The Sunderbans

The brochure for the Sunderbans reads like an advertisement for a theme park, bone-chilling, do so at your own risk etc.
After reading The Hungry Tide, I knew if I traveled anywhere in India, it would be the Sunderbans, the most dangerous place in the world.
The Sunderbans is located just south of Calcutta and consists of the world’s largest mangrove forest. The many rivers and rivulets in this area come from the Hoogly better known as the Ganga River. Saltwater from the Bay of Bengal mixes with the fresh water of the rivers during the high tides providing habitats for many marine animals such as crocodiles, dolphins, otters, monitor lizards, and sharks. In the forest there are monkeys, many birds, spotted deer, wild boars, and of course, the Bengal tiger.
Had Elizabeth Tester from Western North Carolina not come to India prior to the NC delegation, I probably would not be writing this story. A simple conversation over lunch about why I hadn’t done any traveling in India raised the question “if you did want to go somewhere, where would it be?”
Without hesitation, I said, “The Sunderbans.”
Elizabeth made all the arrangements and the last week in January found us headed to the Sunderbans for three days and two nights.
We had a two hour bus ride from Calcutta and then another two hours by boat to The Tiger Camp. Our group seemed friendly enough and came from all over the place, Sweden, Italy, India, America, and Holland. Most of them however came for just a day and a night.
Our hut was pleasant enough and we shared it with a young woman from Holland and an American male from Colorado. That was a bit strange, sharing a room with a total male stranger. Needless to say, I left my jamies in my bag and slept in my clothes. Is that un-American or what?
We were back on the water right after lunch with our eyes peeled for The Tiger. Actually we saw very little except some spotted deer and birds. Our one day trippers were not too happy about that and seemed to think the tiger camp staff could conjure up tigers at will. I think they got a refund.
I loved the quiet of the river and the possibility of seeing something from the observation decks. We did see some monkeys and some cool birds.
In the evening, before supper, we were entertained by tribal dancers.
The Sunderbans also has the largest delta in the world. It is full of rivers, rivulets, and creeks. These are tidal rivers and all who live in the Sunderbans know exactly when the tides are. Animals take advantage of the low tide to swim across the river to different areas of the forest, and fishermen know not to get caught away from home at low tide.
It was at low tide that we saw tiger tracks entering the river from one side and emerging on the other.
At one point on the river, the captain pulled us very close to the bank, shut the engine off and let us just look. A whole boat full of people, and not one sound for some twenty minutes. It was wonderful! But there was no tiger, at least not yet.
Even though we had been instructed not to all run to one side of the boat or the other, when the captain whispered “TIGER”, we did exactly that. We did it quietly though, so I guess it was okay, and we didn’t capsize the boat.
Seeing a tiger in the wild was truly amazing. The importance of camouflage became clear. The tiger was lying in an opening with the sun shining down on him, but he was still hard to see with his stripes looking like shadows and his fur blending in with the foliage. Through binoculars, he was clearly visible and oh, so majestic looking. After a short time, he got up and ambled back into the forest. Several people in our group had zoom lenses on their digital cameras and all promised to share the photos, which they did.
This is a tiger preserve, but to actually see a tiger is quite an event, very rare.
Many people visit the Sunderbans but few ever get to see the tiger.
We kept being told, “You are very lucky!” Indeed, I felt lucky.
The next morning we were back on the river early and again enjoyed breakfast on the boat. I think that was my favorite part, eating breakfast at sunrise on the river.
Could we see another tiger? That would have been really rare, so we were happy with our one sighting. We did see lots of spotted deer and some more monkeys, and some kingfishers. And then it was time to head back.
One afternoon, we visited a neighboring village which was well maintained. The houses, mud and some brick with straw and tile roofs were larger than most village houses I had seen. Many folks kept gardens. All had to fetch their water from a community well, but what was striking was this village got its electricity from solar panels. How strange to see solar panels on a straw roof and a TV dish nearby. I found myself wondering a lot how things like affordable solar panels and probably homemade can be done in rural villages in India but not in the US where we like to boast about how clever we are. We have a lot to learn from our brothers and sisters here.
So, that’s the story of the Sunderbans. I’m glad to have gone there.

Back in India

Greetings from Durgapur!
I left a very cold, snowy North Carolina on Jan. 4th.
I know this trip by heart and pretty much know what to expect at each airport as I make my way east, but the flight from Dubai to Kolkata was a bit more interesting and in some ways unnerving.
I was seated in seat D30 which is an aisle seat in the middle section of the cabin, not my favorite place to sit. Next to me was a young Indian man, a Muslim. Next to him was another Indian man, maybe a little older than the man next to me. These two men were friends but were obviously from different castes/classes. The younger man looked to be from the scheduled caste which is the caste that most of India’s poor belong to. I’m guessing this by his appearance, not his dress, but his features. The poor have definite facial features that those in the higher classes don’t have.
The young man, whom I will call Mr. Impatient, was, I think, a first time flyer. He couldn’t get the TV monitor to work and was busy pushing every key available, but to no avail. Actually, it wasn’t turned on yet, but he kept fiddling with it so I tried to help him. I usually have trouble with this stuff myself, but anyway, I gave it a try, and nothing. He couldn’t get situated in his seat, kept dropping things like the headset and rearranging his blanket. Finally he was settled for awhile, and I watched UP.
Breakfast was served at about 3:00 AM and this presented Mr. Impatient with some more things to fret about. First, the meal was not to his liking, he wanted a vegetarian meal, but the Flight Attendant had a little trouble communicating with him. She kept asking him if he wanted veg. Of course he had no idea what she was talking about. His friend helped him out here and the change was made. I was wishing I had ordered veg, because it looked quite nice. After the man in front of Mr. Impatient finished his breakfast, without thinking, tilted his seat all the way back. Mr. I’s containers started toppling over, and he began to bang on the back of the seat and yelling at the man to put his seat up. In his surprise, the man became flustered and couldn’t get his seat up. It took help from his neighbor and three of us behind to get the seat back up. Whew! By now, the folks sitting around us are tuned into Mr. Inpatient’s every move. All of us are wondering, “What’s next?”
Being a Muslim, Mr. I wanted to pray at the 5:00 prayer time, but his breakfast tray is still sitting there. He stands up and shouts “Hello, hello?” Everyone turns to him and stares. The flight attendant comes quickly. There is a lot of loud talking on the part of Mr. I., but the flight attendant is calm and tries to calm this man down explaining that the cart is on the way and to wait just a few more minutes. Nothing doing. He wants out of his seat now, so he plops his tray on top of mine pretty much forcing the flight attendant to take it away. I explain to him in body language that the cart is in the aisle and he can’t get by it so he must stay in his seat. Soon the cart passed our aisle and the two friends get up and head straight to the bathrooms, Mr. I on the left and his friend on the right. Now the bathroom on the left apparently is in a mess, so Mr. I heads straight through the cabin to the first class bathroom. At this point the two men sitting on the aisle seats in the row in front of us get up simultaneously and head after Mr. Impatient.
We’re all rubber-necking trying to see just where Mr. Impatient has gone. I’m guessing he was praying in the space between the cockpit and the first-class cabin. He was gone quite awhile, but his friend returned after using the bathroom.
While Mr. I was gone, the man in front of me called the flight attendant over and expressed his concern about this man. All the while the man was talking, the flight attendant was patting him on the shoulder, rubbing his arm, and generally trying to console him. “It’s okay.” The flight attendant asked me if the man had been abusive to me. Well, no. A bit of a nuisance, yes, but rude or abusive, no, but when he finally returned, I found myself watching him out of the corner of my eye, just in case…
It wasn’t until the plane touched down that I felt more at ease. I guess he was just a confused, first time flier. Alhamdulilah!
Things went smoothly through customs and my bags were there and in decent shape and Rev. Swagata Das was at the gate to greet me.
The ride back to Durgapur was fast with our driver doing all the typical things I have come to expect from Indian drivers: blowing the horn non-stop, tail-gaiting (really tailgating), passing recklessly, etc. We had a flat which the driver quickly changed, but the spare was warped or something so the ride became very rough. Did the driver slow down to compensate for this? Not on your life!
I was happy to see the children but sad to learn that some of the older girls had left the hostel. New children had taken their place, and so the work continues.
The sewing center is almost finished and is really nice. It will be dedicated when Bishop Taylor comes in February.
If you get too cold and are tired of shoveling snow, come on over. The weather here is very nice this time of year.
Blessings to all,
Lynn

The Visitor

Nature Event I
Yesterday I went to the little basti (slum) down the street from the diocesan compound to check on a sick baby. When I entered the basti, several children came running up to me telling me excitedly that a monkey was in the village. That excited me too, and I wanted to know where it was. It didn't take long to find out. As I was talking to the mom about the baby, the monkey appeared. He very casually planted himself at my feet and became very interested in what I had in my hand. This is not a small monkey. He looked up at me and said something, which I did not understand, but that is not unusual for me in India, revealing lots of very sharp little teeth. I told him he would not like what I had, so I eased around him, and the mom and I went into the little room and shut the door. After a few minutes I went out to make sure the stuff in my basket was still there, and the monkey was sitting on the ledge of the house next door. When the door opened, he hopped down from his perch and came into the room. Those of us in the room moved out the other door and watched to see what he would do. Well, he made himself quite at home. He went over to the cooking area of the house where a pot was still sitting on the "stove". Remember the food is cooked campfire style on the ground, so it is just the right height for this visitor to have a look-see. He lifted the lid off the pot and I tell him "No!" He replied with his little grunt and showed me his teeth. Well, maybe he won't eat too much.
The grandmother came into the room with a tin plate, scooped some rice from another pot onto the plate and set the plate in front of the monkey. Lunch was served.
The monkey ate from the plate for a few minutes and then grabbed a handful of rice, went to the door and propped his legs up on the door frame and continued to eat.
He left this little hut and went to visit some other folks. When I was leaving, lots of people were gathered at the entrance to the basti. The monkey had decided to rest a spell on the porch of what used to be the school room before the eviction notice arrived. A man was also resting there, but that didn't bother the monkey, and it didn't seem to bother the man. I was watching from the walkway and chatting with folks when the monkey decided to come and check out my bicycle. He acted like he wanted to climb up on it, but he was content to fool around with the wheels and the pedals. I cautiously made my way to the front of the bike still holding onto it while he made his way around the back and to the spot where I had been. Then he was finished. He left the basti and headed toward the little tea stall down the road.
Of course my camera was back at my house. Twice now I've missed great pictures of monkeys because I haven't wanted to lug my camera around. This event was just too cool and even without the pictures, I am not likely to forget it.

Event II
Last year when I was living in one of the guestrooms at the compound, a wasp decided to make her home under my plastic dining table. She always came at breakfast and lunch; I guess she liked to keep me company while I was eating. She was never agressive so I let her come and go.
This year, a different kind of wasp has taken a liking to my little wooden table in my kitchen where I eat. This wasp, and maybe it's not even a wasp but something else in that family, is huge. I mean really big. The first time it flew by me, I felt a big gust of wind on my face. I have some fake flowers in a vase on my table and she seemed very curious about those flowers. I told her they were fake and that there were some real ones in the living room, but she didn't bother to listen. Then she disappeared. I looked around but couldn't find her not even under the table. All of a sudden she was back and right in my face. But she wasn't interested in me and she didn't care that I was having to do some shifting to let her pass. She has been working several days now and the other day when she came in, she had a large green caterpillar suspended from her body. At first I thought it was her body, but I got a good close up look at it and it really was suspended from the wasp's body and was curling up and uncurling. She had to work a long time to get this thing stuffed into her house. She is still working coming regularly at breakfast and lunch. I don't plan to remove this home once she is finished. I have no idea how long it takes for the baby to go through all its stages and emerge from its home. Maybe I'll be back in the states by then. If not, I hope it's a friendly little wasp, like its mom.

There is a third nature event with a sad ending.
Last year, I made a box doll to use for teaching body parts. This doll has arms and legs of toilet paper rolls. I made some clothes for her so she is dressed decently.
I decided to use her this year to teach prepositions to one of the classes. We named her Behula and when I picked Behula up to put her on a chair, a tiny egg fell out of her body. I had to forget prepositions for a minute and scoop up the egg and show it around to a bunch of squeamish kids. Things calmed down and once again I began to move Behula to different places and once again, another little egg came tumbling out of her body. I then searched her hollow arms and legs to make sure there were no more eggs to go "splat" on the floor. These were lizard eggs, and a lizard lives in the computer lab which is also where Behula lives. I am sorry this mom decided Behula would make a good safe place for her eggs, but you can be sure, I will be very careful the next time Behula gets put to use.

simple pleasures

If you have ever spent time in a developing country, then you know about simple pleasures. I want to share some simple pleasures that I have observed here in Durgapur.
When the kids first moved into the hostel, I was especially concerned about the girls and their feminine needs, so I bought them each a package of sanitary napkins. You cannot imagine the excitement that simple gift caused. There were hugs and squeals of "Oh, thank you, Miss, thank you." When was the last time you gave thanks for a sanitary napkin?
Or when did you thank someone for giving you a dose of medicine that didn't taste especially nice? We've had some children suffering from coughs, fever, headache, the usual childhood ailments, but we have also had a couple of kids who really required medical attention. One little girl had a urinary tract infection, but we thought maybe it was typhoid fever from drinking some bad water. When her fever shot up to 105 we put her in the hospital, a good one. Every time I gave her medicine, before the hospital stay and after, and every time I took her temperature, she never failed to thank me. One of our older girls required surgery on her leg to remove a tumor which we treated as a carbuncle for over a month. This was a painful thing, and I had to apply hot compresses, cream, and a bandage twice a day. These moments were not pleasurable, but she never failed to thank me for inflicting this pain on her. I know these are not simple pleasures as such, but the act of caring for someone and about someone here is recognized, and the response is always "Thank you, Miss."
I am amazed at how the simplest thing excites these kids. They don't need thriller rides or game-boys to make them happy. A face cloth for mopping the sweat off your face, a packet of pocket tissue, a new needle for sewing are all received with exuberance.
On the 26th of March, Manju celebrated her birthday. If you live in the slums, most likely you don't even know when your birthday is or how old you are, but Manju knew.
I am not as adept as the Indians when it comes to putting together a party on short notice, but I made some barely edible sugar cookies and found a little gift from the things left behind by the NC delegation and we had a party for Manju. It was indeed a simple affair but greatly appreciated. There were no gift bags for those attending the party, no theme, no trip to the bowling alley, just two cookies apiece, the birthday song, and two simple gifts. It was joyous, and it was enough.
Now my birthday was a different matter. I was not even planning to tell anyone that it was my birthday. Last year, you may recall, I spent my birthday in the office of foreign affairs in Calcutta because of a lapsed visa. Anyway, after Manju's party, the girls started asking me when my birthday was and my response of "I don't know" was getting me nowhere, so I told them. They immediately began planning something, and it wasn't long before everyone here at the compound knew about my birthday.
On Saturday, my doorbell rang early, but I couldn't answer the door right away, and when I did, I found the children all sitting on the floor facing my door with smiles on their faces and they began singing happy birthday to me- simple pleasures,
It was visiting day at the hostel, and the moms of the kids kept coming into the computer lab to wish me a happy birthday. Then when they all left I noticed a small crowd of people beginning to gather, and the girls were running about collecting flowers. Hmmmmmm, this day is not going to pass so quietly after all.
On request, I headed up the stairs to the hostel, and in the big room there were balloons, a small table with a birthday cake on it with my name on the cake, all the children from the hostel, and my friends from the compound. Of course there were candles on the cake, which I had to blow out, and of course, these were those candles that never go out. Everyone enjoyed that part immensely. Then there was the cutting of the cake and the birthday song, and then a traditional little ritual I could have done without, someone stuffing your mouth with a piece of the cake, not just one, but several.
The children wanted me dressed in an outfit I had recently bought, kind of a wild Punjabi thing, but just right for a party, so I excused myself for a moment and changed into that outfit. When I returned to the party, there were cheers from the kids.
We set up the CD/cassette player and put on our one tape and danced. There were other things to eat as well, and it was fun. Simple by our standards, but enough.
The really fun part for me was watching the children get so excited about this party.
"Tis the gift to be simple."

Muleeta

I want to tell you a story about Muleeta.
When I was here last year, Muleeta won my heart. I'm not sure exactly why unless it was because she was so tiny and seemed so vulnerable. She lived in the village closest to the Diocesan Compound and her daughter, Manju attended the Child Study and Development Centre.
Muleeta was in her forties and for lack of a better word, Manju's stepmother. Muleeta was the first wife in the marriage, but since she couldn't have children, wife number two entered the scene. These two women became like sisters and while the second wife gave birth to two children, Muleeta was the one who took care of them, especially Manju.
When I arrived in Durgapur in January, Muleeta was noticeably absent. I asked Manju how her mother was and she told me "Not fine." She went on to tell me that Muleeta had been bowled over by a bull in the market, not Wall Street but Muchipara, and her knee cap had slipped out of place. The family took her to my favorite government run hospital where a doctor pushed the knee cap back into its place. Muleeta was in the hospital a long time but received no medical help and so the family moved her back to the village.
I went to the village to visit Muleeta and found her squatting on the ground, not able to walk at all. Since she was no longer able to get to the market to beg her bread, and wife number two spent her earnings as a construction worker on alcohol, there was nothing for them to eat. I was pretty upset by this so I went to the market and got them some food.
When the second delegation from NC came for their visit, I learned that a doctor was among the group. I asked him if he would check Muleeta out and see what, if anything, could be done to get her back on her feet. He agreed to do this and with a borrowed rickshaw van, Basu, a worker here, and I went to the village to get Muleeta. We loaded her up on the van and headed back to the centre. We located the school's stethoscope and blood pressure cuff and the doctor examined her. All the injuries seemed healed, but what she needed was some simple exercises to strengthen her legs and hopefully, that would get her back on her feet.
So I began going to the village a few mornings a week, and we did leg lifts and bends and with manju and I supporting Muleeta, we got her on her feet and started walking her around the small space in front of her house. I even found a chair back complete with the back legs which I thought might be a good walker. It really worked quite well and Muleeta was able to walk by herself with it.
Then the hostel opened and Manju left the village and moved into the hostel, leaving Muleeta pretty much at home alone. I continued going to the village and soon picked up another client, Khandi, a seventy something woman whom I had met last year. She was complaining about her back hurting and so I started giving her a back massage. Well, now I am a physical therapist and a massage therapist, and I have absolutely no idea what I am doing. But Muleeta is making progress, and she is excited about being able to walk even though it is with help, and she does seem to be getting stronger. Khandi enjoys her massage and even under my untrained hands, I can feel the tightness in her back ebbing somewhat.
To fully appreciate this story you have to know what these women look like. First of all they stand about 3' tall. They both have short, wild, gray hair, and they both wear the white sari of the widow. Sometime they wear the little sari blouse under the sari, but most of the time, they don't, or if they do, the blouse isn't buttoned so it doesn't really make a difference. Basically, they are exposed from the waist up although they attempt to stay covered with the end of the sari that goes over the shoulder. Half the time, Muleeta can't keep her sari tucked in very well so she is losing it a lot. These saris could stand a good washing, but I don't think they have anything else to wear. It would be comical if it weren't so sad.
One day when I arrive at the village, Khandi is there and begins to gather her styrofoam mat, some packing material she has scavenged, getting ready for her massage. Muleeta is not in her usual spot and I ask about her. Khandi tells me that Muleeta is not well and she is sleeping. After the massage and some simple exercises, I check on Muleeta. She is being plagued by a stomach thing and hasn't eaten or drunk anything for awhile.
I go back to the centre and pick up some safe water, a banana, make some toast, grab some hand sanitizer and head back to the village. Manju is with me and we get her to drink some of the water. We leave her resting.
The next morning, Manju and I take her another banana and some rehydration salts. She actually eats the banana and drinks some of the salts and I am feeling encouraged. Later in the morning, Manju's bio mom comes to the centre where she has been working on the cathedral, but instead of working she squats down at the sand pile and begins crying. Basu comes to get me and tells me that Muleeta isn't drinking anything and she isn't talking.
I head back to the village and find Muleeta very weak and cold to the touch. When I get back to the centre, I have Mrs. Kobiraj call some doctors she knows, but they are all out of station. Getting her to the hospital isn't out of the question, but there is no one to stay with her. I offer my mornings, but the villagers decide to call a doctor from a town which is a considerable distance from Durgapur, and he won't come until the evening.
At 2:30, Mrs. Kobiraj and I go back to the village and Muleeta is not good at all. She is thrashing about and grabbing at anything close to her, and she is very cold to the touch. I should recognize these signs by now, but I bury the recognition in the hope that she will get better. We go back to the centre and a very short time later, maybe thirty minutes, Manju's mom comes to the centre to tell us that Muleeta has died. Just like that. Gone.
Back we go. Manju and I go into the little hut where Muleeta is lying on her thin mat on the hard ground. I lift the cover from her face and I'm amazed at how different she looks in death, more like the forty years she was than the sixties look she carried through life. All the pain and anxiety has melted from her face, and she truly does look peaceful.
The little group of villagers gathered around the hut start giving orders about the things that need to be done. First, the body must be removed from the house. The only space to put her is filled with kindling, so we begin moving it to another
spot. The villagers are only too happy to direct this process but not willing to participate in it. Then Manju, her mom, and I lift Muleeta from her bed and carry her to her resting place. Moving her is awkward because the hut is dark and the ceiling is so low even I cannot stand up straight, but we get her moved.
Manju hands me the incense sticks and the little incense holder. She lights the sticks and puts them in the holder. Then I place the holder close to Muleeta's head on what I hope is a level enough spot to keep the holder from toppling over.
We keep a short vigil and then leave. Already there are men there collecting information and the papers needed to get Muleeta buried.
I miss Muleeta. I feel so helpless here in this place where Death just hangs out waiting for someone to become weak so he can make his move.
The days of mourning are over, Manju is back at the hostel, and life in the village has returned to its definition of normalcy. I still go and massage Khandi's back and lead her through some simple exercises, but I am very much aware of Muleeta's presence in that little space in front of her hut where she spent so many hours just squatting.
The picture is of Manju.

India, round 2

Nomashkar,
I have been back here in Durgapur for over a month now, and it has been busy, busy, busy..
Leaving Charlotte on Jan.3rd, I was in the majority of travelers mostly all westerners headed for the UK. In Gatwick, I switched to Emirates Airlines and immediately became a part of the minority. That's quite humbling to be knocked off your western pedestal, but I loved being with the Arabs and as we made our way east, the population changed again, and I was mostly with Indians.
Fr. Halder met me in Kolkata and we headed to Durgapur. I had been here maybe an hour when several children from the different villages arrived to present me with a garland of marigolds and a bouquet of flowers and lots of hugs.
My flat is very comfortable. The plumbing in the bathroom has been fixed and the geyser or maybe geezer (hot water heater) works most of the time. The pipe in the kitchen still leaks, but the floor is just concrete and there is a drain hole so I don't worry about it too much.
I've ridden my bike to the market and to the hospital to visit Mrs. Kobiraj's son who was quite ill. I was excited that I remembered how to ride in traffic yielding to every other moving thing along the lane.
Mrs. K's son was in the government run hospital. You may remember my experience in that place. Nothing has changed. The hospital has no medicine to speak of, so if you need more than an IV of saline solution, you're in big trouble. Munti, the son, was suffering from jaundice probably caused by alcohol abuse. When I first visited him, he was going through withdrawal, not pretty. The doctor recommended shifting him to the private hospital just down the road. I was there when this happened, and those of us who were visiting, including Mrs. Kobiraj trekked down to this hospital, which is quite new. What a difference!
This place actually looks like a hospital. It's clean, polished, and lots of friendly and competent looking people running around doing their work.
Munti received very good care there. He was in an IC unit complete with a monitor keeping track of all his vital signs. He began to improve rapidly and was soon moved to a private room with a TV.
One morning when I was visiting, Munti was surfing through the channels (a universal syndrome) when I caught a glimpse of UNC playing Clemson. "WAIT" I whispered loudly. "Go back to that channel." Sure enough, it was ESPN and I was watching the game live at 9:30 in the morning of the next day. Mmmm, maybe this could be a new mission, introducing NCAA basketball to India.
I'm sure you're curious about My Dog. Well, she remembered me and makes frequent trips to my flat to get her supper. She waits patiently at the door and so far we have managed to keep this little secret quiet. She is the mother of seven puppies. She gave birth in a very protected spot, the space under the driveway but above the drainage ditch. It's like a cave. The puppies have yet to make their debut to the greater world, eventhough they are big enough now to be out and about. Guess she remembers losing her whole litter last year to cars and bigger creatures.
I spent all of January working on a grant from the Episcopal Church's United Thank Offering. We want to construct a sewing center on top of an existing building. The women are already coming to the center for classes two days a week. When they saw the girls from their villages who attend our project learning how to sew, they came and asked for training as well. If we get the grant, we will be able to have a nice space for instruction along with tables for cutting fabric, and several sewing machines. We hope this center will be a production facility as well allowing the women to contract their work in addition to making things to sell at church gift shops in the US and the UK. Keep your fingers crossed.
The hostel is finished, the beds are made, the curtains are hung, the forms have been filled out, the warden has arrived, and the cook, although temporary, has also arrived. The whole space has been blessed, and the kids have moved in.
Thank you Diocese of Western North Carolina. This is the hostel that you built.
Of course, my quiet little sanctuary will be no more, but that's okay. I'm excited!
Now, I want you to imagine what moving into the hostel might feel like to these kids.
They have been sleeping on the ground, or if they have had a bed, it was shared by however many bodies could crawl into it. They've had no sanitation, unsafe water, meager meals, lots of mosquitos and no guarantee of being safe, warm, or dry.
All that has changed, except for the mosquitos, but now they have nets.
They came to the center on moving day with their bags, boxes, and some even had little suitcases complete with a lock and key. They know a little bit about security, or rather the lack of it. Some of the moms left teary-eyed, but for the most part, handing over their children into our care went very smoothly.
It was quite something to watch them unpack their things and organize their space. They smiled the whole time. Even attaching the mosquito nets was fun.
On Friday morning, my doorbell was ringing at 6:30AM. UH OH, not good. After dressing, I entered the big room where they were all having breakfast and demanded, in a somewhat growly voice, to know who had rung my bell.
Lots of laughing and giggling, finger pointing and cries of "Not me" (there's one in every family) ensued.
Soon they were off to school, different groups at different times.
It's been challenging to keep the water tank full. Taking showers is a relatively new thing and they, especially the teenage girls, are taking full advantage leaving the rest of us high and dry. Time to introduce the 3 minute shower.
When the kids are not in school, they are studying. Did you get that? They study all the time. Lights out is at 10:00PM but by 9:00 they are begging to go to bed.
One of the members of the 2nd North Carolina delegation visiting Durgapur is a doctor, and he graciously examined, not just the hostel kids, but all the children who attend our project. It was an all day event.
On Sunday, we watched the Jungle Book in Hindi in our nice big room. Twenty-two children ranging in age from 5 to 14 sat on the floor mat and actually watched this DVD. There was no fighting, pushing, shoving, whining, or any of those things we are familiar with when the family gathers to watch something on TV.
So, my mission this time around is quite different, but I'm much more experienced in this area; I'm a mom!

blogging off

Well, I am back in Blowing Rock and trying to adjust to this culture, although I don't plan to get too comfortable. I will be heading back to Durgapur in January for another 6 months.
Knowing that I would be going back made leaving a little bit easier.
I am already missing the children, the projects the diocese is involved in,my teacher friends, and the folks at St. Michael's Church.
When I go back, I don't think I will keep a journal in the blog format. I realize that responding to a blog requires a registration which most of you did not want to do. I understand that completely. With that in mind, I think I will write articles for the Highland Episcopalian for those of you in the Diocese of WNC and The Franciscan Times for those of you in TSSF. For those of you who want to hear from me via e-mail, I will need to hear from you and will put you on a new e-mail list.
If I don't hear from you, I will assume you don't want to be on my list and I will drop you.
I will be changing my e-mail address before I return to India to get rid of the hundreds of spam messages about viagra of all things. Never respond to any message that says Congratulations, you have won a laptop!
I really appreciate those of you who took the time to respond to the blog either on the site itself or through e-mail. Your comments and your own news helped me stay connected. Thanks!
Nomashkar,
Lynn

My Dog pics

The Conductor and My Dog

"Chalo, Go!" the young man shouts banging his hand against the side of the bus. The bus moves away from the stop, and the conductor pulls himself into the bus closing the door behind him. In between stops, he skinnies his way through the sardine packed bus flipping through the wad of rupees with his thumb like a deck of cards letting you know he wants the fare. He puts most of the money in a leather bag he wears over his shoulder and should you need change, you will get it. He always knows who and how much.
Soon he's back at his post announcing the next stop. Some folks are trying to get off at the stop, pretty challenging since everyone's body has become entangled with someone else's, and to create as much havoc as possible, folks are scrambling to get on the bus. The conductor is a master at mob control and soon, believe it or not, people who want off, are off and people who want on, are on. If the stop is an actual stop which lasts a minute or two, the conductor is off the bus hawking the destination, "Durgapur, Durgapur!" so fast that to a foreigner's ears it's indistinguishable.
The conductor can pack a bus. He has his orders to transport a certain number of people during the day, and if he wants to keep his job, he will meet the demand, forgetting all safety precautions. So with people back to back and belly to belly and who knows what else, the conductor urges more people on. "Chalo, Go!" BANG! and we're off.
Standing on the bottom step leaning out into the traffic with his body against the open door of the bus, the conductor shouts directions to drivers of other vehicles, not just cars, but cycles and rickshaws, and using his free hand tells drivers to move over or to come on by.
The driver of the bus is totally dependent on the the conductor. For one thing, he cannot see who's getting on or off. He's in a spot pretty much by himself, separated from the rest of us by a metal divider which is right behind his back. He cannot be watching for passengers and he certainly isn't taking the fare or even directing the traffic, so the conductor's position is prime.
Since the buses are on a schedule, they waste no time at stops, especially in Calcutta. The conductor wants you off quickly and on quickly. He does help the elderly (not me) and mothers with young children lifting the children onto the bus or off the bus, but the rest of us have to have a bit of leapping ability to get a foot on the bottom step, and this step is way up off the ground, and grab the railing as the bus is already moving out.
When I am able to actually see this guy in action, that is when I am not flattened against the throng of people standing on the bus, I love watching him go through his routine.
Agile, athletic, and alert, the conductor keeps India on the go.

My Dog
I've already introduced you to My Dog, but now I want to tell you more about her.
She's still on the skinny side, but not like she was in the beginning when I first met her.
She still doesn't have much hair, and she is still scratching but less feverishly. There are not as many open, raw patches on her as before.
In spite of all this, she's got a spirit about her that's endearing, not a lot unlike the people who live in the slums. They are survivors, at least for the moment, and they are spirited ones.
I think My Dog is clever, smart, and loyal. She can also be stubborn or maybe it's just a language barrier.
To illustrate: One evening I was riding my bike back to my flat from the Center when My Dog decided to follow me. I shooed her back and thought I had succeeded, but when I came to the intersection I have to cross, there was quite a lot of traffic, all kinds of wheeled things with no lights, so I had to stop and wait. When I stopped, My Dog pulled up beside me, sat down and waited with me. What to do? I'm too tired to turn around and take her back, and besides, it is dark. I do nothing. When the road is clear, I take off on my bike with My Dog running along beside me, but not too close so I don't have to worry about hitting her.
As we approach my block, the dogs who hang out at the chemist shop spotted her and came charging after her barking and snarling as they are prone to do. I didn't stop, but I did slow down to listen for the usual yelping and squealing that accompanies a dog attack. There was none. Okay good. Now maybe she's learned a lesson and will not try to follow me again.
The next day I couldn't find My Dog. I asked everyone if they had seen her and no one had. I began to feel very guilty about not returning her to the Center or checking to make sure she had escaped the ferociously territorial dogs in my block.
I started cruising up and down the lanes in between my flat and the Center looking for her body, but I found nothing.
Then on the third day, there she was in her usual spot. "Where have you been?" I asked. A young seminarian doing a short internship at the Center told me he had spotted her on the roof, which is where a lot of the dogs like to sleep.
Soon she started trying to follow me again, and I asked the guard to please keep her behind the gate and not let her out. This lasted only a short time, however, and one evening she managed to slip past the guard and took up her post alongside my bike.
When we got to the chemist canines, nothing happened. I rode right past them and My Dog stayed right with me. We got to my gate and My Dog wanted in, of course. While I was wrestling my bike through the gate, she slipped in. Oh well. My landlord was out doing his nightly laps so there was no way to sneak her in. I parked my bike and began the task of coaxing her back out the gate. The landlord helped a bit knowing Bengali dog talk. On the other side of the gate, she lingered awhile and then left.
This became a routine, and I must admit it was kind of fun having My Dog trotting along beside me, especially one night when it was very late.
Another evening, Mrs. K. and I were walking together toward our homes and My Dog was along as well. When we reached the chemist, two of the canines came tearing across the street in their usual obnoxious, teeth baring way. Mrs. K. and I stopped to see what would happen. Well, My Dog held her ground. She hissed a couple of words at them, her nose twitching and her mouth moving up and down, and those two fat and sassy dogs slinked back across the street without another word.
Mrs. K. and I looked at each other in wonder. When My Dog joined us, we asked her, "What in the world did you say to them?" I'd like to have those words tucked away for emergencies. We got to my flat, and Mrs. K. went on her way and My Dog slipped in through the gate as usual. I got her out, closed the latch, and proceeded to the doors which provide me access to the stairs. I hoisted my bike up the steps to the landing and headed up to my flat. About half way up, I heard something behind me. When I turned to see who or what it was, yes, you guessed it, My Dog! Someone must have come in or left and My Dog seized the opportunity. She knew exactly where the doors were and she boldly came through them and began the climb up. What now? I had my arms full as usual so I went on up to my flat. My Dog followed me in like she owned the place, took a self-guided tour and sat down in my dining area. She wasn't loud, no barking or running. For one brief moment, I was tempted to keep her overnight. Bad idea since we get locked in for the night and there would be no way to get her out should the need arise. Besides, I like my landlord and wouldn't want him to think Americans were a sneaky lot. "Okay, My Dog, let's go." Back down the stairs we went. My landlord, again lapping, just laughed when he saw her.
One morning as I was leaving to go to the Center, My Dog came bounding out of the bushes next door. Together we went to school.
Now that I am spending more time at the Center since I am shifting my stuff here for the last month and a half of my stay, My Dog is a constant companion. If I am painting in a classroom, she is there. If I am working at the computer, she is there. I have even let her in my little one room flat here at the Center. One day when I let her in and then wanted her out, she wouldn't go. Round and round we went My Dog dodging me every which way. Finally I got one of the men to help me. "Heh, Heh" he said, and My Dog got up and left. I've been working on my "Heh, hehs" and sometimes My Dog understands.
It is certain My Dog will never win any beauty pageants, but it is also certain that she's won my heart.

Summer Camp 2008

Summer Camp 2008 is over, and guess what? I survived!
On Friday evening, May 16th, about 170 children, ages 4-17, from all four project descended on St. Michael's School, the venue for the camp.
The came running, jumping, squealing, and laughing ready to celebrate being out of their villages for a couple of days.
The introduction session began simply enough with Presbyter Amiya Das leading the singing. Now Amiya knows how to work a crowd, especially a young one, so it wasn't long before all the kids and lots of us older folks were in full swing singing who knows what in Bengali and Hindi complete with motions.
Then a ferocious storm blew in, unusual for May, giving Day 1 a new twist. There was heavy rain, high winds, thunder and lightning; trees were toppled and blocked the road in front of the school, lines were downed, knocking out the power, and the water pipe was broken.
Like most big things around India, St. Michael's has a generator, so we weren't in the dark for too long, although the rain did cool things off a bit.
Everywhere else, however, was dark, very dark.
The lack of water proved to be a real problem for those folks staying at the school and those responsible for feeding the masses. The next day a water tank was brought in so at least there was water for drinking and cooking. Day 2 found us still hampered with no electricity and no water, but by noon, things were returning to normal. Thank goodness!
Camp included Bible study, singing and dancing, crafts, and a smallish (smaller groups but still big numbers) group discussion, also Bible centered. I had some problems with this as Muslim and Hindu children made up the majority of those attending the camp, and it made the camp seem more like Vacation Bible School than Summer Camp. I have some ideas for next year regarding camp activities. Surprised?
We also held a special "Body Talk" session for the adolescent girls. Girls, and women too, do not know how their bodies work or why things happen when they happen.
They don't know how to manage the menstrual cycle; they stay home and stay hidden which means they are not attending school, thus falling behind.
I can't believe I'm sharing this with you since I practically had to cover my face with my scarf when I was asking the Indian gentleman working with UNICEF, via e-mail, for the booklet on Menstrual Hygiene Management. But like I told the girls, it's a natural, necessary, and normal bodily function. After all, where would we be without it?
This was a tricky session because this subject is culturally taboo, but having the booklet, which was put together by adolescent girls and young women from rural villages in India, made it easier to broach the subject.
We were in the middle of showing the girls how to make a sanitary napkin using old saris and washcloths when another storm blew in bringing lots of hail. Well, forget the SN; let's watch the hail bounce around on the ground and even into our room.
We forged ahead talking about cleanliness, aches and pains, moods, and nutrition during this "time of the month."
The girls had no idea why this thing was happening to them. Rita, the bishop's wife is a nurse and now teaches biology, so she told the girls about the male flower and the female flower. whatever works, right?
The girls went back to their leader with high praise for the session.
My hope is to gather these girls together once a month at Shanti Griha to have more "learning conversations." The learning conversations model comes from Freedom From Hunger which works in the poorest Indian states, West Bengal being one of them.
Camp ended on Sunday evening. The maracas, rock bugs, jewelry and rainbow fish were all on display in front of the stage, the parents from the Durgapur project were all in attendance, and the teachers were cleaned up and decked out in nice saris, except for me who still had on camp clothes complete with paint and glue stains. As usual, I had to "say a few words."
The Cultural Program is always the highlight of any event in India. It gives the kids a chance to strut their stuff and they do this very well. I love watching these kids perform.
Then it was time to leave. There were hugs and there were tears, lots of tears as new friends and old said their good-byes.
Summer Camp-a great idea and a wonderful opportunity to plant new seeds, nurture young plants and tender seedlings.
I'm already planning for Summer Camp, 09.

miracles

Do you believe in miracles?
If you know anything about the Gospels, youknow they are full of the miracles of Jesus; the blind seeing, the lame walking, demons disappearing into swine, but the miracle I get to witness here in India is the wedding feast in Cana, changing water into wine.
You're probably thinking, what's a missionary doing going to so many weddings and drinking so much wine? Not to worry, only tea and coffee are served at the weddings I attend.
Changing water into wine, fine wine-
Today, I was visiting my friend, Jhorna and her little girl, whom the sisters at MT's Ashram have named Dibya, which means coming from the light, when I became fully aware of what was happening in this place. Actually, I was cycling back from the ashram when it hit me.
Usually, I am the one spoon-feeding juice to Jhorna, but today, one of the older children, maybe 10, took over that task. Gently she put the spoon to Jhorna's lips and said, "open." No shouting, no slapping.
It's getting easier to get Dibya to smile, giggle, and really laugh. She's now strong enough to stand up and holding onto your hands, she's taking steps. And today, Jhorna smiled! Oh my, I cannot describe the rush of emotions that swept over me. Water into wine, fine wine.
The children at the center have been working on lots of crafts to display in an exhibition to be held, I hope, before I leave in August.
Watching them engaged in this creative experience is an experience itself. We're sitting outside on the grass and they are painting the masks they've made from papier mache. Their creative juices are flowing, and these masks are wonderful, intricate details too small for a brush, so they are using broom straws.
Some of them are painting flower pots. Again, they disappear into their work. Every pot is different, every pot, beautiful. They are very quiet when they are doing this work. Occassionally, they will hold the pot up, inspect it and smile their approval.
Water into wine, fine wine.
A slum eviction crisis, a request, a generous response from our friends in Western North Carolina making the building of a hostel possible, so our children from this village can stay in Durgapur and continue their education.
Water into wine, fine wine.
And I get to be part of it.
Do you believe in miracles?
I do!-

On Being a Missionary

I am on the backside of my stay here in India, and I still have some questions about what it means to be a missionary. At this particular moment, I have decided that being a missionary is simply being Love in action; yes, that's Love with a capital L so it isn't always a simple thing to be.
Here are two stories about Love.
One of the ways I try to be Love in action is to show gentleness, gentleness to people, gentleness to children, and gentleness to animals. In this part of the world, gentleness is not openly displayed and often its counterpart is what you see, lots of slapping, ear tweaking, etc.
As I have shared with you before, The Dogs of Durgapur are an interesting lot. Some of them have found good places to hang out (school) and actually look pretty healthy giving birth to healthy pups. But at the diocesean compound, where the pickings are slim because the kitchen only operates when there are people here for conferences, etc., the dogs look like they could belong to the Dalit Caste, the lowest of the low, the untouchables.
One of these dogs took up with me early in my stay here, or rather, I took up with her because she was the thinnest, mangiest mongrel around, and I couldn't turn away from her. Then she got pregnant. No family planning in the dog world, but while she was pregnant, she looked pretty good. Then the puppies came along. There were four of them and they were cute. Aren't they all? She was a good mother, but she chose to have her puppies near the guard's hut which is far from the kitchen. The guard showed some gentleness to her by fixing her a safe place in some logs and brought her some straw. I was impressed by that. We had a lot of people here at that time so there were food scraps to be had, but she couldn't leave her puppies. I decided I needed to feed her. After all, she was a nursing mother and with that, the Soup Kitchen was created. You can't buy actual dog food here so I bought baby cereal and mixed it up every morning. Then I graduated to oatmeal adding whatever I could find to dice it up a bit, an egg, some gravy, and one week, due to a mistake at the grocery store, they got chicken hearts, yummy.
Of course this puppy feeding attracted a lot of attention from the staff. Whoever heard of such nonsense, cooking breakfast for these mangy creatures. I put them in the category of "the least of my brothers" and continued on. A couple of the maintenance men got in on the act and started hauling scraps from the kitchen to add to the usual breakfast of oatmeal plus.
It wasn't long before all the pups were infected with the mange or whatever it was, and so I located a chemist who also sold pet meds, described the condition, bought the meds and began administering them twice a day. Again, a maintenance man eagerly helped to crush the pills and I mixed them into the oatmeal. The men helping me with this effort were not staff people. These men live in slums themselves so they know what survival means. Then there was the spray, but the puppies had to be clean, so I gave them all a bath. They actually seemed to enjoy the bath. I think the cool water eased the itching for a few minutes, but the spray was a different matter. Ouch!
Now, one by one, the puppies have died and there is just one left. As soon as I enter the gate with breakfast in tow, she greets me, tail wagging, rolling around on my feet. I can hardly walk to the feeding place and sometimes I just have to put her in my basket and ride her to the feeding spot. Mom always enjoyed her share, but now she is missing and who knows what fate has befallen her.
Gentleness to all creatures. Love in action.
Another Story:
One day when I was volunteering at Mother Teresa's Ashram, I noticed a new baby in the nursery. She looked to be about 5/6 months old. She was extremely thin and her head was a bit too big for an infant, and she had a mouth full of teeth. She is more like a two year old. I was told that the mother was in the hospital there and that she wasn't doing well, not eating, not responding, nothing.
I later learned that the mother and child had been picked up off the platform at the railway station where they were lying. MTs decided to take them both because of the child. Usually, only people with TB come to this ashram.
I asked to visit the mother. There she was, stretched out on the bed, eyes closed and totally unresponsive, and oh so thin. One of the women there gave me a glass with some kind of drink in it and I took a spoon, filled it and gave it to this young mother. At first she wouldn't open her mouth so the woman slapped her on the face and yelled something at her and she opened her mouth just enough for me to slip the drink in. This kind of behavior is shocking but not unusual, and I cannot get used to it. The young woman drank all of it, spoonful by spoonful. It was tea, of course!
The next day, I made some applesauce and took it to the ashram. So now in the mornings, I'm making my breakfast, breakfast for my dog family, and breakfast for the
young woman. She ate all of the applesauce, and when the woman wanted to slap her face to get her to open her mouth, I intervened and said "No hitting." Then I spoke gently to the young mother and she opened her mouth and ate.
I thought she might be more encouraged if she got to hold her baby. I spoke with the sister who asked the sister in charge and the next day, they brought the baby for a visit. I didn't get to see this encounter.
Every morning I continued to fix her breakfast moving up to baby cereal then baby cereal with dahl and veggies. She was eating every bit of it and faster as well.
One morning she started calling for Babu, Babu (pet name for a child). I asked if I could go and get Babu from the nursery. I was given the okay sign and took off for the nursery. Babu was getting her breakfast shoveled down her throat and howling the whole time. I started talking to the baby. She stopped crying. I took the spoon and fed her whatever it was. Then I picked her up. This was my first time to hold one of the babies. Outsiders are not allowed to even touch these children for fear of germs. I held her tiny body close to me, tiny legs and arms dangling, weighing next to nothing. Then off we went to visit mommy. I placed the baby next to her mother. The mother never opened her eyes. I took the mother's hand and ran it over the baby. I took the baby's hand and ran it over the mother. The visit ended and I returned Babu to the nursery.
Each time I have gone to the ashram, the mom has improved. We now know her name, Jorna. Her eyes are open. She is sitting up and slowly, slowly she is walking. She is eating solid food so now I am taking her juice when I go to visit.
The last time I took Babu to visit, I set the baby on her mother's lap and got her to hold the baby. I,too, was holding onto her. These moments have been so tender.
When I am in the nursery, now that I can touch the babies, I make it a point to talk to all of them, make faces, play Here Comes Mommy Creepy Mouse and all that silliness that goes on around babies. These babies respond with smiles and giggles. Even Babu was laughing out loud the other day. The babies are taken care of. They are fed, they are bathed assembly line style, and kept dry. Their beds are clean and the nursery is clean, but these babies are not loved. They are not cuddled. So being Love in action means I try to teach these women in the nursery how to cuddle and be silly with the babies.
Two stories about Love in action, about being a misisonary.

To Bangkok and Back

I am in India on a tourist visa which means my passport does not have to be registered, but I did have to leave the country and come back in before 180 days had expired.
At first I thought I would just take the train to Bangladesh since it is close, but then I learned that the Bangladeshis and the Indians aren't very friendly toward each other and as a result, Indian trains cannot cross the border. Okay, I'll fly. the bishop offred his brother's residence and hospitality to me and everything seemed ready, almost at any rate. I needed a visa to go to Bangladesh, not an easy thing to accomplish since the High Commission of Bangladesh in Calcutta is only open for a blink of the eye each morning. It would take about three days to get a visa. While I was in Calcutta making my travel arrangements with the bishop's travel agent, the travel agent suggested Bangkok. No visa for American passport holders and he could put together a nice little package for me at a reasonable price. So all was arranged. I would fly out on Friday, the 28th around noon, be picked up by the staff of the company the travel agent uses for hotel packages, etc., be taken on a tour of Bangkok on the way to a nice hotel, then taken back to the airport on sunday for the trip back to India.
The bishop provided a car and driver for me and we left early on Friday morning for Calcutta and the airport. It's my birthday.
I checked in, got my boarding pass and headed to Immigration. That's IMMIGRATION!
Now I have to confess I knew I had overstayed the 180 days by a couple of weeks, but I was counting on Immigration to be like India Post, totally incompetent, or at least have a stall at the airport where visa delinquents could pay the penalty and move on. At the first station, the officer is looking at my visa and counting on his fingers from Sept to March, which is six months. He says, "You've been in the country longer than 180 days, you must register." I say politely, "No, I only have to leave the country which is what I am trying to do." At the next station, since more officers have been alerted, the officer growls at me about being a visa delinquent, but I stay calm. I don't say anything stupid like, "So what are you going to do, put me in jail?" I don't dissolve into silly putty on the floor. I do call Bishop Dutta. "Help, I'm in trouble." He speaks with Mr. Growly, but even the bishop has no clout with Immigration, and he tells me I must return to Durgapur and then go to Bardwan (county seat) to the Chief of Police and register my passport. "Then, he says, you won't even have to leave the country." "Oh great." By this time, I was looking forward to leaving the country. Another officer appears and says, " You can register at the Foreign Office for Registration of Passports in Calcutta. But you cannot fly today." Dollar signs started flashing through my mind. I was escorted back to the Jet Airway's desk, and this officer hands them my boarding pass. "This is really happening," I'm thinking. But the airline folks were great. They changed my ticket for Sat. and extended it a day, flying back on Monday at no charge. I have friends who must be getting a good chuckle out of this whole scene.
I called Peter, the travel agent to tell him my plight. The bishop had already called him, and he had already cancelled my package.
First I had to go to the registration office. Again I was reprimanded for overstaying my welcome, but then this officer was pleasant with me the rest of the time. I told him I needed to register, and he explained that a tourist visa cannot be registered, but that I still needed to leave the country. I told him that Immigration at the airport was a bit confused about this. He was surprised by that. I get all the paperwork done and head to the travel agency to work out another booking. Peter breaks the news to me that the company Globotel will not change my itinerary nor will they give me a refund. Peter is not happy, and I am certainly not happy, even if it was my fault. Peter says he will no longer do business with Globotel, and I hope he doesn't. Some birthday.
I fly out the next day at the same time, get myself to the hotel, which is okay, and then try to figure out how to do Bangkok in eight hours.
Unfortunately, I arrived at the hotel late and didn't know you had to book a tour a day in advance, so seeing Bangkok with a tour group was nixed. A nice young Thai taxi driver offered to take me around for the day at what seemed a reasonable fee to me.
I didn't see the floating markets, not even from the shore as they are located outside the city and required a long drive. I didn't see the temples, or the Thai people at work along the canals. I did go to a couple of handicraft galleries (driver's idea) and finally I got him to take me to a market that was listed in the things to do brochure I picked up at the hotel. The very things that were in the galleries were also on the street, though much less expensive. The driver probably got a commission of some sort for bringing folks to the galleries. Oh well, I still enjoyed my stroll along the street.
I did see, however, skyscrapers, McDonalds, Starbucks, KFC, Tescos, 7/11, Shell, Esso, and of course lots of Toyotas,and Hondas. The cars are like ours, big, but the drivers stay in their lanes which are actually marked, and there is virtually no horn blowing, and it's clean, all unlike India.
I did go to a Dairy Queen to satisfy my craving for a chocolate milkshake and to Boots to get an Rx that India Post just can't seem to deliver to me.
Sounds like a nice place to visit, right? It is if you like everything western, but I love the color, the sights, the smells of India. Yes, it's frustrating not to be able to buy simple things like tweezers (lost mine in Bangkok), or a can opener without searching through the markets and the department stores which takes days. India Post is the pits requiring all kinds of rules for mailing packages yet having no rules for deliveries. About five of my packages have "gone astray."
I love all the different kinds of transport: the buses, the motorscooters and cycles, the rickshaws, the bikes, and the three-wheeled goods carriers. I love dodging the free roaming cows, dogs, and goats, the poojas and the people.
I can understand why Gandhi had such strong feelings about preserving India's culture, refusing to buy or use anything that was not Indian made.
When the west moves in, the culture moves out. Back at the hotel, I did enjoy some time in the jacuzzi and a Thai massage by a hefty Thai woman, but I was ready to get back to the colorful and lively world of India.

Women's International Day

Today, at St. Michaels's Church, we celebrated International Women's Day. Since our priest, Fr. Sam, had to be at another church, he turned this service over to the women. He helped, of course, in the planning to keep us within the parameters of acceptablility.
The Vice-Principal of St. Michael's School, Archanna Dey, was the leader.She put in manyy hours trying to get everything just right, including as many women as she could in the service.
She also wanted a "special song" to be sung by small group of women, mostly teachers from the school. She adapted the song People Over the World to make it Women Over the World.
Fr. Sam got out one of the hymnals friends from St. Mary's had sent to us, and together we searched for some appropriate hymns to include in the worship service,
trying them out on the new keyboard, a gift from the UK. It was fun playing around with the different tones, tempos, and styles available on this little Yamaha. Then Archanna asks me to pick out the tune for Women Over the World. This, I cannot do. I can play the right hand, the melody, and only about two octaves to the right of Middle C, so we enlist the help of the music teacher at St. Michael's, the go-to-guy when we want music, real music at the church. He jots down the notes and then Archanna asks me to play the keyboard with the "choir!" Are your hysterics over? Have you picked yourselves up off the floor yet?
Those of you who know me and have been to my home, know that I love music and that I have all kinds of instruments: a piano, guitar,dulcimer, several recorders, a tambourine, and even a little African harp like thing, but I can't play any of them.
But being a Franciscan, I have to rise to the challenge and like I said, there is tempo, style, and voice on the keyboard menu, so all I really have to do is play the melody with my right hand and let technology do the rest.
So I practice alone and with the "choir" but there is never one complete run-through of this song. Archanna has added an extra part which is a verse a half note higher and will be sung just before the ending to end the song. There are five members of this group and so five different variations on the theme. Each time we start out, I am never sure where we are going with this song, but I finally realize that I can just hold a key down (organ mode) and let them go off in whatever direction they want and it's okay.
The music teacher has agreed to play All Creatures of Our God and King and Seek Ye First the Kingdom of God. I know, it's Lent and we shouldn't be singing Alleuias, but cut us some slack, OK?
Now the music teacher has a really good ear and claims all he needs is the key and he can take it from there, no notes necessary. Before the service, I hand him the hymnal already turned to All Creatures, but he just wags his head and says no problem.
No Problem IF everyone knows the tune, that is. We don't.
Archanna has also requested that those of us in the service wear saris and bangles (bracelets). I had to arrive early so someone could wrap me up in my sari and Archanna loaned me lots of bangles to wear.
So we are all set to process in our saris and bangles and we even have a girl Crucifer. Normally we don't have a Crucifer at all.
Archanna nods to the organist who gives us only chords. Archanna has a lovely voice, but in her nervousness starts us out about an octave lower, forgets the tune completely after the first two lines, and no one knows where in the world we are including the organist, but we process anyway. Thank God for short runways. That misery ended quickly.
Soon it was time for the "special song" and my debut as the only right-handed keyboardist with a two octave range in the world. I traded places with the real musician, click on the buttons I need and I am ready, but the organist thinks I have forgotten how to do this, so he helps me out by undoing the settings. The girls are still getting situated so I have time to reset. We begin. It's not bad, but when we get to the place where the added segment should be, Archanna decides, on the spot, not to do it thinking the women have forgotten how it goes and moves the final line of the song. Quickly I catch on and catch up. Then it's over. Alleluia! sorry.
Seek Ye First went much better because Mr Keyboardist played the melody along with his beloved chords. Guess he caught on from the processional hymn.
The rest of the service went well with Rita Dutta, the bishop's wife, delivering a short homiliy about the International Women's Conference she and Bishop Dutta had attended at the UN in New York the week before.
We processed out to Showers of Blessings, yes that's right, and it was a rousing processional.
What did you do for International Women's Day?

something light, something dark

Now that you have Christmas packed away and Valentine's Day all wrapped up for another year and are swimming through waves of bunny rabbits and Easter chicks, I want to tell you about Christmas in India.

It was different, but not so different. The big shops in Durgapur were packed mainly because they were having a "buy one get one absolutely free" sale. This message blared through the sound system over and over again. No soft Christmas music playing in the background to entice you to dig dipper into your wallet and buy that gift for Auntie.

At St. Michael's, there was the usual round of Christmas caroling throughout the neighborhoods and there was a big Christmas get together with all the churches in the diocese. We even had a service of Lessons and Carols.

Of course there were the programs: school programs, Sunday School programs, and Diocesean Children's Project Programs. I saw Nativity Pageants performed by Christians and Hindus and being totally objective here, I have to say our slum children's Nativity Tableaux was the best. Our costumes were really nice, sarees for the kings, dhotis for the shepherds, and cute little white dresses with shiny wings for the angels.

Not many people decorate their homes for the season. No tree, but since there are no live Christmas trees here, I guess that's to be expected. There are artificial trees, not made to look real, but made to look artificial, mainly a pole with tinseled branches widely spaced and standing no more than 3 or 4 feet tall. My own little faker was about 12" tall but the branches, also widely spaced, sort of had a fir look to them. It was easy to decorate with one little silver strand which had ornaments spaced along it. I cut out wrapped packages from an old Christmas card and stuck them under my tree. My grandchildren sent me a better tree all decorated which held the place of honor on my table the rest of the Christmas season. Putting Christmas away was very easy.

Since there were no Christmas trees, there were no wrapped packages under the tree. There was nothing to shake, no packages to count, and no piles to measure. the Indians may be onto something here. Usually the family just takes the kids shopping and lets them pick out a thing or two and that is pretty much it.

The only Christmas Eve service at St. Michael's was the midnight one, so I arranged to stay at the center so I could attend. It was a candlelight service, but there was no musical accompaniment, and there were very few of us in the congregation, maybe six. Since most people walk, cycle or ride motorbikes getting out at such a late hour just isn't done.
Fr. Sam was all alone at the altar, preparing the table, juggling a candle, and leading the singing of Oh Holy Night hoping we wouldn't fade away in the middle of it when he had to stop singing for a moment. Well, when he stopped, we all stopped, a nice little pause in the middle of the liturgy. Having the entire service in candlelight was clearly not a good idea, but we sang Silent Night and Once in Royal David's City, so it was okay.
The next morning, 7:30am, the service was not much better, but at least there was an altar helper and a keyboardist. Then at 8:30, there was the Bengali service and I stayed for that one mainly because it was packed with people spilling out into the yard and little children seated on the floor in a space up front. We ended the service with Angels We Have Heard on High, so my three favorite carols were sung and that was enough for me.
The church was gaily decorated with balloons, crepe paper streamers, and other brightly colored lanterns hanging from the ceiling of the church. I'm sure the Indians would think our "greening" of the church pretty drab in comparison.
So guess what! It happened anyway. Christmas happened without the hype and the hoopla, without my packages arriving on time for my family to open them together, without Christmas carols weaving in and out of the daily routine. But what struck me the most about Christmas here is that everybody celebrated it. The Hindu children in my building had a Christmas party, complete with Santa and a little tree, on the roof to which I was invited. A Hindu teacher from the school played the keyboard at the Bengali service on Christmas Day, and as I said, just about all the Nativity plays were performed by Hindus.
When the Hindu Poojas were in full swing last fall, everyone celebrated with them. Yes, there are some fundamentalist here in India, like everywhere, but so far they haven't shattered the spirit of tolerance and respect for other faiths. Here, everyone was wished a Merry Christmas, not a Happy Winter Solstice, and in Oct. we were wished a Happy Diwali.
It this little corner of the world, it almost seemed like Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men.

From the Dark Side:
I've been giving some thought to death lately; the different kinds of death one might experience, the violent ones, the tragic ones, the war ones, the old age ones, and the peaceful ones.
Eventhough St. Francis welcomes Sister Death in his Canticle to the Sun, death, for most of us I think is not an easy thing to contemplate.
Sometimes we are able to say "He died in peace," or " She lived a full and happy life," and if the loved one had been battling cancer or AIDS, or Alzheimer's we can say "At last the suffering is over."
In America, death takes its toll on the highway wiping out the lives of both young and old; such a senseless way to die.
Our decadent life style takes more lives, heart disease, diabetes, cancer, obesity; again, such a senseless way to die.
Since I've been in India, Iv'e been exposed to another kind of death, death by poverty, starvation, neglect, ignorance, such a senseless way to die.
This kind of death is ugly. Here, death has dominion.
I am fully aware that death is part of the cycle of life and that we need it to close one generation and make room for another, but does it have to be by poverty, starvation, neglect, ignorance?
As most of you know from my e-mail about the woman in bed#28, I witnessed the dying of a woman who was all alone in this world. Imagine that! No one caring about her, no one assisting her out of this life to whatever lay ahead for her, no one to tell her good-by or that she was loved. That kind of lonely, cold, despairing death makes me shiver.
How did that happen? How did she get in that situation? Where was her family?
Then there was Punima, 13 years old; a beautiful young girl who, escaping an attacker, jumped from a second story window. She broke her leg in the fall and ended up in the government run hospital. She was discharged at some point, her leg still in a cast, but readmitted sometime later. Her leg was still in the same cast and because she had been bed-ridden the whole time she was at her home, bedsores appeared over most of her buttocks; deep penetrating sores eating through her flesh and tissue all the way to the bone and into the bone. Neglect and ignorance landed this child with her severly infected body back in the hospital. I could do nothing for Shakil in bed #28 but keep her cleaned and fed until the day she died, but I was able to talk to the Misssionaries of Charity about Punima, and they decided to get her discharged into their care. Punima would die, but she would die knowing that there were others who cared about her.
These kinds of death are happening all over India on a daily basis. They are happening in countries in Africa where AIDS has a mighty grip on the population.
Maybe you're thinking it's a population problem and a little family planning would solve everything. That usually seems to be the first response whenever the subject of povery arises, but I think that's a "cop-out" kind of answer, one that frees us from the responsibility of looking deeper into the root causes of poverty. By looking deep, we might just discover that we are playing a big role in the plight of these people, our neighbors on the other side of the world.
There is always talk about addressing the issue of poverty with all its ramifications, and in Sept., 2000, something concrete was born- The Millenium Development Goals. These eight goals were drawn from the Millenium Declaration that was adopted by 189 nations and signed by 147 heads of state and governments during the UN Millenium Summit. Since then, many churches have adopted the MDGs as part of their own declaration to fight poverty; The Episcopal Church in N. America is one of them.
The MDGs address the issues of extreme poverty and hunger, lack of education, gender equality & women's empowerment, child mortality, maternal health, HIV/AIDS, and environmental stability and global parnerships. Couched in all of these are some serious questions about excessive life-styles and how these life-styles exacerbate the issues at hand. This is where thinking DEEP comes into play. It's realizing we are connected to each other, Shakila in bed 28, Punima, and scores of other men, women, and children who, in one way or another reap what we sow.
Their pain is our pain.
Their misery is our misery.
Their despair is our despair.
"How is this possible!" You might exclaim.
Just think about it.
Where do you shop?
What do you buy?
What do you drive?
Where did the resources used to build your nice, new, big home come from?
The farmers in Ethiopia hit by draught due to extreme climate changes don't drive SUVs, we do.
Agri-business coffee growers have forced many family coffee growers in Central and South America to abandon their farms and look for employment elsewhere, perhaps across our borders. Still not buying Fair Trade Coffee?
The MDGs are a great step in the right direction and only a pittance is required to help with the funding, 0.7% of your yearly income. Even I can afford that.
But to stop the cycle of poverty and all that goes with it, we must be willing to make the necessary changes, real changes, life-style changes, and yes, it will hurt, but it will also liberate. Until we do, death will continue to have dominion in the impoverished countries of the world.

fitting in

When I arrived in Durgapur, I was ready to meet the challenge of "fitting in." I was going to live simply; I am. I was going to learn the language; I'm trying. I was going to dress in the Indian way; I am with some modifications, and I was going to eat their hot, spicy food even if smoke was pouring out of my ears and my nose was running; I have done this, and I have eaten with my right hand, literally hand, on many occasions.
Most of the people at the school and the Center have been very warm and welcoming, hospitable and supportive, but there was one maintenance person working at the center, a young man, who clearly was not happy with my presence at the school for the children from the slums. He never spoke to me, in fact I wondered if he could even talk, and he wore a frown in my presence. I started feeling a bit nervous whenever he and I were at the Center at the same time which was every day, so I started avoiding him as best I could.
Then two things happened at about the same time. One was the garden project which he became very interested in and kept close tabs on as the space was cleared, the soil cultivated, and the seeds planted. The other was the painting project. I had decided to paint the ABCs on one wall of each classroom with pictures, like I did in Jordan (my world project?) He also became very interested in this.
When I was drawing the letters on the wall, he was still glaring and growling, but when I began to paint, he started coming into the classroom to watch. Then when I began the picture part of the project, he really took notice. He would come in and sit at one of the desks and watch. After several pictures were on the wall, he gave me the Indian head wag of approval and the Indian OK sign. He even managed a smile.
Slowly, as his trust in me grew and vice-versa, I found myself teasing with him a bit. Now when he sees me coming, he knows exactly which rooms to open, and if he needs to leave before I am finished, he leaves the keys with me with strict instructions about which rooms to lock and where to leave the keys. His name is Ragabir and he has become a favorite of mine, and I think he likes me a little as well. Fitting in!
Missionary aka celebrity. I didn't know that was part of the job description, but lately I have been honored by different groups, being invited to be the Chief Guest at this function or that. this means I get to sit in the best seat and hand out prizes or gifts. sometimes it means saying a "few words." The Indians are quite good at this kind of surprise. "And now, Ms. Lynn, would you say a few words to the group. This is not what I do best, but I started trying to be a bit prepared for such occasions. So at our Christmas program after all the teachers were introduced and on the stage, the bishop hands me the mike and asks me to say a few words. This was an audience of parents from the villages and a few other guests from St. Michael's and St. Peter's. The lights were very bright and I couldn't see any of their faces. I did not like that at all, but the show must go on, right? I began by greeting them with Nomashkar, which they loved, and then I asked them how they were in Bengali, lots of clapping and cheering for that effort. I have to tell you this was kind of an inside joke as the children quiz me continually every day on these two phrases: kaemon achen and palo achi, How are you and I am fine. After that it didn't really matter what I said and after the program, the parents were eager to meet me and shake my hand. Fitting in!
At another program where I was an important guest and got to say a few words, I was able to use the Muslim greeting Asalamualikum. The parents and the children who were mostly Muslim returned the greeting with wa alikum asalam amidst cheers, laughter and clapping. I spent a lot of that day greeting different parents as the children dragged me from one family to another. Fitting in!
One afternoon I was painting, as usual, and one of the guys came into the room with an old pound cake still in its package and asked me if I wanted it. I told him no that he could have it if he wanted it. He went back to the kitchen and returned a few minutes later and invited me to tea. So there I was hanging out in the kitchen with three maintenance guys drinking tea and eating stale and a bit frozen ( the kitchen fridge tends to do that) pound cake. Fitting in!
The last little cultural tip to fitting in is the dance. Now I love to dance. I've never been any good at it, but it's just something I like to do and the Indian dances are great fun. One day before the Christmas break, we decided to have a little party of our own, just the teachers and the kids here at the Center. This is where the stale pound cake came from. The CD player was dragged out onto the veranda and turned up full blast and the dancing began. We were all dancing and having a great time of it. I had to go into the computer room for something and there was Rogabir, all alone and dancing. and smiling. Fitting in!
Being a missionary is a lot more than arriving in a country with a bag of band aids, some kind words, and a big smile. It's also allowing the people who live in the place the time to warm up to you and to trust you in their own way and in their own time.
You never know exactly what will make a difference but you do know when it happes just from the response.
It's quite a cool feeling, this "fitting in."