Hello world, its been far too long since our last blog. Happy to report that we are all still alive and kicking. This addition to the blog is being typed up by yours truly Nichlas Stephens. When you last left the group we were in the high mountain village of Darjeeling, known for its quality teas and fresh air, things have taken a drastic turn as we descended that towards the train station to Calcutta. First of all, there was a strike the day we left for the train so we had trouble finding a driver. Our driver ended up being of the same union but was willing to compromise for us. WE made a decline into the plains after 5 hours of bumpy jeep riding. In the distance, we grew nearer and nearer to a mysterious golden triangle which ended up being a Hindu temple in the jungle. Entering our first village of the plains we emerged back into the long lost humidity we thought we’d left behind in Delhi. I’d been a long week and a half since our bodies were coated in perspiration. The driver in our vehicle playing us a dis contorted Hindi version of hotel California over and over, which felt fitting as the town seemed like a continuous loop of buildings to the sides, palm trees and strike check point of crazy men who surrounded our jeeps as we roared passed.
Arriving in the train station Parking lot, our jeep was blasting Akron which our driver played after hearing we were mainly all from America. BAD IDEA. Our car was surrounded with beggars, to the extreme extent that we hadn’t quite seen yet. After altitude sickness and taking care of own bodies, it was hard to see the little girls carrying slings of their younger brother, (or what rather looked more like an alien) not supporting their neck, and just holding it in front of you like you had some part in creating it’s god awful situation. As well as the mother standing aside while her naked children ran to us from the garbage piles, scouring for food and then holding their hands out for money. I gave them all the bananas in my bag. The sudden guilt, I know many of us didn’t believe we’d ever have the desire to eat again. The heat and the shame, inescapable as we tred towards the station with our bags weighing us down. Having another 2-3 hours until leaving for Calcutta we tried to find refuge in a secret location, only to be found again by the children, dancing for our amusement and requesting to play Dylan’s drum. Trying to offer them something more or less than what we need, we let them share their smiles and well rehearsed dance moves with us for a short while before being scurried off to another location to weight for the train. One has to wonder if they had been taught those moves to make a quick rupee or if it was in their soulful blood to dance to the rhythm of the drum.
In despair we sit an mope in the station, having been drained of all the humility left in our hearts we cling desperately to walls and our bags trying to process the scene. The smell of garbage fills the air and we once again find ourselves surrounded by begging children. Dylan suggests we play them music which turns into a purging of emotion and energy. Loud strumming breaks three of my guitar strings as we meet eye to eye with every walk of life. The music rages out of Dylan and I and as if sounding like being caught in a hurricane dylan wails don’t stop. His beats, my melodies, the rest of our group sitting by givi9ng what they can, if they can. It felt good to have something to give. Like closed buds of Venus fly traps opening to digest flies.
Aboard the train we think we are home free from anybody expecting anything from us. But children with brooms sweep at our feet asking for our water and food. Sitting next to an Indian man i ask him if his father is nearby, making him pester us, and he smiles and nods to me as if i am catching on. Our train cars fastened with minimum beds hanging from the walls, and my seat having a window. When the train got going I sat silent with the breeze. Trying not to feel selfish for not wanting to share my bed, after learning to either close myself off of open myself up to the world of poverty. I fall asleep to the peace of my favorite music. Not being one of the unfortunate ones to be waken up in the middle of the night, having my ass pinched by the transvestite trying to collect money from us. Eli explains how furiously told the beggar to leave having had enough of being bothered and woken up in such miserable circumstances. Dylan on the other had sleeping through the ass pinching never got to experience the inconvenience of what the transvestite had to offer. Apparently a Hindu family earlier in the ride gave rupees to him had claimed transvestites being an incarnation of Krishna or Vishnu, which is unsurpassably weird, considering Indian’s disposition with homosexuality. We all wake up early right as we arrive at our destination. Calcutta, we get off the train to view the grey skies, much different than those beautiful clouds we left behind in Darjeeling. Or those snow caps of the Himalayas. We were now choked with the hot exhaust of the city as we took curious taxis to our hotel. After much confusion we all arrived, walked down the alley way past the dead body, improvised brick urinal, and the dark room where people were bathing, into our dear hotel paramount. Getting situated into our rooms we all decided to lay down having not gotten much sleep on the train. The restlessness kicked in pretty soon, and we all went out in search of a restaurant to catch up on our diets of three meals a day. Luckily we found a place with air conditioning and sat sipping mango lassies and eating thalis. Back at the hotel we prepared for the day ahead getting oriented at the mother Teresa orientation. Many of us slept, some explored more, others retreated to the comforts of solitude of friends. I can’t say this for everybody but i was beginning to feeling a closer kinship with our group than I have felt with anybody, all these experiences all this endurance. The next day came and we walked down the streets, passed the communist rally and the decaying fruit stands, coconut shells filling the streets. We wander what feels like aimlessly, until we find the mother Teresa house.
People there of all cultures, there with the intention to make a difference in the suffering of this city of 14 million, the poorest people in the world. We split up into groups of languages, Andi having an opportunity to reconnect with her roots by speaking Spanish with some Spaniards, and I connecting with a girl from Rome. Our group came together to discuss the reality that many beggars are well taken care of but continue begging as a lifestyle because they are making so much money from the tourists sympathy, we learn about the different mother Teresa centers to volunteer at and decided that day where we’d be spending the next week.
That night we went out to treat ourselves to a movie. Many went and caught a glimpse of Indian culture on the big screen, some others went back to the hotel while I wandered down streets aimlessly trying to get a feel for my surroundings. “Hashish” old men with wrinkly skin would come up and murmur at me, I’d wave them off and continue down the road, into a market, only to be pestered by everyone I’d seen to buy everything i saw. Desperate to talk to somebody who wasn’t trying to sell me something, i run into two middle aged women. I should have known not to get mixed up with them with they were the fist women I’d met to shake my hand and clutch my arm after agreeing to have chai with them. Sitting on a muddy stoop, the woman’s sick child’s foot touching my leg, I try to have a normal conversation. Getting interrupted every now and then to be asked for rupees, my sympathy gets the best of me and I offer over 500 rupees, so that these woman could supposedly buy plastic to stay dry when it rained. There is no doubt that these woman are poor, but it wasn’t for a few days that i realized that this would never change these woman’s lives.
They would always be begging, so the next day i agreed to meet them for a walk to the park so that they
could share with me their story. Back at the hotel i had a hard time communicating my experience. Everybody was thoroughly wiped out and we all rested the best we could preparing for our last day before mother Teressa. After breakfast i met back with the woman and they took me to the “science city” I have to admit even though i was paying for everything, it was nice not have to arguing the taxi driver into a cheaper price, on account of my Indian friends. After the day at the amusement park it was hard to feel our experience was worthwhile as they begged me from the next seat over in the cab for food for their babies, this is when i learned to ignore beggars. After getting left off I only felt let down. I walked to the new hotel we had moved to and the group recounted their experience dealing with the beggars. Nobody was having an easy go at the city and we all had intense things to say about Calcutta.
In the morning we woke up at a grueling 7 o clock to make out way to group breakfast with the other volunteers. Bananas, white bread, and chants to Jesus, prepared us for our day of charity work. The guys all boarded the bus on our way to Nabu Jabon, the center for all male patients with mental and physical disabilities. The smog thickened as we moved further away from the dark brown river and the tourists far from few. The first bus station/half flea market we stood awaiting our next chariot, with only the knowledge of a few numbers to our heads. We finally catch the right bus and stare out the windows at the flooded streets. Arriving at Nabu Jabon, we are greeted by a toothless gentle man with a pirates swagger. His laugh resembling a shrill squeal as we namaste everyone trying to figure out who is sane. Setting down our bags and getting down to business half of us clip the fingernails of the decrypted and the other half stomp on soapy peed on boys shorts, rinsing, wringing, and hanging up to dry a top the roof of the facility. Going down to meet our new friends we shake hands with all the the children. Many having sobered on hands and eyes that cannot stay focused on anything. We slowly begin to realize that many of these children aren’t too disabled but in fact “run the show”, they show us who is needing bibs at lunch and needs their wheel chair pushed, in between clapping our rhythms that is our only form of communication with these kids. Percussion speaks louder than words, well unless the children release one of their famous shrill screams. This work is hard gratifying, and afterwords its nice to return home to our hotel after the rush hour bus has us standing for 2 hours, sweating and cursing the fact that all we have to look forward to is coming back the next day and the next. Luckily we the work gets slowly more rewarding as we connect with these children, after the 4th day it’s starting to feeling like home.
