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.

 

Cricket World Cup Champions!

The last few days have been a transition out of my first week daze and into a real understanding of what my next few months are going to look like. After two more days of exploring Old City’s garment district, being woken up by the 5am call to prayer that echoed throughout the city, and experimenting with the impossible public transportation system, I finally moved in with my host family! The Sharma family consists two elderly parents, two sons (19 and 30), a daughter-in-law, a precious 3 year-old, and Anna, the family dog. They are all extremely warm and welcoming, and I couldn't feel more comfortable in their house. Mrs. Sharma-ji, the mother of the house who speaks less English than I do Hindi, is the sweetest woman and loves that I have been spending the evenings watching and helping her make dinner. The food is delicious- mostly chapati, dahl, sabzi (vegetables), and curd. On my first night I was feeling sick so they insisted that I drink watered down curd and salt.. definitely the opposite of what sounded appetizing, but it was my first night with them so, I took a deep breath and gulped. I have to admit, I felt much better in the morning!


The older son and his wife (the parents of Angel, the three year old) speak English very well and have taken to bringing me along with them to different places at night. Two nights ago I went to my first Indian celebration! With my party kurta on, I hopped in the packed car to head to a retirement party—a very big eventhere. There was more food, color, and music than anyone could imagine. I was very touched that the family wanted to bring me along and they happily introduced me to everyone. It was a beautiful celebration and the man of honor was sitting on a small stage dressed in the traditional Rajasthani dress to take pictures with all of the guests. I was surprised to find out that we were leaving after only about half an hour when everyone had gotten so dressed up! All day excitement had been building up for the night's India v. Pakistan match in the Cricket World Cup (semi-finals)! When we got back the 8 hour game was nearing its final hour so I stayed up and watched the Indian victory and the utter explosion of fireworks, huge crowds, and cheering thereafter.. so exciting! People stormed the streets with paint and fireworks, everyone more excited that they beat Pakistan than the fact the were going to the finals.


The next night we celebrated Angel's 3rd birthday with a small family party at a special outdoor restaurant. Angel spent the night running around the table with excitement and we even had special, spur of the moment, entertainment performed by a group of British tourists (65 yrs plus) who were letting loose to some Rhianna and Justin Bieber. I returned back to the house completely stuffed with food only to find that, wait... ice cream for dessert round two!


As if two nights of celebrations weren't enough, last night was the final match of the World Cup against Sri Lanka. FSD (Foundation for Sustainable Development) hosted a dinner and game watching party for all of the families and organizations at another outdoor venue (very popular in the summer). It was really fun to meet all of the other families and see how excited everyone was about the game. After a nerve wracking few hours, India won!!! Apparently the last World Cup they won was 24 years ago, so people went wild to make up for it! Driving home on the back of the family moped we doged fireworks in the street and the hoards of people shrieking with excitement. At home, we even set off a few of our own fireworks on the street to celebrate wahoo! 


I was glad to have the day off from work and parties today (sunday!) and to have some time to relax at home, wash some clothes, and find my way to an internet cafe. I think I'll spend the rest of the day perusing the isles of a little Ayurvedic medicine store and drinking some fresh squeezed sugarcane juice (summer specialty) on the side of the road... accha (sounds good)!