the doctor ordered a week in the countryside.

We got back in to Bangalore early this morning on the overnight train from Koppel, a region in the northern part of the state of Karnataka. It's among the poorest areas around, and quite rural. The elevation is considerably lower and the temperature considerably higher, although it rained (out of season) almost every day. During the monsoon, there was a drought. We stayed at a grungy hotel, ate dry oatmeal and honey for breakfast, worked on building a meditation center and school, saw the second biggest set of ruins in the world (after Rome)(!!), and talked to a lot of people. Real Indian people. Little girls, temple prostitutes, impoverished Dalit (P.C. for untouchables) villagers, child laborers, farmers, women working in a factory, men on the train, the superintendent of police and everyone asking "what country?" and "what is your name?" and we are always saying "Nana Hessaru Bay-tanny" "America" "Nina hessaru yenu?" and repeating these names that don't roll off of any of our tongues-- Gangama, Vishwasager, Shilaja, Nazzer, Shilpa, Mumata, names I can never remember but repeat to myself over and over again anyways because at least I want to try.

Some entries from my journal:

I am so inspired by these women, who in the face of extreme poverty, in the face of hard labour and harassment and 1000 years of tradition say "With our generation it will stop." Devidasi women, dedicated to the god at 10 years old, are condemned to a life of single-motherhood, serving the whims of men who will not acknowledge their own children in the street, who might bring some vegetables when they visit. They are the untouchables among the untouchables. They said to us "I know you can't save us, but won't you please do something for our children?" These women were so beautiful, with their laughter, their determination and their premature wrinkles. I pray to have their strength.

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We talked to some child laborers and their landlord in a cotton field. The children had all dropped out of school-- some as early as second standard, to work from 9-6 in the field. They get 1 hour's break for lunch, and are paid 60 rupees (about a dollar) a day. The work they are doing is cross-pollination, producing seeds. A big company gives the farmer seed, fertelizer, and money for labor on loan, and the farmer gives up his traditional and eco-friendly multicrop farming, stops the production of food, to grow a cash-crop.

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Yesterday was hard. We went to a rural village with a large (150) Dalit population. They were very hospitable, singing and playing us wonderful music. They asked us questions, and they cheered when they heard how women's rights had progressed in the U.S. Then they told us about their lives, first by answering questions, then by inviting us into their homes. Most of the community works as laborers, althoguh some own land. Even those with land are very poor because of the drought. As Dalits, they are not allowed into key places in town-- temples, tea shops, the well-- but are asked to do the village's dirty work. Because of drought and poverty, the government has allotted some relief money to the area-- but these Dalits never saw any of it. The upper-caste local government leaves them out of the equation. One family we visited struck me especially hard. Their house was one small, dark room, where more than 5 lived. The husband had lost the use of his hands to leprosy and couldn't work. The wife made 30 rupees a day laboring in the fields-- when she could find work. I asked "what is one thing you'd like to see change?" and the father told me "Who am I to talk about change? My struggles is to fill my stomach."

Living

It is dark still,
as dark as cities get,
when the sounds of metal-
on-metal, the breakfast smells,
the strange music, the
musical words begin. The
rushing-by of traffic
and lives-lived from other
people's windows, and
it is all in
my ear my nose like
India is digging itself a
home in my eyes.
(here is the ancient world
being born as the sun rises,
or as we turn to face it. Across
the globe it has already set.)
Already it is living on my
tongue, behind my teeth,
it is living in my stomach.
Here is India settling too
on my skin. I try
not to brush it off, though
it is strange to me--
gold dust, spicy smell
and dogs in the street.

And here are the people twisted
like trees, here the children
who tug my sleeve, here a bright woman,
heavy with unborn birth, balanced
on the roof, pouring cement -- and
here I strike the heart of it,
this leathery-old place that cries
as it is born, a new thing in an
old skin (or is it the other way?)
Here are the unhappy rich and
the smiling poor, who are,
after all, still alive despite
the failing monsoon, and the rain,
when it comes, comes through the roof.
In Urdu, Tamil, Kannada, in Hindi,
Malyalam, in thick-tongued english they
tell me we are citizens of a thing called
living.

It is all we know how to do.

And then across the skyline--
churchtemplemosque
and the temples, too, of
glittering commerce
where all night the phones
ring off their hooks--
the siren-call to modern
prayer. And the young man
who answers the phone
“HellomynameisBill
How Can I Help You”
tells me that India is moving
up
in the world.
“becoming a part of the Global
market, you know, a so-big power!”
so that I, a citizen of said Globe,
can call mynameisBill to fix my
computer so that I can write this
poem

about being in India,
where my blue eyes make me
strange, where I do not know the
names of various fruits where my
eyes ears tongue bowels say
you do not
belong
here.

But I, too, am a citizen of living.

in the end,
it is all that I (we?) know how to do.

We're Here!

It's beautiful here-- very lush and green, with birds everywhere. On the ride from the airport I saw some cows in the street, a man brushing his teeth and cooking something in a black pot over a fire, a little boy who smiled and waved through the window, piles of trash, little shacks I could see inside, people riding bikes along the highway, huge billboards advertising highspeed internet in English ("I carry speed") and a million other things I can't describe. I'll figure out later how to do pictures, but suffice it to say that Brendan and my new camera is getting a good workout already.

I love you all, but I don't miss you too much yet.

peace and adventures!
Bethany

leaving tomorrow

I think this feeling is akin to moving out to go to college for the first time. I have that feeling that I have to savor everything I know and recognize--the food, the people, the weather, the places-- knowing that everything where I'm going will be different. Not bad, I know, but different and probably, at times, really uncomfortable. The food will be incredible, but I know that at some point I'll just want a sandwich. It will be great to get to know Indian people, but I know I'll be homesick for my family and friends here-- even to see people who look like me or talk like me.

BUT. I'm going there to be uncomfortable, right? to get WAY out of my comfort zone. to have the world as I know it messed up.

so. bring on the culture shock!

The World is Round

When I place my hands
on the ground, side-by-side
(here, like so)
and if I sit very quietly
and hush all the music in
my head I begin to feel
the earth in its bulk.
Below this grass is soil.
below that rock, and water,
and magma, tectonic plates,
a giant, shifting world moving
in its own idea of forever.
And below that is china,
or India where there are people
walking and loving and touching
the ground with two hands,
like-so.
And all of us--the
spider crawling on my leg,
the jack pine and its shy seeds,
the Chinese lovers and me
are turning constantly
away from the light and then
towards it, like a dance.
like so.

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I'm leaving for India on Saturday. Wow.

To Guide a Canoe Trip...

I realize that in my last post I briefly alluded to my time at camp but didn't flesh it out very well. Here's kind of a quick overview of my life and work at Amnicon this summer...

I had the extreme privelege and intense challenge of ushering up to 12 youth through the wilderness for a week at a time. My job included everything from teaching kids how to paddle (most had never been in a canoe before, and we were hitting some class 3 rapids on some trips!) to cooking their meals over an open fire to doing first aid (I had one or two really scary first aid scenarios this year, including a surprise allergic reaction...) to hearing their life stories and managing group dynamics and keeping them entertained with bad jokes and minute mysteries.
I had a couple of groups of what we call 'high functioning' campers-- that is, groups that are able to work together to get what needs done, done in an effecient way so that we can hang out and enjoy ourselves. A pretty good measure for how high-functioning a group is is how they handle 'the woodpile'. For every campsite, as part of our set-up, we drag in a huge pile of sticks from the woods and then break them, meticulously, to about the length of your forearm. Then we stack them (again, if I have my way, meticulously) arranged by diameter so that when I'm cooking I can always find the right kind of stick to control things like the heat of the fire and it's size. I had one group of campers who, when we said "we need more wood", ran into the forest cheering. This is NOT typical. Most groups you have to poke and prod and explain over and over and over again why we need sticks-- so we can have a fire so we can cook dinner so we can eat so we can go to bed so we can wake up and do it again...
I also had a couple of really challenging weeks. Actually, some of my fondest memories from the summer come from those weeks that were really tough and took a lot of my energy. I had a group from inner-city Chicago that managed to have 2 love triangles going on between 6 campers, that avoided breaking wood like the plague, where one camper refused to paddle with me because I'm a woman. By the end of the week, the same camper was hugging me goodbye and promising to come back next year. He said "Long paddles and breaking wood-piles make you realize who you really are." Yup. That's what we're about.

The Interim

I'm home from camp, and leaving for India on August 29th-- in 12 days.  Today I'm headed up to the cabin with my family.  This is exciting-- I haven't been there in something like two years.  I'm anticipating a paddle around somewhere-- my arms are already starting to twitch, missing canoeing every day-- and making a huge batch of soup to can with my mother, and swimming in the lake every time of day and sleeping out on the lawn-- I still have a hard time with four walls around me.  The cabin--actually, two cabins and a bunkhouse, and a garage that we eat in sometimes-- is a haven of memories.  It makes me feel young to be there.  I imagine fairies everywhere I turn.  Picking crab-apples for applesauce, fishing off the dock with Grandpa with purple lures, making muffins, playing demon in the garage, sewing on the treadle machine, doodling around with my cousins.  The bead shop, Granny's pantry, Larry's grocery.  Listening to old records, when we can make the record player work-- Simon and Garfunkle, records full of hymns.  Grandma watching 'As the World Turns' on a tiny, fuzzy t.v.  Cheesebuttons and Strudel.  Burnt toast with strawberry jam.  Always something that needs fixing.  A book on the cracked patio.  

Yes, I'm glad to be going there.  I need to soak up the love and laughter and banter and food that comes along with my family.  I need to re-assimilate into the world beyond Amnicon.  I need to prepare myself mentally for another adventure--this time across the world.