hosted by the local ROTARACT Clubs. This was a JUNIOR PRINCE AND PRINCESS BEAUTY AND TALENT CONTEST, being held at one of the vacated government buildings. I think I mentioned previously, perhaps in an earlier posting the visible lack of automobiles on the roads in and around Biratnagar. When I questioned Basu about this and why we seemed to always be driving down back alleys and side roads, he explained some of the locals were upset with the government for not paving the roads which are located directly in front of their homes or businesses, creating clouds of dust with every passing car or truck. He assured me this was not an unusual occurrence but that I should not be concerned. Famous last words…
We did, in fact attend the event. Basu was driving us. We had stopped at the home of another Rotarian to have him join us for the Rotaract event. There are laws both in India and Nepal that state if one is caught driving while using a mobile phone, the person can be arrested and forced to pay a sizable fine to the government. I guess Basu was not too worried, though, because evidently a law had yet to be written where it states the punishment for someone talking on TWO mobile phones at the same time, all the while driving using both of his elbows for steering! We arrived at the function and the auditorium was packed – both with Rotaractors, as well as families and friends of the contestants. The decibel level of the PA system was anything but healthy. I mean to say, the eardrums were assaulted and in some cases may have even burst. If a normal decibel level for loud music is 500, then this had to be at least 10,000. That is no exaggeration. I could not even hear what was being sung, let alone what the man next to me was trying to say.
MORE ABOUT THIS LATER... am off to catch a plane, but will return to BLOG soon.
FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH - PART TWO
After dodging bicycle rickshaws with no lighting or reflectors, and occasional cow wandering along the side of the road that decided it was a good time to cross it just when our car was approaching, or trying to miss the potholes in the road (but being more like a giant magnet attracted to them) we made it to Biratnagar and to the home of my host, Rotarian Basu Dev Golyan. The driver honked the horn of the car was we approached a gate and I certainly did not expect to see the size home that loomed on the landscape as we rounded the corner and parked under the port cachere. The driver got out of the car and hollered for the houseman. He continued hollering until a man in his late twenties or early thirties emerged from the back of the house, rubbing the night's sleep from his eyes. He turned on one or two lights and we entered the foyer of what was to be my home for the next three days. Basu joined us and instructed the houseman to carry my bags to the upstairs where I was to sleep.
"We must now have dinner, my friend," he said. I checked my mobile phone (that incidentally stopped working as we crossed into Nepal - being an Indian phone, only) and the dial told me it was well after eleven-thirty - just a bit late to address a Rotary Club meeting. I told Basu I would much prefer to sleep, that I was not hungry, that I ate on the plane. Basically, I offered every excuse to him for not wanting to eat at that late hour. He insisted, and I finally said, "No, Basu, I am going to bed, and I must go now!" The message penetrated and he asked me to follow him upstairs and that he would show me to my room. As I mentioned before, this was quite a house, for all I could see from the outside in the near-total darkness. We climbed the marble staircase - first twenty-four stairs to a landing and then another twenty-three stairs. High-posted, ya think? We walked down one hallway, turned into another and then opened a door into another passageway, and finally opened the door into a huge bedroom (about 25' x 30', if I were to guess). A king-sized bed awaited my tired body, but Basu insisted upon showing me the rest of the suite - the dressing area and the enormous bathroom with a marble tub that was easily six feet in length and about two feet in depth. He told me he was going to open the windows, but that they had screens and that I really needed some fresh air to sleep well. I assured him I would probably not remember anything within two minutes of my head hitting the pillows. Basu bid me a good night’s rest and I settled down onto the bed.
Although it seemed like I had slept for hours, in checking the clock on my mobile phone, I had actually slept for perhaps forty-five minutes. I awakened to the sound of a commando raid attacking me! Mosquitoes were out on the town for dinner and I was the entrée. Both in India, as well as in Nepal, at least in private homes, beds come with a bottom sheet and a comforter. There was no escaping these winged bandits. I pulled the comforter up over my head, totally wrapping myself into a cotton cocoon, and I waited and I listened. Another raid began in a matter of a few seconds. It is difficult to swat at mosquitoes, or anything else for that matter, when one is wrapped like a mummy. I did try to reposition myself within my envelope, but the tricky little helicopter pilots were able to located the only opening and glide in to attack me again and again. These little beasts were relentless in their sorties, coming in for a landing and the kill for hours.
Every half-hour, the bell tower peeled out the time – 2:00 a.m., 2:30 a.m. and on until dawn broke. Every fifteen minutes or so, I had to come out from beneath the comforter in order to keep from suffocating. It would have been so much easier if there were only a top sheet – at least I might have not feared suffocating, to say nothing of baking in my own body heat. Frustration set in after the first twenty-minutes. Where the devil were these carnivores originating? How were they entering the room? For a while, I decided to go into the bathroom, close the door and hopefully escape the barrage of attacks. This worked but not for long. Within about fifteen minutes, the commandos found there way through the exhaust fan, which did not have a screen on either the outside or the inside. Finally, when it got light enough to see outside, and the bell clock tolled 6:30 a.m., I went back into the room, only to discover the source of my grief and frustration – a tear in the screen about the size of a soccer ball. The little buggers had free entry throughout the night. If only I had been able to see that during the night, I could have remedied the situation by closing the window. One fact I learned however, in Nepal, or at least in Biratnagar, the electricity is shut down completely for between eight and sixteen hours each day or night, depending upon the schedule for your city or village and at Basu’s home, the time for no power was from about midnight until eight in the morning. Since he had not left me with a flashlight (or torch, as they say) I was helpless to see much of anything, since it was just not the power to the house, but the streetlamps and factory buildings, as well.
With only a few winks of sleep, I got up, took a shower (once I figured out the faucet idiosyncrasies) and got dressed. I descended the marble staircase, noticing there was a similar one leading up to another story. As I surmised when I arrived the night before, this was one huge house. I heard Basu in one of the rooms on the main floor so made myself known and he asked how I slept. I did not want to insult him by telling him that due to his concern for my health by providing an unlimited supply of fresh air I had been unable to sleep more than a total of less than one hour. We enjoyed breakfast in the formal dining room. I asked whether this was his permanent home or whether he lived in Kathmandu. He told me this was his home, that his mother still lived there with Basu and his wife. Both his mother and wife were away on an extended trip to India, so I would not be meeting them. I asked him about his business and he told me he owned a factory (immediately next to the side yard) where he produces pashmina sweaters for companies like Benneton. He said we would tour the factory probably the following day. I walked outside for a few minutes, waiting for Basu to finish puja and then we would be off to meet the members of two of the Rotary Clubs in Biratnagar.
Hopefully, the night was an anomaly and Valentine’s Day would be better.
"We must now have dinner, my friend," he said. I checked my mobile phone (that incidentally stopped working as we crossed into Nepal - being an Indian phone, only) and the dial told me it was well after eleven-thirty - just a bit late to address a Rotary Club meeting. I told Basu I would much prefer to sleep, that I was not hungry, that I ate on the plane. Basically, I offered every excuse to him for not wanting to eat at that late hour. He insisted, and I finally said, "No, Basu, I am going to bed, and I must go now!" The message penetrated and he asked me to follow him upstairs and that he would show me to my room. As I mentioned before, this was quite a house, for all I could see from the outside in the near-total darkness. We climbed the marble staircase - first twenty-four stairs to a landing and then another twenty-three stairs. High-posted, ya think? We walked down one hallway, turned into another and then opened a door into another passageway, and finally opened the door into a huge bedroom (about 25' x 30', if I were to guess). A king-sized bed awaited my tired body, but Basu insisted upon showing me the rest of the suite - the dressing area and the enormous bathroom with a marble tub that was easily six feet in length and about two feet in depth. He told me he was going to open the windows, but that they had screens and that I really needed some fresh air to sleep well. I assured him I would probably not remember anything within two minutes of my head hitting the pillows. Basu bid me a good night’s rest and I settled down onto the bed.
Although it seemed like I had slept for hours, in checking the clock on my mobile phone, I had actually slept for perhaps forty-five minutes. I awakened to the sound of a commando raid attacking me! Mosquitoes were out on the town for dinner and I was the entrée. Both in India, as well as in Nepal, at least in private homes, beds come with a bottom sheet and a comforter. There was no escaping these winged bandits. I pulled the comforter up over my head, totally wrapping myself into a cotton cocoon, and I waited and I listened. Another raid began in a matter of a few seconds. It is difficult to swat at mosquitoes, or anything else for that matter, when one is wrapped like a mummy. I did try to reposition myself within my envelope, but the tricky little helicopter pilots were able to located the only opening and glide in to attack me again and again. These little beasts were relentless in their sorties, coming in for a landing and the kill for hours.
Every half-hour, the bell tower peeled out the time – 2:00 a.m., 2:30 a.m. and on until dawn broke. Every fifteen minutes or so, I had to come out from beneath the comforter in order to keep from suffocating. It would have been so much easier if there were only a top sheet – at least I might have not feared suffocating, to say nothing of baking in my own body heat. Frustration set in after the first twenty-minutes. Where the devil were these carnivores originating? How were they entering the room? For a while, I decided to go into the bathroom, close the door and hopefully escape the barrage of attacks. This worked but not for long. Within about fifteen minutes, the commandos found there way through the exhaust fan, which did not have a screen on either the outside or the inside. Finally, when it got light enough to see outside, and the bell clock tolled 6:30 a.m., I went back into the room, only to discover the source of my grief and frustration – a tear in the screen about the size of a soccer ball. The little buggers had free entry throughout the night. If only I had been able to see that during the night, I could have remedied the situation by closing the window. One fact I learned however, in Nepal, or at least in Biratnagar, the electricity is shut down completely for between eight and sixteen hours each day or night, depending upon the schedule for your city or village and at Basu’s home, the time for no power was from about midnight until eight in the morning. Since he had not left me with a flashlight (or torch, as they say) I was helpless to see much of anything, since it was just not the power to the house, but the streetlamps and factory buildings, as well.
With only a few winks of sleep, I got up, took a shower (once I figured out the faucet idiosyncrasies) and got dressed. I descended the marble staircase, noticing there was a similar one leading up to another story. As I surmised when I arrived the night before, this was one huge house. I heard Basu in one of the rooms on the main floor so made myself known and he asked how I slept. I did not want to insult him by telling him that due to his concern for my health by providing an unlimited supply of fresh air I had been unable to sleep more than a total of less than one hour. We enjoyed breakfast in the formal dining room. I asked whether this was his permanent home or whether he lived in Kathmandu. He told me this was his home, that his mother still lived there with Basu and his wife. Both his mother and wife were away on an extended trip to India, so I would not be meeting them. I asked him about his business and he told me he owned a factory (immediately next to the side yard) where he produces pashmina sweaters for companies like Benneton. He said we would tour the factory probably the following day. I walked outside for a few minutes, waiting for Basu to finish puja and then we would be off to meet the members of two of the Rotary Clubs in Biratnagar.
Hopefully, the night was an anomaly and Valentine’s Day would be better.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
San Antonio Team on its way !
Here is a story about the SA team which appeared in our daily newspaper, the San Antonio Express-News, the morning before our departure on Feb 27, 2009:
By Elizabeth Allen - Express-News
When administering vaccine to a struggling child while crowded by curious onlookers in a remote Indian village, it's important not to touch the medicine vial to the child's lips.
That's one of the tips that Boone and Dianne Powell brought back to fellow Rotarians this month as the others prepare to join an international effort to eradicate polio.
A member of the Rotary Club of San Antonio, Dianne Powell and her husband joined the teams of Rotary Club International, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the World Health Organization and UNICEF in the fight. Their trip and a two-week journey launching Friday from San Antonio were organized by local Rotarian and past district president Jim Berg.
Rotarians have long fought polio, but until this year, nobody from South Texas District 5840 has gone to India, Berg said.
“We've sent money that way, but we've never sent people that way,” he said. “I decided that I had heard about it long enough, and I wanted to go ... and show everybody with my camera and with my blog.”
Berg, John and Judy Hutcherson of the Fredericksburg Morning Rotary Club and Nora Turner of the Wimberley Rotary Club expect to arrive in India, jetlagged and exhausted, just in time for the next National Immunization Day, on March 1. Aided by the Greehey Family Foundation and NuStar Energy, they'll join a massive effort led by Indian health workers.
“There are far more Indians involved than Rotarians from Western countries,” Berg said. “We happen to go there only to be boots on the ground.”
But the presence of Westerners, combined with thousands of bright yellow advertising banners, draw attention to the event, according to the blog of Maine Rotarian Elias Thomas, whom Berg and the others will join.
Each push will vaccinate millions of children in a few days. Over 20 years, such efforts have helped reduce the annual world polio infection rate from more than 300,000 to about 2,000.
Dianne Powell grew up in Fort Worth, a world away from Chahalka, the Muslim village near Delhi where the Powells spent much of their visit hauling bricks to build bathrooms.
But she shares a physical link with them.
“I had polio when I was about 8 years old, and I had friends that I got to know in the hospital that didn't make it,” Powell said.
For many Americans younger than 40, polio is a storybook illness afflicting children of the past. But it's an ongoing reality in India, Nigeria, Pakistan and Afghanistan.
Poliomyelitis attacks the nervous system and can lead to permanent paralysis, usually in the legs. Sometimes it kills its sufferers by immobilizing their breathing muscles. It usually affects children and spreads most aggressively in communities with poor sanitation systems.
Not that many years ago, it was a terrifying reality in the U.S., affecting thousands of people a year. President Franklin D. Roosevelt contracted it in 1921 at age 39.
Dr. Jonas Salk developed the first polio vaccine, in 1954, and a 1962 aerial photo shows a long line of people snaking around San Antonio's Municipal Auditorium waiting for immunization.
Powell's memory of getting polio was as a sudden strike.
“I woke up one morning and I couldn't move,” she said. “They took me to the hospital and they did a spinal tap, which was excruciating.“Polio meant nothing to me. All I knew was there was this very painful procedure, and the next thing I knew, I was in a ward with all these kids, and my mother and father went away.”
It was the early 1950s, and Powell was treated with hot towels, baths and physical therapy. She watched as other children whose respiratory systems were attacked were placed in iron lungs, the large metal cylinders that acted like a bellows to regulate breathing.
“They were horrible-looking things, these big tubes, and you'd see a child's head sticking out of them,” Powell said.
When the Powells returned from India this month, they sat down with Berg, Turner and John Hutcherson.
“I just didn't realize how rough it was going to be, and how primitive our quarters were going to be, and how hard the work was going to be,” Dianne Powell said. On the other hand, she said, the group was generously fed and hosted.
She and her husband offered practical travel tips — hats, hand sanitizer, patience — as well as a description of immunization day, when crowds surrounded health workers.
Boone Powell spoke of the shock of seeing very young children in charge of infants.
“So you see the crowd kind of stirring in an area, and then, plop! This baby comes through the crowd carrying another baby,” he said.
For Hutcherson, the difficulties of third-world travel aren't new. Both Hutchersons have been on service trips, he said, with Judy Hutcherson recently back from Afghanistan.
“It's an opportunity to serve, and it's an opportunity to ... establish relationships with people around the world, and I believe that's how you do peace in the world,” he said. “It changes my view, and it also has an influence on their view.”
By Elizabeth Allen - Express-News
When administering vaccine to a struggling child while crowded by curious onlookers in a remote Indian village, it's important not to touch the medicine vial to the child's lips.
That's one of the tips that Boone and Dianne Powell brought back to fellow Rotarians this month as the others prepare to join an international effort to eradicate polio.
A member of the Rotary Club of San Antonio, Dianne Powell and her husband joined the teams of Rotary Club International, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the World Health Organization and UNICEF in the fight. Their trip and a two-week journey launching Friday from San Antonio were organized by local Rotarian and past district president Jim Berg.
Rotarians have long fought polio, but until this year, nobody from South Texas District 5840 has gone to India, Berg said.
“We've sent money that way, but we've never sent people that way,” he said. “I decided that I had heard about it long enough, and I wanted to go ... and show everybody with my camera and with my blog.”
Berg, John and Judy Hutcherson of the Fredericksburg Morning Rotary Club and Nora Turner of the Wimberley Rotary Club expect to arrive in India, jetlagged and exhausted, just in time for the next National Immunization Day, on March 1. Aided by the Greehey Family Foundation and NuStar Energy, they'll join a massive effort led by Indian health workers.
“There are far more Indians involved than Rotarians from Western countries,” Berg said. “We happen to go there only to be boots on the ground.”
But the presence of Westerners, combined with thousands of bright yellow advertising banners, draw attention to the event, according to the blog of Maine Rotarian Elias Thomas, whom Berg and the others will join.
Each push will vaccinate millions of children in a few days. Over 20 years, such efforts have helped reduce the annual world polio infection rate from more than 300,000 to about 2,000.
Dianne Powell grew up in Fort Worth, a world away from Chahalka, the Muslim village near Delhi where the Powells spent much of their visit hauling bricks to build bathrooms.
But she shares a physical link with them.
“I had polio when I was about 8 years old, and I had friends that I got to know in the hospital that didn't make it,” Powell said.
For many Americans younger than 40, polio is a storybook illness afflicting children of the past. But it's an ongoing reality in India, Nigeria, Pakistan and Afghanistan.
Poliomyelitis attacks the nervous system and can lead to permanent paralysis, usually in the legs. Sometimes it kills its sufferers by immobilizing their breathing muscles. It usually affects children and spreads most aggressively in communities with poor sanitation systems.
Not that many years ago, it was a terrifying reality in the U.S., affecting thousands of people a year. President Franklin D. Roosevelt contracted it in 1921 at age 39.
Dr. Jonas Salk developed the first polio vaccine, in 1954, and a 1962 aerial photo shows a long line of people snaking around San Antonio's Municipal Auditorium waiting for immunization.
Powell's memory of getting polio was as a sudden strike.
“I woke up one morning and I couldn't move,” she said. “They took me to the hospital and they did a spinal tap, which was excruciating.“Polio meant nothing to me. All I knew was there was this very painful procedure, and the next thing I knew, I was in a ward with all these kids, and my mother and father went away.”
It was the early 1950s, and Powell was treated with hot towels, baths and physical therapy. She watched as other children whose respiratory systems were attacked were placed in iron lungs, the large metal cylinders that acted like a bellows to regulate breathing.
“They were horrible-looking things, these big tubes, and you'd see a child's head sticking out of them,” Powell said.
When the Powells returned from India this month, they sat down with Berg, Turner and John Hutcherson.
“I just didn't realize how rough it was going to be, and how primitive our quarters were going to be, and how hard the work was going to be,” Dianne Powell said. On the other hand, she said, the group was generously fed and hosted.
She and her husband offered practical travel tips — hats, hand sanitizer, patience — as well as a description of immunization day, when crowds surrounded health workers.
Boone Powell spoke of the shock of seeing very young children in charge of infants.
“So you see the crowd kind of stirring in an area, and then, plop! This baby comes through the crowd carrying another baby,” he said.
For Hutcherson, the difficulties of third-world travel aren't new. Both Hutchersons have been on service trips, he said, with Judy Hutcherson recently back from Afghanistan.
“It's an opportunity to serve, and it's an opportunity to ... establish relationships with people around the world, and I believe that's how you do peace in the world,” he said. “It changes my view, and it also has an influence on their view.”
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
FRIDAY, THE THIRTEENTH - PART ONE
Since meeting Basu Dev Golyan, the Rotarian from Nepal, at our farewell dinner on the 8th, I had arranged to travel to Nepal, primarily to determine if there might be some projects to consider for our teams of Rotarians in future years. Through the help of Sanjiv and his office, I was able to purchase a ticket on a flight leaving from Delhi at 9:30 a.m. on Friday, the 13th. Not that I am suspicious or anything, but as the day unfolded, perhaps a few of the doubts I may have had became reality.
First, Sanjiv's driver was not too keen about meeting me at such an early hour to take me to the airport within the required two-hour pre-boarding time constraint. Well, Badal did arrive at the house to meet me. I had packed all of my clothing into my carry-on, but also had my laptop along, just in case I might have an opportunity to access the Internet at a WI-FI location. When we arrived at the airport, at about 8:00 (not quite the two hours required) I went to the entrance for KINGFISHER AIRLINES and checked in at the ticket counter. The attendant checked my bag through to Bagdogra (an airport in Bengal, not too far a drive from the border with Nepal). I asked if the flight would be on-time and was told it would be. This is great. Things are rolling along just fine. I then passed through security, trying to explain why every time the wand passed by my left knee, the lights flashed and the buzzer went off. I finally rolled up my pant leg, showed my scar and rapped on my knee a few times and said, "Titanium". The attendant smiled and let me pass through. I collected my laptop bag and jacket and proceeded to the waiting area.
Waiting area? What an understatement! Almost as soon as I reached that area, the departure screen indicated our flight had been postponed until 11:00. Not so bad. I could continue to read the book that Sean Dolter had loaned to me. The next announcement over the PA system indicated 12:30 p.m. Well, I guess I can live with this, I thought. Within minutes there was another announcement: "The flight on Kingfisher Airlines has been postponed until 2:30." There was never any explanation, and due to that fact, when an unsuspecting gate attendant from Kingfisher strolled down to the gate area, he was accosted by about two dozen very angry and VERY vocal passengers - all of them from India. I have never seen quite such an unruly crowd in an airport. I mean, they screamed and yelled and pushed and shoved and hollered epithets and expletives UN-deleted! Evidently, when I spoke to a man who had come to sit beside me because he noticed the Rotary emblem on my shirt, the crowd was getting more and more upset, due to the fact that supposedly since Bagdogra is also a military air base, no commercial flights are allowed into or out of that airport after 5:00 in the afternoons.
I decided to get something to eat and again experienced a rather unruly crowd of hungry passengers. Finally, I was able to get something VEG and returned to my seat in the waiting lounge. I ate my breakfast-lunch-whatever meal and settled in with my book. Then more yelling and screaming. I mean you cannot even make up fiction that plays out like this scene was doing. I was then informed that Kingfisher Airlines would allow passengers to go to the food counter and get some lunch at no further cost to the passenger, so I sallied forth to join the queue at the lunch counter. I was able to get a wrap of some kind because the veggie burgers were not available. The back of my ticket was endorsed by the attendant and I returned to my seat. Would you believe… at 4:00 that afternoon, we were allowed to leave the terminal and proceed to awaiting buses that would take us to the plane? Well, not so fast! We boarded the buses (with mostly windows) and the doors closed. Unfortunately, we stood for a good fifteen minutes without being able to leave, to open windows or, heaven forbid, to have the driver turn on the air conditioning. Remember the smell of wet winter clothes steaming on the radiators at school, when you were a little kid? Well multiply that smell exponentially and you MIGHT get an idea as to how the bus stunk by the time we began to roll. To say the passengers were not pleased would be to put it mildly. Again more pushing and shoving, and for what? Did these folks really believe the plane would leave without them? Did they really believe that someone else would sit in their assigned seats? Once all were boarded and settled into seats, we began to taxi and lift-off came at about 4:45 p.m. Not bad… only seven plus hours late, and not a cloud in the sky! I was so looking forward to a free Kingfisher beer or two, but that was not about to happen.
The flight was not too bumpy and I guess when all is said and done, perhaps the company wanted us all to be able to appreciate the magnificence of the views of the sunset reflecting its crimson rays on the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas. Doubtful, but it gave me hope. Upon landing, I picked up my checked bag and proceeded out to the parking lot and was met by a driver holding a piece of paper with some semblance of my name on it. He was a pleasant, older man, who took my bag and we proceeded to the car. I got in and was disappointed that darkness had encroached to the point it would be very difficult to see much of the countryside on the way to Biratnagar - the home of my host, Basu. The driver tried to communicate to me that the trip would take about two hours. Since I had been scheduled to address a joint meeting of two Rotary Clubs in Biratnagar, I thought anything is possible and if they met like so many other clubs meet, later in the evening, I could still make it there. Again, not so fast!!!
Although the driver really tried to make up for lost time - I mean for all seven hours of lost time - there was more in store for us along the way. We drove through totally blacked out areas - I mean not so much as a flickering candle or oil lamp, and then through some very noisy villages where open-air markets were still crowded despite the darkness of the hour. There always seems to be an inherent bustle about the villages in India, almost as though going to market is as much a social event as it might be for buying a few eggs or some fresh produce. I also noticed lots of bicycle rickshaws - I mean literally hundreds and hundreds of them, not only in the towns and villages, but also being pedaled along the main roads leading out of the villages, and with no safety features such as lights or reflectors. In the USA, OSHA would have a field day…
We finally reached an area where I began to notice signs that we were approaching the border with Nepal. We might still reach the meeting. Nay, nay, not so fast!!! First, we had to stop at the checkpoint on the Indian side of the border so I could legally exit the country and get my passport stamped. Unfortunately, the driver had forgotten this little tidbit of a requirement, so we had first driven to the border, only to be turned back so I could get the passport stamped. In what was close to total darkness, with an occasional single low-watt light bulb dangling from a frayed and spliced wire to interrupt what seemed like we were inside a large pocket, I was directed by a rather spirited military officer to go back to a hut in the rear of the compound and someone would come to meet me. I am sure I was the attraction, being rather large and white. I entered what I thought would be the right hut and was told to wait. Why not? After having left the safe haven of Sanjiv's home some twelve hours before, what is another few minutes? The officer finally came and asked me what I wanted. Although somewhat unsure as to what I really wanted, I told him I would be grateful if he would stamp my passport so I could proceed into Nepal. After fishing through the pages of my passport to find a clean page and to locate my current visa, he finally stamped it with such pronouncement that I am surprised it was simply stamped, rather than embossed.
Now, back to the car and my driver who was eagerly awaiting, ready to transport me to his master's house. We approached the international border between India and Nepal and were stopped again. I expected this, since one must check in at an immigration office to enter a country. He driver left me in the car to locate the right office. This location was even darker than the checkpoint on the Indian side, if that is possible. Not so much as two street lamps that seemed to flicker, almost in a pulsing rhythm. The few cars passing did not have headlights lit. Night vision in Nepal must be fantastic! About ten minutes later, the driver returned and got into the car. He looked upset. I asked him if there was a problem and he tried to explain we could not cross the border. "This is just ducky," I thought to myself. Here I am in the middle of nowhere, unable to speak Hindi or Nepalese, in near total darkness, wondering if I was to have the pleasure of camping out in the back seat of my sub-compact limousine. Ah, for the sake of adventure…
The driver tried several times to call on his mobile, presumably to Basu. He was finally able to get through, although the connection seemed a bit sketchy. He told me to wait in the car again, but this time he left the interior light on, and I really became the attraction - with passersby peering in the windows as though I were a giant white fish in a tiny fishbowl. Fifteen minutes later the driver returned to the car, seeming even more frustrated than before. He tried calling about a dozen times but to no avail. He got out of the car again and told me to stay there. Like I was about to go for an evening stroll or something??? Another fifteen minutes passed, and he returned to the car, rapped on the body of the car and motioned me out. He explained the Immigration Office was CLOSED!!! Oh joy. So where was he directing that I should proceed? A military officer was walking along the other side of the street, in the same general direction I was headed and I thought we should just about meet one another from perpendicular starting points. I guessed he was military, although his uniform was a bit suspect - typical army green jacket with a name tag and a medal, not buttoned; a relic of a rifle slung over his right shoulder; and a pair of dirty white cargo-type shorts and bare feet. "Oh well, go with the flow," I thought. The principal gate - a ten foot wall of steel, was closed and bolted shut. However, a tiny door opened into the yard of this outpost. I was invited to step in. I suddenly remembered a childhood story where the last part of the line flashed into my head, "said the spider to the fly". Was this going to be where I was encamped for the night? Would this be my ticket into the country? What was going to happen next?
Inside the building, and I swear this is true, there was an office with a processing counter. Perched atop the counter was a single lighted candle, about the thickness of a Bic pen, providing absolutely the ONLY light in the room. There were three men, including my barefooted, cargo shorted military officer, behind the counter. I was asked to produce my passport and in order to expedite this process; I opened it to the page where the Indian officer had pounded my exit information indelibly onto the page. He did not seem to be impressed with this and handed me a 3" x 5" piece of paper, an entry form, that I was required to fill out. I did so, and then a horrible thought crept into my mind. The previous day, I was supposed to have had two passport-sized photos taken, so I could provide them to the Nepalese Immigration officer, in order to obtain a visa and enter the country. That never happened. What to do now? Wait until I was asked for the photos. I handed the completed visa application form to a plain-clothes guy, who in turn handed it to the other man who then handed it to the barefooted, white cargo shorts guy. Each had to take a look at it, but how could they see any of the writing, since the candle was on my side of the room? One man produced a penlight and held it in his mouth, while he read over my visa application. He then asked the sixty-four thousand dollar question, "Photos?" Such a simple question. I thought to myself, "Elias, you are in SOOOOOOOOOOO much trouble!" Just as I was about to tell them I had no photos, I remembered my Rotary business card that has a photo of Jane and me on it. I reached into my pocket, produced two of these cards (the photo is only about an inch by and inch, but it is a photo) and handed them to the first guy, who guided his mouth-held penlight onto this new prize, then passed them onto guy number two who held them in front of the first guy's mouth with light, and finally passed them onto white shorts barefoot guy. (Do you see a Bollywood movie script in my future?) "Where is Madam?" he asked assertively. "Madam is at home shoveling snow," I informed him. "We must have Madam here with you to process," he said. I then told him to cut the picture in half so Madam did NOT have to be with me in order for me to enter Nepal, and Ripley, are you ready for this??? He took out a pair of manicure scissors, cut Madam out of the photo, stapled the two cards to my visa application, stamped my passport, peeled off a peel-and-stick-visa form from his book and slapped it into my passport. The flickering candle was extinguished and I was then escorted out of the building, through the tiny opening in the steel wall, and proceeded to my car, where no driver was to be seen. He appeared soon and we were off for Biratnagar, where presumably the Rotarians had long-since departed from their meeting. We got to the pike, which was only partially lowered, so we just drove underneath it and, huzzah, we were in Nepal. On to PART TWO.
First, Sanjiv's driver was not too keen about meeting me at such an early hour to take me to the airport within the required two-hour pre-boarding time constraint. Well, Badal did arrive at the house to meet me. I had packed all of my clothing into my carry-on, but also had my laptop along, just in case I might have an opportunity to access the Internet at a WI-FI location. When we arrived at the airport, at about 8:00 (not quite the two hours required) I went to the entrance for KINGFISHER AIRLINES and checked in at the ticket counter. The attendant checked my bag through to Bagdogra (an airport in Bengal, not too far a drive from the border with Nepal). I asked if the flight would be on-time and was told it would be. This is great. Things are rolling along just fine. I then passed through security, trying to explain why every time the wand passed by my left knee, the lights flashed and the buzzer went off. I finally rolled up my pant leg, showed my scar and rapped on my knee a few times and said, "Titanium". The attendant smiled and let me pass through. I collected my laptop bag and jacket and proceeded to the waiting area.
Waiting area? What an understatement! Almost as soon as I reached that area, the departure screen indicated our flight had been postponed until 11:00. Not so bad. I could continue to read the book that Sean Dolter had loaned to me. The next announcement over the PA system indicated 12:30 p.m. Well, I guess I can live with this, I thought. Within minutes there was another announcement: "The flight on Kingfisher Airlines has been postponed until 2:30." There was never any explanation, and due to that fact, when an unsuspecting gate attendant from Kingfisher strolled down to the gate area, he was accosted by about two dozen very angry and VERY vocal passengers - all of them from India. I have never seen quite such an unruly crowd in an airport. I mean, they screamed and yelled and pushed and shoved and hollered epithets and expletives UN-deleted! Evidently, when I spoke to a man who had come to sit beside me because he noticed the Rotary emblem on my shirt, the crowd was getting more and more upset, due to the fact that supposedly since Bagdogra is also a military air base, no commercial flights are allowed into or out of that airport after 5:00 in the afternoons.
I decided to get something to eat and again experienced a rather unruly crowd of hungry passengers. Finally, I was able to get something VEG and returned to my seat in the waiting lounge. I ate my breakfast-lunch-whatever meal and settled in with my book. Then more yelling and screaming. I mean you cannot even make up fiction that plays out like this scene was doing. I was then informed that Kingfisher Airlines would allow passengers to go to the food counter and get some lunch at no further cost to the passenger, so I sallied forth to join the queue at the lunch counter. I was able to get a wrap of some kind because the veggie burgers were not available. The back of my ticket was endorsed by the attendant and I returned to my seat. Would you believe… at 4:00 that afternoon, we were allowed to leave the terminal and proceed to awaiting buses that would take us to the plane? Well, not so fast! We boarded the buses (with mostly windows) and the doors closed. Unfortunately, we stood for a good fifteen minutes without being able to leave, to open windows or, heaven forbid, to have the driver turn on the air conditioning. Remember the smell of wet winter clothes steaming on the radiators at school, when you were a little kid? Well multiply that smell exponentially and you MIGHT get an idea as to how the bus stunk by the time we began to roll. To say the passengers were not pleased would be to put it mildly. Again more pushing and shoving, and for what? Did these folks really believe the plane would leave without them? Did they really believe that someone else would sit in their assigned seats? Once all were boarded and settled into seats, we began to taxi and lift-off came at about 4:45 p.m. Not bad… only seven plus hours late, and not a cloud in the sky! I was so looking forward to a free Kingfisher beer or two, but that was not about to happen.
The flight was not too bumpy and I guess when all is said and done, perhaps the company wanted us all to be able to appreciate the magnificence of the views of the sunset reflecting its crimson rays on the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas. Doubtful, but it gave me hope. Upon landing, I picked up my checked bag and proceeded out to the parking lot and was met by a driver holding a piece of paper with some semblance of my name on it. He was a pleasant, older man, who took my bag and we proceeded to the car. I got in and was disappointed that darkness had encroached to the point it would be very difficult to see much of the countryside on the way to Biratnagar - the home of my host, Basu. The driver tried to communicate to me that the trip would take about two hours. Since I had been scheduled to address a joint meeting of two Rotary Clubs in Biratnagar, I thought anything is possible and if they met like so many other clubs meet, later in the evening, I could still make it there. Again, not so fast!!!
Although the driver really tried to make up for lost time - I mean for all seven hours of lost time - there was more in store for us along the way. We drove through totally blacked out areas - I mean not so much as a flickering candle or oil lamp, and then through some very noisy villages where open-air markets were still crowded despite the darkness of the hour. There always seems to be an inherent bustle about the villages in India, almost as though going to market is as much a social event as it might be for buying a few eggs or some fresh produce. I also noticed lots of bicycle rickshaws - I mean literally hundreds and hundreds of them, not only in the towns and villages, but also being pedaled along the main roads leading out of the villages, and with no safety features such as lights or reflectors. In the USA, OSHA would have a field day…
We finally reached an area where I began to notice signs that we were approaching the border with Nepal. We might still reach the meeting. Nay, nay, not so fast!!! First, we had to stop at the checkpoint on the Indian side of the border so I could legally exit the country and get my passport stamped. Unfortunately, the driver had forgotten this little tidbit of a requirement, so we had first driven to the border, only to be turned back so I could get the passport stamped. In what was close to total darkness, with an occasional single low-watt light bulb dangling from a frayed and spliced wire to interrupt what seemed like we were inside a large pocket, I was directed by a rather spirited military officer to go back to a hut in the rear of the compound and someone would come to meet me. I am sure I was the attraction, being rather large and white. I entered what I thought would be the right hut and was told to wait. Why not? After having left the safe haven of Sanjiv's home some twelve hours before, what is another few minutes? The officer finally came and asked me what I wanted. Although somewhat unsure as to what I really wanted, I told him I would be grateful if he would stamp my passport so I could proceed into Nepal. After fishing through the pages of my passport to find a clean page and to locate my current visa, he finally stamped it with such pronouncement that I am surprised it was simply stamped, rather than embossed.
Now, back to the car and my driver who was eagerly awaiting, ready to transport me to his master's house. We approached the international border between India and Nepal and were stopped again. I expected this, since one must check in at an immigration office to enter a country. He driver left me in the car to locate the right office. This location was even darker than the checkpoint on the Indian side, if that is possible. Not so much as two street lamps that seemed to flicker, almost in a pulsing rhythm. The few cars passing did not have headlights lit. Night vision in Nepal must be fantastic! About ten minutes later, the driver returned and got into the car. He looked upset. I asked him if there was a problem and he tried to explain we could not cross the border. "This is just ducky," I thought to myself. Here I am in the middle of nowhere, unable to speak Hindi or Nepalese, in near total darkness, wondering if I was to have the pleasure of camping out in the back seat of my sub-compact limousine. Ah, for the sake of adventure…
The driver tried several times to call on his mobile, presumably to Basu. He was finally able to get through, although the connection seemed a bit sketchy. He told me to wait in the car again, but this time he left the interior light on, and I really became the attraction - with passersby peering in the windows as though I were a giant white fish in a tiny fishbowl. Fifteen minutes later the driver returned to the car, seeming even more frustrated than before. He tried calling about a dozen times but to no avail. He got out of the car again and told me to stay there. Like I was about to go for an evening stroll or something??? Another fifteen minutes passed, and he returned to the car, rapped on the body of the car and motioned me out. He explained the Immigration Office was CLOSED!!! Oh joy. So where was he directing that I should proceed? A military officer was walking along the other side of the street, in the same general direction I was headed and I thought we should just about meet one another from perpendicular starting points. I guessed he was military, although his uniform was a bit suspect - typical army green jacket with a name tag and a medal, not buttoned; a relic of a rifle slung over his right shoulder; and a pair of dirty white cargo-type shorts and bare feet. "Oh well, go with the flow," I thought. The principal gate - a ten foot wall of steel, was closed and bolted shut. However, a tiny door opened into the yard of this outpost. I was invited to step in. I suddenly remembered a childhood story where the last part of the line flashed into my head, "said the spider to the fly". Was this going to be where I was encamped for the night? Would this be my ticket into the country? What was going to happen next?
Inside the building, and I swear this is true, there was an office with a processing counter. Perched atop the counter was a single lighted candle, about the thickness of a Bic pen, providing absolutely the ONLY light in the room. There were three men, including my barefooted, cargo shorted military officer, behind the counter. I was asked to produce my passport and in order to expedite this process; I opened it to the page where the Indian officer had pounded my exit information indelibly onto the page. He did not seem to be impressed with this and handed me a 3" x 5" piece of paper, an entry form, that I was required to fill out. I did so, and then a horrible thought crept into my mind. The previous day, I was supposed to have had two passport-sized photos taken, so I could provide them to the Nepalese Immigration officer, in order to obtain a visa and enter the country. That never happened. What to do now? Wait until I was asked for the photos. I handed the completed visa application form to a plain-clothes guy, who in turn handed it to the other man who then handed it to the barefooted, white cargo shorts guy. Each had to take a look at it, but how could they see any of the writing, since the candle was on my side of the room? One man produced a penlight and held it in his mouth, while he read over my visa application. He then asked the sixty-four thousand dollar question, "Photos?" Such a simple question. I thought to myself, "Elias, you are in SOOOOOOOOOOO much trouble!" Just as I was about to tell them I had no photos, I remembered my Rotary business card that has a photo of Jane and me on it. I reached into my pocket, produced two of these cards (the photo is only about an inch by and inch, but it is a photo) and handed them to the first guy, who guided his mouth-held penlight onto this new prize, then passed them onto guy number two who held them in front of the first guy's mouth with light, and finally passed them onto white shorts barefoot guy. (Do you see a Bollywood movie script in my future?) "Where is Madam?" he asked assertively. "Madam is at home shoveling snow," I informed him. "We must have Madam here with you to process," he said. I then told him to cut the picture in half so Madam did NOT have to be with me in order for me to enter Nepal, and Ripley, are you ready for this??? He took out a pair of manicure scissors, cut Madam out of the photo, stapled the two cards to my visa application, stamped my passport, peeled off a peel-and-stick-visa form from his book and slapped it into my passport. The flickering candle was extinguished and I was then escorted out of the building, through the tiny opening in the steel wall, and proceeded to my car, where no driver was to be seen. He appeared soon and we were off for Biratnagar, where presumably the Rotarians had long-since departed from their meeting. We got to the pike, which was only partially lowered, so we just drove underneath it and, huzzah, we were in Nepal. On to PART TWO.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
PLAYING CATCH-UP… (Feb. 9-12)
...or is it ketchup???
Beginning on Monday, February 8, I worked with Sanjiv to update the information regarding our second group of team members scheduled to arrive on February 28. There were rooming arrangements to be made for the time we would be working on the project, as well as final information to share with the team members as to what they might expect for weather conditions, possible gifts to bring to the children in the village among other things. However, since our group had basically monopolized Sanjiv’s time and that of the rest of his family, there were more important items on his agenda which needed to be addressed – the MARRIAGE OF HIS SON, GAURAV, taking place on March 28 and 29!
Since I consider myself as a part of their family and they feel likewise, it was a pleasure and an honor for me when Sanjiv and Jyotsna invited me to go with them as they shopped for the chairs and tenting to be used for both days of the ceremonies – different for each day! On Monday, we visited a company that offers an amazing selection of tenting materials, colors, chair covers, table dressing and lighting. It seemed that Sanjiv, Jyotsna, Olie, Pallavi and I spent about three hours at this one vendor, but in the end were able to agree upon colors to be used, whether or not the chair covers should also have bows tied around the backs, and if so, what fabric and color would be used for this. We decided upon the setting for the bar as well as the food table, and a few suggestions I made that were accepted and will be implemented. Once we concluded this exercise, we went to a South Indian restaurant for lunch – after all, it was only 4:15 in the afternoon. One of the difficult situations to be addressed is the fact that the wedding ceremonies and festivities will take place at the “farm”, rather that in Delhi, so everything needs to be hauled there – and this will take a minimum of two hours to bring from Delhi.
Following lunch, Pallavi and I decided it would be great fun to visit the local Baskin-Robbins and pick up a number of varieties of ice cream to have for dessert at dinner later that evening.
The next day, we went shopping for jewelry and lehengas – the traditional dress for the bride to wear on the marriage day. The embroidery work and the beadwork on some of these garments were truly amazing – all done by hand, rather than machine. Some of the skirts were so heavily beaded that I would guess the weight exceeded thirty pounds. Pallavi, as the sister of the groom, also wanted to find a lehenga for herself. After all, she had the right to wear one since she is the groom’s sister. This day, it was just Pallavi, Sanjiv and I who were looking for the jewelry and the lehengas. I think we must have visited about fifteen different shops – many of them designer shops, and really did not find anything to purchase for Tatiana – the bride. You see, Gaurav lives in San Francisco, as does Tatiana. Additionally, neither she nor her family has ever traveled to India. Since time is compressed and Gaurav and Tatiana will only be arriving one week prior to the wedding, everything needs to be found, bought and delivered between now and the time they arrive. Final fittings will occur in that one week. Talk about stress!!!
Somehow, Sanjiv seemed to have been stricken with food poisoning, and landed flat on his back, with chills and nausea, etc. This coupled with his already bad back left him somewhat helpless and confined to the house. In addition, following Indian tradition, Jyotsna was packing to travel to Assam, from where she originated, to personally deliver all of the wedding invitations to five of her sisters, as well as their families, and to do some shopping for the wedding. To describe the household as one of hustle and bustle would clearly be a gross understatement.
Not only were we involved with shopping and making arrangements for the marriage, but I was also trying to rekindle some former relationships with friends in India, as well as make necessary arrangements for me to travel to Nepal toward the end of the week. I was able to speak with Raj Bardeja, who had been one of my hosts when I was in India as the Group Study Exchange team leader in 2003. I also visited with Yogesh Sikand. She and her husband and their son had also hosted me that same year. It was wonderful to catch up on these past several years. Rishi, her son, was studying for his final examinations. It is hard to believe that much time had passed since I had stayed at their home.
Ravi Dayal, who was one of my first Rotarian friends in India called and invited me to have lunch with him at Habitat – a wonderful complex in Delhi, that included fine accommodations and a wonderful roof-top restaurant. Following lunch, Ravi and I went to the section of the city where he had been raised. He needed to purchase tires for his wife’s van. It was kind of neat to see that all of the tire places were located on the same street, more or less next door to each other. Comparison-shopping was certainly easy. Once Ravi decided upon the vendor and the type tire (spelled tyre, here) then he said we needed to walk several blocks to a section of the city where crockery and glassware are sold. Ravi, who is an architect, had been contracted to not only draw the plans for the rehabilitation project for a building that will house the offices of the Congress Party, but to oversee the implementation of those plans, including the purchase of furniture and other accessories, including china, glassware, flatware, etc. He and I visited a number of shops in the basement of what I would probably term a wholesale house for that type of product, and we decided upon a china pattern, a flatware pattern, an everyday china pattern and glassware. After purchasing all of the crockery and other goods, we then had everything packed to be taken back to where he was having the tyres changed. Once all of this stuff was packed, only a few minutes expired before the packed boxes were all upstairs at the curb awaiting two bicycle rickshaws to take us and our purchases to the place where the van was getting some “new shoes”. What a sight – Ravi and I riding in one rickshaw, with a half-dozen carton boxes strapped to the undercarriage of the rickshaw, and one of the shopkeepers on another one, along with about a dozen more carton boxes. And this was not all of the stuff, either. The shopkeeper had to return to the building for twelve boxes of glassware that had not made it in the first shipment! Once the tyres were changed on the van, we went to the Congress Party Headquarters to see the project and to deliver the goods. It was fun for me to see the extent of the project and to see what work had been completed, and what furniture purchased, as well as hauling our purchases to their final destination. Once done there, Ravi and I went to meet his daughter, Mahima, whom I had not seen for about five years. She is already in University and also studying for her final examinations. We met her near the exit for the underground railway system and then drove to Sanjiv’s house. It was time to enjoy some R&R, as well as to be brought up to date with Ravi and his family. He even worked with Sanjiv to choose the ultimate food selections for the marriage – choosing veg and non-veg, continental, Chinese and traditional dishes. Ravi actually was quite good at this exercise.
When we returned to Sanjiv’s house, Pallavi and one of here cousins were working on the plans for the marriage, including a skit that would parody Gaurav and his bride-to-be. Mahima has some practice in this, so she and Pallavi, as well as Olie and another cousin worked on the skit. When they left, Ravi and Mahima were totally involved in the wedding and all of its parts. After a few hours, Ravi and his daughter left for home and we set about eating dinner – this late night dinner stuff really has to go. I have tried to convince Sanjiv that having a full dinner at eleven at night is not healthy, but have not gotten very far. This is especially true since I was to be getting up very early the next morning to go to the airport to catch a flight to Bagdogra – located in Bengal, near the border with Nepal.
Beginning on Monday, February 8, I worked with Sanjiv to update the information regarding our second group of team members scheduled to arrive on February 28. There were rooming arrangements to be made for the time we would be working on the project, as well as final information to share with the team members as to what they might expect for weather conditions, possible gifts to bring to the children in the village among other things. However, since our group had basically monopolized Sanjiv’s time and that of the rest of his family, there were more important items on his agenda which needed to be addressed – the MARRIAGE OF HIS SON, GAURAV, taking place on March 28 and 29!
Since I consider myself as a part of their family and they feel likewise, it was a pleasure and an honor for me when Sanjiv and Jyotsna invited me to go with them as they shopped for the chairs and tenting to be used for both days of the ceremonies – different for each day! On Monday, we visited a company that offers an amazing selection of tenting materials, colors, chair covers, table dressing and lighting. It seemed that Sanjiv, Jyotsna, Olie, Pallavi and I spent about three hours at this one vendor, but in the end were able to agree upon colors to be used, whether or not the chair covers should also have bows tied around the backs, and if so, what fabric and color would be used for this. We decided upon the setting for the bar as well as the food table, and a few suggestions I made that were accepted and will be implemented. Once we concluded this exercise, we went to a South Indian restaurant for lunch – after all, it was only 4:15 in the afternoon. One of the difficult situations to be addressed is the fact that the wedding ceremonies and festivities will take place at the “farm”, rather that in Delhi, so everything needs to be hauled there – and this will take a minimum of two hours to bring from Delhi.
Following lunch, Pallavi and I decided it would be great fun to visit the local Baskin-Robbins and pick up a number of varieties of ice cream to have for dessert at dinner later that evening.
The next day, we went shopping for jewelry and lehengas – the traditional dress for the bride to wear on the marriage day. The embroidery work and the beadwork on some of these garments were truly amazing – all done by hand, rather than machine. Some of the skirts were so heavily beaded that I would guess the weight exceeded thirty pounds. Pallavi, as the sister of the groom, also wanted to find a lehenga for herself. After all, she had the right to wear one since she is the groom’s sister. This day, it was just Pallavi, Sanjiv and I who were looking for the jewelry and the lehengas. I think we must have visited about fifteen different shops – many of them designer shops, and really did not find anything to purchase for Tatiana – the bride. You see, Gaurav lives in San Francisco, as does Tatiana. Additionally, neither she nor her family has ever traveled to India. Since time is compressed and Gaurav and Tatiana will only be arriving one week prior to the wedding, everything needs to be found, bought and delivered between now and the time they arrive. Final fittings will occur in that one week. Talk about stress!!!
Somehow, Sanjiv seemed to have been stricken with food poisoning, and landed flat on his back, with chills and nausea, etc. This coupled with his already bad back left him somewhat helpless and confined to the house. In addition, following Indian tradition, Jyotsna was packing to travel to Assam, from where she originated, to personally deliver all of the wedding invitations to five of her sisters, as well as their families, and to do some shopping for the wedding. To describe the household as one of hustle and bustle would clearly be a gross understatement.
Not only were we involved with shopping and making arrangements for the marriage, but I was also trying to rekindle some former relationships with friends in India, as well as make necessary arrangements for me to travel to Nepal toward the end of the week. I was able to speak with Raj Bardeja, who had been one of my hosts when I was in India as the Group Study Exchange team leader in 2003. I also visited with Yogesh Sikand. She and her husband and their son had also hosted me that same year. It was wonderful to catch up on these past several years. Rishi, her son, was studying for his final examinations. It is hard to believe that much time had passed since I had stayed at their home.
Ravi Dayal, who was one of my first Rotarian friends in India called and invited me to have lunch with him at Habitat – a wonderful complex in Delhi, that included fine accommodations and a wonderful roof-top restaurant. Following lunch, Ravi and I went to the section of the city where he had been raised. He needed to purchase tires for his wife’s van. It was kind of neat to see that all of the tire places were located on the same street, more or less next door to each other. Comparison-shopping was certainly easy. Once Ravi decided upon the vendor and the type tire (spelled tyre, here) then he said we needed to walk several blocks to a section of the city where crockery and glassware are sold. Ravi, who is an architect, had been contracted to not only draw the plans for the rehabilitation project for a building that will house the offices of the Congress Party, but to oversee the implementation of those plans, including the purchase of furniture and other accessories, including china, glassware, flatware, etc. He and I visited a number of shops in the basement of what I would probably term a wholesale house for that type of product, and we decided upon a china pattern, a flatware pattern, an everyday china pattern and glassware. After purchasing all of the crockery and other goods, we then had everything packed to be taken back to where he was having the tyres changed. Once all of this stuff was packed, only a few minutes expired before the packed boxes were all upstairs at the curb awaiting two bicycle rickshaws to take us and our purchases to the place where the van was getting some “new shoes”. What a sight – Ravi and I riding in one rickshaw, with a half-dozen carton boxes strapped to the undercarriage of the rickshaw, and one of the shopkeepers on another one, along with about a dozen more carton boxes. And this was not all of the stuff, either. The shopkeeper had to return to the building for twelve boxes of glassware that had not made it in the first shipment! Once the tyres were changed on the van, we went to the Congress Party Headquarters to see the project and to deliver the goods. It was fun for me to see the extent of the project and to see what work had been completed, and what furniture purchased, as well as hauling our purchases to their final destination. Once done there, Ravi and I went to meet his daughter, Mahima, whom I had not seen for about five years. She is already in University and also studying for her final examinations. We met her near the exit for the underground railway system and then drove to Sanjiv’s house. It was time to enjoy some R&R, as well as to be brought up to date with Ravi and his family. He even worked with Sanjiv to choose the ultimate food selections for the marriage – choosing veg and non-veg, continental, Chinese and traditional dishes. Ravi actually was quite good at this exercise.
When we returned to Sanjiv’s house, Pallavi and one of here cousins were working on the plans for the marriage, including a skit that would parody Gaurav and his bride-to-be. Mahima has some practice in this, so she and Pallavi, as well as Olie and another cousin worked on the skit. When they left, Ravi and Mahima were totally involved in the wedding and all of its parts. After a few hours, Ravi and his daughter left for home and we set about eating dinner – this late night dinner stuff really has to go. I have tried to convince Sanjiv that having a full dinner at eleven at night is not healthy, but have not gotten very far. This is especially true since I was to be getting up very early the next morning to go to the airport to catch a flight to Bagdogra – located in Bengal, near the border with Nepal.
DILLY HUT? DELHI HAT? DELHI HAAT? - (Feb. 8)
Following checkout from our hotel in Agra, we boarded the bus with Suresh at the wheel and now three riding shotgun – Ragu was joined by Crissie and Cassandra. This new seating arrangement provided the two women with an “up close and personal” view of everything which was aiming toward our bus, and at the same time gave the rest of us a bit more legroom. We were hoping to be able to beat some of the morning traffic into Delhi, but it is very difficult to determine whether or not we succeeded. Who knows when it comes to traffic in Delhi?
We stopped at a rest stop along the way, purchased some snacks and cold drinks and sat outside in the garden. We were the first ones out there, but when subsequent bus groups arrived, they too wanted to sit out in the garden in the warm sun. I guess we set the standard. Some of us purchased various trinkets to take home to friends and family. We were back on the road, and eventually stopped for our lunch at India’s example of a fast food restaurant chain – Halduram’s. When looking at the huge menu (one could purchase North Indian, South Indian, Chinese and several other ethnic foods) several of us decided upon a less traditional fare – namely veggie burgers! Actually, the veggie burgers were a good deal better than the ones we are able to purchase at home, either at Burger Kind or at the supermarkets. These were served with French fries and ketchup, so other than the setting, who would have known where we were eating?
After finishing up our lunch with a sinful sweet, gooey, sticky pastry treat, we headed into Delhi. I had contacted a fellow Rotarian, Brian Fulp from the Homesdale, Pennsylvania Rotary Club, who was traveling in India at the same time. He is affiliated with the Himalayan Institute and that group was bringing a few hundred devotees to India for two weeks, working with them in Assam, where the institute has a facility. It happened that Brian and I had been playing telephone tag, but finally caught up with one another an arranged to meet somewhere later that afternoon. Some of the group wanted “free” time; others wanted to visit Fab-India, a store that sells clothing for men, women and children; and still others were still light on gifts to take home. The bus dropped off most of us at Fab India, and the others hired tuk-tuks (auto-rickshaws) to take them into the Connaught Circus area of the city. Sean, in particular, wanted to purchase a gift for all of us to give to Sanjiv and his family for the amazing bit of hosting they provided to us. It was not simply feeding us, but providing toilets, providing Internet access, providing R&R, and providing rooms to serve as Sick Bay, when one or another of us fell victim to Delhi Belly.
I checked out a few things at Fab India and was actually able to find a vest and shirt for my grandson. Boone, Dianne, Kim, Nancy and Pallavi stayed back for a while, and I left in a tuk-tuk to be driven over to Delhi Haat (or Dilly Hut). This is a wonderful open-air market, where artisans from all parts of India have booths for two or three weeks and sell their products, only to be replaced by others from different regions when the first folks return to their homes. Prices at Delhi Haat are also considered pretty reasonable and the variety one sees is considerable. (Haat in Hindi means open market.) I had already made arrangements to meet Brian Fulp and the easiest place to find was Delhi Haat. Brian had never been there prior to today, but he was certainly agreeable to meet there and share experiences and concerns. When we met, Brian and I picked up from where we had left off several months back when I spoke at a District Conference in Pennsylvania this past October. It was enjoyable meeting someone I knew who was also halfway around the world and comparing notes with him about his experiences.
After being at Delhi Haat for a while, the remainder of the group arrived and split up to take in the wide variety of the shops and handicrafts from every state in India. Dianne retained her title of being the very BEST shopper of our team – having found some goodies at Fab India, as well as Delhi Haat. When the appointed time arrived, we gathered at the gate and waited for the bus to meet us. This was to be the last trip we would be taking in the bus, under the very able direction and control of Suresh and Ragu. We worked our way through the throngs of cars, auto-rickshaws, tuk-tuks, trucks, buses and whatever else managed to crowd the streets and clog virtually every intersection in the city. Finally, we made it to Safdarjung Enclave, Sector B, block 1 and number 22 – the home of Sanjiv, Jyotsna, Pallavi, Olie and of course, granddad (Sanjiv’s father, who is a very spry eighty-seven years young). We off loaded all of our bags from the bus, because following dinner, we would be splitting the group and sending them off in different directions: Chris Parkinson and Cassandra Bradley, along with Dianne and Boone Powell would be departing for the airport for the fifteen plus hour flight back to Newark, and then on either to New Hampshire, Boston or San Antonio. Sean and Kim would be going to a hotel for the night, then flying on up to Kathmandu, Nepal for a week. Nancy Day and Crissie Day would be staying at a different hotel from Sean and Kim, and the following day would be flying back to Seattle. Linda Nicol was not with us, as she had remained on in Mewat to offer her services as a massage therapist to polio victims for a couple of weeks. I was the only remaining member of the team and moved into my old bedroom at Sanjiv’s house.
During dinner, each member of the team spoke of impressions of the trip, experiences to and from, as well as within the village. Chris Parkinson talked about composing and singing his own compositions at his three daughters’ weddings. Sanjiv asked if he would sing for us, and he said he really needed a guitar. Did I ever mention the MAGIC OF ROTARY??? It is alive and well in Delhi, in the personage of Sanjiv Saran. He told Chris he would just take a minute and when he returned, he produced a dusty guitar case, but a nice guitar inside! Chris entertained us with one of the wedding songs. Dinner was drawing to a close – schedules needed to be met – and we needed to pause for a few moments to thank Sanjiv, Jyotsna and Olie, as well as Pallavi, for all they had done to make our stay a wonderful experience. We had all agreed to purchase a gift for them and left that task to Sean Dolter. He presented a packed and heavy sack to Sanjiv and Jyotsna, and asked them to open it. The content was uncovered and revealed a magnificent hand-carved statue of Lord Ganesh. This is going to be taken to the farm and placed in the niche in the entry hall of the house, where it will serve as the overseeing god of the household. Lord Ganesh or Ganesha or Genesha (take your pick of the spellings) is the elephant god and if you are interested in learning of the story about what seems to be the most popular manifestation of the Hindu gods, I suggest you try researching in Wikipedia, Google or Yahoo or some other search engine. Sanjiv and Jyotsna seemed to be overwhelmed with the gift and thanked each of us. Not only did they have tears in their eyes, but most of us did, as well. It was time to depart and say our farewells, at least for now. The SUV was waiting out in front of the house to take the four fly-home members to the airport. Other vehicles took Sean and Kim, and Nancy and Crissie. We were about to shut off the lights, when the doorbell rang. The gentleman who was at the door was Basu Dev Golyan, a Rotarian from Nepal, with whom Sanjiv and I had been speaking regarding meeting to discuss the potential of projects in Nepal in future years.
More on this later, but it is time for me to close this off and shut down my laptop, and kiss another night goodbye.
We stopped at a rest stop along the way, purchased some snacks and cold drinks and sat outside in the garden. We were the first ones out there, but when subsequent bus groups arrived, they too wanted to sit out in the garden in the warm sun. I guess we set the standard. Some of us purchased various trinkets to take home to friends and family. We were back on the road, and eventually stopped for our lunch at India’s example of a fast food restaurant chain – Halduram’s. When looking at the huge menu (one could purchase North Indian, South Indian, Chinese and several other ethnic foods) several of us decided upon a less traditional fare – namely veggie burgers! Actually, the veggie burgers were a good deal better than the ones we are able to purchase at home, either at Burger Kind or at the supermarkets. These were served with French fries and ketchup, so other than the setting, who would have known where we were eating?
After finishing up our lunch with a sinful sweet, gooey, sticky pastry treat, we headed into Delhi. I had contacted a fellow Rotarian, Brian Fulp from the Homesdale, Pennsylvania Rotary Club, who was traveling in India at the same time. He is affiliated with the Himalayan Institute and that group was bringing a few hundred devotees to India for two weeks, working with them in Assam, where the institute has a facility. It happened that Brian and I had been playing telephone tag, but finally caught up with one another an arranged to meet somewhere later that afternoon. Some of the group wanted “free” time; others wanted to visit Fab-India, a store that sells clothing for men, women and children; and still others were still light on gifts to take home. The bus dropped off most of us at Fab India, and the others hired tuk-tuks (auto-rickshaws) to take them into the Connaught Circus area of the city. Sean, in particular, wanted to purchase a gift for all of us to give to Sanjiv and his family for the amazing bit of hosting they provided to us. It was not simply feeding us, but providing toilets, providing Internet access, providing R&R, and providing rooms to serve as Sick Bay, when one or another of us fell victim to Delhi Belly.
I checked out a few things at Fab India and was actually able to find a vest and shirt for my grandson. Boone, Dianne, Kim, Nancy and Pallavi stayed back for a while, and I left in a tuk-tuk to be driven over to Delhi Haat (or Dilly Hut). This is a wonderful open-air market, where artisans from all parts of India have booths for two or three weeks and sell their products, only to be replaced by others from different regions when the first folks return to their homes. Prices at Delhi Haat are also considered pretty reasonable and the variety one sees is considerable. (Haat in Hindi means open market.) I had already made arrangements to meet Brian Fulp and the easiest place to find was Delhi Haat. Brian had never been there prior to today, but he was certainly agreeable to meet there and share experiences and concerns. When we met, Brian and I picked up from where we had left off several months back when I spoke at a District Conference in Pennsylvania this past October. It was enjoyable meeting someone I knew who was also halfway around the world and comparing notes with him about his experiences.
After being at Delhi Haat for a while, the remainder of the group arrived and split up to take in the wide variety of the shops and handicrafts from every state in India. Dianne retained her title of being the very BEST shopper of our team – having found some goodies at Fab India, as well as Delhi Haat. When the appointed time arrived, we gathered at the gate and waited for the bus to meet us. This was to be the last trip we would be taking in the bus, under the very able direction and control of Suresh and Ragu. We worked our way through the throngs of cars, auto-rickshaws, tuk-tuks, trucks, buses and whatever else managed to crowd the streets and clog virtually every intersection in the city. Finally, we made it to Safdarjung Enclave, Sector B, block 1 and number 22 – the home of Sanjiv, Jyotsna, Pallavi, Olie and of course, granddad (Sanjiv’s father, who is a very spry eighty-seven years young). We off loaded all of our bags from the bus, because following dinner, we would be splitting the group and sending them off in different directions: Chris Parkinson and Cassandra Bradley, along with Dianne and Boone Powell would be departing for the airport for the fifteen plus hour flight back to Newark, and then on either to New Hampshire, Boston or San Antonio. Sean and Kim would be going to a hotel for the night, then flying on up to Kathmandu, Nepal for a week. Nancy Day and Crissie Day would be staying at a different hotel from Sean and Kim, and the following day would be flying back to Seattle. Linda Nicol was not with us, as she had remained on in Mewat to offer her services as a massage therapist to polio victims for a couple of weeks. I was the only remaining member of the team and moved into my old bedroom at Sanjiv’s house.
During dinner, each member of the team spoke of impressions of the trip, experiences to and from, as well as within the village. Chris Parkinson talked about composing and singing his own compositions at his three daughters’ weddings. Sanjiv asked if he would sing for us, and he said he really needed a guitar. Did I ever mention the MAGIC OF ROTARY??? It is alive and well in Delhi, in the personage of Sanjiv Saran. He told Chris he would just take a minute and when he returned, he produced a dusty guitar case, but a nice guitar inside! Chris entertained us with one of the wedding songs. Dinner was drawing to a close – schedules needed to be met – and we needed to pause for a few moments to thank Sanjiv, Jyotsna and Olie, as well as Pallavi, for all they had done to make our stay a wonderful experience. We had all agreed to purchase a gift for them and left that task to Sean Dolter. He presented a packed and heavy sack to Sanjiv and Jyotsna, and asked them to open it. The content was uncovered and revealed a magnificent hand-carved statue of Lord Ganesh. This is going to be taken to the farm and placed in the niche in the entry hall of the house, where it will serve as the overseeing god of the household. Lord Ganesh or Ganesha or Genesha (take your pick of the spellings) is the elephant god and if you are interested in learning of the story about what seems to be the most popular manifestation of the Hindu gods, I suggest you try researching in Wikipedia, Google or Yahoo or some other search engine. Sanjiv and Jyotsna seemed to be overwhelmed with the gift and thanked each of us. Not only did they have tears in their eyes, but most of us did, as well. It was time to depart and say our farewells, at least for now. The SUV was waiting out in front of the house to take the four fly-home members to the airport. Other vehicles took Sean and Kim, and Nancy and Crissie. We were about to shut off the lights, when the doorbell rang. The gentleman who was at the door was Basu Dev Golyan, a Rotarian from Nepal, with whom Sanjiv and I had been speaking regarding meeting to discuss the potential of projects in Nepal in future years.
More on this later, but it is time for me to close this off and shut down my laptop, and kiss another night goodbye.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
SHAH JAHAN'S MONUMENT TO HIS BELOVED… (Feb. 7)
After another relatively early breakfast, we met Suresh and Ragu out in front of our hotel, for the ride to Agra. One fact people from outside of India sometimes fail to realize is distance and time to cover that distance. As I may have mentioned earlier on in this BLOG, the distance of one hundred miles in the US or Canada can generally be driven in well under two hours. However, in India, a distance of one hundred miles might well take some six hours to drive. So when traveling in a bus, sitting in seats that may not be anywhere near as comfortable as the front seat of your car or mine, distance and time may increase exponentially, at least to those experiencing the ride. Such was the case during many of our drives from one location to another. Today was no exception.
Although we left the hotel early by India standards, and were beyond the city limits of Jaipur, the ride seemed long. We stopped along the way at restaurants that offered washrooms and toilets. This gave us the chance to stretch our legs and possibly even get some of the kinks out of our backs or necks. During most of the week at the project, we generally gravitated to the same seats on the bus, but now, we ventured out of our comfort zones and dared to cross the aisle or move to the back of the bus. The perennial question asked by most kids of their parents, "Are we there, yet?" was most assuredly on the tip of the tongue of most of us at one time or another. Pallavi had suggested that we should just push right on through to the hotel, have some lunch, settle in and then go for our tour of one of the wonders of the world - the Taj Mahal.
The Howard Park Hotel was where we would be staying for the next twenty-four hours (actually about eighteen or nineteen hours) and when we arrived, we were greeted with a blue fruit drink as we waited to be assigned to our rooms. Our bags were brought into the lobby and once identified, were brought by the bellmen to our rooms. We were all assigned to rooms on the third floor. My room was very pleasant, although the smell of stale smoke permeated everything - sheets, upholstered couch and chairs, even the towels in the bathroom. I realize there is nothing worse than a reformed anything, but the smell was pretty intense. I asked if there were non-smoking rooms and was told that hotel did not provide for non-smokers. I turned on the air conditioner and the exhaust fan and figured out a way to have them remain on even when I was not in the room - since the key tag had to be inserted into the switch by the door in order for the power to be on in the room. I removed the key and left the tag in the switch.
During the trip from Jaipur to Agra, Pallavi and I were contacting Past District Governor (PDG) Naresh Sood from one of the Agra Rotary Clubs. Five years ago, I led about twenty-five Rotarians to India for a National Immunization Day against polio (NID) and while visiting Agra, we were shown a medical facility that had been donated by O.P Aggarwal and his family. The facility was where corrective surgeries were conducted - free of charge - for polio victims. Several members of that group committed to raise funds for a Matching Grant from The Rotary Foundation, to eliminate the list of one thousand patients who awaited surgery. With the cost of approximately $40.00 per surgery, we raised about $45,000 for the project. I wanted to visit the facility to see how the project was progressing. Therefore, I was disappointed when I learned that PDG Sood was out of station, attending the District Conference. In addition, the officers of the Club were also attending the same conference. After several calls, Naresh was able to contact two senior members of his club - Rotarian Jain and Rotarian Gupta, both past presidents. We arranged for them to meet me at the hotel after lunch and they would take me to visit the facility, and then on to the Taj Mahal gate so I could meet the rest of the team. We met in the lobby following lunch and left for the hospital.
As we proceeded to the hospital, I felt I recognized these two men. Finally, one of them spoke and said, "I believe we have met previously". I told him I felt the same and after a bit of conversation, we determined we had met several years before. We arrived at the hospital, now operated by a different surgeon. The chief medical officer of this tiny hospital (attached to his home) had retired from his private practice of orthopaedic surgery, and devoted his life to our project. His son and daughter-in-law are also surgeons. I learned every Thursday seven or eight (sometimes ten or twelve) patients who have paralyzed limbs come to the hospital or clinic for their corrective surgeries. Additionally, once they are healed, they may return to the clinic to be fitted for braces (or calipers) to help support them while they are undergoing a regimen of physical therapy. The restorative nature of these surgeries is tremendous. Imagine having been relegated to a chair or a hand-bicycle or crutches, and then learning that such a facility exists and you can have your surgery at no cost. Imagine being crippled one day and being able to live a far more "normal" life, able to find employment and to become a productive member of society. This is the opportunity our Matching Grant provides to each of these patients. Thus far, more than 700 surgeries have been performed. Although brief, my tour of the clinic was most satisfying. The two Rotarians accompanied me back to the car-park area near the east gate of the Taj Mahal, and we said our goodbyes. I met Pallavi and we were at the gate and entering within five minutes of the time the team had arrived. I was even able to jump into the group photo before we proceeded with the tour.
If you have never read or heard the story about the Taj Mahal and the undying love Shah Jahan had for his beautiful wife, take the time to read about it. It would not serve any purpose for me to attempt to relate the story here in this BLOG. Once one enters the gate, goes through security, and walks a few hundred yards to enter the main gate of red sandstone that somewhat obscures ones view of the Taj, and then enters through that gate, one's breath is literally taken away. I believe each and every time I have visited the Taj Mahal, something very special occurs and today was no exception. Whether taken by the incredible ornate simplicity of this mausoleum, or moved by a personal moment, one can not help but be affected by this wonder of the world.
We were provided with small bottles of mineral water, as well as booties to cover our feet or our shoes, if we chose not to go barefooted. We walked along through beautiful gardens and every few seconds we paused to appreciate the beauty of the monument that lay before us. Some of us went to the mosque adjacent to the Taj, while others walked back through the gardens. We looked across the river where Shah Jahan had intended to build the negative image of the Taj - the black Taj. This never happened and I fear would have detracted from the beauty of this monument, had it ever been built.
Restoration is taking place all the time, and artisans work as they would have hundreds of years ago, using hand wheels to sand down and polish precious and semi-precious stones they use to replace those that have been chiseled out and stolen from the walls.
That evening, we met in the lobby and walked to a nearby restaurant - The Silk Road, where we were served typical food of Rajasthan. Back to the hotel and sleep to prepare for another very full day.
Although we left the hotel early by India standards, and were beyond the city limits of Jaipur, the ride seemed long. We stopped along the way at restaurants that offered washrooms and toilets. This gave us the chance to stretch our legs and possibly even get some of the kinks out of our backs or necks. During most of the week at the project, we generally gravitated to the same seats on the bus, but now, we ventured out of our comfort zones and dared to cross the aisle or move to the back of the bus. The perennial question asked by most kids of their parents, "Are we there, yet?" was most assuredly on the tip of the tongue of most of us at one time or another. Pallavi had suggested that we should just push right on through to the hotel, have some lunch, settle in and then go for our tour of one of the wonders of the world - the Taj Mahal.
The Howard Park Hotel was where we would be staying for the next twenty-four hours (actually about eighteen or nineteen hours) and when we arrived, we were greeted with a blue fruit drink as we waited to be assigned to our rooms. Our bags were brought into the lobby and once identified, were brought by the bellmen to our rooms. We were all assigned to rooms on the third floor. My room was very pleasant, although the smell of stale smoke permeated everything - sheets, upholstered couch and chairs, even the towels in the bathroom. I realize there is nothing worse than a reformed anything, but the smell was pretty intense. I asked if there were non-smoking rooms and was told that hotel did not provide for non-smokers. I turned on the air conditioner and the exhaust fan and figured out a way to have them remain on even when I was not in the room - since the key tag had to be inserted into the switch by the door in order for the power to be on in the room. I removed the key and left the tag in the switch.
During the trip from Jaipur to Agra, Pallavi and I were contacting Past District Governor (PDG) Naresh Sood from one of the Agra Rotary Clubs. Five years ago, I led about twenty-five Rotarians to India for a National Immunization Day against polio (NID) and while visiting Agra, we were shown a medical facility that had been donated by O.P Aggarwal and his family. The facility was where corrective surgeries were conducted - free of charge - for polio victims. Several members of that group committed to raise funds for a Matching Grant from The Rotary Foundation, to eliminate the list of one thousand patients who awaited surgery. With the cost of approximately $40.00 per surgery, we raised about $45,000 for the project. I wanted to visit the facility to see how the project was progressing. Therefore, I was disappointed when I learned that PDG Sood was out of station, attending the District Conference. In addition, the officers of the Club were also attending the same conference. After several calls, Naresh was able to contact two senior members of his club - Rotarian Jain and Rotarian Gupta, both past presidents. We arranged for them to meet me at the hotel after lunch and they would take me to visit the facility, and then on to the Taj Mahal gate so I could meet the rest of the team. We met in the lobby following lunch and left for the hospital.
As we proceeded to the hospital, I felt I recognized these two men. Finally, one of them spoke and said, "I believe we have met previously". I told him I felt the same and after a bit of conversation, we determined we had met several years before. We arrived at the hospital, now operated by a different surgeon. The chief medical officer of this tiny hospital (attached to his home) had retired from his private practice of orthopaedic surgery, and devoted his life to our project. His son and daughter-in-law are also surgeons. I learned every Thursday seven or eight (sometimes ten or twelve) patients who have paralyzed limbs come to the hospital or clinic for their corrective surgeries. Additionally, once they are healed, they may return to the clinic to be fitted for braces (or calipers) to help support them while they are undergoing a regimen of physical therapy. The restorative nature of these surgeries is tremendous. Imagine having been relegated to a chair or a hand-bicycle or crutches, and then learning that such a facility exists and you can have your surgery at no cost. Imagine being crippled one day and being able to live a far more "normal" life, able to find employment and to become a productive member of society. This is the opportunity our Matching Grant provides to each of these patients. Thus far, more than 700 surgeries have been performed. Although brief, my tour of the clinic was most satisfying. The two Rotarians accompanied me back to the car-park area near the east gate of the Taj Mahal, and we said our goodbyes. I met Pallavi and we were at the gate and entering within five minutes of the time the team had arrived. I was even able to jump into the group photo before we proceeded with the tour.
If you have never read or heard the story about the Taj Mahal and the undying love Shah Jahan had for his beautiful wife, take the time to read about it. It would not serve any purpose for me to attempt to relate the story here in this BLOG. Once one enters the gate, goes through security, and walks a few hundred yards to enter the main gate of red sandstone that somewhat obscures ones view of the Taj, and then enters through that gate, one's breath is literally taken away. I believe each and every time I have visited the Taj Mahal, something very special occurs and today was no exception. Whether taken by the incredible ornate simplicity of this mausoleum, or moved by a personal moment, one can not help but be affected by this wonder of the world.
We were provided with small bottles of mineral water, as well as booties to cover our feet or our shoes, if we chose not to go barefooted. We walked along through beautiful gardens and every few seconds we paused to appreciate the beauty of the monument that lay before us. Some of us went to the mosque adjacent to the Taj, while others walked back through the gardens. We looked across the river where Shah Jahan had intended to build the negative image of the Taj - the black Taj. This never happened and I fear would have detracted from the beauty of this monument, had it ever been built.
Restoration is taking place all the time, and artisans work as they would have hundreds of years ago, using hand wheels to sand down and polish precious and semi-precious stones they use to replace those that have been chiseled out and stolen from the walls.
That evening, we met in the lobby and walked to a nearby restaurant - The Silk Road, where we were served typical food of Rajasthan. Back to the hotel and sleep to prepare for another very full day.
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