DallaDalla Ballas

A general recap of last weekend: cre cre. Due to some unfortuante circusmtances, SIC is a bit low on trucks right now. The result: even volunteers who are reallly far away from the main road had to find hteir own way back to Arusha. My group was one of these lucky winners. We were also told that hte only direct way of getting into town was taking this huge yellow bus in. The catch: THe first one leaves at 7am, and the second, iffy one leaves at 2pm...or 4pm...or never pm. Not to mention this is all first-come, first-served. Now mind you, this was to get back to town after our first week in the village, ie our longest week in teh village. We got a call form one of hte other volunteers at 8:30pm the night before suggesting we all meet up by 7am on the main road to catch the bus. My roomie and I eagerly agreed. What this meant for us, however, was that we would have to rerck for an hour to get to the main road by 7am. So we took our flashlights (it was pitch black) and ran next door, where 2 other group members are staying, to tell (not ask) that we would all ahve to be ready to peace out at 5:45am the next morning so we were guaranteed a seat back to town. Then we ran back and maoned and groaned about packing for the weekend and ahving ot fit everything in the backpacks we'd be carrying on our backs for more than an hour. The quetion of whether to bring an umbrella came up. "Naw, I'm not," I replied. "It hasn't ranied yet. What are the chances of it raining now?" WIth that, I crawled into bed for what would prove to be a restless night, prematurely terminated by my alarm clock screaming at me at a painfully early 5:15am.

My group set off with stuffed bags on our backs nd flashlights in our hands, as it was pitch black at 6am and the sun doesn't come up until around 6:30am. Mind you, the path was lined with dust and rocks and I'm sure firnedly critters we coudn't see. As if that wasn't bad enough, it sparted spinrkling. My roomie and I looked at each other, both thinking: fml.

Luckily the sprinkling never turned to rain and quickly subsided. We reached hte main road, panting and sweating, a few minutes after 7am. We waited for a little bit, bu tno yellow bus came. There were about a dozen of us now, and we were determined to get to town. SO we jumped in some dalldallas. What are dalldallas, you ask? THey're sort of like old school mini-vans tha hey stuff as many people as possible into. Though perhaps a bit squishy, they were definitely one o fhte fastest modes of transportatin available. The only catch is that you may die or run something over. I wasn't kidding when I said they were fast. Speeding, riskay passing, 2-lane roads, and dalladallas = an exciting trip to sayteh last. SOme volunteers almost shat themselves. One took solace in grabbing my pinky, of all things, when she thought she saw her life flash before her eyes (I continue to tease her about this). What can I say, my pinky is jacked. I personally find these rides rather thrilling. Maybe my life is way duller than I thought, bu thte racing and passing, the bumps an hte near-death scenarios are the cloest I'm going to get to a roller coaster this summer, and I find it really gets my adrenaline pumping.

Needless to say, we got ot town just fine. Stay tuned for a recap of the ride back.

***

Fast forward to Saturday. This was the day to take car eof long weekend trips. I'll be going ot Zanzibar on the second long weekend--absolutely can't wait. One of hte other volunteers and I decided to be proacive and check out flights first. We were pretty sure hte long weekend was Fri-Mon, so we checked for flights to Zanzibar leavin gon Friday. THey wer eavaiable, adn pretty cheap. Before we paid, I wanted to confirm that hte long weekend was in fact Fri-Mon and not Sat-Tues. I called one of the SIC pcoordniators, who informe dme that it was actually Sat-Tues. Oh shit, good thing we checked, I thought. So we looked into Saturday flights. THere are three, the PRecision AIr employee informed us, but they're all full. Wtf we thoguht. It was not worth throwing a few hundred dolalrs down for what would not even amount to two full days. Needless to say, we were pissed.

I and the other vounteer had really been lookin forwad to this vaca, so we weren't willing ot let it crasha dn burn. So we called back andtried to negotiate adn rationalize leaving a day early. Long story short; no dice. We were annoyed, but we haxc to think of optins. We went across the street toanother airlie to be told that htey didn't flyu to Zanzibar. Tanzania and Coastal airlines probably do, the lady told us, but it's a Saturday so they closed at 1pm. I looked at the clock and read 1:09pm. Fuckk. We had to figure out our flight situation that day. Who knew if anything was open on Sunday. Besdies, we'd be back in our vilalges by imd-afternoon. We proceeded to spring down 3 flights of stairs and across hte street where cards do not (I repeat, do NOT) stop for pedestrians. We made it ot tzanania AIrlines and hte door was open! Can you please please give us some flight info? We begged the dude SUre, I'll tell you from memory since the computers are already off. He informed us that we could get ot Zanzibar on Sat afternoon, but there was no continuous return flight. WSe went next door to Coastal Air. Their prices were redonk. Defeated, we started walking and decided to eat our feelings at a burger stand. We bitched and moaned while stuffing our faces. Twas beautiful.

I had barely begun driinin gmy cold Coca Cola in a glass bottle when we ran into some other volunteers who informed us that we had been right all along: the long weekend WAS Fri-Mon. We started laughing. What a shitload of anger and frustration gone to waste! And now we can't even book our flights because Precision Air closes at 2pm. I looked down at my cell phone. 13:53, it read. We have 7 minutes! I shouted. let's do this! I took one sip of my Coke returne dit so they wouldn't lose profit on the bottle, and went running into the streets with the other volunteer, with a pack of others trailing behind us. I'm sure people were like, dude, wtf is wrong with these crazy mzungus (Swahili for white folk), watchign su running through the streets like we were in Home Alone and about to miss our flight. Two f us slid in just as hte guard was closing hte office door. It's these pathetic two again, he probably thought. Panting once gain we looked behind us to find that everyone else was standing outside, locked out. With some persuasion, we were able to convince hte guard to let htem in and we were able to book our flights. I was relived to be rid of hte wad of Tanzanian shillings I had been carrying around in my purse.

Alright I'm tired of writing and you're prob tired of reading, so I'll end by saying that the ride back was 17 (no fuking joke, 17) of us, plus bags, stuffed into one SIC truck for over an hour. Luckily I didn't have to sit in anyone's lap, though occasionally my ass fell asleep and I felt like I couldn't breathe. It was fun though, especially when we hit those curvaceous triple speed bumps.

More to come soon.

Back and Worse Than Ever

...just kidding. sort of. so i'm attempting to blog again to keep everyone updated on my time in tanzania. but i get access to internet like once every two weeks, so we'll see how this goes. posts will be choppy and shitty (that creates a nice image, huh?) and saturated with typos. no pretty pictures either. you've been warned.

but of course you all love me enough to keep reading. so as most of you know, i'm volunteering with an NGO called SIC- Support for International Change. we do HIV/AIDS education in rural villages- in schools, at church, on soccer fields, in the community. right now i'm about 3 weeks in, with 5 to go.

the program started with fun in arusha. go around town, be touristy, get some skirts made, yadda yadda. then we moved to meru university for an intense two-week orientation in which we reviewed the whole SIC curriculum, learned some basic swahili, and played games every minute we weren't in class. have never played so many games in my life. drug dealer, 007, bitty bitty bop, and mafia are faves.

so a little more about the program. there are twenty-some american volunteers- mostly from harvard and stanford. and four british volunteers. we work with tanzanian teaching partners- in addition to teaching, they translate and back-translate as well. tough stuff.

so if you're premed at harvard, or anything at harvard really, you know that everyone is all up on global health's jock. we aren't lacking programs that scream "AIDS in Africa!" with images of little children. i wasn't looking for a program that would get in, get out, and pat itself on the back (never a good thing, in any case). call it cultural competency, call it sustainability, call it a way to address structural violence- that's what i was looking for. the horizontal approach of SIC international volunteers living and teaching with tanzanians, in addition to permanent community health workers, sounded right to me. definitely the best i've found in theory. still evaluating in terms of practice. i still have plenty to observe, experience, and learn. the only criticism i have thus far is the lack of space in orientation to address the questions of why are we here? why do we need to be here? with what biases and assumptions are we coming to tanzania? what biases and assumptions do the teaching partners have about us? what value judgments are inherent in having us (international volunteers, non-tanzanians) teach at all- is it all solidarity, or are there deep-rooted cycles of power and blame that must be examined? i am not asking these questions from a moral high point, i simply want these discussions to happen and be well-integrated in the program, since whether or not we talk about them explicitly, the presence of these issues is undeniable.

woo that was heavy. breaktime. miss you all terribly. xoxo n

'Gainst My Window...I Can't Stand The Rain

I feel like all I've done in the last few days is eat and study and get rained on. Which is kind of accurate. It's kind of cool hanging out in the computer room at the PGI library, where people in white coats and stethoscope necklaces swim in and out. And when I get my bag checked as I leave the library now, I think the old librarian dude recognizes me. It's like my Lamont away from home (yaddadasayin tho, where my Harvard peeps at?)

But when it rains here, it pours. You think you hear white noise and then realize it's just raining outside, like movie rain for hours on end. As I was leaving the library one day, I realized that it was raining really hard. I had an umbrella on me though, so I was like, no sweat. But as I was opening my umbrella it, well, sort of...basically it broke in half. "Oh God!" I said rather loudly as I struggled to put the two halves back together. Caught up in trying to bring my umbrella (ella ella eh eh eh) back to life, I soon realized that I was ankle-deep in water. Not fun. I had my jeans rolled up and all, but my favorite silver flats were basically soaked in muddy water. The exit out of the parking lot was basically flooded. I saw a couple of guys trying to get out another way, so I followed them, tore-up-from-the-floor-up umbrella in hand. Squish squish I went through the soaking grass. Alas, the other exit was flooded as well. Rickshaw drivers proved to be the heros of the day, pulling up rickshaws to the sides of the road so people could get out unscathed. I got onto a rickshaw alright, but didn't stay on for long because there was no way I could go from Sector 12, where PGI is located, all the way back to Sector 44B, home, (Chandigarh is a totally planned city, constructed as a grid of sectors) unless I really felt like chilling in the rain for another hour.

So I tried to find an auto. This is quite possibly the most difficult and aggravating task I have to accomplish on a daily basis. I recognized one of the auto drivers and went over to him. Face scrunched up because of the rain, I said I needed to go to 44B. He shook his head no. "No?" No, he repeated. "Why not? You took me the other day." "Because it's raining." "Then where are you going to go?" "Home." And then he proceeded to chill there for a while longer. I rolled my eyes and cussed a little under my breath. Seriously, homie? No shit it's raining. That's why I need an auto. Why the fuck are you still standing here if you're not looking for business?! Ain't nobody stopping you from going home.

Once I got home, I took a nap to make myself feel better. When I awoke, I saw that the rain had stopped. Apparently the nap had really worked, because I jumped out of bed and decided to wander out to Sector 17, the shopping sector. I was home alone because my mom had gone to get Moneek from the airport, and I was feeling adventurous. Or maybe I just wanted to prove that I could brave the drivers and the weather and the Sector 17 shopkeepers myself. Fine, I admit I called for an air-conditioned taxi, but I braved the rest. Newly purchased Indian suits in hand, I went to all the little jewelry shops I could find, determined to find perfectly matching earrings for each outfit, because you know that's how I do. Much success! ...Except for the random fact that at one point this bird was trying to eat my foot or something. Seriously. There I am looking into a store window and I feel something on my foot, and look down to find a bird hanging out on it. So random, haha. Once that ordeal was over, I proceeded to ball out, wiggling my way through crowds, bargaining my way through the sector. I have to give the salesmen a lot of credit too, though. When I was unsure about a pair of earrings, they would have me come behind the counter where there was a full-length mirror, encouraging me to try the earrings on and helping me hold up the kameez of my suit. "Bohot acha match, Madam. Very good. Ek dam fit." I felt rather accomplished, even if the rain had owned me earlier. I even remembered to pick up a couple of balloons for the little kiddos I live with at home. Yay.

And if you didn't already get it, the title of this entry is a Missy Elliott reference. "The Rain". Quite a funky and revolutionary song, I recommend.

Thank You!

...for reading. I love all your comments, emails, gchats, and facebook wall posts. Maybe you all are just really bored, but I really appreciate you taking the time to to reach out and keep yourself updated on my life and admire your patience to read my rambling. I have some really awesome friends. =) xo n

What You Think This Is, A Game? This Ain't No Game! (Part 2)

Oftentimes, research sucks. Or for me it has way too many highs and lows. I've found only a handful of interviewees who open up, and I still don't know if I have enough material to write a thesis. It's hard tracking people down, explaining the point of the study, following up with them, and communicating in the mixed form of Hindi/English/Punjabi that I speak here. I mean I've met a lot of really nice people who have welcomed me into their lives and their homes, and their families are usually really happy to meet me and know that their daughters have someone to talk to and share their stories with. But while being an outlet is a great skill and also a great gift, I think, it is also challenging because it gets personal for both people. Immediately after interviews I find myself satisfied that I have had the opportunity to connect with another human being in such an intimate and rare manner, happy that we have both perhaps undergone some healing, and that I may be a living example of rising above a lot of issues that may worry them. But given a few moments to reflect upon the interviews, I find that I am often upset, overwhelmed by people's need to pray for me, recommend treatments, ask about how it is in the U.S., show types of curiosity and concern that I just find bothersome most of the time. Maybe it is my privilege that allows me to brush certain social issues aside more easily, that fuels the anger and annoyance that I feel so strongly but others don't dare to feel. I think it would be condescending and judgmental to classify the difference as enlightenment. But the fact of the matter is that the difference exists, it's a tough pill to swallow, and I find myself choking.

The Fashion Issue

This is the fashion issue. All about style, trends, and shopping in C-Garh. First you have two major categories: Western wear and Ethnic (who the fuck came up with this name, I hate this word) wear. When it comes to Western wear, errybody and they mama wears jeans, it doesn't matter that it's 100 degrees outside. And when I go into bougie shops, I've noticed that they tend to have skinny jeans in stock...

...Which is the bridge to what's hot right now as far as Indian suits (aka salwar kameez aka tops & bottoms) go. You have churidar pajamas, which are the skinny jeans of salwars. Tight, well-fitted, gathering nicely at the ankles. These go well with sleeveless kurti tops, which are super popular right now whether long (down to the knees) or short (waist-length). Patiala salwars are traditional hella Punjabi big MC Hammer type salwars, which are also common, but I myself lean toward churidars. Traditional kameezes/kurtis have many great qualities, I've noticed. They can be worn with almost any type of salwar and can totally be worn with jeans when you want to switch things up (and totally cover up any ass crack that may be peeking out if you happened to go with riskay extra low-rise jeans, haha).

Unfortunately, I'm trying to blend in here, and people (read: guys) already stare a ridiculous amount (seriously, do they have nothing better to do but loiter and stare? why is that okay? girls wouldn't be able to get away with it), and I feel like it cramps my style. Or at least, I would be much more creative with my style here if it would attract less attention. Leggings and churidars can be interchanged for fusion outfits with long kurtis or the longer tops, be they tight- or loose-fitting, that are in style in the States. Chunnis (traditional long scarves) can be worn in a variety of ways too, not just across the neck, but around the neck the other way, more like scarves, or not at all, if that's acceptable. There are also a million different accessory options. Cute, closed flats can be worn not just with jeans, but suits too. Sandals, of which there are a wide variety- V-shaped straps, back straps, straps or beads around the big toe- can be worn with jeans too, and not just suits. As far as earrings go, simple hoops or long, beaded, dangly earrings can work. As far as bags, clutches or big bags in metallic colors would complement almost any type of outfit.

Finding the right clothing is pretty tough. Half the battle is finding something that is sophisticated and not overly gaudy. The other half is learning how to deal with pushy salesmen. I've been in dozens of stores, and have bought barely a handful of outfits. I'm rather unimpressed with what C-garh has to offer in terms of suits (salwar + kameez) and lenghas (skirts and short tops). Suits are either way too simple, overly floral (I never want to see floral prints ever again my life), or come in big, funky shapes and sizes. Lenghas tend to be way too over-the-top (when this one salesdude was showing my mom and I some hella fancy lenghas, my mom was like, if my daughter wears this, what's the bride supposed to wear? Good one, mom!), come in the most hideous colors imaginable (lime green, loud magenta, fart yellow), and try way too hard to be modern when it comes to the tops (I'm down with switching things up, but corset lenghas are not okay). Most of the ones I've tried on make me look like the Little Mermaid. Do I look like my name is Ariel?

Worse than one's own disappointment is dealing with the disappointment of the salesmen. "You don't like any of these? You're only going to buy two suits? I thought we were going to make more money out of you." What really pisses me off is when they think they know more than me, or have better taste than me. "Madam, this is fresh piece, one of a kind. People buy these right off the manican. Madam, of course the lenghas are going to be a little heavy, a little fancy. This is what everyone is wearing these days."

Trying stuff on is a whole other process. I don't know who told the salespeople it was alright for them to be all up in my fitting room. I open the door a crack to have my mom come look at an outfit, and somebody sticks their head in. "Maam, how is it? Maam, we can do alterations! Maam, should I pack it for you?!" I'm half-naked, please get off my grille and let me show my mom the outfit. At first I tried being polite, but soon I gave up. I know you can do alterations. I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to my mom. Be patient. I don't care what you think, I know what I like, so please keep your opinions to yourself.

It's great that they alter your outfits for you, it really is. Nothing would fit me otherwise. But for some reason there's a tendency to make stuff really tight around the bust, with stuff big and funky at the hips. Homie don't play that. "Maam, this is the style." No, it isn't. If that was the style, I wouldn't have bought the outfit in the first place. Why am I even talking to you? Call the tailor. I've learned by now that they never get it right the first time, and trying stuff on has become a daily workout. One also has to be weary of sketchy tailors who "accidentally" graze your butt while taking your measurements while your mom isn't looking. The bust measurement is awkward enough.

Shoe shopping is a whole other ball game. It's quite exciting. Some of the guys are very charming. They have you sit down, basically put the shoes on for you (this still makes me a little bit uncomfortable- I can put the shoes on myself, they really needn't serve me so much), and have options B, C, and D lined up in case you don't like the first. When you like something and ask for a size, they should out a style and a number to the guy upstairs (no, not God, the guy who runs the stockroom), who proceeds to shout orders back and throw boxes down from a hole in the ceiling to the guy on the ladder, who tosses it to your salesman, who slips it onto your foot. Guys yelling, boxes flying...it's a fun experience.

When I find the right outfit, with the right accessories, it's a high like no other. After long days of studying and research, I admit I'm a total sucker for retail therapy.

What You Think This Is, A Game? This Ain't No Game!

I knew research would be intense, but I didn’t know it would be this intense. Age, personal experience, language (even if rusty at best)- these all allow me to delve deep into my interviewee’s lives, allowing them to communicate with their mouths and not just their skin. But the more I get to know, the more their families opens up, the more personal it gets, the more I feel sucked in, involuntarily at times, and find it hard to distance myself. It presents me with hurdles I have worked hard to overcome, places I don’t necessarily want to revisit. Doctors are often told not too get involved in their patients’ personal lives. I didn’t see myself as the Izzy Stevens type, but it’s a fine line. As if the physical exhaustion of trekking out in the scorching heat or thundering rain, and dealing with cultural differences and abrasive auto drivers weren’t enough, the research I do is emotionally taxing.

show, tell

stop, stare

spotting, spreading

lapsing, relapsing

show, tell

stop, stare

no knowing, no hiding

no biding, no confiding

don't want to show, tell

why do they stop, stare

no more trying, stop hiding

white. out.