Washer Women

*Our internet has been down about 2/3 of the time we've tried to post, so these are coming a bit late. Sorry for the delay.*

When we first got to Seva Kendra and checked out our new home, we noticed a mysterious large red bucket in the bathroom. At first, we used it for an awkward trash can. One week later, when we started to smell, we discovered that what we thought was a bucket was actually a small washing machine. We've been hand washing our clothes ever since. 

At first, it was tedious. We'd dump all our dirty clothes on the wet bathroom floor, put some laundry detergent in the washing machine, fill it with water, then scrub the heck out of every single piece. After rinsing and wringing, we'd hang our clothes on the bars in the bathroom and on our bed posts to dry. The whole process took hours. 

The current state of our room

Luckily, we've had some time to perfect our laundry skills. One of the things we've  learned is that, contrary to American detergent, Indian detergent requires simple soaking and maybe a little bit scrunching to get the clothes clean. We've also become acutely aware of how colors bleed, especially with the clothes we buy off the street. I now have several multi-colored shirts because of this phenomena. Besides that, though, our laundry style hasn't changed much - if you were to compare the first time we did laundry here to the process I used today, it's pretty much the same. The clothes are soaked, rinsed, wrung and hung to dry. It still takes hours, maybe days, depending on available bed post space and rate of drying. 

Not that I'm complaining, mind you. The long laundry process has taught me a lot about domesticity, planning ahead, and to be thankful for the glorious modern washing machine. 

Now go change the load around.  

Les Toilettes

            Living in India has made me realize how thankful I am for a lot of things.  I am so grateful for my family, my friends, the house I grew up in, the money I have for an education, and so on. That being said….India has also made me thankful for some things I wasn’t expecting to miss before I got here.  Number one on my list you ask? Public restrooms. 

Our Bathroom at Seva Kendra (Shower on Right)

            Bathrooms in general fascinate me greatly in this country – Not in a weird way…they are just different than in the United States.  The setup in most houses (and at Seva Kendra) consists of a toilet, a spray nozzle or a bucket of water instead of toilet paper, and a shower that is set up right in the middle.  The shower head is not surrounded by walls or enclosed in a bath tub like back home – it is simply set in the middle of the bathroom so that everything gets wet when you take a shower.  (See the picture at Left) Then afterwards you use a squeegee to wipe water off of the floor and maybe a cloth to wipe down everything else that got wet.  I have grown quite accustomed to this setup and I actually prefer it to the bathrooms back home.  Yup that's right. I love Indian bathrooms.   

Toilet Paper Substitute

Anyways, back to public restrooms.  For some strange reason, it is very difficult to find a place to use the restroom in public in the area we live in.  If you are a male, you simply go wherever you please.  Without getting too graphic, this practice results in what Heide has nicknamed “pee rivers” and “pee puddles.” (Although keep in mind we have only been to Kolkata.  The rest of India might be very different for all I know.) You get used to seeing stuff like this and it is only particularly disturbing when the streets flood and you have to wade through who knows what.  For a woman, it is much more difficult.  I have a lot of sympathy for the women who live on the streets.  They don’t really have access to toilets and are forced to be creative.  There are a couple of “Pay to Use Toilets” around but the condition of them makes me prefer to just hold it.  Most stores don’t have bathrooms and only some restaurants have them.  This was quite the deal breaker when we first got here but Heide and I have learned to adapt to it.  The key is to “Go before you go,” map out the closest restroom to where you are, and only drink enough water so that you sweat it all out – which isn’t difficult in this climate. 

            Yesterday a fellow volunteer asked me, “What is the first thing you are going to do when you get back to the United States?”  I thought about it for a moment and told her, “I’m going to head straight for a nice, clean, public restroom so that for the first time in 2 and a half months I can use a bathroom without worrying about what I’m going to catch or what I’m going to see.”  - And I was only half joking.  If only we had the spray nozzles....

Pax

Elaina

Bus.

Okay. I have 15 minutes to write before going back to work. Let's do this!

A few days ago, I wrote a post that was largely critical of the men in Kolkata, as I have experienced them. While I didn't over exaggerate, I also did not give a full account of how I am treated. At the end of the post, I mentioned how I am absolutely convinced that Jesus lives on the buses here, and so for this post, I want to explain that conviction.

Elaina surprised me on the bus one time... and happened to capture a photo :D

I ride the bus 4 - 8 times a day, for varying lengths. Sometimes the ride is 10 minutes, sometimes 40. No matter the length, every ride is such a beautiful opportunity to both see Christ and be Christ.

One time, on an over crowded (I actually mean OVER CROWDED) ride home at night, I was standing up, hanging on tightly so that I wouldn't fall onto everyone else (it happens). An older gentleman with a beard caught my eye and motioned to his seat, then motioned to the door, implying that I should take his seat because he was about to get off. I smiled, so thankful because I had a bunch of stuff with me and felt super exposed (a full bus = prime goosing time). I began to move toward him. It's a slow process trying to move across a bus that full, so by the time he stood up, I was still a few people away. Like lightning, another man went to sit down, but this elder gentlemen stopped assertively him and pointed to me. The other man nodded and made way for me to crash into the seat. I was sooo thankful. Jesus was looking out for me that night.

Another time, I got on the bus, and like usual, had to stand. A man in his mid 40s looked at me and motioned to the "Ladies" seating which was currently occupied by a young woman and a teenage boy. I shook my head "no, it's okay" because I didn't want to be a hassle. I looked at the other side of the bus, and caught the eye of another man who did the exact same thing. I said "no" again. Then I saw some movement, and the first gentleman was telling the teenager (who clearly didn't want to move) that he needs to get up. He did, so I, despite myself, got to sit down for the long ride. Jesus was at it again.

Those are just two stories of several that I could tell, but I wanted to spend these last minutes telling how God has opened my eyes to ways to serve while standing or sitting on the buses.

First, sometimes I'm reminded to pray for all those people on the bus. Kolkata has millions of people, but for those brief moments, I get to be in contact with 20 - 40 of them at a time, which is a prime opportunity to pray for my brothers and sisters.

Second, I stick out on the bus, because I'm tall, white, blond, and female. Like usual, I get a lot of stares. One of Mother Teresa's big revelations in life was the power of a smile, so when my heart allows me to embrace the awkward stares instead of resent them, I try to smile into the stares... and, because God is so good, sometimes I'm blessed with a beautiful smile back (accompanied by a head bob, of course).

Third, the buses here have been teaching me to look for ways to love outside my comfort zone. If I'm nicely seated, it can be a struggle to offer my seat to someone else who may or may not be in need of it more. Many times, though, God calls me to do just this. While it means a slight sacrifice on my part, most of the time, I'm willing to do it. I admit, though, that I don't always say "yes" to the sacrifice of love... but God teaches me through that as well. :)

Okay. My 15 minutes were up 13 minutes ago... whatevs. It's worth it, just to be able to give you a glimpse of how surprisingly sanctifying and blessed the buses of Kolkata have been for me these past 8 weeks.

Peace to you, my brothers and sisters,
Heide

Indian Sweets: The Good, The Bad, The Great, and The Gross

*Our internet was down yesterday, so I apologize for not posting something!*


When Heide and I first arrived in India, we had many questions on our minds about the culture.  What do they wear?  What do they eat? What are their customs?  One question that we both had in mind, and were eager to learn the answer to, was what are Indian sweets like?  8 weeks and a lot of sugar later, we have both learned quite a bit about Indian sweets.  So here is a run down of some of our favorites...and some of our not so favorites.  


The Good: Jalebi 
Jalebi is an Indian sweet that would fit perfectly among desserts you would expect to find at the fair in the United States.  They take whole-wheat batter, deep fry it in a circular shape, and then soak it in sugar.  The result is a warm, chewy, sugar-filled treat that you can feel rotting away your teeth as you eat it.  They cost about 1 to 2 rupees each (approximately 2 to 4 cents in dollars). You can find people whipping up these tasty treats all over the streets - And it is oh so tempting to purchase one from every vendor.  

A pile of Jalebi 

The Bad: Indian Cake
Cake and confectionary shops are a very common sight along the main roads in India.  They are filled with beautiful looking cakes, pastries, and chocolates with a very small price tag.  Unfortunately these beautiful and intricate little cakes do not taste as good as they look.  They are very dry and taste almost as if they are freezer-burned, although I highly doubt they have ever been in a freezer.  A fellow volunteer suggested that they taste this way because they are made without butter.  Butter is not very common in India and I'm guessing it is left out of the cake-baking process.  

Beautiful? Yes. Tasty? Not so much. 

The Great: Rasgulla 
Rasgulla is probably the number one thing I am going to miss about India.  We first tried this tasty treat on our adventure to Budge Budge and now I can't get enough of it.  Rasgulla is a ball shaped dumpling of Chhena (Indian cottage cheese) and dough, cooked in a sugar syrup until the ball is saturated.  In this part of India it is often flavored with rosewater as well.  You can find these little sugar soaked balls in cans at the grocery store, in nice sweet shops on the main roads, and sketchy looking shops on the side streets.  I often find myself wandering outside of Seva Kendra and purchasing some from the streets.  I just try to ignore the bees and flies that appear to be enjoying the sugar syrup just as much as I do.  

Rasgolla! The U.S. needs to catch on to this one...

The Gross: Sandesh 
There are several types of Sandesh in India but the ones that I have tried don't leave me wanting to try the others.  The main ingredient of Sandesh is also Chhena, but it tastes nothing like Rasgulla.  Firstly they toss the Chhena with sugar over light heat.  Then it is cooked to different consistencies, different flavors are added, and it is molded into different shapes.  The best way I can describe Sandesh is play-dough that tastes kind of like India smells.  A lot of Sandesh is also cooked with aluminum foil stuck to it - and then you eat the foil along with the rest of it.  The locals seem to love it - but it must not be a taste I grew up accustomed to.  

One of the many types of Sandesh - Complete with tin foil. 

Much Love - Elaina 

Five Things You Should Know If You Come To Kolkata

1.     It’s all about the bargaining.

I’m not a natural at bargaining. I much prefer to have a fixed price on anything and everything I buy, so I don’t have to think about it. Unfortunately for me, that’s not how it works in Kolkata. If you want to live on a budget but still eat mangos everyday, you’ve gotta be prepared to bargain. This goes, not only for mangos, but for virtually any street shop, unless they have signs that say “FIXED PRICE.”

How does one bargain, you ask? Well, I’m no expert, but I do know a few general rules. First, slash the original price in half. Second, argue with the shopkeeper in about 10 rupee increments. This works best for fruit, but it can also work well for nighttime taxis. Third, if you don’t like the price that the shopkeeper seems firm on, legitimately start to walk away. About half the time, the shopkeeper will acquiesce, though there have been plenty of times when I’ve been forced to find another shop. The last piece of advice I would have about bargaining is to use it wisely. Street merchants are usually poor chaps who are trying to make a living, so sometimes it’s okay to pay a little higher price for something, simply because 50 rupees to him is a lot more valuable than it is to you (it’s less than US $1).    

Bargain heaven

2.     The word “pork” should only be said with a whisper.

Kolkata has a lot of Muslims and Hindus. Muslims, as you may know, don’t eat pork. Hindus don’t eat beef. I can eat both. This has made for some funny situations for myself as a non-discriminatory meat-eating person.

Twice now, I’ve been in a restaurant where the manager has whispered to me that they are serving a pork dish. He does not dare say it above a whisper, treating the information like we’re CIA operatives. One of my friends here went out looking for a restaurant rumored to serve beef. When he got there and inquired, the manager silently pointed to a part of the menu written in an obscure language. The beef dish was clearly being hidden. Still, I remain impressed that it actually existed.

Beef beefin' up

3.     Fennel and anise equal after-meal mints

After a meal, every patron is served fennel and anise. 

Fennel is the green stuff and anise is the white. The anise is what licorice is made of, so it’s delightful. The fennel is, well, not as good. If you choose to partake in this traditional practice, be aware that the same dish is sometimes served to every patron, so, depending on the quality of the restaurant, you might just want to hold off.

4.     It’s sometimes okay to drive the wrong direction on the highway (provided there are no cops around).

One-way streets can be debatable here. If there are no patrolmen around (and there usually aren’t), cars take liberties that would be appalling in the US. Fortunately, Indians are generally super-astute drivers, so I didn’t feel like I was going to die, despite the oncoming trucks. All the driver of the car had to do to ensure a “safe” experience was lay on the horn. Oh yeah.

Driving on the wrong side of the road? No probs. We got Jesus. (... :) that was sarcasm)

5.     They recycle glass.

This is a normal sight. Usually, these walls line schools, nice hotels, Seva Kendra, or, in this particular situation, a convent. I think the point is to deter scoundrels from climbing over the wall and disturbing the peace, but it could also be for the obnoxious crows that seem to control the skis of Kolkata.  

This is normal.

Pax,
Heide

Kiddie Cages and Motorcycles

            If you were able to read Heide’s post yesterday, you already know the conclusion we came to about our blog.  We suck at blogging.  As penance for our infrequent blog posts, Heide and I have agreed to update the blog about something random once a day until we leave.  We greatly appreciate everyone’s love and support and we hope that you enjoy reading about our last couple of weeks!

            That being said, the topic that comes to my mind today is School Transportation.  All of the school children wandering around the streets of India prompted me to think about how I used to get to school as a child.  When I was in elementary school, I would walk with a group of kids and my parents would watch to make sure I made it down the street.  Sometimes I would ride my bike or roller blade, assuming that my helmet was securely fastened.  When I was in middle school, I got an upgrade and a nice big yellow bus would pick me up and take me home.  This is not exactly how it works in India.

            The first time I saw an Indian “School Bus,” I thought it was for transporting criminals.  Or goats. Or something OTHER than small children.  Here are the ingredients: They take a 4’ by 2’ metal cage with bars, stick it on the back of a bicycle, throw some toddlers in, and padlock the back.  A man pedals this contraption through the speed bump and pothole-ridden roads, with children bouncing around in the cage.  If I didn’t know any better, it honestly looks like he is selling them.  Some of these “school buses” look a little more inviting than others.  They are painted bright colors or they say things like “Well Come” on the back.  (What better way to start the school day than an early morning spelling error?)  Plus to top it off, these buses are also quite resourceful.  While the children are at school they are used to transport live chickens - Although I somehow doubt the chickens are headed somewhere as happy as Kindergarten.  

            These cages might sound kind of horrifying but I would much rather my children get to school this way than the alternative – motorcycles.  Children in India must learn at a very young age the meaning of the phrase “Hold on tight.”  Parents often drive their toddlers and young children to school on motorcycles.  It is not uncommon to see a couple of kids up front, and maybe one or two hanging off the back of the motorcycle.  Or sometimes there are two adults and they squish the kids in the middle.  (This appears to be the safer method.)  The adults don’t usually wear helmets and I doubt there is a store in India that sells motorcycle helmets for 4 year olds.  I have to hold my breath and say a little prayer every time I see a little kid weaving in and out of traffic on Daddy’s motorcycle.  I have yet to see an accident, and I hope it remains that way.  For the time being I will be sure to remain extremely thankful for that big yellow bus that I NEVER had to share with poultry.

Elaina 

Yup. There is a child on the back as well.

We fell off the wagon...

... well, actually, I (Heide) fell off the wagon. Here I was, thinking that I'd be writing a blog every 3 - 4 days, when the reality is that I'm pretty terrible at writing even once a week! I heartily apologize to those people who have been following and waiting for the next post - I realize that we are here in India BECAUSE of YOU, so the last thing I want to do is to seem ungrateful.

Thus, in reparation, Eli and I will be writing a blog post every day we have left here. They'll be short, but hopefully enjoyable and interesting. This first one may not be so short, though. :)

To begin, I have a MILLION things I want to share with you!!!!! I'm going to try to get to as many as possible before I keel over from exhaustion (it's been a long day), so don't be surprised if I abruptly end this post.

Okay okay. First, I want to tell you a little bit about a new dimension of Kolkata that I've recently gotten to experience - the poorest of the poor. Yes, we've thrown around that term many times - "Help us serve the poorest of the poor alongside the Missionaries of Charity" and all that - but until 2 weeks ago, I hadn't seen it in such a direct way. The MC homes (Prem Dan, Kalighat, Shanti Dan) are beautiful, hopeful, joyful places for people to live. They are the destinations for the poorest of the poor. But the residents that live at these places come from somewhere... and it's that "somewhere" that I experienced.

Kolkata has many holes, corners, nooks, shadows, and crevices. Because there are over 14 million people in the city alone, even these areas are crowded with people. Each person may be there for a different reason - maybe the frail, weak, skinny old man has TB and can't even scoot himself across the floor. Maybe the pregnant, dirty young woman has a mental disorder that impels her to reject food and water from people, preferring to scowl and move away to sleep in some other corner. Maybe the toothless, raisin-wrinkled, lice-ridden old woman has been dropped off by her family because they don't want to take care of her anymore. Maybe the groggy young man fights for his money, which is why he is covered in deep gashes and can hardly walk. Each one, however, is precious. Each one deserves love from their neighbor. And each one is someone that I've personally gotten to meet.

Tragically, not all of them have happy endings. The old man, before he could be helped, vanished, meaning that he was probably put on a train to "clean up" Kolkata, which also means that somewhere along the journey, unless someone took pity, he was probably pushed off. The pregnant woman continuously refuses help from passers-by. The wounded young man has gotten his gashes bandaged a few times, but infrequently shows up for dressings. The old woman, however, has ended up in an MC home, tearful, happy, peaceful, and fed.

Now don't misunderstand how I got involved with these brothers and sisters - I simply happened to be in the right place at the right time to meet them. And there have been many many more that I haven't mentioned. I wanted, however, to share with you a small slice of what I've been able to experience. I've personally been so blessed by God's grace to come in contact with these poor, because, even though it's been incredibly hard to recognize the reality of the situation (you don't even know), I've spent a lot of time reflecting and trying to learn from each person. So many people don't get to see true and complete poverty that I consider myself so fortunate to be here - and for 3 more weeks at that!!

So thank you again, actually. I'm overflowing with gratitude because I don't deserve such grace and love from you <3 <3 <3

Okay, on to my next topic: Battle of the Sexes.

I have some particular friends in mind as I write this, because I hope that they'll read what I have to say about gender roles in India. If you're American, you've probably heard many complaints about the continuous problem of gender equality, race discrimination, and general disrespect towards people who are "different" in America (i.e. sexual orientation, religion, ethnicity). I, having been educated at a state university, have definitely heard my share. In a lot of ways, people who complain about these things are right - in a perfect world, we understand that each person is our brother or sister, regardless of anything that may seem to separate us.

That being said, when I get back to the States, I'm going to have a whole new outlook on how I am treated as a person, and particularly as a woman. Why? Because the culture in Kolkata, as I've experienced it in the last 7 weeks, has taught me 2 big things about itself:

1. Color matters.
2. Gender matters.

You've heard us say it before and I'll say it again: Because I am white, half the time I'm treated like I'm a celebrity, and the other half the time I'm treated like I'm an idiot. Children giggle and wave at me across the street (cute). Young men on motorcycles slow down just to tell us "I f*** you" before driving away (not cute). Little girls ask me if I'm wearing contacts because they can't believe my eyes are blue (cute). Taxis, street merchants, auto rickshaw drivers constantly try to scam us into paying 10 - 15 TIMES the price (not cute). Isolated incidences? Ha! I wish.

I walk into a store to look for lotion, and there's a "whitening lotion" being advertised under the well-known brand called "Fair & Lovely."

The personal ads under the "Wanted: Grooms" section in the newspapers are littered with descriptions like "fair" and "light-skinned" because it's a huge selling point.

About half the time I look a young Indian man in the eye, I see his eyes on my chest or scanning my body. It happens so much, I don't look them in the eye anymore because I emotionally can't take the IMMENSE disrespect. Several male Indian friends of mine have told me the biggest reason why this happens: I am a white female, making me the same color and shape that they see in all the porn (Indian porn is a tiny market, so I'm told), thus they easily correlate me with being an object for their viewing pleasure, not a person to be respected. 

Those are just a few of the MANY MANY MANY examples of why color and gender matter here. Just for fun, let me share a few more things:

Women are far outnumbered by men, because having a girl child means having a burden on the family. After all, when she gets married, her husband is supposed to get a HUGE dowry (even though there are way less women, so in reality the man is lucky to have a wife at all...) That being said, ultrasounds to determine the gender of the child aren't allowed across India because if the parents find out their child is a girl, the probability for abortion goes way way way up.

Women shouldn't be drinking, smoking, or hanging around at night, because that would mean that they are "loose." (Literally, my male friends at Seva Kendra don't allow me to buy beer at a shop at night because of this stigma. Instead, they buy it for me and I pay them back.)

Generally speaking, a woman's duty in the home is still three-fold: cook, clean, and (pro)create. Eli and I have spent ample time in many Indian homes and they tell us this themselves!

Okay, I'll stop. Of course, I'm talking about a general culture and not individual ideas about such things. I've met several educated, unmarried, confident Indian women who don't subscribe to the traditional arranged-marriage/family life. Also, not all men treat me poorly - many men actually are incredibly sweet and helpful, especially on the buses when I need to sit down. In fact, because of these men, I'm convinced that Jesus lives on the buses in Kolkata because I feel so loved almost every time I take the bus (not even joking :) ).

Today, actually, I was talking to a super nice Hindu man on one of the buses I took, and he asked me if I thought that India was the City of Joy (it's nickname). I thought about it, and truthfully replied something like, "I don't really think it's the City of Joy, but rather like the City of Compassion." That's totally how I feel. Despite my observations, despite my discomfort, despite the tragedy, I truly love Kolkata. I have family here, I have hope here, and Jesus is EVERYWHERE here!!

Dang it! I only got to two things! Tomorrow, we'll be posting something shorter, so thanks for reading, dear family. Please keep praying for us - we are always praying for you.         

Ten Interesting Things About INDIA

 I emailed this to my family a couple of weeks ago and they suggested I post it on the blog as well.  This is what I, Elaina, have found interesting about India thus far!

1- There is no such thing as privacy. Heide and I have to go down to the patio to check our email every day and I try my best to go when I think no one will be there.  As soon as you sit down with a computer, people slowly start to gather.  Even as I am typing this email, two Indian women have gathered behind me.  They don’t say anything, they just watch.  Oh, here comes a few more. And…now a man is sitting next to me with his face closer to the screen than mine is. They don’t say anything so I feel like I am their prey, being eerily stalked.  If I pretend I don’t see them, maybe they will go away?

2 – If it has wheels and it can move, EVERYONE FITS.  I’m talking about trains, auto-rickshaws, and our favorite – buses.  The buses in particular always say things on the sides like “to seat – 25 people.” HA. That’s funny. It should read “to seat – 3 people per square foot.” It isn’t so bad in the mornings but once the afternoon rolls around, riding the bus is more like riding “Indiana Jones” at Disney World with no seat belts and five times as many people.  If you get pushed to the back of the bus, you essentially have to crowd surf when it is time to get off.  Sometimes I don’t even have to hold on to anything if I am squished by 30 people, keeping me nice and cozy in the middle. Keep in mind this is all assuming you actually make it on the bus. It takes a few days to figure out the run and jump method since the buses don’t always stop at night.  It’s even more fun getting off…

Busy Busy streets of Kolkata!

3 – If you can’t handle the staring, sunglasses are your best friend.  I initially assumed the staring wouldn’t be so bad in Calcutta since the Missionaries of Charity get thousands of volunteers from all over the world each year.  I was wrong.  It doesn’t bother me anymore really, but instead it fascinates me.  People stop dead in their tracks when they see you walking towards them.  They stop whatever they are doing, they end conversations, and they just stare – mouths open as if I have a monkey on my head.  If I am sitting down somewhere where people are walking by, some of them will actually stop walking and take off their sunglasses in order to get a better look.  Then follows an awkward stare down where I have no choice but to wait until they are no longer fascinated with my white skin.  Heide developed a strategy where she sneakily pulls out the camera without breaking eye contact and snaps a picture of them. (See Exhibit A)  That usually makes them realize they are being a little creepy.  It might sound a little weird but hey we get our picture taken by strangers numerous times a day.  I can't decide if I feel like a celebrity or a zoo animal.

Exhibit A

4 – CAR HORNS. I cannot wait to be back in the States where using your car horn is actually a little rude rather than a natural part of driving.  People use them for no reason here.  And its not just once in a while.  Some people hold them down for the entire length of the drive, and others seem to be subconsciously playing an obnoxiously loud melody.  You would think maybe the car horns would help cut down on accidents, but the amount of damage on every car suggests that theory is incorrect. Crashes here are much different than in the U.S. as well.  Here it is more like bumper cars.  It is not uncommon to see cars touching each other on the road.  If two cars happen to crash, the drivers scream at each other from inside their cars and keep going.  Same thing happens when cars bump into people, only the pedestrians are usually a little more upset.  I’m pretty sure car insurance doesn’t exist here.

These signs are everywhere.  If only people would obey them.....

5 -  Indian men only want to know three things from you.  Where you from?  How long you been here? and.. Do you have boyfriend?  We try to be as friendly as possible but there are days where we just can’t handle it anymore.  On those days I’m from Columbia and I don’t speak English and Heide is from Germany with a lack of English knowledge as well.  Saying a few phrases in Spanish or German actually does the trick quite nicely.  We also bought fake wedding rings, which seems to
be enough proof for the skeptics who don’t actually believe we are married.

6- Indian women want to be white just as badly as American women want to be brown.  It is really quite fascinating and a little eye-opening.  Heide and I have had countless Indian women tell us that we are beautiful because we are white and they are ugly because they are black.  There are just as many commercials in the US for tanning lotions as there are here for whitening lotions.  I didn’t even know that such a thing existed.  All the Indian women in commercials are very white just like all the American women in our commercials are very tan. Its kind of sad that no one can be happy with their own skin color.

HOLY COW!

7- Rice, Rice, and maybe a little more rice.  Don’t get me wrong, I like rice.  But the amount of rice they eat at every meal makes me wonder how there are so few fat Indians.  In addition to rice, they eat a lot of potatoes, chicken, hardboiled eggs, and bread.  I like Indian food but I miss a lot of things from home.  They don’t really eat cheese here and I never thought I would say this but I just want a nice green salad without risking Cholera.  We eat a lot of mangoes, bananas, and the occasional jackfruit but I miss fruits like strawberries, apples, and kiwis.  You won’t find those fruits on these streets.

8- Speaking of bananas…It is so strange to eat bananas that haven’t been genetically modified and pesticided to death. (Yes, I made that verb up)  The bananas here are so imperfect looking compared to back home.  They are small and shriveled with very thin peels and often time moldy brown peels.  Yet they taste so good on the inside!  I laugh when I think about the huge, yellow, pristine looking bananas we have back home.  You won’t find that here either.

9- The Indian Head Bob.  If you ever watched Outsourced, you know exactly what I am talking about and they were NOT exaggerating.  The head bob literally means yes, no, maybe, sure, and I don’t know – all rolled into one.  We have a fun time trying to talk to the office staff at Seva Kendra and this is how the conversation usually goes:

Me: Hey Mary, is it ok if I do this?
Mary: *Head Bob (looks kind of like shaking your head no)
Me: Oh, I can’t?
Mary: *Head Bob while saying yes (looks like a contradiction – yes and no??)
Me: Wait, yes or no?
Mary: *Head Bob
Me: *sighs and walks away, defeated by the Indian Head Bob

10 – The culture if fascinating.  Somewhere between the crazy bus rides, car horns, lack of places to pee, heat-stroke inducing weather, no privacy, cat calls from strange men, black boogers, and weird looking bananas – I have decided that India is pretty cool.  I have no problem remaining here for 4 more weeks.

I could go on for days about all of the cool things about India, but thank you for remaining with me to hear about these ten! :)

Lots of love
Elaina and Heide

Heide at the Victoria Memorial

UNbroken

 I suppose it is my turn to share my thoughts with you! - Elaina    


It’s hard for me to believe, but we have reached the halfway mark of our journey.  We have called Kolkata our home for the last five weeks and we will remain here for five more.  It seems like just yesterday I was stumbling through the chaotic streets, panicking about what was around me, and wondering how I was going to live here for almost an entire summer.  There were definitely moments where I didn’t think I could make it, and a few times I had to ask the big guy upstairs WHY He would send me to such an insane place.  As the days passed, my attitude about Kolkata changed for the better.  Before I knew it I was riding the buses with ease, trying foods on the street, making new friends, and showing the other new volunteers around.  I didn’t think I could grow to love a place like this, but thankfully God has given me the grace to do so.  

I'm getting quite used to the unflattering pictures that Heide is able to take :)

            We meet a lot of new volunteers each day and the three questions on their mind are always, “What is your name?”, “Where are you from?,” and “Why are you here?”  The first two are pretty easy, assuming I’ve had enough sleep, but the last one always gets me.   For one, I am not as open to talking about my feelings as some volunteers, and secondly I wasn’t even sure for myself.  Why was I in India?  Obviously I wanted to try and make a difference and to help those in need.  But as for the more selfish reasons – similar to Heide, I originally told myself that I needed to be broken.  I wanted to be torn to pieces and shown the worst of the worst – hoping that something positive would come of it.  Then one day a volunteer questioned my motives.  What exactly does it mean to “be broken?” I didn’t have the slightest idea how to answer and frankly I realized it’s a little dramatic sounding.  That’s when I started to pray a little harder, trying to really figure out how I ended up here and what I actually wanted for myself after I leave. 

            Until now I had been very worried that this summer wouldn’t change me in the slightest.  I felt bad that God sent me all the way to Kolkata, India, and I wasn’t learning whatever lesson he was trying to teach me.  I was having such a great time volunteering and seeing my girls every day, but I didn’t feel broken and my soul didn’t feel ripped to shreds.   Yes, there is a lot of sadness here, but the hope and beauty that I see as well, outshines it by a long shot.  I had essentially given up trying to figure out why God would want me here.  Then one day while I was on my way home, everything sort of “clicked”.  I was on a bus crossing a bridge over the Ganges River, looking out over the water, when suddenly it became quite obvious to me.  God did NOT send me here so that I could become “broken”, I think he sent me here so that I can build myself up. Perhaps He sent me here so that I can become stronger.  After I came to this conclusion, everything else started to fall into place in my head.  I haven’t been failing for the past five weeks. I’ve been doing exactly what I was sent here for. 

As soon as I got home, I started to look through the notebook I have been keeping for the past few weeks and I was so surprised at the things I had written.  I was surprised because it didn’t sound like me.  Or maybe it didn’t sound like the OLD me.  It wasn’t the usual small-minded stuff I would expect from myself back home (School sucks, relationships are hard, he said she said, etc…..)  Instead I saw things like “I want my parents to be proud of every decision I make, even the ones they don’t know about.” And “ I wonder if my best friend knows that I love her because she challenges me to be a better person.”  These words, and many more, were not written by the girl that I left behind in Boise.  They were written by someone who with the help of God, is growing up and well on her way to becoming the person she has always wanted to be.  Without even realizing it, these last five weeks have changed me drastically.  They have made me stronger, taught me how to love, and most importantly vamped up my relationship with God.  And this is only the halfway mark……

Much love!

Eli 

By Heide

A mid summer reflection.


My summer in Kolkata has been a summer of realizations. It started about two weeks ago, when I realized that Kolkata, with all its serious problems, is not going to break me like I had hoped. This was big news for my soul, because in coming here, I assumed that I would be incredibly challenged, thrust into the heart of suffering and hurt, and forced to work my way out of it. This did not happen. Instead, I coped. Humans are amazing like that - we can have hardened hearts in even the most disturbing situations.

And thus, last week, my second big realization came about: I needed to be begging for God's grace to break me. I needed to be praying with the entire strength of my will that I would be able to recognize the ordinary moments of opportunity to learn how to love. If I want to come back to America a changed woman, I need to be participating in my own transformation.

This past week, then, has been a week of serious reflection and prayer and crying and silence and hope. I've been reading Divine Mercy in my Soul - the Diary of Sr. M. Faustina Kolwalska (now a Catholic saint), and it's blown me away. Never in my life have I read such a sincere account of a contemporary's overwhelming love and passion for Christ, including the constant suffering she takes on herself on behalf of other souls. I can only get through a few pages at a time, because it's so rich with wisdom.

Besides reading that, I've been attempting to go to Adoration more routinely, though it's honestly a struggle. I am so quick to justify not going that every evening, it seems, I pit my will against the will of my Father. Thankfully, I'm on a losing streak. Adoration has been so healing and fruitful, especially this week. Several new thoughts have surfaced in my mind, and I'm working on processing each one as it comes.

While I cannot divulge exactly what the Lord is doing (I hardly know myself), I recognize that my soul is terrified of letting itself be totally and completely loved, which is what would happen if I fully submitted my will to God's. My mind knows the Truth - I will be FREE, FULFILLED, and JOYFUL if I let go of "Heidemarie" and replace her with Christ… but it's still a huge struggle. That has become my third and most important realization so far: I've got an iron grip on my will, and it's tormenting my soul.  

Still, there's grace. And that is my one hope.

As I've been working through this realization, I've found another book called "Discerning the Will of God" which details, through the stories of others, the Ignatian path to discerning God's Will. It's a short book, but I'm reading it slowly so that I can make sure my heart is prepared for each step as it comes. The very first step (and the one I'm subsequently stuck on) calls for me to grow in my relationship with Jesus, truly learning about what He has done for me and what He calls me to do. My "homework," as of last night, is to meditate on the Gospels, which I'm not accustomed to doing. Meditation in general is something that I struggle with, because I'm so easily distracted, so this is going to be an interesting battle.

Still, there's grace. And that is my one hope.

Before I end this post, I can only imagine that some of you might be wondering why I decided to post something like this, since it's not very similar to our previous posts. The answer is simple: I think we've only been representing a small slice of ourselves to you, and I wanted to start remedying that by sharing more.

I can only speak for myself in that I know that my flaws have become so transparent while I've been here, and I'm often ashamed of myself and my behavior. Yet, I hope this post reveals some of those flaws, because I know that the clearer you see me as the utter sinner I am, the greater God's glory will be as He changes me from the inside out. I am nothing in and of myself, but the dignity that I am given through the grace of Christ Jesus, Savior of the WORLD, justifies and illuminates my existence, giving me worth beyond compare.

And that will always be my one hope: grace.

A.M.D.G.

Mother Teresa's Tomb