"No, no not, not possible" The guy at the check-in desk tells me.
Again.
I think it's his favorite phrase.
I'm standing in Mumbai airport, in my usual "traveling attire" of thin bush-shirt, grey cargoes and hiking boots, all of which are now looking as knackered as I feel.
"Sir" I start yet again, rubbing the tiredness from my face " as far as I am concerned, there is no paper ticket, and we are supposed to arrive in Bangkok on Tuesday evening, where we're meeting a friend. Please, help me here, as I don't know what to do- I have paid for my flight, yet now you say I cannot take it? We need to go to Bangkok"
"No, no, you cannot fly to Bangkok" He say's, with a smirk at the check-in girl next to him.
I took a deep breath, and shot a warning look at Mrs. G who was snapping something at him.
(Calm down dear- we need his help)
"Um, why is the flight not going?" I ask gently, with a pained smile.
He looks at the screen, types a bit, and tells me it's now going to Hong Kong. I look at him, and gesture to keep going.
"You can fly to Bangkok...um... Wednesday morning!" He says triumphantly.
"No earlier?" I ask with a shit-eating grin, too tired to explain yet again how we have to be in Bangkok on Tuesday.
I've had about 16 hours sleep over the past 5 nights, and it's starting to show.
"No! You should have confirmed your flights; it's down to you, not my airlines responsibility!" He says, reprimanding me, and giving another smirk and head-shake to the check-in girl.
I pause. Then I shoot my hand forward, grab his throat in my fist, and head butt him hard on the nose...
...Actually, I did no such thing (though the thought may have floated about somewhere, I was very tired).
See, we couldn't confirm anything; we did not have internet access or a phone number. Experience has also shown, even if we did get a number (from somewhere), it wouldn't work, they never seem to in India. I shoot another look at Mrs. G, who now looks like she's going to explode. Please, no...
I take a deep breath, "We were traveling so could not confirm, and even if we had confirmed the flight, we would still be in the same situation. You say you have cancelled it last minuet, and there is now no possible way we could ever get to Bangkok on the day we planned, which is really not down to us. So what can we do now?" I look at him with my best puppy-dog look (more pug than puppy I'll admit), hoping the guy can do something other than wind me up.
"You can fly to Sri Lanka, stay at a hotel there, then catch the next flight to Bangkok. That is the only flight to Bangkok we are doing now. You want that flight; we could sort the hotel for you as a stop-over flight?"
"Ok. It’s now the only way, and we can’t afford to buy new flights. Do we need a visa, or will you pay that?" I say as polite as possible.
"I don't know" He says with a smile, as if I've asked the Sri Lankan airline check-in manager a stupid question.
"But the airline will cover the hotel and all that, like you say as a stop-over?" I ask, alarmed.
"Erm, maybe. I think they should do" he says thoughtfully.” But I can’t say for sure. Maybe. You should ask"
I thought I was.
Apparently now booked onto the required flights, I text Becci a foul mouthed run-down of events, and we quickly get some food before falling into our seats on the plane, exhausted. It's 4 am.
The 2 hour or so flight was spent in exhausted semi-consciousness, where I know I eaten breakfast (it was spilt down my shirt), but can't remember receiving it, or struggling like I normally do with the small tray and mountain of crap you have to fit on it.
We landed in Sri Lanka at dawn, and already it was hot- real hot! It had been raining, and the humidity made me feel like I was in a steam room. On auto-pilot we went to airline desks stating our situation, then another desk, through what I think was immigration, mumbled something to another fella who looked like he was "airline", fell into a minibus he pointed to, and fell out again at our airline-supplied hotel. Seems they do sort hotels.
5 star, all inclusive resort hotels, (with swimming pool) on a spotless, raked, yellow sand beach, with the crystal clear sea lapped gently just beyond the palm tree shaded sun loungers. Waiters glide back and forth carrying cold drinks, and I could smell coffee and something nice and spicy cooking for breakfast.
I looked around and noticed everyone was; a) significantly older than us, and b) looked like millionaires, in their European designer gear. I rubbed my stained and damp bush shirt self consciously.
We dripped through the stylishly designed restaurant (all tribal artifacts, hardwood and clean white walls) with our bergens to our room.
Our room was HUGE! With pool and sea view balcony, coffee table, sofa and chairs, hardwood desks, super-kingsize beds, air-con, fans, and enormous bathroom (with an enormous bath), it was simply mind-blowing.
We were use to tiny, windowless rooms with just a toilet and bucket and tap to wash with.
Sri Lanka airlines really know how to f--- you up. But they also really know how to make up for it. They really do.
We collapsed for an hour or so- until the builders started working outside! Sods law never fails when you’re tired, though we managed a bit of kip despite Bob and his mates outside.
So the rest of the day was spent chilling on the beach, making use of the deep bath, and sipping feni and lemonade watching the sun set.
The theme for the restaurant that day was "Sri Lankan" (which I had assumed to be always the case as that's where we were, but there you go) and proper local dishes were laid out in an enormous super-stylish buffet.
So I started tucking down unthinking, as I have for a while now, with the fingers of my right hand. Tearing the bread to mop up the delicious sauces, tearing the chicken apart, and squeezing the rice into mouth-sized pieces mixed with the sauces and vegetables, I was having a great time.
Until I realized this was a five star holiday resort, not a cheap local restaurant.
Everyone was using one of 4 sets of utensils poshly laid out (damn, do you work outside in, or inside out? And which one's the desert fork again?), and the staff were laughing at me. Though they did seem to appreciate it, and brought me some lemon water to wash my fingers in.
Another attempt at sleep was thwarted this time by the biggest tropical storm I've ever experienced. It went on for over 2 hours, with rain that pounded down with a deafening roar. The thunder rolled on and on every minuet or so, making the ground shake, and lightening lit up the world for longer than I thought possible. What was most amazing was that it felt like it was just 10 feet above the roof of our room. For the first time since I was six, the enormous power and volume of the storm made me jumpy, and cringe at each flash and break out of rolling thunder, which I would feel through the floor.
Storm over, and it was time to leave to catch our flight. I was vaguely aware on our minibus drive to the airport something was wrong. It wasn't the numerous security forces with their automatic weapons, we were use to that from Kenya, but it was like something was missing. Then I realised- There were no cows on the road! Or near-death experiences, despite it being nighttime and other traffic was present.
As I got onto the plane, I realised I really had left India. I actually got a pang of loss, like home sickness.
The flight was a pretty quick, maybe 3 hours, so I managed a bit of sleep. But then it was suddenly 5.30am, we were circling Bangkok, and somewhere down there was our mate we should have met the night before.
About then I wondered how good the Red Bull was in Thailand.
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
Saturday, 16 February 2008
Leaving India
Eventually, life in paradise had to end.
I managed not to cry when I handed back my motorbike on thursday. But as we had 2 leaving parties, end of placement reports to write etc, I wouldn't really need it.
On Wednesday afternoon, Golda hired another jeep to take us around Old Goa to see the churches, St. Francis' body, and meeting some friar, an old friend of Golda's. Lovely chap, lovely old church he has, and brilliant cook he has- I got a great recipe for Goan prawn-chilly fry!
Robert and Golda wouldn't let us pay for the vehicle again, but did allow us to pay for dinner that night. It was cheaper than our previous meal, again at a beach-front restaurant that served "home-made" Goan dishes like Sorpatel (very nice!) washed down with the local Kings lager.
The following night was "leaving party" night. Mrs Grasshopper was feeling better, so despite having to be up at 7 the following morning, we partied on until just after 3am. With unusual foresight, I kept my beer intake to a minimum, as the next day I was at work. I found it extra-hard too as Golda wasn't in. Turns out she had a stomach problem, probably the same one that everyone seemed to be getting.
That was my last time working at the school, and I'll admit I found it really hard to leave. I sat back during their dance lesson, only for them to all crowd round me anyway, copying little Flavia's trick of attempting to slide onto my lap for a cuddle un-noticed. Seems I really had become their friend.
That afternoon I wrote my report on the school while the others went to the beach for last minute tanning. That night- another party!
Unfortunately, building work outside our apartment meant no sleep for a second night running. We banked on sleeping on the overnight train to Mumbai, but as is always the case, sod's law meant we couldn’t.
The train journey out of Goa was a somber affair. I called Golda to confirm her address and see how she was feeling, then done my best to get my head down on the rocking train. I can usually sleep anywhere, anytime, but it just wasn't happening, with the noise, wind through the open door etc.
The next morning we found ourselves in Mumbai again. Unable to check into the hotel until late, then finding building works happening on the wall outside our window (Sods law again), Illana (a Canadian girl), Shirley, and us grasshoppers went into the city.
Certain parts of the city look just like London- British architecture, trees, and even red london-style busses all make Mumbai feel comfortable and homely. We done the India Gate thing, had an overpriced and under-flavoured meal at a tourist trap, laughed at the fat men selling huge balloons running from the police, then went back to our hotel for an early night. (the balloons were faintly phallic-shaped, and the men somewhat out of shape. Seeing them on giving it legs through the crowd, with these huge awkward balloons, and the menacing police walking like Robocop after them was like some kind of comedy sketch!)
The following day, awakened by building work and the kitchen next door to our room, we went to Juhu beach again. Some of the new replacement volunteers had been arriving during the night; pale skinned, sweating profusely and clutching water bottles. We had lunch with a couple of them, who through arrogance or stupidity, decided to ignore our strong advice on conservative beach-wear outside of Goa.
(As a result, they, or rather the oldest one with her bikini bottoms and tit's half-out top, drew a large intimidating crowd. Two young lads in particular were stood staring, trousers tenting, and making loud appreciative noises every time the scantily dressed, overweight 40 year old lady moved. "Dont you have any respect for your elders!" I said to one, advancing on him. "No, no, not her" he replied, eyes staring at the crotch of the woman as she adjusted her seated position on the sand. To be fair, she was bringing this perverted attention on herself with her behavior in this country, so I left her to it- I'd done all I could, and unfortunately she is in the wrong in this country)
We were leaving for the airport at midnight, so we basically hung around until the time came. We had our last Indian meal at a restaurant near to the hotel, and found the younger volunteers had taken our advice on it- they were gorging on dosa's, paneer masala's and stuffed parantha's with bottles of water when we arrived.
Shirley was eating with us, but nipped back to the hotel to sort out a few things with Vishal. While she was gone, I noticed there were 3 chilli pakoras (deep fried whole green chilli's in a spiced chick-pea batter) left on our shared plate.
It's as I'm talking to one of the new volunteers, who is thanking me for the "heads up" before he goes to bed, that I go for the last (Shirley's) chilli. Call it Karma, or just my own fault for being greedy, but that chilli had to be some kind of genetically modified, mega-species, steroid munching super-chilli or something. I finally manage to whisper a "goodnight" to the departing volunteer, giving a trembling wave as my eyes water and sweat breaks out. He walks off bemused as I hurriedly scoff the last of the curd, Mrs G's milkshake, and a bottle of sprite, to peals of laughter from Mrs G.
"Serves you right!" was Shirly's response, laughing at my continued suffering when she returned.
Eventually, after a tearful farewell, Vishal and Shirley waved us off as we left in a taxi to the airport. We will meet Shirley again in Australia, as she happens to arrive in Sydney a few days after us.
To be honest, I was nervous to leave India. I loved the country, more than I sometimes hated it, I was comfortable here, finally, and yet it was now time to go. There is still so much more to see.
It was midnight when we arrived at the airport, and I wondered vaguely when we would sleep, as we were meeting our friend Becci in Bangkok airport the moment we landed. From there, we would grab a room, dump our bags and get straight out on the tourist trail. I text her to let her know we were leaving soon, and would see her in a matter of hours.
Becci (who has commented once or twice here) has just a one week holiday in Thailand to see us, so we planned to make the most of it. It should have all run like clockwork. It should have.
But Sods law instead seen us way off course. We didn't get to Thailand that morning, not even close.
We ended up in an entirely different bloody country.
I managed not to cry when I handed back my motorbike on thursday. But as we had 2 leaving parties, end of placement reports to write etc, I wouldn't really need it.
On Wednesday afternoon, Golda hired another jeep to take us around Old Goa to see the churches, St. Francis' body, and meeting some friar, an old friend of Golda's. Lovely chap, lovely old church he has, and brilliant cook he has- I got a great recipe for Goan prawn-chilly fry!
Robert and Golda wouldn't let us pay for the vehicle again, but did allow us to pay for dinner that night. It was cheaper than our previous meal, again at a beach-front restaurant that served "home-made" Goan dishes like Sorpatel (very nice!) washed down with the local Kings lager.
The following night was "leaving party" night. Mrs Grasshopper was feeling better, so despite having to be up at 7 the following morning, we partied on until just after 3am. With unusual foresight, I kept my beer intake to a minimum, as the next day I was at work. I found it extra-hard too as Golda wasn't in. Turns out she had a stomach problem, probably the same one that everyone seemed to be getting.
That was my last time working at the school, and I'll admit I found it really hard to leave. I sat back during their dance lesson, only for them to all crowd round me anyway, copying little Flavia's trick of attempting to slide onto my lap for a cuddle un-noticed. Seems I really had become their friend.
That afternoon I wrote my report on the school while the others went to the beach for last minute tanning. That night- another party!
Unfortunately, building work outside our apartment meant no sleep for a second night running. We banked on sleeping on the overnight train to Mumbai, but as is always the case, sod's law meant we couldn’t.
The train journey out of Goa was a somber affair. I called Golda to confirm her address and see how she was feeling, then done my best to get my head down on the rocking train. I can usually sleep anywhere, anytime, but it just wasn't happening, with the noise, wind through the open door etc.
The next morning we found ourselves in Mumbai again. Unable to check into the hotel until late, then finding building works happening on the wall outside our window (Sods law again), Illana (a Canadian girl), Shirley, and us grasshoppers went into the city.
Certain parts of the city look just like London- British architecture, trees, and even red london-style busses all make Mumbai feel comfortable and homely. We done the India Gate thing, had an overpriced and under-flavoured meal at a tourist trap, laughed at the fat men selling huge balloons running from the police, then went back to our hotel for an early night. (the balloons were faintly phallic-shaped, and the men somewhat out of shape. Seeing them on giving it legs through the crowd, with these huge awkward balloons, and the menacing police walking like Robocop after them was like some kind of comedy sketch!)
The following day, awakened by building work and the kitchen next door to our room, we went to Juhu beach again. Some of the new replacement volunteers had been arriving during the night; pale skinned, sweating profusely and clutching water bottles. We had lunch with a couple of them, who through arrogance or stupidity, decided to ignore our strong advice on conservative beach-wear outside of Goa.
(As a result, they, or rather the oldest one with her bikini bottoms and tit's half-out top, drew a large intimidating crowd. Two young lads in particular were stood staring, trousers tenting, and making loud appreciative noises every time the scantily dressed, overweight 40 year old lady moved. "Dont you have any respect for your elders!" I said to one, advancing on him. "No, no, not her" he replied, eyes staring at the crotch of the woman as she adjusted her seated position on the sand. To be fair, she was bringing this perverted attention on herself with her behavior in this country, so I left her to it- I'd done all I could, and unfortunately she is in the wrong in this country)
We were leaving for the airport at midnight, so we basically hung around until the time came. We had our last Indian meal at a restaurant near to the hotel, and found the younger volunteers had taken our advice on it- they were gorging on dosa's, paneer masala's and stuffed parantha's with bottles of water when we arrived.
Shirley was eating with us, but nipped back to the hotel to sort out a few things with Vishal. While she was gone, I noticed there were 3 chilli pakoras (deep fried whole green chilli's in a spiced chick-pea batter) left on our shared plate.
It's as I'm talking to one of the new volunteers, who is thanking me for the "heads up" before he goes to bed, that I go for the last (Shirley's) chilli. Call it Karma, or just my own fault for being greedy, but that chilli had to be some kind of genetically modified, mega-species, steroid munching super-chilli or something. I finally manage to whisper a "goodnight" to the departing volunteer, giving a trembling wave as my eyes water and sweat breaks out. He walks off bemused as I hurriedly scoff the last of the curd, Mrs G's milkshake, and a bottle of sprite, to peals of laughter from Mrs G.
"Serves you right!" was Shirly's response, laughing at my continued suffering when she returned.
Eventually, after a tearful farewell, Vishal and Shirley waved us off as we left in a taxi to the airport. We will meet Shirley again in Australia, as she happens to arrive in Sydney a few days after us.
To be honest, I was nervous to leave India. I loved the country, more than I sometimes hated it, I was comfortable here, finally, and yet it was now time to go. There is still so much more to see.
It was midnight when we arrived at the airport, and I wondered vaguely when we would sleep, as we were meeting our friend Becci in Bangkok airport the moment we landed. From there, we would grab a room, dump our bags and get straight out on the tourist trail. I text her to let her know we were leaving soon, and would see her in a matter of hours.
Becci (who has commented once or twice here) has just a one week holiday in Thailand to see us, so we planned to make the most of it. It should have all run like clockwork. It should have.
But Sods law instead seen us way off course. We didn't get to Thailand that morning, not even close.
We ended up in an entirely different bloody country.
Monday, 11 February 2008
Life in Goa
My phone starts vibrating loudly in the dark. Bob Marley's voice quickly grows in volume, telling me he shot the sheriff. I wake up just a little, reach over a snoring Mrs Grasshopper and switch my phone's alarm off.
It's dark outside, though it's starting to fade. Mrs G rolls over in her sleep as I fall out the bed from under the mosquito net. Keeping the light off, I grab my things and put them on as I hurriedly use the toilet, and then stumble into the living room, awaiting my morning’s partner.
I hear Shirley moving things around in her room, before appearing at her bedroom door.
"Ready mate?" I ask quietly
"Yeah, lemmi jus' brush my teeth"
She passes me to her bathroom as I look around, eyes half shut, for my trainers. I realize (in wonder) that I'm already wearing them. Teeth brushed, we slip out the door to our house, closing the door quietly.
It's still dark on the ground, but the black sky is quickly changing to navy blue. We walk briskly around the corner of our house, trainers crunching loudly on the gravel, and onto the empty, amber-lit street. It's cool, and I'm now fully awake as we speed up to a brisk jog.
One of the stray dogs is waiting for us at the bottom of the road. He's not "our" dog, the brown pointy-eared one who comes round every afternoon to play, and then sit chilling out with us on our front step. But this one likes running with us, and this morning he has a brought a friend.
We greet them as we pass, and they jump up to us.
"Hello darling! Oh look at you" Shirley sings as she pets them, momentarily pausing.
We carry on, chattering about this and that, turning left down to the beach with the dogs running with us. We pass the empty roadside fish-stalls and chicken vendor, the sellers eyeing us in the growing light with amused curiosity as they start preparing for the new day. Here we try to ignore the overpowering smell of rotten fish and dead chickens.
Difficult when you’re breathing heavy.
We stop at the bandstand, by the huge white church already filling with the dawns faithful and stretch off. The dogs seem to laugh at us, but as we leave they don't follow- this is the edge of their territory.
We're quiet now, passing just a few early morning workers still wrapped up in their shawls and scarf’s.
We pound up the steeply hump-backed bridge over the river, and onto the beach. My bare legs start pumping harder, trying to propel me at the same speed through the soft sand, and my breathing seems to immediately deepen. I look across at Shirley, who is completely unfazed. At a smidge over ten years my senior, she runs marathons for fun. She spurs me on by being her.
Finally we hit the hard sand by the waters edge.
"Right?" I ask, gasping a little
"Yeah why not"
More starry dogs find us, barking excitedly as they run alongside. Even the stray dogs are wonderful here, strong and happy on left over fish.
As we pound along to the sound of the waves, my breathing levels out. The night has faded to a dark royal blue above us, but on our right a pastel blue with a hint of pink, smudging into a white horizon, silhouetting the forests of palm trees. To our left is the moon, and its reflection seems to race alongside us on the thin coat of seawater over the sand we're running on.
As the sky continues to quickly lighten, we pass others out for the sunrise; grown up families, fishermen and a few tourists on their morning stroll.
"What's that?" Shirley asks
Up ahead, a snake coils up on the sand as we approach. I wish I had my camera, as it's not a small one. We get within a few feet and pause, watching it. It's head follows Shirley as she walks round to my right. I wish I had brought my camera, but who the hell takes a camera for a run?
"Erm, think we had better leave it, it's watching me move,” She says.
In full agreement, we set off, giving the snake a wide birth.
Up ahead, the fishing boat has its nets strung out on the beach. We run through the soft sand to skirt around it, smiling at the laughing fishermen before I check my watch and realize we have to go back. As we turn around, it's light enough to look seaward and pick out the details of the numerous small fishing boats that had previously just been bobbing lights.
I know the hard part of the run is yet to come, when it's the slight up-hill away from the beach, and Shirley's properly awake and starts to unconsciously pull ahead. I like that, it keeps me working hard.
We finish back at the house, now bathed in soft, cool morning light. Shirley puts the kettle on, I get the mugs out, sweet massala chai for me, coffee for her, black no sugar for her. We both are sweating, a lot, and the ceiling fan feels wonderful, whirring away above us on its highest setting.
A shower, cold, my running gear in a bucket of cold water (I'll wash it later), and I quickly dress into my polo shirt, cargo's and sandy-suede safari boots.
Mr's Grasshopper still snores quietly. Good.
I sit on my bike, parked outside the front door, and put on my sunglasses. (Safety first!)
"Today, like yesterday, is going to be a wonderful sunny day" I think to myself.
I put the bike in gear, and ride around the house onto the road. As I pass over the sand-filled driveway, I give a cheeky extra twist of the throttle, bit of weight on the pegs, and the back end skips out a bit as I turn to the road. I'm getting better at that.
I can't help but smile as I accelerate down the road to the office, where my breakfast, and lift to work await. The morning air is still cool, almost cold as it whips through my light clothing, the roads are empty, and I think I'll have chicken tikka for lunch with my wife. Maybe we'll eat out tonight as well.
Can life get much better than this?
It's dark outside, though it's starting to fade. Mrs G rolls over in her sleep as I fall out the bed from under the mosquito net. Keeping the light off, I grab my things and put them on as I hurriedly use the toilet, and then stumble into the living room, awaiting my morning’s partner.
I hear Shirley moving things around in her room, before appearing at her bedroom door.
"Ready mate?" I ask quietly
"Yeah, lemmi jus' brush my teeth"
She passes me to her bathroom as I look around, eyes half shut, for my trainers. I realize (in wonder) that I'm already wearing them. Teeth brushed, we slip out the door to our house, closing the door quietly.
It's still dark on the ground, but the black sky is quickly changing to navy blue. We walk briskly around the corner of our house, trainers crunching loudly on the gravel, and onto the empty, amber-lit street. It's cool, and I'm now fully awake as we speed up to a brisk jog.
One of the stray dogs is waiting for us at the bottom of the road. He's not "our" dog, the brown pointy-eared one who comes round every afternoon to play, and then sit chilling out with us on our front step. But this one likes running with us, and this morning he has a brought a friend.
We greet them as we pass, and they jump up to us.
"Hello darling! Oh look at you" Shirley sings as she pets them, momentarily pausing.
We carry on, chattering about this and that, turning left down to the beach with the dogs running with us. We pass the empty roadside fish-stalls and chicken vendor, the sellers eyeing us in the growing light with amused curiosity as they start preparing for the new day. Here we try to ignore the overpowering smell of rotten fish and dead chickens.
Difficult when you’re breathing heavy.
We stop at the bandstand, by the huge white church already filling with the dawns faithful and stretch off. The dogs seem to laugh at us, but as we leave they don't follow- this is the edge of their territory.
We're quiet now, passing just a few early morning workers still wrapped up in their shawls and scarf’s.
We pound up the steeply hump-backed bridge over the river, and onto the beach. My bare legs start pumping harder, trying to propel me at the same speed through the soft sand, and my breathing seems to immediately deepen. I look across at Shirley, who is completely unfazed. At a smidge over ten years my senior, she runs marathons for fun. She spurs me on by being her.
Finally we hit the hard sand by the waters edge.
"Right?" I ask, gasping a little
"Yeah why not"
More starry dogs find us, barking excitedly as they run alongside. Even the stray dogs are wonderful here, strong and happy on left over fish.
As we pound along to the sound of the waves, my breathing levels out. The night has faded to a dark royal blue above us, but on our right a pastel blue with a hint of pink, smudging into a white horizon, silhouetting the forests of palm trees. To our left is the moon, and its reflection seems to race alongside us on the thin coat of seawater over the sand we're running on.
As the sky continues to quickly lighten, we pass others out for the sunrise; grown up families, fishermen and a few tourists on their morning stroll.
"What's that?" Shirley asks
Up ahead, a snake coils up on the sand as we approach. I wish I had my camera, as it's not a small one. We get within a few feet and pause, watching it. It's head follows Shirley as she walks round to my right. I wish I had brought my camera, but who the hell takes a camera for a run?
"Erm, think we had better leave it, it's watching me move,” She says.
In full agreement, we set off, giving the snake a wide birth.
Up ahead, the fishing boat has its nets strung out on the beach. We run through the soft sand to skirt around it, smiling at the laughing fishermen before I check my watch and realize we have to go back. As we turn around, it's light enough to look seaward and pick out the details of the numerous small fishing boats that had previously just been bobbing lights.
I know the hard part of the run is yet to come, when it's the slight up-hill away from the beach, and Shirley's properly awake and starts to unconsciously pull ahead. I like that, it keeps me working hard.
We finish back at the house, now bathed in soft, cool morning light. Shirley puts the kettle on, I get the mugs out, sweet massala chai for me, coffee for her, black no sugar for her. We both are sweating, a lot, and the ceiling fan feels wonderful, whirring away above us on its highest setting.
A shower, cold, my running gear in a bucket of cold water (I'll wash it later), and I quickly dress into my polo shirt, cargo's and sandy-suede safari boots.
Mr's Grasshopper still snores quietly. Good.
I sit on my bike, parked outside the front door, and put on my sunglasses. (Safety first!)
"Today, like yesterday, is going to be a wonderful sunny day" I think to myself.
I put the bike in gear, and ride around the house onto the road. As I pass over the sand-filled driveway, I give a cheeky extra twist of the throttle, bit of weight on the pegs, and the back end skips out a bit as I turn to the road. I'm getting better at that.
I can't help but smile as I accelerate down the road to the office, where my breakfast, and lift to work await. The morning air is still cool, almost cold as it whips through my light clothing, the roads are empty, and I think I'll have chicken tikka for lunch with my wife. Maybe we'll eat out tonight as well.
Can life get much better than this?
Monday, 4 February 2008
Carnival Weekend
Golda had been asking me to come to her home in Margao (the city where we work) for about 2 weeks before I accepted. Not that I didn't want to, it's just her forwardness to a man now use to restrictive Indian formality was a little disconcerting. Also as a volunteer I had to be seen as impartial for my final report on the school, although my thoughts on matters were pretty clear by week one.
During tiffin one morning, she took me through her family album, pointing out her husband ("Is he not handsome?" she asks me with a worried look...I nod enthusiastically, figuring Mrs Grasshopper would probably think so), her beautiful baby boy and other family members. This openness, along with her professionalism, disarming honesty, and sense of humor, made me quite fond of her and I really wanted to meet the family she had told me so much about. The fact she promised a good home-made goan lunch was an added bonus too!
So Mrs Grasshopper and I arranged to ride over on sunday about 12. It was Carnival weekend, and Robert (her husband) thought we could watch the carnival and then go out with them to celebrate his friend Rex's birthday.
As we had monday off, Mrs Grasshopper and I were now really geared up for a great day and night, especially as Mrs G had been laid-up for some time with a stomach upset.
Now as much as I felt bad for my poor wife, and the 7 other volunteers who all had the same "stomach" problem, I still felt a little proud I was right as reign. So far, my apparent goat-like constitution had easily overcome everything and anything that made others erupt explosively out all orifices...
...Then I got "the runs" for about 10 hours on saturday.
Arse.
Handfuls of anti-shit tablets and re-hydration powder with my water soon sorted me out. But although feeling fine, I was still scared to fart when we jumped off the bike outside her apartment. Mrs G seemed ok, if a little pale, having woke up that morning feeling "funny".
Golda welcomed us into her spotlessly clean home, and we met Robert, a sincere and easygoing chap, (whom Mrs Grasshopper confirmed was indeed handsome), and her 18 month old baby boy Joshua, who inherits both parents good looks and easygoing temperament. Mrs G and I decided to bring a cake rather than wine, much to Golda's bemusement. I figure (too late) that a gift wasn't necessary. Thankfully being westerners, and more importantly guests, we are excused all manner of social faux pas.
As we sat on the couch passing a ball to Joshua, she asks me "What did you have for breakfast?" Mrs Grasshopper and I exchange looks and explain we had a minor stomach problem, so just bread and butter was great this morning.
Either she misunderstood, or was worried we were now hungry (she worries a lot bless her), either way, Robert disappeared and returned with platefuls of freshly made sandwiches from the shop down the road.
"Grasshopper, I want you to eat all of those" she says with a smile, only half joking. "You are big, you need food"
"Um, thanks..."
Somewhere deep, low-down in my belly, a strange burbling started. I looked at Mrs G, who returned my fearful look.
As Robert had bought them specially for us, we eaten a few, a little overwelmed at their hospitality. They were nice sandwiches mind you. Fruit juice soon followed, and we then met Golda's aunty, neice and mother Maria, who were cooking us up some home favorites.
We sat listening to music, chilling out for a while, then Robert disappeared again, this time returning with ice cold bottles of Kingfisher, which we were given in seemingly never-draining glasses. Worried about riding later, and the effect it my have on my stomach, I sipped nervously. Then the food arrived....
Wow.
I'd never have thought cauliflower and prawns would go together- but in a sweet coconut curry sauce, they really, really do. The other dish of pork xacuti was dark and rich, and the final dish of chilli-fried prawns with vegetables was tangy and addictive, all accompanied with steamed white rice. It was brilliant, but as our stomachs were really starting to chunder a bit, we could only manage small amounts of the mountainous dishes.
After dinner, Robert went back to the office for a few hours, while Mrs G and I followed Golda, Joshua and Maria into the city center for the Carnival.
For the next few hours we watched elaborately decorated floats going past, and took in the party atmosphere. Each float had literally a pile of speakers roped on the back, pumping out goan trance and fast-paced salsa, to which people in various amounts, forms and styles of dress danced away on top.
Unfortunately, with the heat, crush of people and hot sun, Mrs G was starting to feel really poorly. Golda ushered us into a small restaurant for a fizzy drink and a sit down, while Maria and little Joshua pushed their way to a prime viewing spot. Maria's excitement and enjoyment at the carnival was clear to see. Also, her son was in it, on one of the first floats (there were something like 47 in total).
When we came out of the restaurant, we watched some more, and then set about looking for Maria. From the back of the crowd, I could just see a sea of dark hair, and realising Maria was also very short in hight, I eventually gave up looking, waiting for the crowd to thin at the end of the show.
The end of the show came at sundown with a huge firework display, and the most jam-packed streets I've ever seen, as everyone headed for the parties.
Having heard the MC of the Carnival call out earlier for lost children, and still having no sign of Maria and Joshua, I suggested to Golda approaching the MC stand and having a word.
"Yes, good idea- you go!" She said smiling, "Tell him you want your son Joshua to meet you by the tourist hotel. Maria will hear it and take him"
I looked at her incredulously "My son?" He is a fair skinned baby fair enough, but still, unmistakably a Goan baby.
Golda laughs, guessing my thinking "No one will see him will they!"
"oh, um, well, yeah, course" I say, grinning as I ran up the stairs to the MC's spot, atop a large stage crowded with local dignitaries. The MC's assistant then insists I call out for Joshua myself, and arranges for the microphone to be passed to me. I scan the crowd of thousands, aware my broad English accent will make everyone stare up at me... Then thankfully I spot Joshua, fast asleep in his grandmothers arms!
Everyone together again, and Mrs Grasshopper looking extremely ill, we decide to split up- I'll take my wife home where she can have a sleep, and Golda will pick Robert up, then collect me on the way to Colva for Rex's birthday party.
The ride out of Margao was the craziest yet- it made the traffic in Delhi look normal! Like many times on these roads, I was glad of the light easily-thrown-about bike and gentle power- the VFR800 I have at home would have been a nightmare.
We were literally squeezing our way through the crowds of rickshaws, scooters, jeeps and music-pumping carnival trucks. I watched with mild surprise at how angry one scooter rider got with an auto-rickshaw driver who pushed him out of the way- admittedly by using his front bumper, but then there are no rules or even common sense on these roads. A couple of times my wing mirrors were bashed in as riders squeezed past us through gaps that didn't exist. Unavoidably I caught them with my mirrors too, because they had squeezed past me only to have to slam on the brakes because the vehicle ahead was stationary, and I clipped them as I glide past.
It was like being part of a wave of 2-wheelers, surging around the cars, over the enormous speed-bumps they have and around the tightest hairpins. I kept to what I felt was a safe speed- one in which I was moving with the flow, but had plenty of time to deal with the manic overtake-then brake brigade, and suicidal pedestrians. I looked at my speedo for a split second- 15 KPH! It felt at least 50!
Bloody good fun it was, cool wind in my face, foot dancing on the gear-lever (which has a heel section, for riding in sandals!) and the trucks pumping out salsa, all in a big, happy party atmosphere.
When we got to our house, Mrs G hit the sack, insisting I go without her. I met Rex when I was picked up, a lovely chap from far north-eastern India. The short drive to the beach and we then settled in shack-restaurant, talking about everything and nothing while little Joshua played.
My stomach, at least up to up to my 2nd Kingfisher, had been silent, but now started squealing and chundering again, low, deep in my stomach. I had avoided eating much of the starter Robert had ordered, being a bit fearful of the consequences. However, when the main meal came, I soon ignored my still chundering stomach! Fresh fish ambot-tik, seafood fried-rice, real steak (with eggs), and butter nan was too good to miss. I did regret it slightly when I went for a walk behind the shack to pee (Rex described it as an indian toilet- just go where you want). I had to lean against a palm tree, take a deep breath, close my eyes and concentrate real hard to ensure I did only pee.
Once we had eaten Robert called the driver to get us picked up. I tried to pay for some of the food and drink, and the car and driver (who having been hired for half a day had quite a bill), but Robert was having none of it- "Grasshopper, you are our guest, we will pay!"
All in all, it was a great day and night, with some great people- a brilliant finish to the weekend. I did feel bad about not paying for anything, however, Golda and Robert agreed to meet up later in the week, so I figured it could be my turn then.
The Carnival atmosphere lasted onto tuesday, with the Monday night breeze carrying girls shrieks as they are splattered with water and paint by passing "carnival cars". There was constant pumping music, and bizare things like 2 men dressed as gorrillas, wearing pink underwear and riding motorbikes...
To top it off- my stomach was fine the next day. The fish ambot-tik must have done it some good.
During tiffin one morning, she took me through her family album, pointing out her husband ("Is he not handsome?" she asks me with a worried look...I nod enthusiastically, figuring Mrs Grasshopper would probably think so), her beautiful baby boy and other family members. This openness, along with her professionalism, disarming honesty, and sense of humor, made me quite fond of her and I really wanted to meet the family she had told me so much about. The fact she promised a good home-made goan lunch was an added bonus too!
So Mrs Grasshopper and I arranged to ride over on sunday about 12. It was Carnival weekend, and Robert (her husband) thought we could watch the carnival and then go out with them to celebrate his friend Rex's birthday.
As we had monday off, Mrs Grasshopper and I were now really geared up for a great day and night, especially as Mrs G had been laid-up for some time with a stomach upset.
Now as much as I felt bad for my poor wife, and the 7 other volunteers who all had the same "stomach" problem, I still felt a little proud I was right as reign. So far, my apparent goat-like constitution had easily overcome everything and anything that made others erupt explosively out all orifices...
...Then I got "the runs" for about 10 hours on saturday.
Arse.
Handfuls of anti-shit tablets and re-hydration powder with my water soon sorted me out. But although feeling fine, I was still scared to fart when we jumped off the bike outside her apartment. Mrs G seemed ok, if a little pale, having woke up that morning feeling "funny".
Golda welcomed us into her spotlessly clean home, and we met Robert, a sincere and easygoing chap, (whom Mrs Grasshopper confirmed was indeed handsome), and her 18 month old baby boy Joshua, who inherits both parents good looks and easygoing temperament. Mrs G and I decided to bring a cake rather than wine, much to Golda's bemusement. I figure (too late) that a gift wasn't necessary. Thankfully being westerners, and more importantly guests, we are excused all manner of social faux pas.
As we sat on the couch passing a ball to Joshua, she asks me "What did you have for breakfast?" Mrs Grasshopper and I exchange looks and explain we had a minor stomach problem, so just bread and butter was great this morning.
Either she misunderstood, or was worried we were now hungry (she worries a lot bless her), either way, Robert disappeared and returned with platefuls of freshly made sandwiches from the shop down the road.
"Grasshopper, I want you to eat all of those" she says with a smile, only half joking. "You are big, you need food"
"Um, thanks..."
Somewhere deep, low-down in my belly, a strange burbling started. I looked at Mrs G, who returned my fearful look.
As Robert had bought them specially for us, we eaten a few, a little overwelmed at their hospitality. They were nice sandwiches mind you. Fruit juice soon followed, and we then met Golda's aunty, neice and mother Maria, who were cooking us up some home favorites.
We sat listening to music, chilling out for a while, then Robert disappeared again, this time returning with ice cold bottles of Kingfisher, which we were given in seemingly never-draining glasses. Worried about riding later, and the effect it my have on my stomach, I sipped nervously. Then the food arrived....
Wow.
I'd never have thought cauliflower and prawns would go together- but in a sweet coconut curry sauce, they really, really do. The other dish of pork xacuti was dark and rich, and the final dish of chilli-fried prawns with vegetables was tangy and addictive, all accompanied with steamed white rice. It was brilliant, but as our stomachs were really starting to chunder a bit, we could only manage small amounts of the mountainous dishes.
After dinner, Robert went back to the office for a few hours, while Mrs G and I followed Golda, Joshua and Maria into the city center for the Carnival.
For the next few hours we watched elaborately decorated floats going past, and took in the party atmosphere. Each float had literally a pile of speakers roped on the back, pumping out goan trance and fast-paced salsa, to which people in various amounts, forms and styles of dress danced away on top.
Unfortunately, with the heat, crush of people and hot sun, Mrs G was starting to feel really poorly. Golda ushered us into a small restaurant for a fizzy drink and a sit down, while Maria and little Joshua pushed their way to a prime viewing spot. Maria's excitement and enjoyment at the carnival was clear to see. Also, her son was in it, on one of the first floats (there were something like 47 in total).
When we came out of the restaurant, we watched some more, and then set about looking for Maria. From the back of the crowd, I could just see a sea of dark hair, and realising Maria was also very short in hight, I eventually gave up looking, waiting for the crowd to thin at the end of the show.
The end of the show came at sundown with a huge firework display, and the most jam-packed streets I've ever seen, as everyone headed for the parties.
Having heard the MC of the Carnival call out earlier for lost children, and still having no sign of Maria and Joshua, I suggested to Golda approaching the MC stand and having a word.
"Yes, good idea- you go!" She said smiling, "Tell him you want your son Joshua to meet you by the tourist hotel. Maria will hear it and take him"
I looked at her incredulously "My son?" He is a fair skinned baby fair enough, but still, unmistakably a Goan baby.
Golda laughs, guessing my thinking "No one will see him will they!"
"oh, um, well, yeah, course" I say, grinning as I ran up the stairs to the MC's spot, atop a large stage crowded with local dignitaries. The MC's assistant then insists I call out for Joshua myself, and arranges for the microphone to be passed to me. I scan the crowd of thousands, aware my broad English accent will make everyone stare up at me... Then thankfully I spot Joshua, fast asleep in his grandmothers arms!
Everyone together again, and Mrs Grasshopper looking extremely ill, we decide to split up- I'll take my wife home where she can have a sleep, and Golda will pick Robert up, then collect me on the way to Colva for Rex's birthday party.
The ride out of Margao was the craziest yet- it made the traffic in Delhi look normal! Like many times on these roads, I was glad of the light easily-thrown-about bike and gentle power- the VFR800 I have at home would have been a nightmare.
We were literally squeezing our way through the crowds of rickshaws, scooters, jeeps and music-pumping carnival trucks. I watched with mild surprise at how angry one scooter rider got with an auto-rickshaw driver who pushed him out of the way- admittedly by using his front bumper, but then there are no rules or even common sense on these roads. A couple of times my wing mirrors were bashed in as riders squeezed past us through gaps that didn't exist. Unavoidably I caught them with my mirrors too, because they had squeezed past me only to have to slam on the brakes because the vehicle ahead was stationary, and I clipped them as I glide past.
It was like being part of a wave of 2-wheelers, surging around the cars, over the enormous speed-bumps they have and around the tightest hairpins. I kept to what I felt was a safe speed- one in which I was moving with the flow, but had plenty of time to deal with the manic overtake-then brake brigade, and suicidal pedestrians. I looked at my speedo for a split second- 15 KPH! It felt at least 50!
Bloody good fun it was, cool wind in my face, foot dancing on the gear-lever (which has a heel section, for riding in sandals!) and the trucks pumping out salsa, all in a big, happy party atmosphere.
When we got to our house, Mrs G hit the sack, insisting I go without her. I met Rex when I was picked up, a lovely chap from far north-eastern India. The short drive to the beach and we then settled in shack-restaurant, talking about everything and nothing while little Joshua played.
My stomach, at least up to up to my 2nd Kingfisher, had been silent, but now started squealing and chundering again, low, deep in my stomach. I had avoided eating much of the starter Robert had ordered, being a bit fearful of the consequences. However, when the main meal came, I soon ignored my still chundering stomach! Fresh fish ambot-tik, seafood fried-rice, real steak (with eggs), and butter nan was too good to miss. I did regret it slightly when I went for a walk behind the shack to pee (Rex described it as an indian toilet- just go where you want). I had to lean against a palm tree, take a deep breath, close my eyes and concentrate real hard to ensure I did only pee.
Once we had eaten Robert called the driver to get us picked up. I tried to pay for some of the food and drink, and the car and driver (who having been hired for half a day had quite a bill), but Robert was having none of it- "Grasshopper, you are our guest, we will pay!"
All in all, it was a great day and night, with some great people- a brilliant finish to the weekend. I did feel bad about not paying for anything, however, Golda and Robert agreed to meet up later in the week, so I figured it could be my turn then.
The Carnival atmosphere lasted onto tuesday, with the Monday night breeze carrying girls shrieks as they are splattered with water and paint by passing "carnival cars". There was constant pumping music, and bizare things like 2 men dressed as gorrillas, wearing pink underwear and riding motorbikes...
To top it off- my stomach was fine the next day. The fish ambot-tik must have done it some good.
Tuesday, 29 January 2008
Working at the School for Mentally Challenged Children
When I first visited the School, I was first struck by the size of it, at nearly 10 times the size of the school I taught in up north in Himachal Pradesh. Also, the children’s challenges range from mild autism, to sever brain damage causing both mental and physical problems.
While walking around and meeting the classes, we were suppose to be finding a group where our abilities would be best suited. I met a great group of 6 young lads, aged between 13 and 18 who were classed together as "Dumb"- unable to speak, for various reasons.
(I should point out here that political correctness does not exist in the Indian institutions we are working in- spastic, dumb, retard, crazy, and psycho are all phrases banded about without malice by the teachers and assistants working here)
The lads do not have a regular teacher, and on that day (and most days) they have no teacher at all- they just scribble in their books, or sit there bored. This upset me, as the lads are perfectly capable of learning at a suitable level for their age, as seen in their books showing previous volunteers work. So I told the head teacher I wanted to teach them, he said fine, and the next day I was ready to start.
Only the next day the head teacher put me in the severely retarded children instead- where I got pissed on, hit, pulled, pinched, snotted on and screamed at (actually not unlike a bad Friday night shift back home).
But if I'm honest- it's been great work actually.
The kids are between 6 and 10 years old, classed together according to their IQ, the highest belonging to 9 year old Flavia at 60, and the lowest 20. A few of the kids have been diagnosed with cerebral palsy, autism and downs syndrome, but the rest are so far undiagnosed, and are referred to as simply retarded or brain damaged.
My original lesson plans, involving teaching aids such as bingo cards, snap, etc go out the window, as it's soon apparent just maintaining the children’s welfare takes most of my time and effort.
For example Clecy often takes to forcefully headbutting the marble floors of the classroom, only causing bruised lumps if caught in time, but open bleeding head wounds if not. She does this about the same time Olwen tries to stab Rishikesh with a pencil he's took from someone’s bag, and Vijayish usually chooses this time to give it legs, out the classroom and onto the road, while Stephen starts to choke on his own vomit- though he can do so on someone else’s, a far more complex situation I wont describe here.
I'm not exaggerating or taking the piss- This happened just last Friday, and usually their teacher Golda is on her own, trying to keep things together and provide some part of the one-on-one care these children really need.
So more often than not, we take turns- I'll cuddle, spin, tickle and generally give affectionate attention to little Clecy, which in turn keeps her safe and happy while Golda gives simple exercises to the others. Then we swap, and I'll get them, one at a time (there is no other way) to make a contribution towards a big picture or collage.
You see teaching, in the traditional sense, is not really possible with these children. Improving their manual dexterity and their understanding of what they are doing and the world around them is more useful and attainable. For example one of the children cannot speak or hold a pen, so plowing into the alphabet and 9 times tables would be a little ambitious.
I try to give each child an activity on the poster according to their ability, at least as best as possible i.e Flavia can colour-in, so she colours in the flowers. Vijayish can glue (with assistance), so he sticks on the grass, and so on.
Originally my approach to these kids was one of big, stupid, fluffy grins and a "hey little guy, lets do some work" approach... So they naturally see me (and all the volunteers who come here past and present) as the big stupid lump we are who they can walk all over.
And they do!
For example, Vijayish has never stabbed his teacher with a pencil (he dare not). But without fail, he will go for anyone with white skin because he finds the response hilarious, with all the gentle pushing and polite pleading such as:
"Oh, er, no, er, please dont, I say, Ow! That's not nice, do stop... no,... OW!, Now then!, stop it!... be a good boy, that's it... OW!!"
I was exactly the same the first time. I mean- how do you effectively defend yourself against a mentally challenged 8 year old with malnutrition, without risking hurting him, and thus instantly becoming a bully. Without doubt, the super-fit, 20 year old Kiwi and sultry Swedish girls who also volunteer at the school would go nuts if I hurt the little fella! I'd never live it down back at the Idex office- and who the hell wants 30 odd women all mad at him at once? (Especially when they are all young and cute...)
So the next day, I was sure to shut the classroom door behind me first.
He went for me, specially sharpened HB pencil in hand, so I quickly dropped him, disarmed him, flipped him in the chair and forced him into colouring (with a nice, soft crayon) before he had time to properly scream...
"Good boy, excellent, well done!" I cooed, a hand clamped around his crayon hand to help him as he stared at me, frozen in utter shock at what had just taken place. For a moment I was worried as he stared at me, bottom lip quivering... But his mind seemingly made up, his face cracked into a big smile, before focusing on his new-found colouring, his hand moving faster as he really got into it.
We're best mates now, and he hugs me every morning when he sees me, and when music plays, he always takes my hands and starts to boogie, laughing (understandably) at my dancing efforts, like a chicken plugged into the mains.
Slowly, the other kids have also accepted me, and together we have got good games of catch going on during sports (important in developing hand-eye co-ordination and gross motor skills), relay races through hoops etc. We have also just finished a great collage of a sparkly-sunflower, surrounded by other different colored flowers in a grassy field.
We're currently working on a beach scene, using real sand and sea-shells Golda and I have collected. Golda sets simple exercises in the kids books, such as join the dots, and while she keeps hold of Clecy and deals with the runners, vomiters and stabbers (Olwen, who impervious to pressure points, still wrestles with me over the odd HB) I go from student to student. After tiffin (lunch break) we swap roles.
This one-on-one attention the kids so desperately need, improving their fine motor skills with exercises such as colouring-in, gluing etc, and generally interacting with someone and keeping their minds working, rather than being ignored like they are outside of the classroom.
"We cannot teach these children normally, it is not possible" Golda once said to me, "But we can make their lives better, no?"
That's indeed what she does, and it's been a privilege to help her.
While walking around and meeting the classes, we were suppose to be finding a group where our abilities would be best suited. I met a great group of 6 young lads, aged between 13 and 18 who were classed together as "Dumb"- unable to speak, for various reasons.
(I should point out here that political correctness does not exist in the Indian institutions we are working in- spastic, dumb, retard, crazy, and psycho are all phrases banded about without malice by the teachers and assistants working here)
The lads do not have a regular teacher, and on that day (and most days) they have no teacher at all- they just scribble in their books, or sit there bored. This upset me, as the lads are perfectly capable of learning at a suitable level for their age, as seen in their books showing previous volunteers work. So I told the head teacher I wanted to teach them, he said fine, and the next day I was ready to start.
Only the next day the head teacher put me in the severely retarded children instead- where I got pissed on, hit, pulled, pinched, snotted on and screamed at (actually not unlike a bad Friday night shift back home).
But if I'm honest- it's been great work actually.
The kids are between 6 and 10 years old, classed together according to their IQ, the highest belonging to 9 year old Flavia at 60, and the lowest 20. A few of the kids have been diagnosed with cerebral palsy, autism and downs syndrome, but the rest are so far undiagnosed, and are referred to as simply retarded or brain damaged.
My original lesson plans, involving teaching aids such as bingo cards, snap, etc go out the window, as it's soon apparent just maintaining the children’s welfare takes most of my time and effort.
For example Clecy often takes to forcefully headbutting the marble floors of the classroom, only causing bruised lumps if caught in time, but open bleeding head wounds if not. She does this about the same time Olwen tries to stab Rishikesh with a pencil he's took from someone’s bag, and Vijayish usually chooses this time to give it legs, out the classroom and onto the road, while Stephen starts to choke on his own vomit- though he can do so on someone else’s, a far more complex situation I wont describe here.
I'm not exaggerating or taking the piss- This happened just last Friday, and usually their teacher Golda is on her own, trying to keep things together and provide some part of the one-on-one care these children really need.
So more often than not, we take turns- I'll cuddle, spin, tickle and generally give affectionate attention to little Clecy, which in turn keeps her safe and happy while Golda gives simple exercises to the others. Then we swap, and I'll get them, one at a time (there is no other way) to make a contribution towards a big picture or collage.
You see teaching, in the traditional sense, is not really possible with these children. Improving their manual dexterity and their understanding of what they are doing and the world around them is more useful and attainable. For example one of the children cannot speak or hold a pen, so plowing into the alphabet and 9 times tables would be a little ambitious.
I try to give each child an activity on the poster according to their ability, at least as best as possible i.e Flavia can colour-in, so she colours in the flowers. Vijayish can glue (with assistance), so he sticks on the grass, and so on.
Originally my approach to these kids was one of big, stupid, fluffy grins and a "hey little guy, lets do some work" approach... So they naturally see me (and all the volunteers who come here past and present) as the big stupid lump we are who they can walk all over.
And they do!
For example, Vijayish has never stabbed his teacher with a pencil (he dare not). But without fail, he will go for anyone with white skin because he finds the response hilarious, with all the gentle pushing and polite pleading such as:
"Oh, er, no, er, please dont, I say, Ow! That's not nice, do stop... no,... OW!, Now then!, stop it!... be a good boy, that's it... OW!!"
I was exactly the same the first time. I mean- how do you effectively defend yourself against a mentally challenged 8 year old with malnutrition, without risking hurting him, and thus instantly becoming a bully. Without doubt, the super-fit, 20 year old Kiwi and sultry Swedish girls who also volunteer at the school would go nuts if I hurt the little fella! I'd never live it down back at the Idex office- and who the hell wants 30 odd women all mad at him at once? (Especially when they are all young and cute...)
So the next day, I was sure to shut the classroom door behind me first.
He went for me, specially sharpened HB pencil in hand, so I quickly dropped him, disarmed him, flipped him in the chair and forced him into colouring (with a nice, soft crayon) before he had time to properly scream...
"Good boy, excellent, well done!" I cooed, a hand clamped around his crayon hand to help him as he stared at me, frozen in utter shock at what had just taken place. For a moment I was worried as he stared at me, bottom lip quivering... But his mind seemingly made up, his face cracked into a big smile, before focusing on his new-found colouring, his hand moving faster as he really got into it.
We're best mates now, and he hugs me every morning when he sees me, and when music plays, he always takes my hands and starts to boogie, laughing (understandably) at my dancing efforts, like a chicken plugged into the mains.
Slowly, the other kids have also accepted me, and together we have got good games of catch going on during sports (important in developing hand-eye co-ordination and gross motor skills), relay races through hoops etc. We have also just finished a great collage of a sparkly-sunflower, surrounded by other different colored flowers in a grassy field.
We're currently working on a beach scene, using real sand and sea-shells Golda and I have collected. Golda sets simple exercises in the kids books, such as join the dots, and while she keeps hold of Clecy and deals with the runners, vomiters and stabbers (Olwen, who impervious to pressure points, still wrestles with me over the odd HB) I go from student to student. After tiffin (lunch break) we swap roles.
This one-on-one attention the kids so desperately need, improving their fine motor skills with exercises such as colouring-in, gluing etc, and generally interacting with someone and keeping their minds working, rather than being ignored like they are outside of the classroom.
"We cannot teach these children normally, it is not possible" Golda once said to me, "But we can make their lives better, no?"
That's indeed what she does, and it's been a privilege to help her.
Friday, 25 January 2008
New Bike
The bloke swapped the bike! He told me he would come round at 12 lunchtime. Now in India that usually means about 12.30 to 3pm... But he was on-time!! He brought another pristine cool-looking Pulsar 150, just 2 months old and with a proper right-way-up gearbox!
So we went off riding for a couple of hours, finding secluded beach-shacks serving the day's catch, passing amazing Portuguese colonial Churches, resorts, villages and farmers fields. On well maintained roads, surrounded by coconut and cashew nut trees, under a powder blue sky and the smell of the sea in the air- I am in heaven!
I also had my first authentic, traditional Goan Vindaloo last night, our first friday night. Made with tamarind, garlic, vinegar and copious amounts of chilli, it was a world apart from the "madras but hotter" rubbish you get in the uk. Despite being a curry lover, and very use to authentic Indian food now, it still got my eyes watering and nose running.
But WOW! Damn, yeah it was good!!
Mixed with chilli-fried rice and scooped up in nan bread, it was possibly the best meal I've had in weeks. Washed down with Goan-made Kings lager, a dry, crisp bitter lager that perfectly off-set the sharp tang of the vindaloo. The other volunteers we went to the restaurant with also had great food, and we all relaxed, debated, and laughed 'till we cried.
It was a great start to our weekend, after our first week of work at the school for mentally Challenged Children, in nearby Margao...
So we went off riding for a couple of hours, finding secluded beach-shacks serving the day's catch, passing amazing Portuguese colonial Churches, resorts, villages and farmers fields. On well maintained roads, surrounded by coconut and cashew nut trees, under a powder blue sky and the smell of the sea in the air- I am in heaven!
I also had my first authentic, traditional Goan Vindaloo last night, our first friday night. Made with tamarind, garlic, vinegar and copious amounts of chilli, it was a world apart from the "madras but hotter" rubbish you get in the uk. Despite being a curry lover, and very use to authentic Indian food now, it still got my eyes watering and nose running.
But WOW! Damn, yeah it was good!!
Mixed with chilli-fried rice and scooped up in nan bread, it was possibly the best meal I've had in weeks. Washed down with Goan-made Kings lager, a dry, crisp bitter lager that perfectly off-set the sharp tang of the vindaloo. The other volunteers we went to the restaurant with also had great food, and we all relaxed, debated, and laughed 'till we cried.
It was a great start to our weekend, after our first week of work at the school for mentally Challenged Children, in nearby Margao...
Thursday, 24 January 2008
Goa
Now we're here!
Started work, visited the beach, started seriously running again, and got settled into our house (which is walking distance to the beach). We got a wicked, fully furnished house that we share with Shirley, Elaine, and two other ladies called Karen and Lucy. Mrs Grasshopper and I have an en-suite with hot shower, double bed, and there is even a washing machine in the kitchen- a great luxury in Indian houses, more so for us as we have been hand-washing since we left blighty.
Now I'm sitting, chilled out in a super-fast Internet cafe, all jeans, boots and t-shirt, sunglasses on my head and my new motorcycle on it's stand outside- life is great!
The heat when I first stepped off the train was amazing- thick, heavy, and filled with holiday atmosphere. Mrs G and I followed Vishal through the dark station, sweat immediately prickling out of my skin as I jogged up the steps, careful with my footing under the weight of my wife's ever expanding rucksack. We jumped into 2 minibuses with our bags thrown on top and were first taken to the impressive Idex main house where the "youths" (actually aged 18-23) live and the day-to-day admin is carried out. Then after a meal of veg curry, biryani and chapati served on the roof terrace, we were shown our impressive little Kholie, about 2 minutes walk from the Idex office, and 15 minutes from Colva beach.
We had a couple of days induction training, including trips to the volunteer projects in the area. I had an open mind and wanted to choose something different. However, immediately after visiting the school for mentally challenged children I knew that I wanted to work there, and make use of my experience in Himachal Pradesh.
Outside of lectures and project visits, we explored a little bit of Colva.
It's such a great, relaxing place, it's easy to understand why Goa is the tourist destination of India. Colva itself is a little quiet- less of the hippy trippy stuff than I expected, although most shops are still full of mega-baggy, day-glow "Om" patterned trousers, tie-dye shirts and incense burners. There are just a couple of "package holiday" hotels, seemingly only filled with couples aged 40+ and non-brit European families, and to Mrs G's great pleasure, the bikini is acceptable to wear, although naturally only on the beach.
All in all, Colva is small, pleasantly spread-out with lots of "villa's" surrounded by gardens and public spaces (all stuffed with palm trees), and no buildings are taller than 3 floors high. The beach is lovely, pale white-yellow sand, the sea is clear and blue, and there is none of the filth and pollution I have come to associate with low-land India. Even the roads are quiet, well maintained, and with less horn blowing!
As it's the weekend starting tomorrow afternoon, I decided to finally get my motorbike! The biggest bike I have seen on the road is the 185cc Pulsar (except for the heavy, slow, thirsty and expensive 350cc Enfield Bullet).
Unfortunately, I could only get the 150cc Pulsar, but for 250 rupees per day, I'm happy enough- it's actually quite a cool, "fast looking" bike! Until my 6'1" lump jumps on, making the bike look a little stunted in growth. But petrol is cheap, it's comfy, and I'm loving the whole no-helmet thing. I couldn't help humming that song from "Top Gun", as I rip down the coast road, wind ruffling my hair and my sunglasses keeping my eyes clear.
Only thing is, the gearbox is not what I'm use to. Neutral is at the very top, then gears 1 through to 5 are reached by tapping down on the lever! Coupled with years of large capacity sports bikes, I struggled at first. There I am, coasting down the tarmac feeling all "top gear"/"easy rider" cool, preparing to overtake the hated auto-rickshaw in a graceful sweep of timing, control and power:
Mirror- OK,
shoulder check- OK
into position,
horn, (an Indian thing),
Clutch in, flick up the gear lever twice, twist, clutch out and...
"OH F--k!"
The engine shrieks, the back wheel locks and my cool, calm exterior is lost as I shriek out loud, bang the clutch in and start the river dance on the gear lever. I succeed in making things worse, roaring and jerking finally to a halt in front of a gaggle of fit female "gap-year-lovelies".
Then I stall completely, with a jerk and a bang. The girls laugh.
Arse.
Thankfully, I've got it sorted now, although the bloke is bringing me another bike with "proper" gear arrangements tonight after dinner.
Talking of which, I'd better go get some. Via the coast road, as the sun's setting...
Started work, visited the beach, started seriously running again, and got settled into our house (which is walking distance to the beach). We got a wicked, fully furnished house that we share with Shirley, Elaine, and two other ladies called Karen and Lucy. Mrs Grasshopper and I have an en-suite with hot shower, double bed, and there is even a washing machine in the kitchen- a great luxury in Indian houses, more so for us as we have been hand-washing since we left blighty.
Now I'm sitting, chilled out in a super-fast Internet cafe, all jeans, boots and t-shirt, sunglasses on my head and my new motorcycle on it's stand outside- life is great!
The heat when I first stepped off the train was amazing- thick, heavy, and filled with holiday atmosphere. Mrs G and I followed Vishal through the dark station, sweat immediately prickling out of my skin as I jogged up the steps, careful with my footing under the weight of my wife's ever expanding rucksack. We jumped into 2 minibuses with our bags thrown on top and were first taken to the impressive Idex main house where the "youths" (actually aged 18-23) live and the day-to-day admin is carried out. Then after a meal of veg curry, biryani and chapati served on the roof terrace, we were shown our impressive little Kholie, about 2 minutes walk from the Idex office, and 15 minutes from Colva beach.
We had a couple of days induction training, including trips to the volunteer projects in the area. I had an open mind and wanted to choose something different. However, immediately after visiting the school for mentally challenged children I knew that I wanted to work there, and make use of my experience in Himachal Pradesh.
Outside of lectures and project visits, we explored a little bit of Colva.
It's such a great, relaxing place, it's easy to understand why Goa is the tourist destination of India. Colva itself is a little quiet- less of the hippy trippy stuff than I expected, although most shops are still full of mega-baggy, day-glow "Om" patterned trousers, tie-dye shirts and incense burners. There are just a couple of "package holiday" hotels, seemingly only filled with couples aged 40+ and non-brit European families, and to Mrs G's great pleasure, the bikini is acceptable to wear, although naturally only on the beach.
All in all, Colva is small, pleasantly spread-out with lots of "villa's" surrounded by gardens and public spaces (all stuffed with palm trees), and no buildings are taller than 3 floors high. The beach is lovely, pale white-yellow sand, the sea is clear and blue, and there is none of the filth and pollution I have come to associate with low-land India. Even the roads are quiet, well maintained, and with less horn blowing!
As it's the weekend starting tomorrow afternoon, I decided to finally get my motorbike! The biggest bike I have seen on the road is the 185cc Pulsar (except for the heavy, slow, thirsty and expensive 350cc Enfield Bullet).
Unfortunately, I could only get the 150cc Pulsar, but for 250 rupees per day, I'm happy enough- it's actually quite a cool, "fast looking" bike! Until my 6'1" lump jumps on, making the bike look a little stunted in growth. But petrol is cheap, it's comfy, and I'm loving the whole no-helmet thing. I couldn't help humming that song from "Top Gun", as I rip down the coast road, wind ruffling my hair and my sunglasses keeping my eyes clear.
Only thing is, the gearbox is not what I'm use to. Neutral is at the very top, then gears 1 through to 5 are reached by tapping down on the lever! Coupled with years of large capacity sports bikes, I struggled at first. There I am, coasting down the tarmac feeling all "top gear"/"easy rider" cool, preparing to overtake the hated auto-rickshaw in a graceful sweep of timing, control and power:
Mirror- OK,
shoulder check- OK
into position,
horn, (an Indian thing),
Clutch in, flick up the gear lever twice, twist, clutch out and...
"OH F--k!"
The engine shrieks, the back wheel locks and my cool, calm exterior is lost as I shriek out loud, bang the clutch in and start the river dance on the gear lever. I succeed in making things worse, roaring and jerking finally to a halt in front of a gaggle of fit female "gap-year-lovelies".
Then I stall completely, with a jerk and a bang. The girls laugh.
Arse.
Thankfully, I've got it sorted now, although the bloke is bringing me another bike with "proper" gear arrangements tonight after dinner.
Talking of which, I'd better go get some. Via the coast road, as the sun's setting...
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