For four days straight it rained. Normally this time of year in Kolkata is the dry season, the monsoons don't start until the summer. So it's unusual to have this much rain, if any, coming down. The news kept saying that this part of the country was caught in the grip of a severe cold wave. Which is true, relatively speaking. It just seems funny to think of 50 degrees F and rainy as a severe cold wave, especially when much of the northern hemisphere is in snow. That being said, I do realize that if you are not use to these temperatures and are stuck living on the street, this is indeed a cold wave for you.
On the first day of the rain I went to the orphanage to do laundry. Its was an unusual day with all the rain. Normally we'd be hanging sheets in the sun by 9:30am but here it was almost 11:00am and we were waiting.
There were only a handful of us now, the Aussies had all gone home and it was just a few Japanese guys and me. We all went downstairs to help feed the kids while we waited. I got to feed this little physically disabled girl who was strapped into her chair. She was maybe 2 and had this chubby little baby cheeks. It appeared to me that she did not have any motor abilities from the shoulders down. We fed the children a mash of rice, some sort of vegetable and curry sauce. This is pretty much what the kids eat for lunch every day and I can attest to that from hanging up the curry stained diapers to dry on the roof.
How much do you feed a 2 year old? I hadn't fed a child since my nephew Jack was a baby and he wouldn't eat anything unless it was sweet. But this little girl just kept eating and eating. I asked the volunteer next to me how to know when she's had enough. The volunteer said, "I don't know, I guess when she stops opening her mouth?" So with those words of child care wisdom I fed this little girl a giant plate of the mush and she ate the whole thing.
After that we went back onto the roof. It was still raining steadily but Massie had us hang the sheets anyways. There was no way these things were going to dry today and actually they were getting wetter and heavier hanging out there in the rain. We did what we were told and laughed about it the whole time saying out loud to each other, "No drrry, no drrry!" instead of the usual "No drrry, no pull." It makes me wonder what they do when the monsoons are here.
We finished up at the orphanage for the morning and after lunch I headed over to the Sealdah medical clinic for my afternoon of wound care. On the bus ride over I started thinking that with the rain it would either be empty all day or jammed packed. It was packed. And most of the volunteers were late, so it was just Anita, the Chilean nurse and I for the first half hour.
Sometimes when it slows down at the clinic, you can take a patient and start doing some really good, detailed wound care on that person. Fixing up problems like pre-scarification and conditioning the wound for better blood circulation so it will heal quicker. This is usually done by the removal of skin by either scrubbing or scalpel. But on days when it is packed, you switch into triage mode and just try to clean, patch and bandage as quickly as you can because there is a crowd of people waiting to get in. This was one of those days.
The bandages of the patients from their previous visits are usually dirty by the time they return the next day or two. Mainly because they walk around barefoot. But now the bandages were filthy and soaked or just plain gone. Wounds that were doing well had become infected again after being exposed to the dirty water that inundated the streets.
When the day was done, I walked back to my guest house under a thick canopy of dark clouds and pouring rain. I couldn't help but think about how there are many dark sides to all this volunteering, especially the medical treatment portion.
On one dark side, you have the patients. Many of them are addicted to and strung out on drugs while you are working on them. Some of the patients drink a high alcohol content drink called, "Banglu". It is actually made by gathering the fermented run off from a heap of rotting garbage. Needless to say, it's readily available in Kolkata. The rest smoke heroin, which I'm told is easy to get as well.
Another dark side is the bureaucracy and lack of public health care in India. If you can't pay for your health care up front, you're not getting into a hospital. Naturally, the street people can't afford any health care, even the ones who are not on drugs or sipping Banglu. And most of the patients that we see are not on drugs, they are just poor people trying to live through the day. When they get a cut or burn that we would call simple in our clean environment, they now have a serious health issue.
It takes a special letter from Mother Teresa's to get the most severe patients into the hospital and it is paid for by the Missionaries of Charity. But just getting a stamp on a piece of paper that allows you to try and present that letter to the hospital to be considered for admission can be an all day event. The paperwork involved in doing anything here is beyond comical. It's tragic. One of my coworkers, Mickey from Ireland, brought a man to the hospital who was actively having a heart attack. The doctors told Mickey they couldn't do anything to the man until he had the proper stamp on his piece of paper. Even threats of physical violence got Mickey nowhere with the doctors and the man died there in the waiting room.
There's also a dark side with the patients who, even with a note from Mother Teresa's won't go to the hospital because they are either afraid or don't want to. One is the woman I mentioned in an earlier blog who wanted me to hold her while we cut into her foot. She won't go because she's afraid. She's afraid of losing her foot, I would be too. More than likely it would be amputated.
Then there's the guy with the elephantiasis foot and calf. He's not afraid, he just doesn't want to have his leg amputated, which it would be, because he knows he can make more money begging with that distorted limb than without it. It's a financial decision of the worst kind. I realize that if we keep cleaning his wounds and making his foot temporarily alright and he doesn't get his leg amputated, the elephantiasis could spread to his torso and eventually kill him. So are we aiding in his death?
Then there's the really, really dark side of the police. Once in a while they will come through the train station and try to clear out all the street people. They do this by severely beating some of them. If this is occurring while we are there and we get word of it, some of us will run out onto the train platforms and stand there and let the police know we are watching. This makes the police stop and move on.
One day, after the police had visited the platforms, we had a man with a broken (not fractured, but broken) arm, a man with 4 broken ribs and a man who had his head split open. The man with the broken arm was in his late 60s. I splinted it but it would require surgery. Because we could not get him into the hospital until the next day, we wheeled him back to his spot on the train platform and left him with his family, all living on the street. The same went for the broken ribs. We wrapped him and wheeled him back to the platform. He wouldn't be going to the hospital, just laying on the cold concrete of the train platform for a few weeks trying to heal. All thanks to the police.
The explanation is that the police don't want the street people hanging out in the train station. But it gets even darker. The police also charge protection money from the street people. You pay, you stay. You don't, you get beaten. As if your day isn't shitty enough living on the street.
It's hard not to get angry at the police. At the government here. At India. Especially since India has wealth and growth coming in. In some areas I'm told quite a bit. They've got a large military and are a nuclear power. But they leave their less fortunate to die in the street and they leave the taking care of their poor to the generosity of foreign organizations, like Mother Teresa's and dozens of others (Missionaries of Charity is an Irish organization). It makes me wonder, are we enabling India?
There's another, almost embarrassing dark side to things. It's the volunteers and the organizations. Before I explain, let me just say that the volunteers I have met on this trip have been some of the most compassionate, self sacrificing and giving people I have ever met. Many of them are here working for months and a few are here for years. They will do anything they can to try and help the less fortunate out. And in a way, that can become a problem in itself.
Many of the volunteers I've worked with in the clinics have no medical training whatsoever. And there is absolutely no oversight or guidance from the Sisters, who also have no medical training. You just show up and try to do what you think is best.
In my time here I've seen volunteers working with the bloody wounds of multiple patients without changing their gloves or at times even using the same instruments from one patient to the next. India had just passed South Africa for the most cases of AIDS in the world, so this is a very real concern. Come in with a cut foot, leave with AIDS. Not what you'd call helping, is it? I mentioned in a previous blog about the Silver Sulfadiazine being used as a catch all medical treatment at the clinics. It wasn't that the volunteers didn't care or were being malicious, they just did not know.
This goes for the Sisters as well. Two weeks ago, an Australian nurse I was working with told me of how she inspected a course of antibiotics one of the Sisters had given a patient and it turned out to be epilepsy medicine, not antibiotic. Ear drops for eye drops. Everyone get antibiotics whether you need them or not. There appears to be no medical oversight. It's really frustrating.
But there's a bright spot up amongst those dark clouds. Recently I've had the pleasure of working with some very talented medical people. A doctor and two nurses from Spain, a nurse from Australia and a nurse from Chile. Some of them have gotten together and are writing up a protocol for work in the clinics covering things from wound care to medicines. I was honored that they asked me to take a look at it and give my input. This protocol will hopefully be passed on to other volunteers after we are all gone.
On the fourth day of the rain, I showed up at the Sealdah train station clinic to find out that I was the only one working that day. The water outside was lapping at the clinic's door and no one else could get to work that day, including Sister. It was just me and Peter, the Indian man who opens up and cleans the place. As expected, the place was packed and I went into triage mode again, working my way through the crowd of patients.
When we finally closed up, I walked outside into the calf deep, murky water of the train station parking lot. The rain had finally stopped and the clouds were breaking up. I noticed that the air was actually fresh and clean. For now.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
To Live and Die in Kolkata
Behind my guest house is a small, dead ended alley. It forms a kind of courtyard that is surrounded by a few living quarters and shops. The shops are mainly laundry shops where the hotels and guest houses bring their guests laundry and the people in the courtyard wash them in buckets of cold water. After wringing out the laundry, they hang it on lines across the courtyard and then fold it up when it's dry and deliver it back to the hotels.
During the day I can peek out my bathroom window and see the people washing and folding clothes. They are all talking to each other in Bengali and I get the feeling that they are a large extended family back there. To me, Bengali can be a harsh language and it always seems like everyone is yelling at each other, even though they are just folding clothes. I've noticed this with the ladies at the orphanage too. Adults, children and grandparents are all back there folding clothes and yelling at each other. Now whether this is true and there is non-stop domestic squabbling going on or just good old family communication, I'll never know.
The thing I do know is that most of the people back there will spend their entire lives back there or at least in this neighborhood. They were born here, will work here and will die here never having traveled far from Kolkata.
The other night I heard some chanting going on from the courtyard and decided to take a look. To gaze out the small bathroom window I have to turn a bucket upside down and stand on it in order to peer out. When I looked out, I saw the entire courtyard family standing in the courtyard chanting as an old woman, who had passed away, was carried on a small stretcher from one of the houses. She was dressed in white and covered with brilliantly colored, small flowers. Her pall bearers carried her across the courtyard and put her into the back of a small pickup truck that had a glass box covering it. Glass on all four sides and a glass roof. And off she went to be cremated in that glass truck. In that glass truck for all to see. Not hidden from sight in a casket or a hearse like she was afraid of death, or maybe it's us who are afraid. No make up, no embalming fluid, just a white sheet and some flowers.
The week before I would go to Nimtala Burning Ghat on the Hooghlie River. A ghat is a place in the riverside that has a concrete ramp down into the water. Ghats have many purposes here in India. They are used as boat launches and as entry points where the locals bathe in the sacred waters. They are also used as places where cremations take place and those ghats are called "burning ghats". Makes sense, right? So from what I saw at the Nimtala Burning Ghat, this is probably what happened to the old woman from the courtyard that night: She was driven to a burning ghat, there are several in Kolkata and carried to a concrete walled off area at the top of the ghat. There she would have been laid upon a large pile of wood which would be lit on fire and she would be cremated with her family and friends standing by. It wouldn't smell like burning flesh (how many of us even know what that smells like?) It wouldn't smell like meat cooking. It wouldn't smell disgusting. It wouldn't smell like anything but fire and smoke.
After the fire had burned most of the way down, the men would line up on the concrete ramp of the ghat and form a "fireman's line" from the water to the fire. They would then start passing small clay jugs of sacred water from the river to the pyre and they'd pour it on the fire until it was out. Once the fire was out, the ashes would be swept up and carried to the river where they would be cast onto the water, carried away by the slow current.
After watching this I realized that I had only seen one cemetery in Kolkata, there may be more, but not many. The one I saw was an old British Colonial Christian cemetery with massive tombstones and mausoleums (Hindu and Buddhists cremate). Each giant structure with one British citizen who had died here, during the colonial period, away from home, hoping to be memorialized forever. Many of the stones were now faded and covered with moss.
When the old woman's ashes finally soaked into the Hooghlie River her life was commemorated in the memories of her family and friends. She didn't need a tombstone. Maybe because she knew she was coming back. Or finally leaving this life cycle for Nirvana.
During the day I can peek out my bathroom window and see the people washing and folding clothes. They are all talking to each other in Bengali and I get the feeling that they are a large extended family back there. To me, Bengali can be a harsh language and it always seems like everyone is yelling at each other, even though they are just folding clothes. I've noticed this with the ladies at the orphanage too. Adults, children and grandparents are all back there folding clothes and yelling at each other. Now whether this is true and there is non-stop domestic squabbling going on or just good old family communication, I'll never know.
The thing I do know is that most of the people back there will spend their entire lives back there or at least in this neighborhood. They were born here, will work here and will die here never having traveled far from Kolkata.
The other night I heard some chanting going on from the courtyard and decided to take a look. To gaze out the small bathroom window I have to turn a bucket upside down and stand on it in order to peer out. When I looked out, I saw the entire courtyard family standing in the courtyard chanting as an old woman, who had passed away, was carried on a small stretcher from one of the houses. She was dressed in white and covered with brilliantly colored, small flowers. Her pall bearers carried her across the courtyard and put her into the back of a small pickup truck that had a glass box covering it. Glass on all four sides and a glass roof. And off she went to be cremated in that glass truck. In that glass truck for all to see. Not hidden from sight in a casket or a hearse like she was afraid of death, or maybe it's us who are afraid. No make up, no embalming fluid, just a white sheet and some flowers.
The week before I would go to Nimtala Burning Ghat on the Hooghlie River. A ghat is a place in the riverside that has a concrete ramp down into the water. Ghats have many purposes here in India. They are used as boat launches and as entry points where the locals bathe in the sacred waters. They are also used as places where cremations take place and those ghats are called "burning ghats". Makes sense, right? So from what I saw at the Nimtala Burning Ghat, this is probably what happened to the old woman from the courtyard that night: She was driven to a burning ghat, there are several in Kolkata and carried to a concrete walled off area at the top of the ghat. There she would have been laid upon a large pile of wood which would be lit on fire and she would be cremated with her family and friends standing by. It wouldn't smell like burning flesh (how many of us even know what that smells like?) It wouldn't smell like meat cooking. It wouldn't smell disgusting. It wouldn't smell like anything but fire and smoke.
After the fire had burned most of the way down, the men would line up on the concrete ramp of the ghat and form a "fireman's line" from the water to the fire. They would then start passing small clay jugs of sacred water from the river to the pyre and they'd pour it on the fire until it was out. Once the fire was out, the ashes would be swept up and carried to the river where they would be cast onto the water, carried away by the slow current.
After watching this I realized that I had only seen one cemetery in Kolkata, there may be more, but not many. The one I saw was an old British Colonial Christian cemetery with massive tombstones and mausoleums (Hindu and Buddhists cremate). Each giant structure with one British citizen who had died here, during the colonial period, away from home, hoping to be memorialized forever. Many of the stones were now faded and covered with moss.
When the old woman's ashes finally soaked into the Hooghlie River her life was commemorated in the memories of her family and friends. She didn't need a tombstone. Maybe because she knew she was coming back. Or finally leaving this life cycle for Nirvana.
Health and Fitness
I was digging through my backpack today and came across a pair of running shorts, running shirt and one of those resistance rubber exercising bands. The thought was that when I got to Kolkata I was going to exercise and run every day. Especially, I thought, while I was volunteering. Right. The thought of going for a jog in Kolkata seems so ridiculous now. The air is so polluted and the sidewalks are a constant obstacle. Just walking to work is a battle. I think I'll just donate the clothing.
Everyone here has a cough. The Kolkata cough. And a runny nose. It's all from the air pollution. I've had this cough and stuffed-upness along with a scratchy throat since I got here and I'm pretty sure it's not going away until I leave the city. Leave the city. Hmm. I am looking forward to leaving this city. But strangely enough it's not because of the volunteering or the patients or the horrific wounds (I had my first leprosy patient today!). It's the city life that makes me want to leave. The polluted air, the over crowding, the traffic and most of all, the non-stop blaring horns. The horns will drive you mad. I'm actually going to miss the clinical work, my coworkers and the kids at the orphanage.
On other health news fronts, there's been a very big outbreak of avian flu here in West Bengal. West Bengal is the state that Kolkata is in. The outbreak has been at a lot of chicken farms around Kolkata and the government has been out culling chickens for the past two weeks. The papers have reported that the government is way behind in what it should be doing and that due to corruption (there's quite a bit of it here in India) the largest chicken processing plant in Kolkata has yet to be inspected to see if the flu is present. This is 2 weeks after the first announcement in the area. Most of the volunteers that I know have gone vegetarian. I went veggie at the first report, which wasn't such a hard thing to do here since a lot of the menu here is vegetarian anyways and the chicken was pretty bad even before it caught the flu. I'm staying clear of eggs as well. I'm not sure if it carries over, but better safe than sorry. That being said, I still see plenty of locals and tourist eating the chicken. The papers in Kolkata reported that both Japan and the United States have stopped all imports of chickens from India due to the outbreak. Imported chickens from India? Why, in the name of Colonel Sanders, would we be importing chickens from India? I've got nothing against trade with India, but don't we have enough chicken farms in the US that we have to put these poor, sick, flu ridden Indian chickens on a plane and burn fuel getting them to the states? I can just see that one healthy Indian chicken downing packets of Emergency or Airbourne before getting on the plane with its sick compatriots.
Speaking of corruption, I think I mentioned before that I had my mom mail my orthotics out to me to help with my pigfoot, which had been bothering me lately. When she mailed them out she was told that I wouldn't have to pay any duty on them when they arrived because they were my personal property and not something for resale. Well, guess again. When they arrived here they were held at the courier office and a note was sent to Mother House (Missionaries of Charities main office here) with a phone number that I needed to call. When I called the number, the guy told me I had to pay a 2070 Rupee duty on them. That's about $53 US dollars, which is a lot of money here in India. Compare it to the fact that you can get a five star hotel room for about $25 per night. (Most volunteers are paying about $3 for their rooms). I tried to no avail to tell the guy that I shouldn't have to pay any duty. These are, after all, just a pair of arch supports. And a used pair of arch supports at that. When I asked to speak to his manager he said no. When I asked where the courier's office was to pay, he wouldn't give it to me. He said he would bring them to me and that I had to pay him in cash. He told me that if I didn't pay him the cash he would send my package back to the US. Which of course means he would sell my arch supports as serving spoons and they would spend the rest of their days ladling out masala in some nasty Kolkata eatery. I couldn't face the thought of it. I gave in to the kidnapper's requests and told them I'd pay up. But I wasn't going to let him go without my two cents or maybe even roughing him up a bit when the package was delivered. Lucky for them the delivery boy was part of the child labor syndicate here and I couldn't bring myself to shaking down this 10 year old. I paid him the blood money and off he went.
On an even sillier note with this whole package delivery debacle, when I first went to Mother House to see if my package had arrived, I ran into Sister Karina. Sister Karina is in charge of all the volunteers and is the one who interviewed me on that first day and said I looked like a priest. I've heard her speak at least four languages. When I saw Sister Karina, she said, "We haven't seen you at the morning masses lately." After the first prayer session I told Sister I would try to make it to the mass they held every morning at 6am. It wasn't a lie, I said I would TRY. I just haven't been successful yet. I told Sister that I would very much like to come to mass (not a lie either, I would!) but that I wasn't able to because it was sooo early in the morning. Sister said, "Maybe you should try going to bed earlier." I said I would try again. Sister said, "Yes, you should try and come to mass. Jesus has been waiting for you." Bam! She hit me with the Catholic guilt. I felt like I was back at Sacred Heart High School and Sister Marita Paul was laying on the guilt of what bad people we all were because someone had put gum under a desk. I told Sister I would try and made a run for it.
Two days later, after I had paid the extortion money and got my package, one of the Sisters at the orphanage came up to me and asked, "Are you Jeff?" When I told her I was she explained to me that Sister Karina had phoned to tell me that the courier still had my package. I told the Sister at the orphanage that I had already received the message and that I got my package last night, but thank you for passing it along. The Sister at the orphanage smiled and said, "I knew it was you who was Jeff. Sister Karina told me to look for the man that looks like a priest."
OK, so besides letting me know that my wild, swinging days are over, what exactly does that mean? What is the "priest look". When I was in high school all the priests were over 60. Maybe I should just sign up for the seminary now. OK, maybe I'll start with trying to make it to mass in the morning.
Everyone here has a cough. The Kolkata cough. And a runny nose. It's all from the air pollution. I've had this cough and stuffed-upness along with a scratchy throat since I got here and I'm pretty sure it's not going away until I leave the city. Leave the city. Hmm. I am looking forward to leaving this city. But strangely enough it's not because of the volunteering or the patients or the horrific wounds (I had my first leprosy patient today!). It's the city life that makes me want to leave. The polluted air, the over crowding, the traffic and most of all, the non-stop blaring horns. The horns will drive you mad. I'm actually going to miss the clinical work, my coworkers and the kids at the orphanage.
On other health news fronts, there's been a very big outbreak of avian flu here in West Bengal. West Bengal is the state that Kolkata is in. The outbreak has been at a lot of chicken farms around Kolkata and the government has been out culling chickens for the past two weeks. The papers have reported that the government is way behind in what it should be doing and that due to corruption (there's quite a bit of it here in India) the largest chicken processing plant in Kolkata has yet to be inspected to see if the flu is present. This is 2 weeks after the first announcement in the area. Most of the volunteers that I know have gone vegetarian. I went veggie at the first report, which wasn't such a hard thing to do here since a lot of the menu here is vegetarian anyways and the chicken was pretty bad even before it caught the flu. I'm staying clear of eggs as well. I'm not sure if it carries over, but better safe than sorry. That being said, I still see plenty of locals and tourist eating the chicken. The papers in Kolkata reported that both Japan and the United States have stopped all imports of chickens from India due to the outbreak. Imported chickens from India? Why, in the name of Colonel Sanders, would we be importing chickens from India? I've got nothing against trade with India, but don't we have enough chicken farms in the US that we have to put these poor, sick, flu ridden Indian chickens on a plane and burn fuel getting them to the states? I can just see that one healthy Indian chicken downing packets of Emergency or Airbourne before getting on the plane with its sick compatriots.
Speaking of corruption, I think I mentioned before that I had my mom mail my orthotics out to me to help with my pigfoot, which had been bothering me lately. When she mailed them out she was told that I wouldn't have to pay any duty on them when they arrived because they were my personal property and not something for resale. Well, guess again. When they arrived here they were held at the courier office and a note was sent to Mother House (Missionaries of Charities main office here) with a phone number that I needed to call. When I called the number, the guy told me I had to pay a 2070 Rupee duty on them. That's about $53 US dollars, which is a lot of money here in India. Compare it to the fact that you can get a five star hotel room for about $25 per night. (Most volunteers are paying about $3 for their rooms). I tried to no avail to tell the guy that I shouldn't have to pay any duty. These are, after all, just a pair of arch supports. And a used pair of arch supports at that. When I asked to speak to his manager he said no. When I asked where the courier's office was to pay, he wouldn't give it to me. He said he would bring them to me and that I had to pay him in cash. He told me that if I didn't pay him the cash he would send my package back to the US. Which of course means he would sell my arch supports as serving spoons and they would spend the rest of their days ladling out masala in some nasty Kolkata eatery. I couldn't face the thought of it. I gave in to the kidnapper's requests and told them I'd pay up. But I wasn't going to let him go without my two cents or maybe even roughing him up a bit when the package was delivered. Lucky for them the delivery boy was part of the child labor syndicate here and I couldn't bring myself to shaking down this 10 year old. I paid him the blood money and off he went.
On an even sillier note with this whole package delivery debacle, when I first went to Mother House to see if my package had arrived, I ran into Sister Karina. Sister Karina is in charge of all the volunteers and is the one who interviewed me on that first day and said I looked like a priest. I've heard her speak at least four languages. When I saw Sister Karina, she said, "We haven't seen you at the morning masses lately." After the first prayer session I told Sister I would try to make it to the mass they held every morning at 6am. It wasn't a lie, I said I would TRY. I just haven't been successful yet. I told Sister that I would very much like to come to mass (not a lie either, I would!) but that I wasn't able to because it was sooo early in the morning. Sister said, "Maybe you should try going to bed earlier." I said I would try again. Sister said, "Yes, you should try and come to mass. Jesus has been waiting for you." Bam! She hit me with the Catholic guilt. I felt like I was back at Sacred Heart High School and Sister Marita Paul was laying on the guilt of what bad people we all were because someone had put gum under a desk. I told Sister I would try and made a run for it.
Two days later, after I had paid the extortion money and got my package, one of the Sisters at the orphanage came up to me and asked, "Are you Jeff?" When I told her I was she explained to me that Sister Karina had phoned to tell me that the courier still had my package. I told the Sister at the orphanage that I had already received the message and that I got my package last night, but thank you for passing it along. The Sister at the orphanage smiled and said, "I knew it was you who was Jeff. Sister Karina told me to look for the man that looks like a priest."
OK, so besides letting me know that my wild, swinging days are over, what exactly does that mean? What is the "priest look". When I was in high school all the priests were over 60. Maybe I should just sign up for the seminary now. OK, maybe I'll start with trying to make it to mass in the morning.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Observations
I usually try and go sightseeing around Kolkata on my days off, though I must admit, there's been nothing really remarkable that I have seen. I went and saw a lot of the old British colonial buildings and a few temples. There are a few statues dedicated to various British and Indian people and there is one really large building in the middle of a park that could easily be a state capital building. It's called the Victoria Memorial and it's a dedication to Queen Victoria. It is a pretty amazing building to see and the gardens around it, while not fantastic are the nicest area in Kolkata. I went on a Sunday and waited in line for hours to get in. The inside of it is now a museum. Other that the grounds, I found it interesting that Indian people would come and pay homage to a past British imperial ruler who they fought to get out from under.
That being said, there was a black and white photo exhibit that showed photos of Kolkata back in the 1940s-1950s, just around independence time. It was amazing. The streets were clear and clean and orderly. There were only a few cars on the road and they all seemed to be in line. There did not appear to be a trace of garbage anywhere in these photos. It looked like somewhere you would go to vacation. What happened to that city? Who is to blame? Is it corruption that keeps the money from going to civic things to keep the city up and take care of its citizens? I don't know. More than likely, I think, it's over population. I believe that the cities population more than doubled since that time and the cities infrastructure not only didn't increase, it was left to decay. It makes me wonder if the average Kolkatan feels that there are too many people here. Even if all the people on the street were given enough money to pay rent or buy a place to live, there simply is not enough places for people to live here, it's that crowded and overpopulated.
I will say this, though. It amazes me of the resiliency and the ability of people that live on the street adapt. They have found a way to live in every nook and cranny of this city. Every little spot of the city that doesn't have a building on it is being used by someone else to live on. And they get by on the discarded items of the rest of the people. At times Kolkata seems like what it will look like after civilization collapses. And if it does, I think the street people will have the best chance of surviving because they're already making it on the scraps of society.
Before leaving on this trip, I watched a documentary on how long it would take for signs of civilization to disappear after humans were gone. The scientist who was on said that it wouldn't take very long. He said that the reason things stay standing is that we are constantly up keeping things and if we stopped, they would quickly begin to fall apart from weather and animals.
This effect is already taking place in Kolkata and there are still people here, a lot of them! Many of the colonial era buildings are either collapsed or falling down. Those that aren't literally have trees and brush growing out of the cracks in the sides of them. There are occupied buildings here that have small trees growing out of a crack in the side of them. Some of them have entire balconies that are covered in brush that is growing. At times it reminds me of The Planet of the Apes or Logan's Run after humans return to the surface to see how everything has devolve. There was just a news report that said that bands of wild monkies are terrorizing Dehli here in India. They're gonna rise up I tell you. I can already hear the battle cry, "Now get up and fight like apes!!"
That being said, the newer architecture is the same as it is everywhere else in the world in poor areas. It's the mass produced, concrete block buildings that are divided up into shop fronts with roll up metal doors. And the stuff they sell in them is the same too: same old jewelry, nick naks, jeans and back scratchers.
Another thing I've heard and experience for myself is that Indians are so bent on trying to be polite that if you ask them directions they will give you the wrong info because they don't want to seem rude. A bunch of us from work tried to go to a temple one day in a cab. We asked the driver if he knew how to get there. He said yes and off we went. We drove and drove. When we realized that he didn't have a clue, we now had no idea where we were. We had him bring up back and we got out. We had been driving around for about an hour. The driver wanted the full fare. We told him off and gave him a quarter of the fare. So much for the trying to be polite thing.
I washed my clothes in a bucket this week. Water was filthy black when I was done. I really need to do this more frequently.
The pig foot has been giving me a bit of trouble, especially on days when I'm sightseeing and walking alot. I've got my mom mailing me out my orthotics. We'll see if they get here.
My last observation. The other day, after a long day of sightseeing, I tried to cut through a neighborhood to make it to my guesthouse. It was nighttime and dark and I just wanted to get home. I knew that I was directly west of my guest house but the map wasn't detailed enough to show me what was between me and it. The map basically showed that I should walk way to the south until I hit a main road, then walk east and cut up again. I figured I would just go for it and cut through this neighborhood. As I got deeper into this area, the road turned to an alley way. After that I was in a labyrinth of alleyways, some no wider than my outstretched arms. All the while, the alley ways were lined with shops. There was a whole little world back here of shops and apartments that cars never make it to, it was really interesting. Eventually, after zig zaggin left and right many times and trying to remember which direction was east, the alley way opened up into a small courtyard. The courtyard was lined with really young Indian girls all dressed in traditional Indian robes. The young girls looked at me as I passed but didn't say anything. At the far end of this line of girls were three Indian girls who looked to be in their 20s and wearing western clothing of jeans and blouses. One of them caught my eye and said hello, then offered a sexual solicitation. It was then I realized that I had stumbled into the brothels and these little girls were prostitutes, literally sex slaves. I quickly turned my glance away from the older girls and quickened the pace. As I did, I heard them start to loudly hiss at me. After getting back to my guest house, I thought about it some more and realized that I must have looked like a customer for sure to them, being the only westerner in that maze of alleyways. It was really weird but luckily I made it out of there with my virtue and clean medical record in tact.
That being said, there was a black and white photo exhibit that showed photos of Kolkata back in the 1940s-1950s, just around independence time. It was amazing. The streets were clear and clean and orderly. There were only a few cars on the road and they all seemed to be in line. There did not appear to be a trace of garbage anywhere in these photos. It looked like somewhere you would go to vacation. What happened to that city? Who is to blame? Is it corruption that keeps the money from going to civic things to keep the city up and take care of its citizens? I don't know. More than likely, I think, it's over population. I believe that the cities population more than doubled since that time and the cities infrastructure not only didn't increase, it was left to decay. It makes me wonder if the average Kolkatan feels that there are too many people here. Even if all the people on the street were given enough money to pay rent or buy a place to live, there simply is not enough places for people to live here, it's that crowded and overpopulated.
I will say this, though. It amazes me of the resiliency and the ability of people that live on the street adapt. They have found a way to live in every nook and cranny of this city. Every little spot of the city that doesn't have a building on it is being used by someone else to live on. And they get by on the discarded items of the rest of the people. At times Kolkata seems like what it will look like after civilization collapses. And if it does, I think the street people will have the best chance of surviving because they're already making it on the scraps of society.
Before leaving on this trip, I watched a documentary on how long it would take for signs of civilization to disappear after humans were gone. The scientist who was on said that it wouldn't take very long. He said that the reason things stay standing is that we are constantly up keeping things and if we stopped, they would quickly begin to fall apart from weather and animals.
This effect is already taking place in Kolkata and there are still people here, a lot of them! Many of the colonial era buildings are either collapsed or falling down. Those that aren't literally have trees and brush growing out of the cracks in the sides of them. There are occupied buildings here that have small trees growing out of a crack in the side of them. Some of them have entire balconies that are covered in brush that is growing. At times it reminds me of The Planet of the Apes or Logan's Run after humans return to the surface to see how everything has devolve. There was just a news report that said that bands of wild monkies are terrorizing Dehli here in India. They're gonna rise up I tell you. I can already hear the battle cry, "Now get up and fight like apes!!"
That being said, the newer architecture is the same as it is everywhere else in the world in poor areas. It's the mass produced, concrete block buildings that are divided up into shop fronts with roll up metal doors. And the stuff they sell in them is the same too: same old jewelry, nick naks, jeans and back scratchers.
Another thing I've heard and experience for myself is that Indians are so bent on trying to be polite that if you ask them directions they will give you the wrong info because they don't want to seem rude. A bunch of us from work tried to go to a temple one day in a cab. We asked the driver if he knew how to get there. He said yes and off we went. We drove and drove. When we realized that he didn't have a clue, we now had no idea where we were. We had him bring up back and we got out. We had been driving around for about an hour. The driver wanted the full fare. We told him off and gave him a quarter of the fare. So much for the trying to be polite thing.
I washed my clothes in a bucket this week. Water was filthy black when I was done. I really need to do this more frequently.
The pig foot has been giving me a bit of trouble, especially on days when I'm sightseeing and walking alot. I've got my mom mailing me out my orthotics. We'll see if they get here.
My last observation. The other day, after a long day of sightseeing, I tried to cut through a neighborhood to make it to my guesthouse. It was nighttime and dark and I just wanted to get home. I knew that I was directly west of my guest house but the map wasn't detailed enough to show me what was between me and it. The map basically showed that I should walk way to the south until I hit a main road, then walk east and cut up again. I figured I would just go for it and cut through this neighborhood. As I got deeper into this area, the road turned to an alley way. After that I was in a labyrinth of alleyways, some no wider than my outstretched arms. All the while, the alley ways were lined with shops. There was a whole little world back here of shops and apartments that cars never make it to, it was really interesting. Eventually, after zig zaggin left and right many times and trying to remember which direction was east, the alley way opened up into a small courtyard. The courtyard was lined with really young Indian girls all dressed in traditional Indian robes. The young girls looked at me as I passed but didn't say anything. At the far end of this line of girls were three Indian girls who looked to be in their 20s and wearing western clothing of jeans and blouses. One of them caught my eye and said hello, then offered a sexual solicitation. It was then I realized that I had stumbled into the brothels and these little girls were prostitutes, literally sex slaves. I quickly turned my glance away from the older girls and quickened the pace. As I did, I heard them start to loudly hiss at me. After getting back to my guest house, I thought about it some more and realized that I must have looked like a customer for sure to them, being the only westerner in that maze of alleyways. It was really weird but luckily I made it out of there with my virtue and clean medical record in tact.
The Dispensary
After working at the orphanage in the morning from 8:00am until 12:00noon, I headed over to the Sealdah Train station for 3:00pm to work at the Dispensary medical clinic. The job there was to do wound care for the street people that lived in and around the Sealdah Train Station. If I thought that my training in Emergency Medicine was going to help me I was wrong. This was nothing like anything that I had to deal with before. The wounds that I've had to deal with in the past at work all occurred at some point that day. The job was to clean the wound and get the person to a doctor as quickly as possible so they could receive stitches, medicine, etc.
The wounds at the clinic were all massively infected. Some to the point of having gangrene. Most having rotten dead flesh on them and many with maggots feeding on and inside the wound. My first reaction was to get these people to the hospital because many of them needed a skin graft or even an amputation. After a few days of being there, I came to realize that these people were not going to the hospital because they either could not afford it or they did not want to go. We were all they had. And strangely enough, when I first started, I was the only one with any medical training. I was amazed at the other volunteers who, with no prior medical training, were in there cleaning and bandaging these wounds. I really had to learn to harden myself to this and just do it. Which after a couple of days of doing this, you do. On my third day I had to clean the maggots from deep inside a wound on the foot of a guy with elephantaisis. Rightfully so, this guy should be at a hospital getting his foot amputated. But that's not going to happen. I got down into it and started cutting and scrubbing and cleaning. The smell is horrendous. You never forget the smell. While I was working on him, I heard someone say right behind me, "Oh my Jesus!" I turned around and it was one of the Sisters. She had just transfered to the clinic after 9 years of working with the orphans. She was shocked at what she saw (the Sisters have no medical training, which is a bit of an issue, especially since they are the only ones that are consistently there).
Most of the wounds here start off as just small cuts that in the US would be tended to that day and heal up in a week. Even if they weren't tended to that week, they would not get as infected as they would here. The streets in Kolkata are absolutely filthy and the street people walk around them barefoot. Within a week a simple cut will become this massively infected wound. Add a couple of fly larvae and a week more of not cleaning and you've got gangrene setting in.
It is really, really rewarding work, though I must say at times it can feel so futile. A drop in a sea of poverty. You really have to focus on the comfort you bring one individual person because if you start thinking about the reasoning behind these conditions, the poverty, the corruption, the bigger issues and how things need to change on a global level, you'll lose your mind. Or at the very least, you'll become so disheartened that you'll give up and leave.
One day, a woman came in who had gangrene pretty bad on the bottom of her foot. The inside arch of her foot was rotting away. The volunteer, a woman from Spain name Paula, with no medical training was cleaning the wound and cutting away the rotten tissue. Needless to say, this was excruciatingly painful for the woman. After an hour long session of this where Paula worked and myself and another guy held the woman down, Paula finished for the day and patched her up. She would have to come back in for follow up treatments. The next time she came in, I was already working on another patient. While one of the other volunteers was working on her, the woman was again crying out in pain. I finished with my patients and sent him on his way. I then reentered the room where the woman started yelling at me and waving her hand. We all thought she wanted me to leave the room because I was a man. We then realized she wanted me to come over to her and when I did she immediately clung to me and started crying. She just needed someone to hold onto her while she was going through this painful ordeal.
When you finish working on a patient, they are so thankful. Some of them start to bless you feet. Some of them cry. It's these moments you have to balance against the problems of feeling futile.
Eventually, I would work at the Sealdah Train Station clinic three days a week and then at the Orphanage's clinic two days a week. I would fill in that time with 3 days of doing laundry at the orphanage.
We would finally get some medically trained people in and that was great. At both clinic, the majority of the volunteers are from Spanish speaking countries so it has been a good exercise in dusty off my rusty high school Spanish. We now have a Doctor from Spain, a nurse from Chile and a nurse from Australia.
The biggest issues we've been having lately at the clinics is which ointment, medicines to use and when. There are these jars of white cream at both clinics that the volunteers put on all the wounds. When I asked what it was, I got several different answers from several different people. One was that it was an antibiotic. The other was that it was a skin softener used to soften the hardened skin around the wounds. And the last was from Mickey, a hilarious Irish guy who can go a day without telling a joke that includes the word, "willie". Mickey said that it was glue to help hold the patients together.
After a little research I found out that it was Silver Sulfadiazine. And ointment that is used solely for burn victims who are waiting for surgery. Everything I read on line tells me not to use it. I confirmed this with my buddy Tod Levesh, a paramedic with King County outside of Seattle. After discussing this with the two nurses at the clinics, we agreed that we shouldn't be using this stuff. The question is, how do we keep the people who come after us from using it? The Sisters and the guys that work at these clinics permanently love this stuff.
Today I had a guy come in who had sliced his finger almost right through and should have gotten about 30 stitches to fix it. Instead he waited a week and then came to the clinic. The meat was hanging off of his finger. I had to clean underneath it. Under normal circumstances, this guy would have received at least a local anesthetic to numb his finger and maybe a general dose of pain killers. Instead, he got me, a piece of gauze and some betadine. One of the other volunteers had to hold the guy down while I worked on him. His screams were only broken by the sound of him convulsively gagging while dry heaving from the pain. When I was done patching him up, he thanked me and blessed me, still with tears in his eyes. I followed him outside. After he had walked off I looked up and noticed that two little street kids were flying a kite over the train station.
The wounds at the clinic were all massively infected. Some to the point of having gangrene. Most having rotten dead flesh on them and many with maggots feeding on and inside the wound. My first reaction was to get these people to the hospital because many of them needed a skin graft or even an amputation. After a few days of being there, I came to realize that these people were not going to the hospital because they either could not afford it or they did not want to go. We were all they had. And strangely enough, when I first started, I was the only one with any medical training. I was amazed at the other volunteers who, with no prior medical training, were in there cleaning and bandaging these wounds. I really had to learn to harden myself to this and just do it. Which after a couple of days of doing this, you do. On my third day I had to clean the maggots from deep inside a wound on the foot of a guy with elephantaisis. Rightfully so, this guy should be at a hospital getting his foot amputated. But that's not going to happen. I got down into it and started cutting and scrubbing and cleaning. The smell is horrendous. You never forget the smell. While I was working on him, I heard someone say right behind me, "Oh my Jesus!" I turned around and it was one of the Sisters. She had just transfered to the clinic after 9 years of working with the orphans. She was shocked at what she saw (the Sisters have no medical training, which is a bit of an issue, especially since they are the only ones that are consistently there).
Most of the wounds here start off as just small cuts that in the US would be tended to that day and heal up in a week. Even if they weren't tended to that week, they would not get as infected as they would here. The streets in Kolkata are absolutely filthy and the street people walk around them barefoot. Within a week a simple cut will become this massively infected wound. Add a couple of fly larvae and a week more of not cleaning and you've got gangrene setting in.
It is really, really rewarding work, though I must say at times it can feel so futile. A drop in a sea of poverty. You really have to focus on the comfort you bring one individual person because if you start thinking about the reasoning behind these conditions, the poverty, the corruption, the bigger issues and how things need to change on a global level, you'll lose your mind. Or at the very least, you'll become so disheartened that you'll give up and leave.
One day, a woman came in who had gangrene pretty bad on the bottom of her foot. The inside arch of her foot was rotting away. The volunteer, a woman from Spain name Paula, with no medical training was cleaning the wound and cutting away the rotten tissue. Needless to say, this was excruciatingly painful for the woman. After an hour long session of this where Paula worked and myself and another guy held the woman down, Paula finished for the day and patched her up. She would have to come back in for follow up treatments. The next time she came in, I was already working on another patient. While one of the other volunteers was working on her, the woman was again crying out in pain. I finished with my patients and sent him on his way. I then reentered the room where the woman started yelling at me and waving her hand. We all thought she wanted me to leave the room because I was a man. We then realized she wanted me to come over to her and when I did she immediately clung to me and started crying. She just needed someone to hold onto her while she was going through this painful ordeal.
When you finish working on a patient, they are so thankful. Some of them start to bless you feet. Some of them cry. It's these moments you have to balance against the problems of feeling futile.
Eventually, I would work at the Sealdah Train Station clinic three days a week and then at the Orphanage's clinic two days a week. I would fill in that time with 3 days of doing laundry at the orphanage.
We would finally get some medically trained people in and that was great. At both clinic, the majority of the volunteers are from Spanish speaking countries so it has been a good exercise in dusty off my rusty high school Spanish. We now have a Doctor from Spain, a nurse from Chile and a nurse from Australia.
The biggest issues we've been having lately at the clinics is which ointment, medicines to use and when. There are these jars of white cream at both clinics that the volunteers put on all the wounds. When I asked what it was, I got several different answers from several different people. One was that it was an antibiotic. The other was that it was a skin softener used to soften the hardened skin around the wounds. And the last was from Mickey, a hilarious Irish guy who can go a day without telling a joke that includes the word, "willie". Mickey said that it was glue to help hold the patients together.
After a little research I found out that it was Silver Sulfadiazine. And ointment that is used solely for burn victims who are waiting for surgery. Everything I read on line tells me not to use it. I confirmed this with my buddy Tod Levesh, a paramedic with King County outside of Seattle. After discussing this with the two nurses at the clinics, we agreed that we shouldn't be using this stuff. The question is, how do we keep the people who come after us from using it? The Sisters and the guys that work at these clinics permanently love this stuff.
Today I had a guy come in who had sliced his finger almost right through and should have gotten about 30 stitches to fix it. Instead he waited a week and then came to the clinic. The meat was hanging off of his finger. I had to clean underneath it. Under normal circumstances, this guy would have received at least a local anesthetic to numb his finger and maybe a general dose of pain killers. Instead, he got me, a piece of gauze and some betadine. One of the other volunteers had to hold the guy down while I worked on him. His screams were only broken by the sound of him convulsively gagging while dry heaving from the pain. When I was done patching him up, he thanked me and blessed me, still with tears in his eyes. I followed him outside. After he had walked off I looked up and noticed that two little street kids were flying a kite over the train station.
Wildlife II
I saw another rat in the street today. This one was dead. It looked like someone had killed it. I was amazed by how big its fangs were. Not that I was poking at it, it had just died with its mouth open. I swear. I didn't touch it. Part of me wanted to though. Maybe with a stick or something.
I've been told by an expert source on Alaskan culture that the Athabaskans (the native race of people in central Alaska) have strict conditions on the treatment of animal carcasses. The belief is that an animal's spirit lingers in its body after its death (for a varying period of time depending on the animal). Consequently, respect must be paid to a carcass as it would be to the living creature. For instance, when a trapped animal is brought inside to be skinned, it must be shielded from loud noises (particularly mechanical or metallic ones) and bad smells. In fact, the nostrils of the creature were sometimes sealed with lard to keep bad smells out. Also, one would never mock an animal's body by doing anything undignified or abusive to it. These ideas seem to apply both to animals intentionally killed for meat or fur and to regular old dead animals. The bad things that result from violating these taboos usually involve having lousy luck at hunting and trapping, as well as a more general state of being out of balance or harmony with one's surroundings.
My expert source told me this right after I threw a rock at a dead walrus' carcass we had come across on a beach just south of Nome, Alaska. (I wanted to see if it would explode from its decomposing gases). Fortunately, I missed. (hey, we made it out alive, didn't we, Amy?!!)
Maybe I'll leave the rats alone for now, I can use all the luck I can get over here.
I've been told by an expert source on Alaskan culture that the Athabaskans (the native race of people in central Alaska) have strict conditions on the treatment of animal carcasses. The belief is that an animal's spirit lingers in its body after its death (for a varying period of time depending on the animal). Consequently, respect must be paid to a carcass as it would be to the living creature. For instance, when a trapped animal is brought inside to be skinned, it must be shielded from loud noises (particularly mechanical or metallic ones) and bad smells. In fact, the nostrils of the creature were sometimes sealed with lard to keep bad smells out. Also, one would never mock an animal's body by doing anything undignified or abusive to it. These ideas seem to apply both to animals intentionally killed for meat or fur and to regular old dead animals. The bad things that result from violating these taboos usually involve having lousy luck at hunting and trapping, as well as a more general state of being out of balance or harmony with one's surroundings.
My expert source told me this right after I threw a rock at a dead walrus' carcass we had come across on a beach just south of Nome, Alaska. (I wanted to see if it would explode from its decomposing gases). Fortunately, I missed. (hey, we made it out alive, didn't we, Amy?!!)
Maybe I'll leave the rats alone for now, I can use all the luck I can get over here.
Mother Teresa's
I went down to Mother Teresa's Missionaries of Charity for their volunteer orientation. For a little background, Mother Teresa was a Hungarian born woman who joined the Irish Catholic order called the Missionaries of Charity. The "Sisters" of this Mission are from all over the world and are placed all over the world. Teresa came to Calcutta, India and was so appalled with the number of people dying in the street that she set up a hospice for the destitute and dying so they could be comforted in their final days. Teresa's mission was to serve the "poorest of the poor", in other words, she was saying, "Go big or go home."
Eventually her operation would expand into several hospices that deal with several different areas. She would then become known as Mother Teresa or Teresa of Calcutta. Some of the other hospices deal with street orphans, street infants, people with leprosy, destitute and dying and mentally and disabled orphans. There are at least two others that I can't recall right now. In addition, the Mission also oversees 2 "dispensaries". That means a sort of medical clinic that tends to the street people's wounds, and also "dispenses" medicines to the poor street people.
At the volunteer orientation there must have been about 60 people. And this takes place Monday, Wednesday and Friday every week. After being given a quick description of the multiple hospices that the Missionaries of Charity run, I found out about the two medical "dispensary" clinics that do wound care. To me, I felt that my skills as an EMT would be better put to use there. I signed up and had a short interview with Sister Karina. When I sat down with Sister, she asked what my work at home was. After I explained what it was, she said, "Oh, I asked because you look like a priest. I thought maybe you were a priest at home." I knew I had a pious aura about me.
Sister told me that I could work at the "Dispensary" (medical clinic) at Daya Dan, the orphanage for mentally and physically disabled children and that I could also work at the medical clinic they had set up at Sealdah Train Station. I was so happy to be going back to my old neighborhood. This would give me five half-day shifts of work. Sister recommended that if I wanted more hours I should also work at the Daya Dan orphanage itself, since there are less people working there than some of the other hospices.
The next day I started by showing up at Mother House, the main building, bright and early in the morning for the volunteers' gathering and prayer. They handed out bananas and bread with tea and everyone yapped away. Then there was a prayer with a little singing and hand clapping. After an hour, we all went out to catch our respective buses to the hospices. The morning gathering was nice and all, but I realized I could gain an hour and a half more sleep and just head directly to the orphanage on the subway, prayer optional, of course.
My first day at the orphanage was not a medical clinic day, it was just working in the orphanage itself. There were about 50 to 60 children there, each with their own special need. Some were ambulatory while others were confined to wheelchairs. About half of these kids would put on uniforms and go off to a special school down the street. I don't know who runs the school. There were at least as many volunteers as there were children there that day and a staff of about a dozen Indian ladies who ran the place. There are also one or two Sisters in charge of the whole operation, but they rarely get involved with the daily hands on stuff. Once the kids who could go to school were gone, it came time to get the other kids up and going. Each child seemed to have at least one volunteer with them who would help get them out of bed, feed them, play with them and put them through an established physiotherapy session. The kids had plenty attention. What there seemed to be a shortage of, I found out quickly, were people to do the laundry...by hand. Which is fine, because, as Mother said, "It's not the work that we do, it's the love we put into that work."
The routine starts by stripping down the beds, then wiping down the plastic covered mattresses and crib frames with bleach water. After this, we get clean sheets and remake the beds. From here we drag all the blankets and sheets and clothing up onto the roof where there are 4 large concrete utility sinks for washing. The items are separated and thrown into the sinks where powdered soap is added to the water. One of the volunteers or the Indian women who work there will climb inside the sink and agitate the laundry with their feet, stomping up and down like Lucy and Ethel in that "I love Lucy" episode where they were making wine. From here, the soapy clothes and sheets are put into another sink of water and swooshed around. The items are then pulled from the water and wrung out by hand. Once all wrung out, they are hung on lines there on the roof. David, a volunteer from Spain kept joking that he was going to sneak his own dirty laundry into the pile one of these days.
The Indian ladies, who are often called "Massie" or "Auntie" (Everyone is either called Uncle or Auntie depending on you gender) are constantly correcting the volunteers while they are hanging clothes. Since the Aunties don't speak English, it's difficult to figure out what you've done wrong. At times it's maddening. Then after a while it starts to make sense. Things like, hang the pants and shirts with waistbands and collars to the sun so they will dry quicker. Or don't waste the big long clothes lines with underwear because we've got a ton of sheets coming. Put the undies on the side. The Aunties have a few English lines that they say over and over again that become very funny to hear. My favorite pertains to determining whether or not the sheets are ready to be taken down and folded: "No drrry, no pull!" This is said in a high pitched female Bengali accent with a long roll on the 'r'.
The nationalities of the volunteers are varied. There have been people from Mexico, Spain, England, Ireland, Poland, China, the US and New Zealand. The two largest groups that I've worked with so far has been Australia and Japan. There has been a large group of Aussies here with a religious organization. They are all high school aged and they make up about 50% of the people I wash clothes with. The next larges group are Japanese. They seem to be in their 20s and traveling separately. I've fallen into a clique where I've been working with some of the Japanese volunteers. There are 3 guys and 2 girls. One of the girls, Saori, speaks very good English and is always asking complex and sometimes politically sensitive questions. It's been great. The questions range anywhere from religion in the US to the Iraq war.
Sometimes it can get really hot up on the roof and sometimes there's a nice, cool breeze. It was late morning one of my days on the roof and I had wrung out so many clothes that my forearms felt exhausted. We had moved on to hanging up the clothes to dry. For some reason, there were not many people on the roof, just me and two of the Japanese guys. There was a cool breeze coming off of the Hooghlie River diluting the thick Kolkata air. One of the other guys sang a song in Japanese. It was soft and high pitched. The brother sang it sweet while one of the kids methodically circled us, touching each one of us on the back as if playing an imaginary game of "Duck, duck, goose" and Mother watched from up above.
Eventually her operation would expand into several hospices that deal with several different areas. She would then become known as Mother Teresa or Teresa of Calcutta. Some of the other hospices deal with street orphans, street infants, people with leprosy, destitute and dying and mentally and disabled orphans. There are at least two others that I can't recall right now. In addition, the Mission also oversees 2 "dispensaries". That means a sort of medical clinic that tends to the street people's wounds, and also "dispenses" medicines to the poor street people.
At the volunteer orientation there must have been about 60 people. And this takes place Monday, Wednesday and Friday every week. After being given a quick description of the multiple hospices that the Missionaries of Charity run, I found out about the two medical "dispensary" clinics that do wound care. To me, I felt that my skills as an EMT would be better put to use there. I signed up and had a short interview with Sister Karina. When I sat down with Sister, she asked what my work at home was. After I explained what it was, she said, "Oh, I asked because you look like a priest. I thought maybe you were a priest at home." I knew I had a pious aura about me.
Sister told me that I could work at the "Dispensary" (medical clinic) at Daya Dan, the orphanage for mentally and physically disabled children and that I could also work at the medical clinic they had set up at Sealdah Train Station. I was so happy to be going back to my old neighborhood. This would give me five half-day shifts of work. Sister recommended that if I wanted more hours I should also work at the Daya Dan orphanage itself, since there are less people working there than some of the other hospices.
The next day I started by showing up at Mother House, the main building, bright and early in the morning for the volunteers' gathering and prayer. They handed out bananas and bread with tea and everyone yapped away. Then there was a prayer with a little singing and hand clapping. After an hour, we all went out to catch our respective buses to the hospices. The morning gathering was nice and all, but I realized I could gain an hour and a half more sleep and just head directly to the orphanage on the subway, prayer optional, of course.
My first day at the orphanage was not a medical clinic day, it was just working in the orphanage itself. There were about 50 to 60 children there, each with their own special need. Some were ambulatory while others were confined to wheelchairs. About half of these kids would put on uniforms and go off to a special school down the street. I don't know who runs the school. There were at least as many volunteers as there were children there that day and a staff of about a dozen Indian ladies who ran the place. There are also one or two Sisters in charge of the whole operation, but they rarely get involved with the daily hands on stuff. Once the kids who could go to school were gone, it came time to get the other kids up and going. Each child seemed to have at least one volunteer with them who would help get them out of bed, feed them, play with them and put them through an established physiotherapy session. The kids had plenty attention. What there seemed to be a shortage of, I found out quickly, were people to do the laundry...by hand. Which is fine, because, as Mother said, "It's not the work that we do, it's the love we put into that work."
The routine starts by stripping down the beds, then wiping down the plastic covered mattresses and crib frames with bleach water. After this, we get clean sheets and remake the beds. From here we drag all the blankets and sheets and clothing up onto the roof where there are 4 large concrete utility sinks for washing. The items are separated and thrown into the sinks where powdered soap is added to the water. One of the volunteers or the Indian women who work there will climb inside the sink and agitate the laundry with their feet, stomping up and down like Lucy and Ethel in that "I love Lucy" episode where they were making wine. From here, the soapy clothes and sheets are put into another sink of water and swooshed around. The items are then pulled from the water and wrung out by hand. Once all wrung out, they are hung on lines there on the roof. David, a volunteer from Spain kept joking that he was going to sneak his own dirty laundry into the pile one of these days.
The Indian ladies, who are often called "Massie" or "Auntie" (Everyone is either called Uncle or Auntie depending on you gender) are constantly correcting the volunteers while they are hanging clothes. Since the Aunties don't speak English, it's difficult to figure out what you've done wrong. At times it's maddening. Then after a while it starts to make sense. Things like, hang the pants and shirts with waistbands and collars to the sun so they will dry quicker. Or don't waste the big long clothes lines with underwear because we've got a ton of sheets coming. Put the undies on the side. The Aunties have a few English lines that they say over and over again that become very funny to hear. My favorite pertains to determining whether or not the sheets are ready to be taken down and folded: "No drrry, no pull!" This is said in a high pitched female Bengali accent with a long roll on the 'r'.
The nationalities of the volunteers are varied. There have been people from Mexico, Spain, England, Ireland, Poland, China, the US and New Zealand. The two largest groups that I've worked with so far has been Australia and Japan. There has been a large group of Aussies here with a religious organization. They are all high school aged and they make up about 50% of the people I wash clothes with. The next larges group are Japanese. They seem to be in their 20s and traveling separately. I've fallen into a clique where I've been working with some of the Japanese volunteers. There are 3 guys and 2 girls. One of the girls, Saori, speaks very good English and is always asking complex and sometimes politically sensitive questions. It's been great. The questions range anywhere from religion in the US to the Iraq war.
Sometimes it can get really hot up on the roof and sometimes there's a nice, cool breeze. It was late morning one of my days on the roof and I had wrung out so many clothes that my forearms felt exhausted. We had moved on to hanging up the clothes to dry. For some reason, there were not many people on the roof, just me and two of the Japanese guys. There was a cool breeze coming off of the Hooghlie River diluting the thick Kolkata air. One of the other guys sang a song in Japanese. It was soft and high pitched. The brother sang it sweet while one of the kids methodically circled us, touching each one of us on the back as if playing an imaginary game of "Duck, duck, goose" and Mother watched from up above.
The Ghangida
I had just finished eating a shwarma at a little place called The Gastro Inn on a back alley in Kolkata when I rounded a corner and walked smack into her. I knew I'd run into to her eventually, but I didn't think it would be this soon.
"Didn't think I'd see you here," I blurted out.
"Well, your first mistake was eating a shwarma in a Kolkata back alley." She replied.
"What's it been, two years?" I said.
"Peru." She came back with.
Peru. That's right. And what a time that had been. Who'd of thought the Ghangida would sneak up on me like this. Well no time to get nostalgic. I made a bee-line back to my guest house, just in time to spend the next 18 hours on a "toilet" with a bucket between my legs. I use the term toilet loosely. I didn't think that I would ever get caught with the Ghangida in a bathroom that was worse than the one my buddy Trace had left me for dead in back in Chiang Mai, Thailand. But here it was, a toilet that rivaled even my time in that Turkish prison.
It would be 8 hours and a jug of pepto-bismol before I could hold down enough water to get some antibiotics in me. This would be followed by a full day of hazy dreams of filthy river water and white slavery.
When I came to at 6:00pm the next day, I had to yell to the guy at the front desk to run down the street and buy me toilet paper. Fortunately, my emergency travel instincts had remembered to unlock my room door before blacking out just in case I had to be pulled out of there.
She got me good, that devil woman Ghangida. And I don't think I've seen the last of her yet.
"Didn't think I'd see you here," I blurted out.
"Well, your first mistake was eating a shwarma in a Kolkata back alley." She replied.
"What's it been, two years?" I said.
"Peru." She came back with.
Peru. That's right. And what a time that had been. Who'd of thought the Ghangida would sneak up on me like this. Well no time to get nostalgic. I made a bee-line back to my guest house, just in time to spend the next 18 hours on a "toilet" with a bucket between my legs. I use the term toilet loosely. I didn't think that I would ever get caught with the Ghangida in a bathroom that was worse than the one my buddy Trace had left me for dead in back in Chiang Mai, Thailand. But here it was, a toilet that rivaled even my time in that Turkish prison.
It would be 8 hours and a jug of pepto-bismol before I could hold down enough water to get some antibiotics in me. This would be followed by a full day of hazy dreams of filthy river water and white slavery.
When I came to at 6:00pm the next day, I had to yell to the guy at the front desk to run down the street and buy me toilet paper. Fortunately, my emergency travel instincts had remembered to unlock my room door before blacking out just in case I had to be pulled out of there.
She got me good, that devil woman Ghangida. And I don't think I've seen the last of her yet.
Wildlife
Today I saw a child standing by a sewer laughing and pointing at a large rat. I took note that it was much furrier than other rats that I have seen, then I quickly moved on.
That night, I noticed a lizard was tucked between the fluorescent light bulb and the wall. It was about 6" or 7" inches long and it just laid there soaking up the light. I named him "Zinny" in honor of my friend Otis and Hivy's Christmas Tree lizard who passed away recently. I'm not sure where Zinny went when I turned out the light and I'm not sure that I want to know.
Since I stopped working with CRAWL, I had to vacate the guest house I was staying in after only 7 days, even though I still had to pay CRAWL for 2 weeks rent and another "donation" fee on top of that. The more I thought about it the more something seemed wrong with the organization.
I moved from the neighborhood where I was staying to the backbacker/tourist area. I did this because it was much closer to Mother Teresas as well as having more options for transportation. I was sad to leave my area since I had gotten use to being there and had even become familiar with some of the shop keepers in the neighborhood. One in particular was a seamster. I'm figuring that's what you call a male seamstress? I ripped two different pairs of pants and he's sewed them up for me right on the spot.
When I got to the backpackers' area I found out that most of the guest houses were full. I moved into a really shitty guest house in the meantime in hopes that a better one would open up tomorrow. That's when the sickness hit.
That night, I noticed a lizard was tucked between the fluorescent light bulb and the wall. It was about 6" or 7" inches long and it just laid there soaking up the light. I named him "Zinny" in honor of my friend Otis and Hivy's Christmas Tree lizard who passed away recently. I'm not sure where Zinny went when I turned out the light and I'm not sure that I want to know.
Since I stopped working with CRAWL, I had to vacate the guest house I was staying in after only 7 days, even though I still had to pay CRAWL for 2 weeks rent and another "donation" fee on top of that. The more I thought about it the more something seemed wrong with the organization.
I moved from the neighborhood where I was staying to the backbacker/tourist area. I did this because it was much closer to Mother Teresas as well as having more options for transportation. I was sad to leave my area since I had gotten use to being there and had even become familiar with some of the shop keepers in the neighborhood. One in particular was a seamster. I'm figuring that's what you call a male seamstress? I ripped two different pairs of pants and he's sewed them up for me right on the spot.
When I got to the backpackers' area I found out that most of the guest houses were full. I moved into a really shitty guest house in the meantime in hopes that a better one would open up tomorrow. That's when the sickness hit.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Differences in opinion
After about a week of volunteering with CRAWL, there were a couple of things that I had issue with. And it wasn't just me, these were issues that every other volunteer had as well. The biggest issue was that there were hardly enough hours of work. We would show up at the train stations at about 6:15am-6:30am and be gone by 8:00am. And that was it for the day. Even the volunteers that were teaching said the same thing. It was a couple of hours in the morning and then you had the rest of the day off.
The second issue was the feeding of the kids. The typical serving we gave a child was 2 ounces of milk (yes, 2 ounces!) 2 cookies and a pastry. Sometimes we would give them a slice or two of bread instead of the pastry. There was absolutely no nutritional value in what we were giving them.
Another issue was that we served the 2 ounces of milk in little 2 ounce plastic cups that the second after the kids drank the milk, they threw them on the ground. We were now creating our own little garbage machine. I realize that Kolkata is strewn with garbage but that's no reason for us to be adding to it.
Another problem was the time that we went to the train stations. We would arrive there so early that most of the people and children were asleep. Most of the time we had someone from the organization who was Indian with us as a translator. They would have us wake the children in order to feed them. This seemed to make absolutely no sense. Since they are street kids and orphans, it's not like we are waking them to start their day because they've got to be somewhere at a particular time. We are waking them because this fits best with CRAWL's schedule and the volunteers who will be teaching can get back to the classroom on time.
Also, there's a fine line between giving aid to these children and enabling them to become beggars. When I would see the children later in the day, they would be begging anyone who would stop and pay them attention. At no point would any of us give them money because the use of drugs is a huge problem here. We would usually buy them cookies (just like we feed them in the morning). But now when I would by them cookies, they wouldn't want me to open the package. I would later find out that this is because after I leave, they sell the cookies at a discount, back to the vendor and then have to give the money to an adult who runs an operation of beggars there with the kids at the station. It's kind of like a mafia hierarchy that is taking place. These kids are being pimped out to beg.
Two of the women who teach the English classes are Dutch and I believe that they do a fine job. And from the little that I know them, I think their hearts are in the right place. One of them, though, recently mentioned to me the trouble she was having teaching English to a student who doesn't speak English, especially when the teacher is not a native English speaker.
At the weekly CRAWL volunteer meeting, I was told to list any issues I had in a journal book that was at the suburban apartment. I wrote down all of my concerns, told them that today was my last day and went to Mother Teresa's Missionaries of Charity to find a new job.
The second issue was the feeding of the kids. The typical serving we gave a child was 2 ounces of milk (yes, 2 ounces!) 2 cookies and a pastry. Sometimes we would give them a slice or two of bread instead of the pastry. There was absolutely no nutritional value in what we were giving them.
Another issue was that we served the 2 ounces of milk in little 2 ounce plastic cups that the second after the kids drank the milk, they threw them on the ground. We were now creating our own little garbage machine. I realize that Kolkata is strewn with garbage but that's no reason for us to be adding to it.
Another problem was the time that we went to the train stations. We would arrive there so early that most of the people and children were asleep. Most of the time we had someone from the organization who was Indian with us as a translator. They would have us wake the children in order to feed them. This seemed to make absolutely no sense. Since they are street kids and orphans, it's not like we are waking them to start their day because they've got to be somewhere at a particular time. We are waking them because this fits best with CRAWL's schedule and the volunteers who will be teaching can get back to the classroom on time.
Also, there's a fine line between giving aid to these children and enabling them to become beggars. When I would see the children later in the day, they would be begging anyone who would stop and pay them attention. At no point would any of us give them money because the use of drugs is a huge problem here. We would usually buy them cookies (just like we feed them in the morning). But now when I would by them cookies, they wouldn't want me to open the package. I would later find out that this is because after I leave, they sell the cookies at a discount, back to the vendor and then have to give the money to an adult who runs an operation of beggars there with the kids at the station. It's kind of like a mafia hierarchy that is taking place. These kids are being pimped out to beg.
Two of the women who teach the English classes are Dutch and I believe that they do a fine job. And from the little that I know them, I think their hearts are in the right place. One of them, though, recently mentioned to me the trouble she was having teaching English to a student who doesn't speak English, especially when the teacher is not a native English speaker.
At the weekly CRAWL volunteer meeting, I was told to list any issues I had in a journal book that was at the suburban apartment. I wrote down all of my concerns, told them that today was my last day and went to Mother Teresa's Missionaries of Charity to find a new job.
Volunteering
I awoke to the sound of a loud chanting coming from outside my room window. It was 5:ooam on my first day of volunteering and the wake up service was the call to prayers at a Mosque down the street. This call, which occurred 5 times a day, would be my alarm clock for the time I stayed at this guest house.
I met Adrian at about 6:00 am and we walked to Sealdah Train Station where we would be volunteering. The 15 minute "commute" to the train station would take us through a very poor slum area of the city. The fortunate people in the neighborhood had store fronts that by day they sold goods and services and by night they and their families slept inside the small 15'x10 shops. Out on the sidewalk in front of the shops were the carts. These folks sold food and goods on their carts or tables by day and slept on top of, under or around the carts at night. Again, these were whole families camped out, including little kids and babies. Many utilized a tarp, tied to the buildings and trees to provide some shelter or shade. Then there were the people that just plain old lived in the street. The walked around by day and laid down on the sidewalk at night. Needless to say, many of them were not in the best health. At 6:00am on the walk in, most of the people were still asleep, so the walk went by quickly. By midday the sidewalks would be choked with humanity and it would be like walking upstream in a river to try and get somewhere.
When we arrived at the train station, I realized there was another group of street people and those were the people that lived at the train station. The term "street person" is commonly used here to refer to people without homes. This term seems to me to be more appropriate than "homeless". To me "homeless" seems to refer to someone who grew up in a home but that somewhere along the way something went wrong and now they are without a home, but may, soon enough, have their luck turn and be off the streets. This doesn't apply to the "street people" of Kolkata. They were born on the street, live on the street and will spend their entire lives on the street, including having children.
The people that live at the train station were just waking up when we arrived. Many of these people were children. Orphaned children that live at the train station. The organization that I came to work with is called CRAWL. It stands for Children's Resolution and Women's Learning Society. Along with having a small classroom for children to learn English and math in one of the suburbs of Kolkata, they do two train station "projects". These two projects would be the ones I signed up for at the train station called Sealdah and another train station called Dum Dum. Train stations become very populated with street people because the metal roofs over the platforms provide shelter from the sun in the day and the rains during monsoon season. The train station is also one of the only open areas of ground to lay down on in the city. Pretty much every other square inch of land is being used.
The work at the train stations is suppose to focus on the street children. In the mornings we buy food and milk and feed the children. We then play with them for a little while and then tend to any wounds that anyone at the station, not just the children might have. We set up a spot on the far platform at the train station, mostly out of the way. When a full train pulls into the station, it's amazing the number of people who get off of it and at times it's not hard to image how people can get trampled to death. In between the train arrivals, though, there's a relative calmness. Besides Adrian and me, there are 4 other volunteers. These other volunteers, all female, live in an apartment out in the suburbs where the English and math classes are taught. And all of them teach these classes. Most, but not all, come to at least one of the train station projects some of the time. Adrian and I are the only ones who have signed up only solely for the train station projects. Feeding the kids is pretty easy and their fun to play with too. The wound care is relatively straight forward with only a couple of nasty infections here or there. After a few days you get to know the names of the kids that live at the train stations. They love it when you break out your camera and take their picture then show it to them. There are about 2 dozen kids all together and then a handful of mothers with children or babies that we feed. While we feed the kids, train loads of people go by, many of them staring with a "who the heck are you?" look on their faces. This is not a touristy area at all and I don't think many westerners come through here. While Hindi is the most wide spread language in India, the people of Kolkata and its state, West Bengal all speak Bengali. Most of the people I encounter here do not speak English, especially not the people that live on the streets. Many of the signs are written in 3 languages: Hindi, Bengali and English.
On my first day at the train station I was watching one of the kids draw on a piece of paper while through the fence three adults were wrestling a huge pig to the ground. This was occurring on an empty railroad track. They finally got the pig down and tied up and were dragging it off while it was squealing and screaming. I had planned on working with CRAWL for one month, but would leave them after one week. A few of the other volunteers would leave as well.
I met Adrian at about 6:00 am and we walked to Sealdah Train Station where we would be volunteering. The 15 minute "commute" to the train station would take us through a very poor slum area of the city. The fortunate people in the neighborhood had store fronts that by day they sold goods and services and by night they and their families slept inside the small 15'x10 shops. Out on the sidewalk in front of the shops were the carts. These folks sold food and goods on their carts or tables by day and slept on top of, under or around the carts at night. Again, these were whole families camped out, including little kids and babies. Many utilized a tarp, tied to the buildings and trees to provide some shelter or shade. Then there were the people that just plain old lived in the street. The walked around by day and laid down on the sidewalk at night. Needless to say, many of them were not in the best health. At 6:00am on the walk in, most of the people were still asleep, so the walk went by quickly. By midday the sidewalks would be choked with humanity and it would be like walking upstream in a river to try and get somewhere.
When we arrived at the train station, I realized there was another group of street people and those were the people that lived at the train station. The term "street person" is commonly used here to refer to people without homes. This term seems to me to be more appropriate than "homeless". To me "homeless" seems to refer to someone who grew up in a home but that somewhere along the way something went wrong and now they are without a home, but may, soon enough, have their luck turn and be off the streets. This doesn't apply to the "street people" of Kolkata. They were born on the street, live on the street and will spend their entire lives on the street, including having children.
The people that live at the train station were just waking up when we arrived. Many of these people were children. Orphaned children that live at the train station. The organization that I came to work with is called CRAWL. It stands for Children's Resolution and Women's Learning Society. Along with having a small classroom for children to learn English and math in one of the suburbs of Kolkata, they do two train station "projects". These two projects would be the ones I signed up for at the train station called Sealdah and another train station called Dum Dum. Train stations become very populated with street people because the metal roofs over the platforms provide shelter from the sun in the day and the rains during monsoon season. The train station is also one of the only open areas of ground to lay down on in the city. Pretty much every other square inch of land is being used.
The work at the train stations is suppose to focus on the street children. In the mornings we buy food and milk and feed the children. We then play with them for a little while and then tend to any wounds that anyone at the station, not just the children might have. We set up a spot on the far platform at the train station, mostly out of the way. When a full train pulls into the station, it's amazing the number of people who get off of it and at times it's not hard to image how people can get trampled to death. In between the train arrivals, though, there's a relative calmness. Besides Adrian and me, there are 4 other volunteers. These other volunteers, all female, live in an apartment out in the suburbs where the English and math classes are taught. And all of them teach these classes. Most, but not all, come to at least one of the train station projects some of the time. Adrian and I are the only ones who have signed up only solely for the train station projects. Feeding the kids is pretty easy and their fun to play with too. The wound care is relatively straight forward with only a couple of nasty infections here or there. After a few days you get to know the names of the kids that live at the train stations. They love it when you break out your camera and take their picture then show it to them. There are about 2 dozen kids all together and then a handful of mothers with children or babies that we feed. While we feed the kids, train loads of people go by, many of them staring with a "who the heck are you?" look on their faces. This is not a touristy area at all and I don't think many westerners come through here. While Hindi is the most wide spread language in India, the people of Kolkata and its state, West Bengal all speak Bengali. Most of the people I encounter here do not speak English, especially not the people that live on the streets. Many of the signs are written in 3 languages: Hindi, Bengali and English.
On my first day at the train station I was watching one of the kids draw on a piece of paper while through the fence three adults were wrestling a huge pig to the ground. This was occurring on an empty railroad track. They finally got the pig down and tied up and were dragging it off while it was squealing and screaming. I had planned on working with CRAWL for one month, but would leave them after one week. A few of the other volunteers would leave as well.
Kolkata
I grabbed my backpack and quickly made it through customs. Fortunately, there was a driver from the organization I would be working with waiting for me when I exited the airport. He led me out into the airport parking lot where we both got into a taxi. Ah, Kolkata. The pollution was thick and the air was hot. Most people in the U.S. know this Indian city by it's colonial name of Calcutta. After independence from the British, the name was changed to Kolkata, which more accurately reflects the name of one of the tribal villages that was in the area. Pretty much all of the signs in the city now say, "Kolkata" as do the post offices. Which is interesting, because I tried to have something mailed to me here in India and the U.S. Postal Service does not recognize Kolkata as a name, they only go by the Calcutta version.
After about 5 minutes of driving, my guy started yelling at the taxi driver and pointing at the meter. The taxi driver began yelling back and eventually we were pulled over on the roadside having a loud exchange in Bengali, the language of this part of India. All of this, of course, meant nothing to me since I don't speak Bengali. I did, however, think it might be a good idea to pull my bag out of the taxi in case the driver got pissed off enough to take off. And that's what he did. We then jumped into a second taxi and off we went.
My guy and the new taxi driver seemed to get along much better than the first guy. At one point my guy offered up a green and brown, chopped leafy substance to the driver, who took it and put it between his cheek and gum. It looked like reefer to me, but I would later find out it was "paan", an herbal type thing that people here use just like chewing tobacco.
On the drive from the airport, there were oxen, cattle, goats and chickens all mixed in with city buildings and shacks. Occasionally there was a stagnant pond full of lily pads that people were bathing in. There were also people bathing in the street, using public water troughs. Men and women, soaped up right there on the sidewalk. All this wedged between high rise buildings and bamboo huts.
The traffic was crazy. Trucks, motorcycles, old straining taxis and bicycle rickshaws all fighting for room on the road with no apparent rules whatsoever. It was amazing that I didn't see any accidents. Also, there was a non-stop din of car horns, constantly blaring away.
I couldn't help but notice how polluted Kolkata was, right from the start. There was garbage everywhere. And everywhere there was garbage, there was someone picking through the garbage looking for whatever they needed: food, materials, etc. Once in a while I would catch a glimpse of tropical vegetation such as palm trees, though those were few and far between. The concrete sidewalks were teeming with people.
Finally, we arrived at the guest house I would be staying at. It wasn't bad at all. I was just happy that I had my own room and a cold shower. I was told by the people at the front desk that there was a British guy staying in the room next to me. As it would turn out, Adrian was working with the same organization I was, but tomorrow, my first day, would be his last day. I met with him that evening and realized I had a ton of info I needed to get from him before he left. That night there would be a blackout. But no reason to panic, I would soon realize that these power outages were a daily occurrence. I made the best out of it and bought some candles.
After about 5 minutes of driving, my guy started yelling at the taxi driver and pointing at the meter. The taxi driver began yelling back and eventually we were pulled over on the roadside having a loud exchange in Bengali, the language of this part of India. All of this, of course, meant nothing to me since I don't speak Bengali. I did, however, think it might be a good idea to pull my bag out of the taxi in case the driver got pissed off enough to take off. And that's what he did. We then jumped into a second taxi and off we went.
My guy and the new taxi driver seemed to get along much better than the first guy. At one point my guy offered up a green and brown, chopped leafy substance to the driver, who took it and put it between his cheek and gum. It looked like reefer to me, but I would later find out it was "paan", an herbal type thing that people here use just like chewing tobacco.
On the drive from the airport, there were oxen, cattle, goats and chickens all mixed in with city buildings and shacks. Occasionally there was a stagnant pond full of lily pads that people were bathing in. There were also people bathing in the street, using public water troughs. Men and women, soaped up right there on the sidewalk. All this wedged between high rise buildings and bamboo huts.
The traffic was crazy. Trucks, motorcycles, old straining taxis and bicycle rickshaws all fighting for room on the road with no apparent rules whatsoever. It was amazing that I didn't see any accidents. Also, there was a non-stop din of car horns, constantly blaring away.
I couldn't help but notice how polluted Kolkata was, right from the start. There was garbage everywhere. And everywhere there was garbage, there was someone picking through the garbage looking for whatever they needed: food, materials, etc. Once in a while I would catch a glimpse of tropical vegetation such as palm trees, though those were few and far between. The concrete sidewalks were teeming with people.
Finally, we arrived at the guest house I would be staying at. It wasn't bad at all. I was just happy that I had my own room and a cold shower. I was told by the people at the front desk that there was a British guy staying in the room next to me. As it would turn out, Adrian was working with the same organization I was, but tomorrow, my first day, would be his last day. I met with him that evening and realized I had a ton of info I needed to get from him before he left. That night there would be a blackout. But no reason to panic, I would soon realize that these power outages were a daily occurrence. I made the best out of it and bought some candles.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
The Flight
On January 2, 2008, the adventure began. I flew out of JFK in New York on Royal Jordanian Airlines with layovers in Amman, Jordan and Dubai City in Dubai, United Arab Emirates. Then on Emirates Air into Kolkata (Culcatta). The flight over the Atlantic was long and choppy, especially when the sun began to rise in the east and the outside temperatures began to change. On most long distance international flights that I've been on, the airline will display a series of animated maps and graphics showing where the plane is, altitude, distance to destination. The Royal Jordanian flight had this as well, but interestingly also would show a animated graphic of a top down view of the plane with a big arrow indicating the direction of Mecca. Pretty cool. Especially when you are taxiing and the arrow is frequently changing directions. What can I say, it was a long flight, I had to keep myself entertained somehow.
I took off out of JFK at about 11:00pm, so the majority of the flight over the Atlantic was in the pitch dark. After most of the night had passed with choppy turbulence occurring on and off, we suddenly entered into some really bad turbulence. The kind that makes you snug your seatbelt all the way down, hold onto your seat and start bargaining with a higher being that you will gladly go to the great beyond after your furlough is over but that it would be an injustice to die before the vacation starts. As things started getting really bad, the movie that was showing was shut off and up came that animated graphic showing the direction to Mecca. This, of course, made me wonder if the pilots knew something and were trying to get us ready for the worse. One of the flight attendants quickly moved about the cabin putting down all of the window shades. This added to the feeling of panic, at least for me. I was already distraught on who I should be praying to, Jesus because I had just left my family after Christmas, Muhammed because I was flying on Royal Jordanian Airlines or Brahma since my final destination was India. The last thing I needed was to now worry about why the window shades needed to be down. I, of course, couldn't keep mine down and kept peeking out to see if engine three was on fire. After a while I finally realized that the flight attendant had lowered the shade because the sun was rising and he didn't want it to wake some of the passengers. Yes, there were people who slept right through all of this drama and I hated them for it. And, needless to say, once the sun had risen and the temperature had stabilized, the turbulence ended.
The plane route took us right to the eastern shores of the Mediterranean Sea and over Israel and Palistine. The terrain far below appeared to be rolling desert, scrub brush hills. When we landed in Amman, it was so far outside the city that I could not see any buildings, just desert and farmland. I landed in Dubai in the middle of the night. It was an endless grid of city lights, reminding me of Los Angeles.
Now when I checked my baggage at JFK, I was told that in Dubai I would have to retrieve my bags and recheck them in, then get my boarding pass. This, I was told was necessary because I was changing airlines and also because it would be longer than 24 hours since I checked them in and the airline wasn't suppose to have bags that long. I know, it makes absolutely no sense. I looked at my itinerary and realized that I would have no more than 2 hours to do this. It was going to be tight.
Something I would like to point out about security and customs at the airports now a days. I noticed that at JFK and at Dubai there are separate lines for security coming into the airport and for customs leaving the airport for first class passengers. Now, I understand that if you spend the money on a first class ticket, the airline (a private company) lets you get on and off their plane first, feeds you better food and seats you in comfier chairs. But security and customs, at least in the United States, is run by the Federal Government and are Law Enforcement departments of the Federal Government. At what point is it OK for the Federal Government to tailor to private company wishes and set up first class security lines. Keep in mind, with budget restraints in the federal law enforcement programs, there are only a limited number of agents working an airport and now some of them are put aside to benefit people who buy first class tickets. I must admit, I was pissed off when I saw this as were the rest of the tax paying peasants in line.
So when I landed in Dubai, I got into the line to go through customs to get my backpack so I could check it back in. While standing there, it occurred to me that I did not have a visa to enter the United Arab Emirates. How was I suppose to get through customs? I jumped out of line and went to the information desk. The woman told me that I could not get through customs without a visa and that I should go talk to the representative at Emirates Air to find out what I should do. I went to the Emirates Air desk and the guy looked at his watch and said I had two choices. One would be to just go to the gate and get my boarding pass and ask them to send an employee out to get my backpack. Or he would write me a note that should get me through customs to get my backpack. I asked him what the chances were that the airline would actually send someone to get my backpack and that they'd even be able to find it. He took out a pad and said, "I better write you that note."
As I stood back in the customs line at Dubai airport, which by the way, is a huge airport, I unfolded the note and took a look at it. It was hand written and said to let me through custom so I could recheck a bag. It was then signed by the guy and had a little red stamp on it that said, "Emirates Air". Then I noticed that it wasn't even an Emirates Air piece of paper, it was actually one of those advertising post-its with a pharmaceutical company's logo on it. Great, guess I'll be spending the night in a Dubai jail for trying to sneak into the country.
Much t my surprise, it worked. I don't know if it was the post-it or if you actually don't need a visa, but it worked and I was in! I went and waited by baggage claim. I had an hour until my flight left. It would be a half hour later and my bag would still not be out. I started to weigh my options, should I abandon my backpack in Dubai and head to the gate in hopes that it gets forwarded on to India tomorrow. Or should I miss my flight, get a hotel room in Dubai and take to the night like a wild Caracal Lynx. Just when I was contemplating staying the night, my backpack came rolling out and off I went. I had to actually leave the airport building, walk about 100 yards down the sidewalk and re-enter to check in. I had about 20 minutes to get to my gate, but took my time walking under the clear Dubai night.
Once back on the plane things were relatively uneventful for the rest of the flight. The last plane I was on had little television screen on the backs of the seats so individuals could watch whatever movies they wanted. There was also a channel that showed the view outside the plane from a camera mounted pointing forward and another one pointing down. It was really cool, especially during take off and landing. We landed in Kolkata and you could see the thick layer of pollution as we descended through it. I stole the pillow I had been using on the plane so I'd have something to sleep on while in India.
I took off out of JFK at about 11:00pm, so the majority of the flight over the Atlantic was in the pitch dark. After most of the night had passed with choppy turbulence occurring on and off, we suddenly entered into some really bad turbulence. The kind that makes you snug your seatbelt all the way down, hold onto your seat and start bargaining with a higher being that you will gladly go to the great beyond after your furlough is over but that it would be an injustice to die before the vacation starts. As things started getting really bad, the movie that was showing was shut off and up came that animated graphic showing the direction to Mecca. This, of course, made me wonder if the pilots knew something and were trying to get us ready for the worse. One of the flight attendants quickly moved about the cabin putting down all of the window shades. This added to the feeling of panic, at least for me. I was already distraught on who I should be praying to, Jesus because I had just left my family after Christmas, Muhammed because I was flying on Royal Jordanian Airlines or Brahma since my final destination was India. The last thing I needed was to now worry about why the window shades needed to be down. I, of course, couldn't keep mine down and kept peeking out to see if engine three was on fire. After a while I finally realized that the flight attendant had lowered the shade because the sun was rising and he didn't want it to wake some of the passengers. Yes, there were people who slept right through all of this drama and I hated them for it. And, needless to say, once the sun had risen and the temperature had stabilized, the turbulence ended.
The plane route took us right to the eastern shores of the Mediterranean Sea and over Israel and Palistine. The terrain far below appeared to be rolling desert, scrub brush hills. When we landed in Amman, it was so far outside the city that I could not see any buildings, just desert and farmland. I landed in Dubai in the middle of the night. It was an endless grid of city lights, reminding me of Los Angeles.
Now when I checked my baggage at JFK, I was told that in Dubai I would have to retrieve my bags and recheck them in, then get my boarding pass. This, I was told was necessary because I was changing airlines and also because it would be longer than 24 hours since I checked them in and the airline wasn't suppose to have bags that long. I know, it makes absolutely no sense. I looked at my itinerary and realized that I would have no more than 2 hours to do this. It was going to be tight.
Something I would like to point out about security and customs at the airports now a days. I noticed that at JFK and at Dubai there are separate lines for security coming into the airport and for customs leaving the airport for first class passengers. Now, I understand that if you spend the money on a first class ticket, the airline (a private company) lets you get on and off their plane first, feeds you better food and seats you in comfier chairs. But security and customs, at least in the United States, is run by the Federal Government and are Law Enforcement departments of the Federal Government. At what point is it OK for the Federal Government to tailor to private company wishes and set up first class security lines. Keep in mind, with budget restraints in the federal law enforcement programs, there are only a limited number of agents working an airport and now some of them are put aside to benefit people who buy first class tickets. I must admit, I was pissed off when I saw this as were the rest of the tax paying peasants in line.
So when I landed in Dubai, I got into the line to go through customs to get my backpack so I could check it back in. While standing there, it occurred to me that I did not have a visa to enter the United Arab Emirates. How was I suppose to get through customs? I jumped out of line and went to the information desk. The woman told me that I could not get through customs without a visa and that I should go talk to the representative at Emirates Air to find out what I should do. I went to the Emirates Air desk and the guy looked at his watch and said I had two choices. One would be to just go to the gate and get my boarding pass and ask them to send an employee out to get my backpack. Or he would write me a note that should get me through customs to get my backpack. I asked him what the chances were that the airline would actually send someone to get my backpack and that they'd even be able to find it. He took out a pad and said, "I better write you that note."
As I stood back in the customs line at Dubai airport, which by the way, is a huge airport, I unfolded the note and took a look at it. It was hand written and said to let me through custom so I could recheck a bag. It was then signed by the guy and had a little red stamp on it that said, "Emirates Air". Then I noticed that it wasn't even an Emirates Air piece of paper, it was actually one of those advertising post-its with a pharmaceutical company's logo on it. Great, guess I'll be spending the night in a Dubai jail for trying to sneak into the country.
Much t my surprise, it worked. I don't know if it was the post-it or if you actually don't need a visa, but it worked and I was in! I went and waited by baggage claim. I had an hour until my flight left. It would be a half hour later and my bag would still not be out. I started to weigh my options, should I abandon my backpack in Dubai and head to the gate in hopes that it gets forwarded on to India tomorrow. Or should I miss my flight, get a hotel room in Dubai and take to the night like a wild Caracal Lynx. Just when I was contemplating staying the night, my backpack came rolling out and off I went. I had to actually leave the airport building, walk about 100 yards down the sidewalk and re-enter to check in. I had about 20 minutes to get to my gate, but took my time walking under the clear Dubai night.
Once back on the plane things were relatively uneventful for the rest of the flight. The last plane I was on had little television screen on the backs of the seats so individuals could watch whatever movies they wanted. There was also a channel that showed the view outside the plane from a camera mounted pointing forward and another one pointing down. It was really cool, especially during take off and landing. We landed in Kolkata and you could see the thick layer of pollution as we descended through it. I stole the pillow I had been using on the plane so I'd have something to sleep on while in India.
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