ABDF

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Hi Everybody!

The last week or so has been filled with a lot of ups and downs. At this stage, 4 ½ months into the season, I guess this is to be expected.

It all started last Saturday, or rather, a week ago Saturday. I was supposed to meet two friends in the evening and go for a walk on the beach. One of the guys, Kirupa, picked me up and took me to his house in Kallady, where our other friend was going to meet us. So at the house I met Kirupa’s family: his amma (mom), and sisters, one of whom spoke very good English. I was served tea and snacks, as is with traditional hospitality. I was having a pleasant time until Kirupa’s older brother showed up. I forget his name, but he’s nice enough, and speaks very good English. But what pissed me off was that within five minutes of meeting the man, he had launched into the family’s whole sad story (tsunami affected, living in a rented house, can’t rebuild their own house, etc.) and asked me for “help.” Help, in these cases usually means money. I get this request frequently when I meet new people. Normally I brush it off, but this time I got angry. I started to think “Is this why I was brought here?” and “What? Do these people think I’m here to give a hand-out?”.

Now honestly I don’t think it was Kirupa’s idea, as in all the time I’ve known him he has never made this request. I think the brother saw an opportunity and went for it. And of course people have no way of knowing my own financial situation, and just how rich or not I am. And people here are generally in a bad situation, so I can’t blame them for working every angle. I would do the same. Still, I get really tired of everyone having their hand out, and with people assuming that because I’m white and foreign, that I’m a millionaire. And the fact that this guy asked me for help within a few minutes of my being introduced made me feel used.

Of course I said nothing, and remained smilingly polite.

I also have to admit that part of why I got angry was due to my own feelings of inadequacy, and to a certain degree, helplessness. There is no way I can help even just my closest friends to rebuild their destroyed homes, no matter how much I wish it. And every such request reminds me of my lack of ability to do so. So I get frustrated. I mean, if there were 500 of me here, and each of us were a millionaire, then I could get some houses rebuilt! But alas, I am not.

I also get discouraged with some of the project ideas I get and the people who suggest them. I’m approached several times a week with ideas for projects. More often than not, when I ask for a little work from the proposer (is that the right word?) I never hear back from him or her. For example, I was talking to a teacher I know who works deep in the interior, far inland in a very remote area. He was telling me that many of the students live on scattered farms, and as there is no bus service of any kind, have to walk as much as 10 kilometers (about 7 miles) to get to school. As a result absenteeism is high, especially among the older students, who are useful back on the farm. He proposed buying a number of bikes that could be given to the older students who live furthest away from the school. Not a bad idea at all. I asked him to provide me with a list of such students, including age and grade, and to get a per/bike estimate. I told him I would write the proposal myself, although I’d need his input to make sure I have the information was correct. I wasn’t asking him to do a huge amount of work.

But I never heard from him again. I now believe he wanted me to simply hand over a bunch of cash, something which I would never do.

This sort of thing happens a lot, and you eventually learn to discern between those who want cash and those who want to actually fill a need. Still, to see the greed and downright laziness of some people who claim to care about their community can be a real downer. And in the example above, the people who end up on the short end of the stick are the kids who can’t get to school every day.

Then you come across something marvelous, and all the doubt and frustration goes away, at least for a while. Last Saturday I went south to the village of Kaluthavalai (Ka-loo-tah-vah-lee) about 20 km or so from Batti. This is an extremely backwards area, home mostly to small-scale rice farmers and bettle leaf harvesters. Dirt poor. In fact, along the District coastal strip, Kaluthavalai is seen as the worst place to live; the butt of jokes and put-downs. Sort of how we in the States feel about hillbillies.

However, when I went down there, I saw a marvelous after-school education project. Local volunteer teachers tutor 6-8th graders, there being an important national exam after the 8th grade. It’s been going on since 2002, and after the tsunami they took over some temporary shelters. I was extremely impressed; they serve 400 students daily, six days a week; everything is well organized, clean, and spacious. They teach English, math and science, and don’t charge the students a thing.

And the thing you’ve gotta understand is that all of this has been done on zero budget. Other than the shelters themselves, the group has received no outside support, other than what they can occasionally pressure local businessmen to donate. The bills they generate, such as electricity, the teachers pay themselves by passing around the hat. Student materials and exams need to be photocopied; these too the teachers pay for themselves or get donated.

In a place where the majority of people seem to want a hand-out, these guys are among the few that have really started and sustained something from the grass roots. They’ve done it by themselves, by their own bootstraps. And on practically no money.

True they don’t have proper blackboards; each class has just a piece of one hanging on the wall. True they place is one big patch of sand and dirt, and they need gravel. Yes, they could use proper benches and tables, rather than the, well, I don’t quite know how to describe it, what they sit and write on.

I feel very strongly that we should help these folks. I have several ideas that I suggested when I met them, but I want to wait to see what they feel they most need. I have a feeling that they will ask for some sort of copying machine, probably used. I can understand this; photocopying costs as much here as it does in the States, except that the teacher’s incomes are significantly less than ours, about $300 a month. For them it is a major, constant expense. Normally the ABDF isn’t into giving equipment, but I think we ought to make an exception in this case.

However, if they do make this request, I’m going to instead offer what’s called a ronio machine (I think I spelled it correctly). Perhaps my older readers will remember back in school when the teacher passed out copies and they smelled so cool. That’s a ronio machine. The copies aren’t as high a quality as a regular photocopier, but it has many advantages. The cost of the ink is nothing compared to the cost of toner, for example. I can get a new ronio for the price of a used copier. But most important is the fact that these machines can be operated by a hand crank, in addition to electricity. Given the precarious state of the power grid here (we have multiple blackouts of varying lengths almost every day) the teachers will be able to make their copies even when the power is out. This seems an eminently practical solution, IF they make such a request.

I have a quick amusing vignette to tell you. Going to and from Kaluthavalai I took the bus with my friend, Easwaran. You have to understand that a foreigner riding the bus never happens; all foreigners here have vehicles to get about. So when I go by bus, I always get a lot of stares. The way back from Kaluthavalai was particularly so; when I got on, all conversation stopped and every head turned as one and stared. I looked about for a beat, and said the first thing that popped into my head which was, in a big ol’ Texas drawl “Vanakum, y’all!” (Vanakum is hello in Tamil.) There was a pause while the folks digested this, then they all turned back to their conversations. Crazy foreign guy, you know.

The buses here are a miraculous, wondrous, terrifying thing. They are roughly analogous to our older city busses in construction, and have two doors one at front and one at the back. They are monstrous huge, and painted fire engine red. When they stop, they barely do so; you have to scramble aboard through the rear door quick as can be. More often than not the last person to get on is doing so from a trot. And these things come barreling down the road, horns blaring, like the proverbial bat outta hell. And the horns are loud. No “honk honk” here. No, it’s a long screeching “BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” you can here a mile away. And they are so big and so fast that they don’t care who or what is in front of them; when they come down the road, everyone scrambles to get to the side. I can only compare it to some huge roaring dinosaur charging at you.

And to ride them! Well if you’re lucky enough to find a seat, and unlucky enough to sit in the back, you’re in for a roller coaster of a ride. I’m not sure if the shocks are working too well or not enough, but every bump and pothole gets magnified. There are times when you’re literally bounced up off your seat. And of course getting off a packed bus that hardly stops is a challenge in itself. They are, however, very cheap to ride.

I recommend that everyone who comes here ride the bus, even if only to Chenkalady and back to Batti, a round trip of 30 km. Not only do you get an E-ticket version of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, but you can see the lagoon, the rice paddies, and the coconut plantations. And you can experience a little of what it’s like to be Tamil. Between all the towns, such as Chenkalady and Batti, there are checkpoints. At each one the bus is stopped and all passengers must disembark, elderly persons and (apparently) foreigners exempted. The people are divided into two lines, one for the men, another for the ladies. At the front, each person is searched, must produce identity papers, and is asked about their business. For some passengers going 30 km up to, say, Valachchenai, this happens several times each direction. And technically anyone can be held back for “questioning,” although I haven’t seen this myself. It is a frustrating, humiliating experience for the people. From their perspective, this is happening right in their own lands by people who don’t speak their language and think they are all terrorists. For all the security forces all over the place here, no where does it feel more like a military occupation than at these checkpoints.

OK, maybe I’m foolish about it, and sometimes symbolism can be pointless, but when I’m at these check points I always get off with the crowd, stand in line, and get searched. I make a point of sticking my passport, held in my lily-white hand, under the nose of the officer examining identity cards. I make sure they go through whatever bag I’m carrying; even pulling out the roll of toilet paper I habitually carry (you never know when you’ll have to go).

In my mind, I’m expressing solidarity with these civilians. And I’m pointing out the uselessness and waste of these checkpoints to the soldiers who are manning them. I’m not sure that either side gets my point. So I wonder if really it’s vanity. Something I must think about.

On the other hand, I doubt if these checkpoints are really about security. I mean, I wonder how many people they’ve nabbed at these checkpoints who are on the “wanted” list. Or how many weapons they have confiscated. All the groups here are armed, and if the LTTE or whoever wants to get guns into the area, they can easily do it and avoid the checkpoints altogether. So it seems to me that the checkpoints are more about control and showing who’s boss. And, since the military is one of the few sources of steady employment and the biggest employer in Sri Lanka, more checkpoints means more soldiers which means more hiring and less unemployment. How very sad.

So last Monday was a high point. Our computer lab project at Kaluwankerny School (Cal–oo-juan-cair-nee) was completed and we had the opening ceremony. I have to say that for once the ceremony was short and sweet. There were only four speeches total, and all of them less than 5 minutes each – a record for Sri Lanka! My speech was simple. I told them that the money came from individual people who happen to live in America and think Batticaloa is worth caring about. I told them that I am not part of any government or agency, but only the representative of the folks back home. I also told them they now they have a wonderful tool, and the folks back home want them to use it to the greatest extent possible. I thanked my partner on this, Balan, who was very fast, responsive, and responsible, making this the easiest project to complete so far. I then ended by thanking them for allowing me to extend a hand in friendship and aid.

Then there was a lunch prepared by some of the kids’ parents. I gotta tell you, if you want the real good food, with fresh homemade taste, completely authentic, and better than anything you’ll find in a town, you’ve have to eat village food. Each dish was fabulous, a true treat for the palate. And, as a personal bonus, there were only two meat dishes! Having seen the condition of the meat markets here, I try to limit my intake of meat, only eating it when it is offered at a meal and can’t be refused. Even then I only eat a symbolic morsel. Kaluwankerny is a poor rural village, and the families are correspondingly impoverished. So meat is a luxury there, and vegetables the norm. I haven’t met a vegetable here that I haven’t liked, with the exception of one astringent leafy green that I don’t particularly care for. So at the lunch I was quite happy to sample the meat (one curry was extremely delicious) and pile on all the different veggies.

Oh and there was fresh curd. In town you buy curd in a container or red clay pot, but this was fresh-outta-the-cow type curd, probably made that morning. Curd is essentially yogurt made from the milk of the water buffalo. It has a much stronger taste. It’s really good (I love curd!) but difficult to describe except by analogy. Think of the taste difference between buttermilk and low-fat milk. That is the difference between curd (there’s no such thing as low- or non-fat here) and plain low-fat yogurt. It’s frequently eaten as a dessert, with sugar or treacle (a type of syrup) mixed in. Villagers often eat it with the meal itself, plopping some right on the rice alongside the meat, veggies and other food. For those who can’t take the chilies, it really mellows out the heat; try putting a blob of plain yogurt on a spicy dish at home and you’ll see what I mean. And the creaminess goes really well with the savory of all the spices.

It’s a maxim in Sri Lankan that the men don’t properly appreciate their women folk. This is proven, it is said, by the fact that men never compliment their wife’s/mother’s/sister’s/whomever’s cooking. I’m not like that. If I like something, I’ll praise it. I did so at the lunch and the moms were all quite tickled, especially as it came from a foreigner. Big smiles. And a huge packet of leftover food for me to take home. You see, THAT’S how you eat for free in Sri Lanka!

OK on to something else. It sounds cliché, but you know how sometimes life just gives you what you need at the moment you need it? This seems to be especially true when you are doing what is right for you, assuming it’s a good thing to do.

Well I’m finding this has been happening a lot to me, particularly with regards to Sri Lanka. For example, back home I happened to meet some people in my final two months who were able to tremendously help me with computer issues. And I met them by chance, told them what I’m trying to do here and like magic, I was able to get some help, as well as make some good new friends.

This has also happens frequently in Batti. I give you the latest example. Just a week or so ago I got to know a woman named Kumari. Actually I had first met Kumari back in the tsunami times, for about two minutes. Just hello and nice to meet you. She’s an old friend of Siva’s, whose house I live in. She’s a Singhalese woman who has dedicated her life to bringing peace and social justice to the Tamil community. Kumari is widely known in Batti, and respected because she’s so fearless. One story has it she was on the bus when the soldiers came on and ordered everyone off the bus in a very abusive way, especially using words that one must NEVER use to women. Apparently she stood up in front of the commander, stuck her finger in his face, and proceeded to tell him off in Singhalese. You know: “Listen a-hole, these are regular people just like you and me. You’re here to protect them, not abuse them. Why are you so rude and angry? You can’t use that sort of language;” that sort of thing. So that’s Kumari.

Anyway, Kumari randomly showed up a Siva’s house and I happened to be coming downstairs to see a visitor off. I said hello, but was distracted and so didn’t actually recognize her. Then Siva’s appa (father) said “Kumari” and it immediately came to me.

Since then we have spent a lot of time together, talking about my work, her work, and me generally using her as a bridge to understand certain things I wasn’t getting. She is absolutely fluent in English, and her Tamil is nearly as good, so she’s been a big help to my understanding this place. Additionally, when I was feeling particularly frustrated and depressed earlier this week, her kind, practical, and wise words were able to help me get back into a positive perspective. We have just sort of clicked, if you know what I mean, and I value her immensely.

So this is what I mean when things that you need sometimes just work out naturally; she just happened to come to Batti for a couple of weeks, and be in the right place at the right time for us to become reacquainted.

In other news, I received an email from a Singhalese man living in Canada named Errol whom I knew briefly during the tsunami times. He is returning to Batti for a week or so at the end of August. He’s particularly interested in supplying local orphanages, as he did back in 2005. Obviously I will help him in whatever way I can. I intend to suggest some of our own current projects to him in addition to orphanage work. I mean hey, its part of the ABDF philosophy that we don’t care who does the work as long as it gets done.

So I guess that’s it for now. Like I said, lately it’s been up and down. But despite this, I know that ultimately all of it is worthwhile. Hope you think so too.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

B.

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