To be a bathroom or to be locked in one, that is the question!

When traveling between Indian cities it is guaranteed that you will emerge from the cramped, humid train car or bus with colorful experiences (most of which are funnier to look back on than they were in the moment) . Arriving at 8am, my (supposed to be)  7am bus rocked and rolled back over Snake Mountain; the packed old bus slowly climbed up the mountain from Pushkar and flew at what should be (and probably is) an illegal speed down past Ajmer en route to Jaipur. At one of the stations, a family climbed abroad and, due to the volume of people, had to join the crowd of others standing in the aisle. My love of babies got the better of me and I immediately reached out and offered to old their tiny baby in my lap until they got a seat. As they eagerly handed her over I thought, 'As long as she doesn't cry the whole way or puke on me, I'm happy to cradle her along the bumpy ride.' On the bright side, she didn't throw up on me. On the down side, she peed instead- and cried. A lot. After about ten minutes she started wailing and I was the object of many a you-quiet-that-baby-down stare that I have admittedly thrown at babies on planes. Mid- bounce as I tried to quiet her down, my lap was suddenly soaking wet. Great. The parents- and everyone else around for that matter, thought it was hilarious and were all the more thankful that I was the recipient of her accident. Just as I thought that it was probably better that I didn't hold her for the four hours (my own body heat is enough thank you!)- I saw her, wrapped in a little blue towel, being handed back to me as if she was a piece of luggage making its way to the back of the bus. Luckily, she slept the rest of the way and I think her parents were a little too serious about having me take her back home with me! Jaipur was a great city- the explored the monkey, Surya, and Ganesha temples and found myself lost in the huge bazaar. Yet, given the sprawl, the pollution, and worst hassling I have yet experienced here, I think I prefer the smaller option (Jodhpur is the second largest city after Jaipur in Rajasthan)!

I left Jaipur on a 6am for a whirlwind day trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. With all of the hype surrounding Indian trains/stations, I will admit that I was slightly nervous as I approached the HUGE station weighed down with my growing backpack.. the gifts/fabrics/jutis (shoes), and gifts just keep finding their way in! With the exchange rate of gifts for clothes/toiletries as I repack my bag with each city, I will most likely arrive home with nothing more than the clothes on my back. I was relieved when finding and boarding the train was actually very simple and I found my berth among the hoards of Indian families enjoying their summer vacations. As much as I tried to hold it for fear of what I might be confronted with, after 5 hours I couldn't fight the urge to use the bathroom. To put it bluntly, it was nothing more than a hole in the floor with a platform for each foot that looked down onto the threatening tracks below. Hey, at least it controlled the smell! As I went to unlock the door and go back to enjoying the trance-y Hindi music I found in Pushkar, I realized the door wouldn't open. I tried again and again to yank it open.. maybe it's just stuck? But it was no use- the little handle on the other side had locked me in from the outside. At that moment, I felt as though my stomach had fallen right down the hole and had been run over by the train. No windows, extremely loud rattling of the train car, and closed doors between the berth area and the bathroom. I started banging the door and yelling for help- looking back, I may have gone a little overboard with the hostage-like pleading, but with Agra approaching and no one to notice if I didn't come back to the berth, the thought of being lost to the world in the train bathroom warranted emergency! After a few minutes of knocking and slapping the door, the door was finally opened to the faces of a concerned looking mother and her daughter. Flustered, I found my way back to my seat and started brainstorming ways to avoid the bathrooms on my upcoming 11 hour (to Varanasi) and 20 hour (to Haridwar) train rides.

Pushkar's Happy Love

"All people who come to Pushkar have happy love for each other." My friend Laura (another solo girl I met from Denmark) and I met Rakesh the day of the monkey vs. camera near disaster. Speaking perfect English that he had only learned from befriending travelers as he sat in his little shack selling CDs and handmade bracelets at the foot of the mountain, he offered  to take the two of us to the little Shiva temple 8 kms up the road on his moped. Up for an adventure, we agreed to meet him at his 'shop' at 8am the next morning to head off into Pushkar's hills. The next morning, the three of us piled on to the little bike and sped off for the temple, passing through tiny hillside villages and goats on their way up the mountain for breakfast. We arrived at the tiny temple and sat on the cool marble floor as Rakesh told us stories upon stories ranging from his arranged marriage at the age of 16 to funny encounters he'd had with travelers over the years. He spoke of the connection that many travelers in Pushkar have ('very happy love') and the way that the magical town seems to seduce some into passing months before moving on. I thought of the friendly, funny people I had met over the last two days (a few of which I will be traveling with for the two days) and decided that this Rakesh's 'happy love' is indeed in the air. He described it as a good friendship with people you've only known for minutes- one of my favorite things about travelling.  Before we knew it, 4 hours and 3 cups of chai from the tiny chai shack had gone by so we again squeezed onto the bike and retraced our hill-carving trail.

Due to the incredible heat, I am lucky if I can sleep past 6:30am before I am drenched in sweat. Awake at the crack of dawn this morning, I decided I would wander down to the ghats and watch some morning prayers as the sun rose. When emerged from the sleepy market street onto the wide hot steps of one of the ghats, I was faced with more life than I could've imagined! Women washing their saris and drying them in the wind, families bathing, priests doing pooja, and small circles chanting sacred prayers. At first intimidated by the amount of activity and ease at which they simultaneously took place, I sat away from the main ghat to watch from afar. After watching for a few minutes, I couldn't help the urge to wander in and immerse myself in the colorful celebration of life, death, and cleansing. I stopped at the Bathing Ghat (where photography is not allowed) and sat with my feet in the pool-like area among the many that poured buckets over their heads, swam in the dark green water, and washed the feet of their elders. Although the men wore nothing more than thin loin-cloth like fabric as they bathed, the women wore full saris! I was soon surrounded by a group of old ladies in their soaking wet saris who asked me endless questions about my life, family (husband), and whether or not I knew their uncle who plays traditional Indian music at a restaurant in New York. I ended up sitting down in the ghats for close to three hours as the sun took its place over the lake and threatened the bathers with its nearing 110 degree temperatures.Despite the hoards of people, the sounds of the flocks of pigeons flying over head, mumbled prayers, temple bells clanging, and wet saris slapping against the hot steps hummed together into the most peaceful rhythm I have ever heard in my life.

Pushkar Passports

Nothing like 5 hours in a non-AC bus to think back on all of the wonderful experiences, work, and people that rest fondly in my memories of Jodhpur. At 11am yesterday I hopped on a bus to Pushkar, a small town to the East of Jodhpur known for its peaceful lake, plentiful hummus, and packed market selling everything from spices to silks. One of the 7 Sacred Cities, Pushkar packed with pilgrims who come to bathe in the lake and pray on the holy ghats. Since it is a tiny little town, I had to take a bus to the city of Ajmer where I would then take a 30minute public bus to Pushkar. Despite the heat, the pounds of dirt that cling to my sweaty skin, and precariously dangling feet of those sitting overhead in the sleeper berths, I have become a huge fan of bus travel. We sped (and I mean, SPED) through dry barren lands home to nothing more than a solitary temple, thought small towns whose narrow roads tease the rather large bus, and past small farm plots where women in sparkling saris hunched over weeding the land. At each stop young boys climb aboard vending ice cream, drinks, and oil drenched samosas and mirchi bara. Men, women, and children pile in and assume seats on the hot floor atop sacks of flour or sticks. Upon leaving each stop, the air reeks even more of deep fry, masala, and body odor. Men sip chai in roadside stalls and cows are just about thing only thing that will slow the bus down.

Expecting to be dropped of in the center of the city, I was a little more than surprised when, on the side of a truck congested highway, the man shouted 'Ajmer! Ajmer!' Well it definitely wasn't the Ajmer I was expecting but, here we go. As expected the sight of a solo traveler weighed down by a large backpack attracted the many rickshaw drivers eager to bring me to the government bus stand.. for the 'very Rajasthani price' of rs. 500. HAH! Finally getting a reasonable price, I found my way to the local bus station and just made it on to a bus bound for Pushkar. The drive was beautiful- one that involved a voyage over what is called 'Snake Mountain' a peak that, not surprisingly, is made up of switch backs and hairpin turns all the way up aaaand all the way down. For a bus that was far too large and going far too fast, the amount of breath holding/praying to not die moments were few! Monkeys lined the street, looking to me like they were just about to hop on the bus and head to Pushkar. Little did I know, I would have more than enough monkey business (literally) during my trip.

Immediately after getting off the bus I met another girl about my age from Denmark traveling on her on as well. We instantly joined up, got the same guesthouse, and were hoisted into a bike- drawn taxi- my bag overhead on the tarp 'roof,' hers underfoot, and the two of us crammed onto a tiny seat peddled by a man who probably weighed less than me. We then made our way to the main ghat just in time for sunset and were led in prayer by a priest who promptly gave us our 'Pushkar passports' red strings tied around our unmarried right wrists. With plates of yellow flowers, red paint powder, sugar, and rice we stepped into the cool water and set our pooja afloat among the men and boys bathing in the evening heat.

This morning we woke up at 7am to beat the heat as we made the hour long climb to the Savitri Temple, a small temple located at the top of a nearby mountain. Along the way we were stopped by families to enjoy chai, take photos with them, and explain for the thousandth time where we are from, why were are here, and where our husbands are. About half way up we encountered a group of monkeys perched in the middle of the steep stone 'stair case' that we huffed and puffed our way up for the last 20 mins under the already burning sun- beating the heat didn't end up working out. The roads and ghats are filled with monkeys down in the market, so we figured that it would be safe to take a few pictures and talk about how cute the babies that clung to their mothers fronts were. Well, just as I opened my bag to take out my camera, one of the more sizable monkeys of the bunch stands up on its back legs and bore its very sharp, very creepy looking teeth at us. Uh-oh I've read that these little, seemingly cute, guys can be very vicious. It started making its way toward us at an uncomfortably fast pace- not giving me enough time to decide whether to start to run or not. It ran up to me and grabbed on the the strap of my bag (teeth still out by the way)and started pulling it from me! Scared out of my mind that the thing was going to bite me or wrestle me down I leg go of my bag and scampered behind one of the 5 men that had come to watch the monkey vs foreigner show down. It took out my camera bag and started inspecting it, at which point I started yelling to the men to 'get it away and get the bag!!!! One of the guys ran up and snagged the rest of my bag from the little monster when we realized that there was a bag of prasad or blessed sugary candies in my bag that I had intended to leave at the temple. I throw the bag of sweets at the monkey at which point it put down my camera bag and greedily took the whole bag into a tree. Phew!

We spent the rest of the day relaxing on various rooftop restaurants, eating more hummus, and getting lost in the winding pathways of the market picking up colorful prints, jewelry, jutis, and mango lassis on the way. At the end of the day we found our way to 'sunset point' a beautiful ghat from which we watched sadhus praying in their bright orange robes as the sun sunk behind the jagged white and blue washed horizon of the town.

1 birthday, 2 saris, and 3 kilos of sweets

The lovely thing about having an Indian cell phone is the amount of spam phone calls I receive on a daily basis. So when I saw an unknown number calling me at 7am on my birthday morning, I was pretty sure picking up would mean hearing that whiny voice recording going on in Hindi about new company phone deals with Bollywood muzak playing in the background. I picked up and instead heard an old man exclaim 'Happy birthday, Sarah!' At first I had absolutely no idea who it was- yes, I had given my number a few people here and there and the news of my birthday spread quickly, but who could possibly be calling me this early? He must have heard the hesitation in my half asleep voice and he quickly added, 'It's your Indian father!' It was Anu's (my host sister in-law) father. A few night's ago I joined Anu's side of the family for dinner and immediately felt as though I was welcomed into yet another warm, loving, energetic Indian family. Her father had claimed that he is now my Indian father and we joked that he would have to approve of my future husband and perform the traditional wedding ritual between the husband and soon to be father in-law. 'I wanted to be the first one to wish you a very special birthday, beta ('my child),' he said before we hung up. It was the sweetest way to start the day.

As I wandered downstairs for my usual breakfast of homemade yogurt with banana and papaya, I was met by Anu and Mrs. Sharma bearing a beautiful silver jewelry box, a gift from the family. Packing it is going to be an interesting task, yet it will be the perfect way to store the heaps of bangles I have managed to collect when I get home.

With my 'party kurta' on (just think more gold than the average, 'everyday' kurta), I walked out to the end of my lane to wait for the tempo. Just as I reached the street, a huge truck drove by carrying a brightly painted elephant! I looked around to see if anyone else was amazed by the incredible animal enjoying the wind ruffling it's massive ears, but soon realized that I was the only one that was excited by the sight of a blue, red, and gold elephant before 10am. I guess even though I have learned to expect the unexpected at any time or place, somethings (i.e. the casual painted elephant rolling by) still manage to sneak up on me.

When I arrived at GVSS, I was barely able to walk in the door before I was bombarded with sweets. It is customary here to feed sweets to the person being celebrated and the 12 staff members took this task very seriously. After handshakes, hugs, and more sweets it was time to celebrate! A few days before, my supervisor had called all of us into his office for a 'very important meeting.' We all filed in, not sure what had happened or what kind of trouble we might be in for something. 'There is a special day coming up in the office,'  he started as we all sighed with relief. 'We need to set the menu for the birthday lunch!' Hands raised for dhal, paneer, or sabzi and tensions rose deciding between chapati, naan, or paratha but eventually the menu was set and now, we were ready to face the feast- but not before I was dressed!

Anju, one of the Outreach Workers I have grown so close to, presented me with the beautiful blue sari that I have always complimented her on. With the help of each of the 10 present women, I was wrapped, in the 5 meters of light blue fabric. I stood like a doll admist the Hindi frenzy of  'Where are the pins!?' 'You can't wear those shoes!' 'Your hair is messy!' 'So beautiful!' 'This necklace!' 'No, this one is much more beautiful!' Finally, after each pin, pleat, and fold was just so, I was ready to go. Before we could go to the restaurant, they insisted that I pick out a gift from a store on the way. Despite my efforts to delay the trip as we were already 30 minutes late, I was dragged into the shop where I had to dodge large figurines of Ganasha, heavy silver 'Om' symbols, and a 14-inch model of the Mehrenghar Fort as I tried to explain that I didn't have room (or the strength) to take them home. Instead, I settled on a beautiful green and gold sari.

At the restaurant we went through plate after plate of rice, vegetables, and yogurt and piled high the empty baskets of the three types of roti (bread)- we never did decide on just one. And not to mention the rich chocolate cake that was eaten, as usual, before the meal. Just as I sat back, thinking that I would never be hungry again, three 1 Kilo boxes of Rajasthani sweets were set in front of me...next to a heaping plate of ice cream. Oy! We spent the rest of the day at the office taking pictures, laughing, and drinking chai- there's always room for chai.

After work, it was time for my family celebration. Mrs. Sharma, Anu, and I all got ready together as Angel played in the pile of saris I was deciding between for the night. I chose a bright red one with gold embroidery, Mrs. Sharma's favorite color. Red then became the theme of the night so Anu, Angel, and Mrs. Sharma wore red for the occasion. For dinner they took me to one of Jodhpur's Heritage Hotels, a very fancy palace turned hotel that boasts royalty, history, and lots of red satin pillows and couches. With more cake, food, and the customary feeding of cake to the mother of the family, I felt just as I would celebrating with my family at home. After dinner we walked around the Palace's perfectly kept garden, lawns, and very tempting swimming pool while keeping a careful eye on Angel who was a slip away from plopping right into the fountain as she splashed us.

I remember thinking in March about how my birthday will represent the end of my time in Jodhpur; it seemed so far away and unknown. Where will I be by the end of May? What will I have seen? Who will I have met? It is so strange to me that it has already come and gone. As I lay in bed, exhausted from a day of two saris (surprisingly difficult to move in) and stuffed with more food and cake than I thought possible, I thought about what a turn this year has taken. Who would've thought that this past year, one that started with me running across West Philly to get to class at UPenn, would end in me running across a lawn in Jodhpur, India attempting to chase a three year old while wearing a sari.

Ode to a sabziwallah

I shielded my bleary morning eyes from the blinding 7am sunlight that beat down on the bustling vegetable market. When I told my host mom that I would love to accompany her on one of her early morning market expeditions, I couldn't have imagined the energy level possible at that time of day. I have explored the Paota sabzi (vegetable) market countless times before, but never had I waded through the maze of chilis, eggplants, and cabbage before 8 am; a time when everyone and their sister (and daughter, mother, and aunt) tries to get in on the early bird sabzi specials... loudly and all at the same time. The outdoor market was sprawling with men and young boys perched among their overflowing baskets of ripe glistening vegetables. Between the calls for the 'Best pudina!' 'Cheapest loki!' or 'Ripest bhindi!', the groans of tractors that were all together too large to be navigating the winding spaces between carts, and the shouts of those who were nearly crushed in the midst of it all, the air was ripe with life.

Energy pulsed through the restless crowd as we tried to push our way through the clogged passage way, or 'jam road' as my host mom called it in her minimal English, caused by an encounter between one cart pulled by a camel and another by an ox. That's what I call green energy! Finally freed from the sweat and stare laden chaos, we perused the vibrant displays of each sabziwallah (vegetable vendor), smelling and feeling for the freshest pick. Kilos of palak, aloo, and khria were tossed onto metal scales and balanced to perfection by little boys who barely sat taller than their piles of bengain. We passed ginger and spices sold by men wearing turbans in hues of green brighter than their neighbor's peppers and chaiwallahs pouring steaming cups of chai from portable thermoses. One must be mindful both of what is underfoot and overhead- careful to not slip on the various slimy banana peels and mango pits that littered the straw-covered street or to get knocked unconscious by the crates of tomatoes precariously balanced on women's heads. After a lively hour of bargaining and shoving, I, with the 10 kilo bag of veggies, and Mrs. Sharma-ji, with a huge watermelon, ducked and weaved our way out into the street and sighed as the cool morning breeze met out sweaty faces. And now I have to go to work? 

Bundles and Babies

When the group started pleading, 'But Sunday is Jamna's wedding and she wants to have just one dance with you!' I knew I would not be able to leave Bhadvasia today without another performance. I have been saying 'kal' 'kal' 'kal' (tomorrow) for the last week or so when the train of children start shouting 'Dance, dance!" but they weren't going to let me get away with it today. It was three o'clock and 108 degrees. I can't say I felt like being more of a show than I already am on a day to day basis but Jamna, sitting on the dirt floor while her mother combed her long black hair, was wearing the most beautiful Marwari dress and traditional wedding jewelry- I couldn't say no! At first, the news of someone's upcoming marriage resulted in my sing-songy 'congratulations!'- an excited exclamation and an arm squeeze perhaps. These days, after quickly learning that about 99% of the marriages are arranged, I do not opt to give as joyous a reaction. Indian weddings are a spectacle to say the least and I am no longer surprised when I realize I have passed the third one of the day on the way home from work. Invitations flow into the Sharma's house, each extravagantly decorated with gold trim and depictions of Ganesha, the god of prosperity. Marriage, from what the girls have told me privately in our interviews, is more a power from the woman's father to her husband. It is seen as a necessary familial obligation; more a chance for family and friends from near and far to come together in celebration of cultural longevity. But nevertheless, the wealth of bejeweled saris, vibrant turbans, mouth watering sweets, and spirituality over the four day span of the occasion is truly breathtaking. I have already 'RSVP-ed' to three of the girls' upcoming weddings. A few of the more  playful girls from the sewing center joined in the dancing and led me along as I made a fool of myself attempting to mimic their spiraling henna-ed hands and swerving hips. I think I need to practice before making my wedding debuts. The promised 'Sirf ek dance!" (just one dance!) turned into four and even that left me fending off grasping hands as they tried to pull me back into the booming beat of the Marwari music.

The tempo 33 drivers have come to recognize me, know where I'm going, and around when they'll see me waiting on the side of the road. I no longer have to shout 'Ruko!" in front of Bhagvati Tires, the landmark of the GVSS office or furiously wave them down as they weave through camel carts on dusty streets. When they see me at my usual post after work at 5:30, I don't have to worry about calling out from underneath the babies and bundles of the 25 people that have managed to squeeze themselves into the 3-wheeled vehicle smaller than a mini-van. The luxury of having a seat means that you are expected to share the load of the other who don't. If a woman climbs abroad with a baby on her hip, multiple pairs of hands reach out to bounce it on their laps as she stands hunched under the tattered fabric roof. Men are relieved of their canvas sacks of flour and I often find myself peaking into bags of fresh market vegetables that land on my lap out of nowhere imagining them mixed with turmeric, chili, and cumin. Despite the heat, the sometimes uncomfortably close proximity to each other's breath, and the unavoidable grasping on to your neighbor's arm as the driver dodges a cow enjoying the afternoon sun from the middle of the road, everyone coexists untroubled as we zoom down the road, always passing my favorite sign 'Vinay Computers: Ethical Hacking.' As I hopped off in front of the group of children from the tent colony that also know around when they can expect me to emerge from the overflowing tempo, a man buried deep within the tempo called out, 'Which country is crying without you?'.. at least it's one of the more poetic creeper remarks I've heard!

Tomorrow I will be traveling from 'Blue City' to the 'Lake City' on the 7 hour bus ride from Jodhpur to Udaipur. Known for it's beautiful lakes and temples, Udaipur is an inciting break from the lakes of desert sand that have spanned my horizons for the last 7 weeks.

Rukma's House

My fingers are my fork, knife, and spoon. After countless sizzling eggplant or chana masalas, rich spinach or mint dahls, and thick homemade yogurt with cumin seeds, my right hand has been trained to seamlessly rip and dip chapatis into the aromatic stews one smooth motion. I have noticed that the tips of the fingers on my right hand are tinged yellow with turmeric- a sign that I have been eating enough Indian food, in true Indian style. After a minor (yet very spicy) glitch involving my hand that had been chopping a fresh hot chili and my nose that landed me with a face covered in butter and cucumbers to counteract the feeling that a fire was spreading across my face, I have learned to be more careful as I help my host mother khana banana ('to make food') during my nightly cooking lessons. Yes, khana banana is my favorite Hindi phrase.

Along with 110 degree temperatures hot enough to make even the breeze feel more like a hot hair dryer blowing on my face than anything remotely cooling, summer in the Thar Desert also brings heaps and heaps of mangos. Pushcarts piled high with ripe yellow mangos have sprouted up on every corner next to bangles and hand rolled cigarettes. Boiling pots of street-side chai have given way to juicers dripping with fresh mango juice. Never have I tasted anything more refreshing than a fresh squeezed mango shake with lemon- especially when I feel like my skin is melting beneath my kurta and full length leggings after a day of walking under the blazing afternoon sun of Bhadvasia (the color difference between my feet and the rest of my leg is comical by now).

Last week was the first week of the sewing classes in Bhadvasia. Each day, I arrived at Rukma's little house to find between 10-20 women and girls crouched around the teacher carefully measuring out newspaper patterns using worn measuring tapes and chalk. Between the two sessions, there are almost 50 women signed up. Sitting among them in the circle, I watched as friends, mothers, and daughters tactfully measured one another giggling all the while and keeping an eye on their babies that were reaching for the scraps of newspaper. I was impressed with their focus and determination to make their simple sari tops just the right size. During each session, I conducted interviews with five women to gather more information about their families, education, and goals to get a better idea of their lives outside of the two hours a day I spend with them. Having never been interviewed before, most of the girls were hesitant to come into the little room with me and my translator- why is this girl leading me into this little room and what does she want with me? The questions are simple enough- Name, age, marriage, education, children etc. but I've come to realize that it's not about getting the right answers to the right questions, it's about giving the girls and women an opportunity to talk about their lives and have someone listen. I've interviewed 20 women between the ages of 13 and 25 so far and only three of them have more than a primary level of education. Eight of them are completely illiterate. One left school after 'an incident' that resulted in a two month hospital stay- needless to say she did not return and her sister dropped out. Afterwards, their father forbid them to leave the house without his permission. They are attending the sewing classes secretly while he is out shining shoes. It's stories like hers that remind me of the intricate web of causality that they face everyday- and how powerless they are against it.

The responses that have been the most powerful, yet unintentionally so, are those of their futures. Question 9: What are you goals for the future? Most of them have no idea what the question means, let alone know the answer would be. They have never been asked about their futures, only told. Their identities rely on their fathers and then husbands; it's a closed circuit with no room for dreams. Geeta said 'I have no future, so why think about it?' and Gulabi, 'Without education I will never do anything.' It's those answers that make me feel guilty or naive for even asking. But for some, it is the first time they've ever been able to talk about their dream out loud and for that, the question stays. Pooja wants to be a teacher, and Kushoo, a nurse. Although they are unfortunately few and far between, the answers that spark a twinkle in their eyes, urge me to keep asking. All but one or two of them have indicated that they have no occupation- an answer that GVSS has taught me is a red flag for sex work in areas such as Bhavdasia. Ashamed, women hide their sex work even from their families saying they are going to sort trash after the sun goes down.

Given this, the fact that all of them are determined to turn their sewing skills into a new source of income is the most motivation I have ever experienced. For some it is the only goal they can realistically grasp on to. Raj Nandini, a spunky 18 year old, says she will use the money she makes from sewing to send her children to school. So, if I don't show up at JFK in June, you'll know where I'll be. It's easy to get lost in the grim domino effect of illiteracy, disease, and sex work when faced with the sobering realities of these women's lives. Yet when each voice, no matter how timid, expresses a desire for that to change, I know there is something stirring within the blue-washed walls of Rukma's house. 

Planning, planning, planning

As I wait at the end of my little lane for tempo 33 to come chugging along, I am faced with both a tent colony and a glistening palace. Made of clothing, torn fabrics, and newspaper, the ten or so tents occupy a small sandy lot across the street from my house. I am accustomed to the morning 'Madame! Hello Madame' that a little girl with a shaved head has called out to me each morning since my first. Behind the dusty and tattered tents stands the Umaid Bhawan Palace, the stunning home of Jodhpur's royal family. Sometimes I feel as though it is nothing more than a painted backdrop, as its carved pillars and domed roof are almost too magnificent to warrant such normalcy. From where I stand, the tent colony represents the underbelly of the Palace's majesty. The scene is a constant reminder of the coexistence and contradictions of Indian society.

'Concealing emotions, Sarah, is a key principle of social work,' GVSS's project manager told me the other morning as he underlined it twice and drew an arrow pointing towards it, 'you need to work on this!' He likes to sit me down and give me mini lessons about social work and each time he proudly mentions the Masters in Social Work that he holds (he speaks English!). This morning's statement is telling of my experience here in two ways- 1. Indians are very blunt in giving their opinion and 2. Showing emotions gets you close to nowhere. Besides being a little taken aback at first when my coworker frankly told me I needed to comb my hair or when having a blemish amounts to another exclaiming 'Sarah! Your face is pimples!', I have been able to cope with the matter-of-fact observations. As an emotional person who has been raised to advocate for and express myself, the perception of emotions here has not been easy to navigate. If there's one thing I've learned so far, besides only eat with your right hand, it would be that to live here, you have to have thick skin. The process of learning that lesson has landed me in the squat-toilet bathroom of GVSS biting my dupatta to hold back a wide range of frustrations. But just as a car accident involving a crate of fruit, a rickshaw, and two goats got resolved in about five minutes and then seemed to have never happened, issues arise (very loudly), pass, and are never looked back on.

Last week was a test of my ability to adhere to that expectation, and although it was difficult to do so, this week completely made up for it. I've spent this week planning and finally implementing the sewing project in Bhadvasia. Securing the teacher and venue were the easy part, getting a finalized list of participants' names was another story (one that is still in the process of being completed). I arranged two one-day planning meetings so that any woman/girl interested in taking the 2 month course could come and learn about the course. About 40 FSWs (female sex workers) arrived at the small turquoise house eager to sign themselves (and a few sisters and friends) up for the trainings! They sat around us (me, an ORW, and a translator) as we explained the guidelines and structure of the course. My white and pink kurta paled in comparison to the vibrant greens, hot pinks, and oranges of their saris and salwaars. One girl asked if at the end of each session I could give them 'beauty tips,' little at-home remedies for hair or skin... sure? Another asked which 'fair cream' I use. When I told her that I didn't use any of the horrible, skin bleaching products that girls slather their faces and arms with to make their skin lighter (different words of course), the group was shocked. When I then explained that in the States many girls actually darken their skin with creams and purposely lay out in the sun for tanner skin, they broke out into even more of a frenzy.

Although they took 2 hours more than necessary, the meetings were wonderful and full of energy. Seeing how excited the women are to begin on Monday gave me some much-needed reassurance. After some confusion caused by which of the three Sunitas, Pujas, and Kavitas were which, we were on our way passed the naked children playing in the gutter and a woman carrying a freshly severed goat head. The planning meetings, drafts and drafts of attendance sheets, giggling rickshaw rides to the ICTC, and the multiple pairs warm skinny hands latching onto me to and from the slum made this week a true testimony to the value of just letting things happen as they will- even if I have to do so standing next to a squat toilet doing breathing techniques (not a good combination!). I am so looking forward to seeing how the first class goes on Monday, but even more so to spending more time with the girls, women, and babies of Bhadvasia as we somehow manage to get along just fine with broken sentences and laughter.

One shoe and a big stick

I crawled into bed at 3am this morning after having spend the last 4 hours in Old City chasing down groups of men with a big silver stick. Now it's not what you're thinking, I wasn't stranded in the narrow maze like streets left to my own devices or picking up a side job, rather I was participating in a traditional Marwari festival. As Rajasthan is the most traditional (and conservative!) state in India, everyday life in Jodhpur is rich with traditional ceremonies, foods, and clothing. Last night was, as my host sister told me, 'the night when housewives break free and have some fun,' a night when groups of women dressed in outlandish costumes take to the streets and swat any men in their way with big sticks. Before making our 10:30pm arrival at the Old City gate, I had no idea what to expect given the very vague description I was given. I had no idea what I was in for. We joined the hoards of people that were pouring into the crumbling blue and white-washed alleyways that were filled with music, lights, and shrieks from the women as they charged and the men as they fled. Totally confused at first by what was going on, I assumed that we were merely there to watch the eccentric procession of stick wielding women dressed as traditional grooms, policemen, and gods. I soon found out that, as usual, a few plans got lost in translation. 'Sarah, stick! Go! Boys hit hit!' I was handed a silver stick and pulled into the parade that was making its way down the center of the packed street.


At first, the prospect of running at full speed into a group of eager boys (in front the huge crowds) seemed a little strange, yet as I watched women old and young charge with sticks raised overhead into clusters of soon-shrieking men, I figured 'why not!' Apparently the 'foreigner costume' was the hit of the night. Upon even lifting my stick at the crowd, they scrambled against the doorsteps of closed shops. Soon I was running through the crowds alongside women with fake mustaches and face-paint as we threatened our subjects with our decorated sticks. It was a wonderful tension-release to be given the opportunity to give some of the many city creepers a much needed smack across the knees. It was also the most exercise I've done all month! The men were of all ages (I didn't have the heart to hit the old ones in fear they might break something) and seemed to enjoy the attention of the night throughly. It's all for fun of course, but I was surprised at the beating that some of the men took... all of those chapatis make for some strong armed women! The air was filled with laughter and yelps as the procession wound through the tiny alleys. 

When we came upon a raised stage raised 4 ft with a 'DJ,' I knew we were in for it. Forced up the stairs, we soon found ourselves entertaining an uncomfortably large, cell-phone picture snapping, crowd with our live performance of Hindi hits and Shakira's 'Waka Waka' (just substitute 'Jodhpur' for anytime the song says 'Africa'). I think the fact that I unknowingly ate a very large handful of 'special' puja (food for the Gods eaten during festivals) that apparently was prepared to make you feel that much closer to the heavens above, put my hesitations to rest. Oops! Six stages, four awards, and one broken sandal later, we finally escaped the excited crowds would cheered for just 'ek aur (one more)' rendition of Justin Bieber. With one barefoot (hello, strange disease) and a newfound confidence for swatting the masses, I continued to thrash my way through the streets of beautifully ornate temples, balloons, and of course, cows. It was the most bizarre festival I think I will ever attend but it was too fun to question. Before collapsing into bed to cherish my mere 5 hours of rest before heading to the office, I scrubbed my foot in the sink and doused it with hand sanitizer.

On the way from Bhadvasia to the office today, the two GVSS outreach workers and I stopped for a glass of freshly squeezed sugarcane juice on the street. I don't know if it was my sagging eyes of 5 hours sleep or the color of my hair, but the sugarcane man immediately recognized me and started swatting the air as if with a bat as he laughed that he had seen me the night before. A few others joined around and started shouting with laughter that I they saw me. One of them then brought over a page from the morning newspaper covered in action shots of the night's comical brutality. There, between a picture of a woman painted blue as Krishna and a group of smiling, yet helpless men, was a picture of the one-shoed gora mid- 'Waka Waka!' That's one for the photo album. 

Nirvana

          Dreams of veggie omelets, pancakes, and oatmeal danced in my head as I munched on my Sunday morning breakfast of a grilled potato sandwich. I watched tentatively as my host mother piled a mound of mashed potato and spices between two pieces of white bread, painted it with oil, and grilled it on the stove. Compared to my usual breakfast of papaya and banana, I know it was considered a ‘special’ breakfast, something like the equivalent of a stack of Belgian waffles on a Sunday morning. Needless to say, I accepted it graciously and smiled it down.
        After fending off the second one that was quickly coming my way, I sat at the table to enjoy my morning chai and biscuit ritual. I knew that Sundays are the day that the woman who cleans the Sharma's house comes. She wears the most vibrant pink and gold scarf. She arrives barefoot and always in the same dress, yet the little bells that hang from her anklets, her turquoise bangles, and her head scarf add a certain beauty to what many here would consider anything but. The caste system is a a component of Indian culture that takes getting used to. It bears a complexity that never ceases to confuse me, as the divisions that I previously understood seem to have endless sub-castes and exceptions. There have been many moments that, as an outsider to this normalcy, have been hard to stomach. On this Sunday morning, like all Sunday mornings, she takes her chai crouching on the floor next to me as I sit in only one of the four chairs at the table. The weight of the potatoes suddenly felt even heavier in my stomach.
        In the afternoon, I hopped on a bus to meet Sukie in another part of the city to enjoy the freedom our Sunday. Our first stop was this little roadside South Indian food joint, a small stall that smelled of chili powder, oil, and coconut. We split a plate of idli- cold fluffy rice patties with coconut chutney and spicy yellow curry. When we realized we'd scrapped up every last drop from the bowls, we decided we should probably order another one. We then went for Indian facials, 'fresh fruit facials' to be exact. The woman lathered my face with scrubs, lotions, and masked as she finger painted her way through the layer of sweat, and dirt that had already accumulated at my 1pm appointment. It smelled like, well, fresh fruit, and was wonderfully relaxing. I couldn't stifle my laughter when a few Now 8 hits come on over the speakers to add to the mood.
        The cleansed feeling lasted only a few minutes after we walked back out into the real 105 degree world, but hey! A few minutes later I found myself standing in a little old cobbler's flip flops on the side of the road as he hand sewed my flapping sandals back together. In only a few short minutes we were back on the road headed towards the final destination of the day, a little temple Sukie had been telling me about located up into the rocky  hill. We walked up hot paved roads that made me feel like an egg being fried over easy, through backwater neighborhoods, and among groups of boys playing cricket in the streets. A few wrong turns later, we stood that the bottom of a long, narrow, and steep stone staircase that, with the heat and our shortness of breath, seemed like a cruel joke. But up we went passed curious onlookers, basically walking inside peoples doorways as it grew ever narrower up at the top. Finally, we saw the little white-washed temple, painted with red 'Oms' and decorated with prayer flags, nestled inside the hill. The hill overlooked the entire blue-washed city. From above, you realize how much life exists beyond the eye can see at street level; the roof of each house becomes a stage on which the lives of each family overflows. Each cement roof was spotted with the bright headscarves of women cooking or hanging clothes. I was amazed by the layers of activity the view from above exposes. Inside, we found the little stringy haired guru wearing baggy shorts sweeping the tiled floors quietly singing to himself. He greeted us with a bowing 'Namaste' and welcomed us to sit on the cool floor. The walls, one of which was the side of the rocky cliff itself, were painted with murals and filled with posters of Shiva. Figurines, picture frames draped with malas, and flower offerings filled the little room. The breeze was cool and filled with incense. As we sat, drank chai that he prepared for us, and meditated, the little guru keep sweeping, singing, and enjoying the serenity of his nirvana. We stayed there until the huge orange sun set behind the hills and the moon took its place behind us.

To market, to market

This week has been more of the same going into the colonies to rally and escort the sex workers to the testing and counseling clinic. One of the most powerful experiences about work so far is the incredible feeling of emerging out the slum area amongst a colorfully dressed diverse gang of women. Some have been as young as 14, some old enough to see the years of manual labor in their leathery hands. Some are happy and playful, others quiet and intense. Yet the differences melt away as they walk through the door of the clinic. They were among the group that didn’t run away in fear or misconception and with that, they support each other.

As each day grows hotter and hotter, the air on the bus becomes thicker and more laden with body odor. The stop between the colonies and the office is a busy market lined with women squatting in front of vibrant displays of bangles, sugarcane juice stands, and barber ‘shops,’ small structures resting on cement blocks with one chair, a mirror, and a bucket of soapy razors. It is also the location of the main sabzi (vegetable market). Kanchan-ji and I usually stop there on the way home as she peruses the carts for the best priced tomatoes, onions, and potatoes. I love watching her haggle with the men seated among their baskets of fruits, veggies, and spices; she is utterly relentless as she refuses to be given even one bruised banana. She is also endlessly entertained by the ridiculous prices the vendors offer me for their produce, ‘ye angur? Tin soh rupaya!’ (‘These grapes? 300 rupees!’). She cracks up every time.

            We pass also carts filled with overflowing baskets of flower garlands and the small boys that weave them seated atop them. The speed and precision with which they stab, string, and tie, stab, string, and tie the bright pink, orange, and yellow flowers make me wonder how many of their, maybe, 11 gap-toothed years had been spent sitting in the rickety contraption. I remember looking at pictures of the heaps of color in the stack of India travel guides I accumulated at home and thinking there was no way that they could possibly be that brilliant in real life. Well, they are.

             Satisfied with the little plastic bags of her soon-to-be-dinner, Kanchan bought us ice cream from a street vendor to quickly salvage our dwindling blood sugar. As I watched him plunge the cube of frozen cream into a bucket of sure-to-be- bacteria filled water, my thoughts went right to the stash of Pepto tablets I keep on me at all times. The freezing sweetness immediately trumped the thoughts of millions of amoebas having a heyday in my intestines. Despite snacking on questionable ‘fried kuch-kuch’ (literally meaning ‘fried something-something’) accepting proud displays of chai in dripping wet cups from the women in the colonies (just cleaned!..yeah, with the tap water), and succumbing to an unbeatable craving to eat a fresh apple from a street vendor, I’ve been home free. All hail the power of probiotics! 

 Due to the holiday ‘Ram Navmi’ on Tuesday, we had a half-day at the office and I was invited to spend the morning at one of the ORW’s houses to eat the traditional morning meal. I arrived at her house and found her in the kitchen wearing the most beautiful yellow sari. On the counter next to her was a pile of steaming hot puri (thick fried roti) that she had just taken out of the pot of sizzling oil on the stove. She sat me down on bed in the main room and served me chai, puri, and khir (a dangerously sweet rice pudding with coconut, milk, and sugar). It was probably the most delicious thing I’ve had so far. Four pieces of puri and a second bowl of khir later, I felt like I was about to explode. Lessoned to be learned? Eat slowly or it just keeps coming and it is impossible to decline. Ok, but this is the laaaast one!...not. 

            After playing with the neighborhood kids, visiting each member of their extended family’s house, and almost being forced onto a horse much to the enjoyment of the old men sitting in a nearby doorway, it was time to head back to the office. I started to climb onto the back of her two-wheeler when she motioned (she doesn’t speak English) for me to sit sidesaddle behind her. Yikes. There we were zooming off over sand and potholes as we joined the dusty morning commute into the desert. I gripped the one handle on the back so tightly with my one hand that my knuckles turned white, but after being passed by a moped loaded with a family of four and a basket of metal pots, I figured I could let up a little and enjoy my ‘spacious’ ride.

             

Ek, do, ek do!

Today marks the second day that I dragged myself out of bed at 5:45 am to go to my newfound morning yoga class! Starting at 6am, just before the heat and bustle of the city climb to unbelievable levels, the class is located in a small garden just a few minutes away from my house. And it's free! The class is not exactly what I was expecting when my host sister (in-law) invited me to join her- she is on a health kick these days. The mornings are serene and for once the traffic didn't overpower all of my senses. Bleary-eyed we arrived to the little garden/temple area and walked a few laps around the grass (after all, 'walking on grass barefoot is very good for your eyesight, you know Sarah'). Green long panels cover the front of the lawn to give a little extra padding under our mats (sheets), and they are split into men's and women's sides. Women in full saris and salwaar suits trickled in and took their spots on the panels. I couldn't help but laugh to myself when a group of women power walked in all wearing salwaars and blaring white reebok sneakers- workout group! I just may have stumbled upon the Hampshire Fitness of Jodhpur.

After ten minutes of silent meditation, aka the most quite I've experienced since I've been here, one man and one woman stand in front and lead the class. Bangles jingled with each set of jumping jacks, arm circles, and forward bends . I couldn't help but wonder how doing high-knees in a sari might work out?  'Ek do, ek do, ek do (one two, one two, one two) es-stop!'.. sun-salutation bootcamp. A cross between yoga and aerobics, the class may be just what I need to counteract the pounds of oil, ghee (clarified butter), and most delicious sweets I've ever had. I attribute the fact that I was actually sweating at the end solely to the rising temperature of the morning.. really!

At the front of the garden there is a small temple in a gazebo type structure where a few men sit around incense and a fire to recite early morning prayers over a loudspeaker, 'Om shanti shanti shanti.' After the 'cardio' section is done, a man sits on a platform in front of us and leads another meditation and breathing session. Doing yogic breathing of different kinds, although making me feel light headed from time to time, is a fabulous way to start the day. As we meditated and did kapalbhati breathing (a series of short and compressed exhales), the smoke and prayer music from the temple filled the grassy lawn. Before I knew it, an hour and a half had past and it was time to walk home to get ready for work. Note to self: shake off a little of the meditative daze before trying to cross the cow, bus, and rickshaw crowded streets.

Sunday Blues

I started off my Sunday morning with an important lesson to be learned: kurtas are not color safe. After having hand washed the brightly colored suits last weekend, I figured that it would be safe (and less work) to toss them all in the small family washing machine. I knew something was amiss when I heard my host mother laughing in the bathroom. Peering into the washing machine I saw a pool of dark blue water.. great. I will now be a vision in baby blue (and weird green tones where yellow used to be) every day of the week. I also have a flashy new pair of, now, blue tie-dye leggings. My host mom and I spent the next ten minutes cracking up in the bathroom over my rookie mistake which I don't think I would trade for the normal color of my clothes. That seems to be a pattern here; whenever I feel I'm at a low point (i.e. getting puked on, dying my clothes blue, or growing frustrated at being lost in translation), something always happens in the next few minutes that make up for it. However corny it may sound, I think that will be an important sentiment to keep in mind as I face the challenges that are sure to come.

I spent the day enjoying the AC at Cafe Coffee Day (aka the Starbucks of India) and picking up a newly tailored suit (a kurta with matching pants and scarf) from the market that I will be sporting tomorrow. At night, I went on an FSD picnic Kailana Lake for a picnic with a few host families and children from an FSD-affiliated children's home. After whizzing down the curvy roads in the back of an open back truck, we arrived at the picnic spot overlooking the beautiful lake and surrounding hills. During the rare moments of silence between the shrieks or songs of the kids, sounds of prayer could be heard from a temple across the water. Heaps of samosas, mirchi bara (fried chili peppers), and golab (10 lbs of sugar and butter squeezed into a little ball) covered the picnic table. As the sun set, swarms of dragon flies flew overhead. With the gradual darkness, the heat of the day settled into a perfect warmth for sitting, thinking, and quietly preparing for the week to come.

Rallying the troops

I've spent the last few days going back and forth between the Bhadvasia colony (where I will be working) and the Integrated Counseling and Testing Center (ICTC) where GVSS refers the FSWs to get tested for HIV and other sexually transmitted infections. Each time we go to Bhadvasia I am met by requests for an encore dance performance which I have declined thus far.. but I don't think they'll let me get away with excuses next week. Everyone has been so excited and welcoming and I find myself leaving each time with a small gift-- a friendship bracelet or new dupatta (scarf). From the women crouched on the street in a small gambling circle to the man stringing flower garlands in a small stall, the winding pathways never cease to be bursting with life.

It is no easy task persuading the girls to come with us--a struggle that exposes how many of the tensions between health and culture are even heightened in the slums. Going house to house, the outreach workers try to refer as many women as they can to come to the ICTC with us. Not all of them are registered under the GVSS intervention groups in the colony, but they are encouraged to come anyways in hopes of reaching the largest possible group. The women are always hesitant and many decline. Watching the outreach workers try to convince them, ask them why not, and talk about the number of girls that went the day before gives me so much respect for them. They are tireless and passionate about getting the women to the center. I don't need to be fluent in Hindi to understand the reasons the women give for their unwillingness to come; the children on their hips, barefeet, and baskets of laundry speak for themselves. GVSS tries to make the trip to the center as easy as possible- the women do not have to pay for anything from the transportation to the test itself and children are crammed into the rickshaws with their mothers. But there is so much fear in their eyes. As soon as they hear the words 'blood test,' 'clinic', or 'counseling' they almost immediately turn away. Some agree to come on their own, others are swayed by their obliging friends, sisters, or mothers. On Thursday all it took was one grandmother to agree for her daughter and three granddaughters to follow suit. It usually takes about two hours of walking around the colony, approaching women in their doorways, and explaining to groups of hesitant friends why getting the test is important and nothing to be afraid of. Yet, the combination of fear, misconceptions, and stigma do not make for an easy task. Over the past three days we've taken a groups of 28, 6, and 11 women.

After three hours of recruiting on Thursday, we were actually able to rally up a group of 28. The next step is finding enough rickshaw drivers that are willing to transport all of us. Some have made it very clear they want nothing to do with a group of slum dwelling women on their way to a medical facility. Walking through the daunting hallways of the medical college on the first floor does nothing to soothe the nerves of the huddled together women as each room is dark and filled with old microscopes, medical instruments, and heaps of papers. When we get to the waiting room they silently sit as their names are called to meet with the counsellor and then enter the testing room. The majority of them are illiterate, married, and under the age of 25. The room was too full when we arrived with the large group of women and children so they were told to wait in the hall outside. Hopes of anonymity are slimmed. The fact that the first girl let out a yelp when they stuck the needle into her arm made it even more difficult to coax the following girls to take their turn. After watching the first three women sit in the alone in the little room under the fluorescent lighting obviously terrified about what was going on, I decided that I would go in with the rest of them to hold their hand while they got the test done. Upon seeing the needle, most of them tried to get up and run out of the room, but I think that just having someone there to support them really helped as they took a breath and sat back down. During each of the last three trips to the ICTC, I've spent the time holding the hands and stroking the hair of the terrified girls, a foreign gesture to the ICTC testing doctors who don't pay much mind to the people behind the serial number.

Navigating the intricacies of health, culture, and gender here has been nothing short of an intense experience laden with both language and cultural barriers. If trying to create a work-plan with a group of non-English speaking office staff wasn't motivation enough to spend every waking hour studying Hindi, sitting with the group of curious, chatty, and giggly teenage girls sure was. Despite the language barrier, the last three days have created a solid base for my relationship with the women of Bhadvasia. Through standing with them at the ICTC, holding their babies, and embarrassing myself with my horrible accent, I think I have proven my keep. Walking through one of the other colonies today, I couldn't help but notice a shirt hanging from a laundry line that read "With money you can buy sex, not love"... a statement, that given the population I'm working with, I don't know exactly how to take. But it struck me as such an ironic expression of the complicated universe that the slums exist in.

While thinking about what a week it's been on the tempo ride home from work today, I realized that the little boy across from me (no more than 1 foot away) was looking a little green and squeamish. Before I could even think about how I might climb over the three people next to me in hopes of moving farther away from him just in case, he leaned over the side and vomited... right into the wind. I guess the first thing on my sunday to-do list will be to wash the entire front of my bag. I came home to freshly baked sweets and chai which had a surprising way of making up for the mishap!

I also just uploaded a few pictures on facebook.. they don't do the trip justice, but it's something!

Dancing Gora!

After spending the morning wedged into a sweltering hot bus and having my nose shoved into the armpit of the man standing next to me, I arrived at the GVSS office assuming that the day could only go uphill from there. I don't think I could have anticipated just how right I was. I have been making it very obvious that I was anxious to go into the field more and really see the Targeted Interventions at work, so I was promised that I would spend most of today in the field. GVSS has various High Risk Groups of FSWs (female sex workers)  throughout the city and surrounding area ranging from brothels to larger slums (or 'colonies' as they're called). Through a partnership with an elected Peer Educator (an FSW herself), GVSS has established HIV/AIDs interventions, Self Help Groups, and trainings for the women. These Targeted Interventions aim to support the FSWs in the betterment of their social, economic, and medical outcomes.Each week, outreach workers visit the sites and meet with the Peers to make sure that all the HIV/other STI testing is up to date and that things with the rest of the FSWs are going smoothly.

The first stop this morning was to one of the main brothels in Red Light District of Jodhpur. The two outreach workers I went with were surprised that the idea of going to a brothel at 10 am didn't turn me away and that I was actually really interested in talking to the women and seeing the place I had been reading so much about in the past few days. Since it's located in the middle of the Old City, we couldn't get there by rickshaw, car, or bus, so I found myself on the back of an wooden horse drawn cart- the only transportation allowed to pass through the gate- on my way to the brothel. When we got there, we walked though the trash strewn streets past curious onlookers wondering what I could possibly be doing in that part of town. The two outreach workers forced me between the two of them so to not give anyone any sort of ideas about the matter. We were greeted by the Peer at the brothel and a few of the other women. We sat in one of their bedrooms and talked for a while (well, they mostly talked and I was a few minutes behind translating for myself... 75% successful). Luckily for me, Indians use many hand gestures so I can get a better idea of what's going on. I learned that the women's ages range from 15-mid 40's and that they follow suit with GVSS's regular testing and condom distribution. I got some raised eyebrows when they asked me my age. After playing with a chubby baby, chatting with the women, and of course having some chai, the three of us took gave our thanks and were on our way. We took a little detour and went bangle shopping! The Old City is home to cart upon cart piled high with rings of bangles; aka heaven for me. I got my first round of real glass bangles; a stack of blues and reds splattered with gold. Not exactly sure how I'm going to get them off since the man basically crushed every bone in my henna covered hands to squeeze them on. ' No fall off!' he said proudly after releasing my crushed knuckles... you're telling me!

After a quick lassie, we were on our way the colony where I am going to start my project in the next few weeks. The women have all expressed a desire to learn how to use sewing machines so to establish an alternative income source. Not only can they sew from their own homes, but they can also pass the skills on to their daughters so to avoid their entry into the sex trade. We went to the Peer of the colony's house to wait for the women to come. I had no idea what I was in for. They all showed up, about 30 FSWs, and almost immediately started fighting. I was told that Indians speak loudly on a normal basis, well they were SHOUTING. Shouting, pointing, gesturing, and throwing their arms up in the air.. I had zero idea what was going on. I only started to worry when they all started pointing at me! Soon our chairs were surrounded by angry shouting women and my translation skills were completely useless. When I tried to ask one of the outreach workers what was going on, she just said "Money!" The fury lasted about 20 minutes.. during all of which I was desperately looking at the outreach workers to at least try to explain the issue (better yet, why I was involved) but still nothing. I only found out later that it was a long standing issue that had nothing to do with me (something that would've been nice to know as I sat there thinking I already did something wrong!). We complied a list of 41 names of women who are interested in the sewing training. Getting the names is only the first step since I need to find out if any of the FSWs already have sewing skills and can be paid to teach the sessions.

Then as if nothing had happened, the Peer got up and said it was time to visit houses. As we walked through the small winding streets of the slum, we acquired quite an entourage. With each house we passed, three new community members joined on exciting shouting a few English words they knew. In the central area, music was blasting from an open window and a woman was dancing in the street. Upon hearing it, everyone turned to me and smiled. Uh-oh. From countless impromptu dance performances in Guatemala and Peru, I am very aware that music + foreigner = endless entertainment. 'Dance karo! Dance karo! (Go dance! Go dance!)' one of the women yelled and I was promptly led by the previously dancing woman into the small circle of people watching her. I knew there was no way out and I might as well embrace the experience. I'm pretty sure news of the dancing gora (white foreigner) spread throughout the colony and within 30 seconds of my awful attempt at Indian dancing, I was surrounded. My embarrassment quickly melted and soon I was dancing up a storm to the blasting top 40 Bollywood Hits in the middle of a cheering crowd of families and creepy guys taking cell phone pictures. I spent the rest of the day (followed by the ever growing crowd) visiting some of the women that want to take the sewing training and wandering around the humid streets that smelled of incense and cumin.

"This is tempo, no rickshaw!"

This was also my first week at GVSS! The office consists of three small rooms and a little clinic, all covered in maps of the various slums where they work, posters about sexual health and hygiene, and drawings done by the Women's Self Help groups they facilitate… all of which are written in Hindi, of course (more practice for me)! It's located in a rural desert area outside the city. I was slightly nervous on the first day, unsure of how my first day of work would be at a place where very little to no English is spoken, but it ended up being totally fine. This first week was time for me to get a sense of GVSS’s programs, staff, structure, and daily activities. I spent my first day reading one of their manuals called “Targeted Interventions for Female Sex Workers (FSWs) and other High Risk Groups” so looks like I’m jumping right in!  Although my personal project won’t necessarily be focused on HIV/AIDS interventions and STI awareness for the FSWs they work with, it was helpful to read the manual from which many of their programs are based. Along with the Organization Director and office assistant, there are four outreach workers- (very funny and outgoing) women who go to the colonies and brothels where GVSS programs are focused. Currently, the main programs are an HIV/AIDS testing and health outreach initiative for the sex workers in different colonies and a start-up sewing cooperative. 

I have been successfully taking public transportation to and from work-- an skill that will definitely take some practice. I have the choice between taking a 'tempo,' a kind of carpool/group rickshaw with a set (very bumpy) route into the outskirts of the city or frantically flagging down public bus, an all together hectic experience. Tempos can get VERY crowed in the mornings (to the point of people dangling off all sides) and often times  whiz by me as the drivers think I am making a mistake in hailing them down since they are primarily for people on their work commute. The bus adds 20 minutes to my trip as every few stops, the driver gets off for a chai break while waiting for it to fill up. It gets completely packed and then proceeds to speed down the road nearly plowing through any other traffic. Adjusting to the Indian sense of time has been a slow process.. My famous 'fear of being late to something I am 15 minutes early to’ (thanks, Dad) proved completely pointless as I spent my second morning waiting outside the locked gate of GVSS; a clear indication of my newbie-status to the giggling construction workers next door. Time is more a guideline that anything else.

Aside from spending most of my time reading reports, discussing (thank god for Hinglish) the different programs and slums with the outreach workers, and starting to brainstorm for my project, I was able to so some fieldwork with one of the outreach workers yesterday. We went to an HIV/AIDS testing and counseling center where we joined four of the many sex workers involved in GVSS's HIV/AIDS program. After waiting for each of them to get tested and talk to a counselor (I spent the  waiting time entertaining of two adorable babies they brought along), we distributed iron tablets and a general antibiotic to the Peer Educator, the elected FSW  liaison between the rest of the FSW community and GVSS. Being at the overcrowed, hot, and emotional clinic was definitely an intense first field experience, but an amazing one at that. I can't wait to go into the colonies and have the opportunity to spend more time with the women and to learn more about their lives, families, and ideas for future GVSS programs (as my yet-to be-planned project will eventually be). It has been a week filled with new faces, inspiring work, and much Hindi to learn… oh yes, and 100s of cups of chai and questions about my marital status.