2 weeks

For the past few days, ‘2 weeks’ has been the constant refrain ringing in my head.

Finally, after 4 months of travel and research, I’m finally on the home stretch to Melbourne. To be perfectly honest, I’m feeling quite apprehensive about returning home. I’m expecting much to have changed; people to have moved on, something on Swanston street to be different, my apartment to be a mess.

Before leaving, I had a good chat with a friend about friendship. I often wonder which ones would last, and which are destined to fizzle out. Sometimes, I feel like I try too hard to cultivate some relationships, and wonder if it was all a waste of effort and time. I wondered if, on my return, if I would have any friends left.

Hearing this from James, the maverick, James the constantly busy and activity-packed guy, James who has more than 1000 facebook friends, this might seem rather weird. But just 3 years ago, when I left Singapore to begin a new stage of my life in Australia, there was only one friend I left behind in that country whom I could truly call a friend. Only one! Out of all the 21 years of my life in Singapore. All those years of primary school, secondary school, junior college and army life only managed to yield one true friend. And so, with this background knowledge in mind, I reckon my present concerns are within reason.

But I suppose I have changed during my 3 years in Melbourne. Changed for the better I should hope. Perhaps a little more personable, less stubborn, more sensitive, and more fun to be with – no doubt shaped by the people I chose to be close with. The curious thing is that such a radical change in my personality and character came about only because I made a conscious and deliberate effort to change. I can pinpoint the starting point to a decision forged in the solitude of my room in Ang Mo Kio, above the whirring and bleeps of dialysis machines below me.

Now as I prepare to Melbourne again, I know something has changed yet again. I have yet to put my finger to it, to describe it fully in its entirety, but I know that something has shifted. Am I more radical now, or less? Am I more focused and disciplined now, or less? What friendships would I cultivate, and how will the intersection of my faith and relationship with God impact those around me, if at all?

I hope the musings of a 24 year old has not bored my readers, but as I sit for the last time in my hotel room in Mae Sot, writing my final blog entry before heading to Bangkok on the night bus, I think of all the people I will leave behind as I embark on the 10 hour journey.

First, Bobo and Ei Ei come to mind, the Burmese doctors I met by perchance while in the sleepy town of Umphang.

My translators, Plaw, who’s getting married soon, and Lweh Say who’s thinking of re-settling in Australia. Of course, Iris-say, that amazingly cute baby is unforgettable as well.

I remember Zarah, the boisterous, bustling girl from the amazing cities of Singapore and Melbourne; the two Johnnys I met though her, and the sailor, Wayne, who just recovered from a serious flu bug.

Philip, who lent me his spare motorbike, that’s now parked under the shade of DK Hotel.

Pot, the hotel receptionist, my breakfast buddy, and free ride to the Burmese border town of Myawaddy to get my visa extended for 14 days. Not forgetting the cleaner dude who’s always offering the services a shapely massage lady. He enjoyed the magnum ice-cream I brought back the other time.

Change of Blog URL

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A fitting conclusion

He stoops, scratches with a metal piece.

Stands, sweeps.

Such is his destiny, his karma – or so the hindus would say.

A gleaming white marble edifice stands majestic in the background, an icon of opulence, beauty and romance. One of the wonders of the world. I can tell it lives up to its name.

The grating of the metal piece on the hard floor interrupts my thoughts. I gaze at the man crouched on the floor. Without these simple, faithful, illiterate workers, this place would not be. In the solitude, sheltered by the towering arches of one of the Taj’s flanking features, the past month in India coalesces into a myriad of emotions and memories.

Through the still air, I hear the cries of hordes of children.

“One photo!” They cry. “Only one!”

You feel like a celebrity for a moment, but the novelty is fleeting.

Another common Indian phrase in Agra. “Konichiwa?”

Apparently, Japanese tourists are a common sight in Agra.

Getting past the where are you froms and what do you dos (I get confused myself deciding to introduce myself as Singaporean or Australian). We quickly come to the breaking point question.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

I’ve tired of that one. Once, in response to their disbelief, I shot back, “Why is that such a surprise? Is there something wrong?” Turns out that almost every other Indian male has a secret girlfriend apart from their wives, or other girlfriends.

“In India, you are chained.”

The owner of the Internet cafe twists his face in mock agony. He’s referring to the Indian marriage. I’m silently glad that I’m unlikely to suffer his fate. “

Will you apply the same cultural rules to your children?”

A vehement refusal, a mockery of cultural norms in India.

“What can culture do? It can’t feed me, it can’t buy petrol for the car. I’m glad India’s being westernised.”

The marble beckons, mocks. A king’s tribute of unending love to his favourite wife (note favourite. He had many). A mockery of an unhappy alliance, frustrations of romance, strain of abuse, angst at an unattainable dream. It stands perfect, tall, proud, boasting about the elusive dream of so many – to be loved to madly, so foolishly, without limits. I wonder if his wife loved him with the same measure.

The sweeping sound draws nearer. I smile. I can’t tell if he’s smiling back.

This is a rare one, just faithfully content with his job. When will he start asking me for money?

He shuffles off. I wonder about karma. My driver was about to kick the auto into gear when a blind man stopped us.

“What is he doing?”

I ask my driver a silly question. He looks at me like I’m quite the idiot, but hides enough to make it seem ambiguous. He explains slowly.

“His support...depends on you.”

He means to say that his life depends on me. A tourist. A kind, generous, compassionate tourist. I ask my driver if it was the man’s karma to be blind. He cannot answer. He can say that it is his karma to driver a rickshaw, to pick up kind tourists who are quickly moved with the plight of his family to support his children through college education. But he cannot answer my question. And neither can I. I’m trying to understand the Hindu belief in karma, but as you can see, I’m having difficulties coming to grips with it.

Today I’m not a kind, compassionate tourist. I’m a tight-assed tourist on a budget, with expensive gifts to buy friends and family back home, and with three more months of travel ahead of me. The faithful cleaner shuffles back in my direction. I now realise what the scratching was about. He is removing the bird poo from the flooring. I hope it’s not made of marble.

“Photo?”

He motions towards my camera. He wants to see my photos. I lean closer to him, flicking through the photos with my thumb. I’m still amused he hasn’t asked me for money. Perhaps there’s a fair amount of dignity in this one. He appears disinterested in the photos, but manages a slight grin. I move away, keeping my eyes on him. He shuffles off. And then it happens.

The finger movements.

He wants money. I turn away, facing the marble monument. I’m disgusted. I thought that I had finally found a man with dignity, content with his lot in life, and happy, with the path that destiny had carved out for him. The heavy stone of reality has pulled down my high aspirations for the human character. I sigh.

50 rupees. Equivalent to 10 cups of chai, a 5km journey on the auto-rickshaw, or 1 USD.

I turn back. He’s sweeping now, obviously not expecting anything from this tourist. A smile. I linger for a while, thinking. Another tourist has encroached on our secret enclave, and I feel it’s time to move on. I pause, taking a few more photos as an excuse. I look back at our friend, obviously still hard at work maintaining the Taj complex.

“Thank you.”

He croaks. He’s a decent guy. I like him.

Waiting for the Bus

We drive through a break in the curb, and our hatchback is dwarfed by large, air-conditioned Volvo buses.

After a brief search, we find the person we’re looking for. We’re told to wait half an hour before the bus to Pune arrives.

“You remember the time at the train station?”

An Indian man looks at me as I spin around. “Are you James?” I wasn’t expecting this. Having arrived at Madgaon station just minutes before, I was just about to pull out my mobile phone with a dying charge and call Michael Fernandas, the white Australian missionary. To think that this pastor had sent his driver to pick me up!

Michael bursts out laughing.

As it turned out, Michael Fernanadas was a Goan, a native Indian man. Born into an influential Roman Catholic family, and pastor of a small fellowship in Goa, Michael seems to be just another pastor – until you hear his stories.

“You really should write a book!” I remark.

Michael is ever ready to regale you with amazing stories of God getting involved in the lives of ordinary people. One of my favourites is the time when money ran out, and he and his family could not afford to buy food. Rice, oil, and cooking gas that should have lasted no more than a few months miraculously stretched out to almost a year – a modern day account of Elijah and the widow. He recounts one of the lowest points in his life, when the number of the people in his ministry dropped overnight from about 600 to 15. Having lost many leaders that he had painstakingly discipled over the years, he was brought to his knees in seeking God anew. Out of that personal crisis, many new things were birthed, among them, a greater and deeper reliance on God for his daily provision.

“Funny how little impact miracles have on the faith of people”

Miracles are nothing new to Michael. For him, it is part and parcel of trusting God, and obeying His voice. He wonders why God still chooses to heal people miraculously, even though they don’t make a stand for Him. He openly challenges the popular perception among faith healers that people who are healed have faith, and people who are not, lack faith. Out of his personal experience, he has often witnessed the opposite to be true.

Earlier today, we picked up a homeopathic preparation for Az’s cold, and I thought that was slightly strange, knowing that Michael has such faith in divine healing.

“We always go for the practical solution first, and then when that doesn’t work, we leave it to God.” he explains.

I think of the house meeting the night before Michael motions for me to speak. Twenty pairs of eyes stare expectantly at me. It’s a strange feeling, being at the centre of attention, simply because I’m a visitor from a foreign land. I take a gulp. I begin...

Chai

“Chai, Chai, Chai”

The voice grows louder each time.

Curious, I peer thorough the drapes, to see a uniformed vendor with paper cups and tea bags in one hand, and a metal dispenser of warm milk in the other.

“Be careful not to take any food offered to you by ‘friendly’ strangers”, says the well-dressed lady in my berth. Of late, the newspapers have been abuzz with people who have been drugged, and their possessions taken.

After having been assaulted by various smells, a blast of cool air on my face was a welcome sensation as I pulled the last compartment door open. Best of all, I couldn’t detect any unpleasant odours. Curtains lined the aisles, providing some measure of privacy. Relief flooded in as I realised that I had found my carriage. I was glad I hadn’t booked a non-air-conditioned carriage after all. Before coming to India, I was eager to get the ‘Indian experience’, and had considered going non-A/C. When I shared this with a friend back in Australia, I recall her eyes widening with what I thought was awe and amazement. I suppose it was more likely shock!

12 hours later, I was at Tiruvalla, Kerala. My host had come to pick me up from the station, and I quickly learned that he could only speak a few simple words in English.

As I stepped out of the tiny Maruti Suzuki, a large, empty-looking house loomed in front of me.

“My house.” Suresh pointed to a shack in the distance, and drove off. I felt two emotions all at once. One was pity (for Suresh), and then I felt sorry for myself, thinking that I was going to stay all alone in the massive house, in a strange neighbourhood far removed from the city. I was wondering how I was going to survive the next few days when someone emerged from the front door.

Fully decked out in white, the lady approached me.

“Ah James?” At least she knew my name. Before I could respond, I was embraced. And kissed. What a welcome to Srampical House, Kalloparra! Instantly, I felt at home, and I knew I was going to have an awesome time.

“You happy?”

“Ah...you happy, I happy.”

Surrounded by rubber trees, chooks pecking, looking for some tasty morsel, Grandma eases into her favourite chair on the front porch. “Ah ma chee. Ah ma chee, granny”, she points at herself.

“Ah ma chee, granny” I repeat.

“Ah....good!” Granny beamed back.

I just got a new grandma.

That day, while hiking through the fields with Rajan, I recalled a lecture on hookworms. These creatures lurk on blades of grass, waiting for a passing foot to brush past, and...you don’t want to know the rest. Walking in thongs worried me a little, but I wasn’t going to tell Rajan that I wasn’t going to follow him because I didn’t have my hiking boots along with me.

Later, the rest of the family would return from school, which meant that I didn’t have to keep trying to decipher the half-english version of malayalm, the native dialect of Kerala. Thankfully, Suresh didn’t stay in the shack after all (it was the kennel), but in the family home hidden behind the trees. From there, I learned that he was one of the wealthiest in the family, owning the rubber and banana plantation around the home, along with a few other side businesses.

I received an extensive lesson in Chapati making from Granny, and wearing a Dhoti from Shaun.

“Drop? Big Shame for Indians”, says Shaun with a cheeky twinkle in his eye.

I wasn’t sure if he was eager for me to drop my Dhoti and have a laugh of his life, or if he was trying hard to ensure I preserved my modesty.

Wednesday morning, Lali, Susha and Grandma gathered around the front porch while waiting for the auto-rickshaw. I was told that India is a land of contrasts, how true that was. Getting WiFi in the middle of a rubber plantation; massive department stores specialising in silk saris next to men peddling cheap underwear by the roadside; electronic ticketing devices while in a lurching bus and horn-happy driver at the wheel.

I’m proud of the fact that I can now wear a Dhoti without it having any hint of slipping, travel a distance of 50 kilometres on 3 different public buses, and ride pillion without a helmet while taking pictures with my camera (hardly anyone in India wears a helmet).

Now I’m on the train to Goa, with the White Tiger by Aravind Adiga to keep me company. I peer at a railway engineer from above the riveting pages from time to time, and a captain of a cargo ship is just opposite my berth. He's tapping away on the same HP laptop as me. I wonder what new things Goa would hold.

“Chai, Chai, Chai”

“Chai?”

I finally decided to give the Chai a go.

Just another ride - Vellore musings

Stepping through the threshold of Modale, I saw that the door to my room was ajar.

“Strange, I thought I had locked the door.”

As I approached, I heard the whirring of a fan...

“Joris! You're back!”

I hadn't expected to see Joris before I left Vellore.

He had just returned from a weekend in Pudicherry. With little to do in Vellore, students on elective often spend the weekends in surrounding cities. Bangalore, the silicon valley of India, Chennai, Pondicherry, or even Kerala are popular destinations. Unfortunately, we're in the middle of the monsoon, and holiday plans are often drenched. As was the case with Joris.

I hurriedly set about with last minute packing, suddenly realising that my book of houses was still with Theresa. The idea's borrowed from a friend, and I always succeed in getting people

amused. As I meet people on my travels, I ask them to draw their dream house in my moleskin notebook. And so, in this manner, I have gathered quite a collection.

After tracking down another student from Queensland, I had my notebook back safely in hand. Walking out of Modale hostel for the last time with Joris and Andy, I had a feeling that perhaps this wouldn't be the last time after all.

“150 rupees”

Haggling with a rickshaw driver

It was a little steep for a half hour ride to the train station. We tried to haggle, but realising that time was not on our side, I decided not to go through all the trouble, and jumped in. As we sped through the streets of Vellore, the events of the past four days played through my mind.

The main gate of CMC Bagayam. I can hear the excited voices the students as we carried USD100 worth of rockets and crackers to the nearby stadium.

Jack with a smoldering menace

Dr Moses' house opposite the main gate. I remember his frustration about the corruption gripping the country, and how the ordinary Indian was trapped in a vicious cycle of poverty largely because of the actions of their countrymen. I recall his amusement when Immanuel said that he wanted to be a sound engineer, and, started rattling off band band, trying to find common ground. Clearly, Dr Moses had higher aspirations for his son.

The night air has a sweet, moist smell. As we go around a corner, several Indians at the bus stop stare at the foreigner in the rickshaw. Arun comes to mind. I can see his enormous surprise, when the rickshaw driver said “100 rupees” the other day, and Joris didn't bat an eyelid. “I would have taken the bus” he says 150 rupees is about the average daily wage in Vellore.

Arun with my jeans and Joris’ shirt

We pass the Darling Bakery, an edifice of western influence quite out of place in a small rural Indian town. This was my first cake experience in Vellore that tickled me.

Darling Bakery: A contrast to the dirt and dust outside

The rickshaw lurches wildly over a pothole, and I clutch my haversack more tightly. We approach the bridge over a dry river bed – the result of poor policies and inadequate governance.

“What time?”

“Nine-forty one” I replied. I had arrived just 4 minutes before the scheduled departure of my train.

As I step onto the train, it begins to move. Almost immediately, I smell a mixture of sweat and urine. Bodies lying on racks and covering the floor. I squeeze past, expectations of an uneventful train ride dropping by the second. As I pull open what must have been the 10^th door to the adjoining carriage, the atmosphere changes, and my heart stops for a second.

Vellore, India

Vellore.

A semi-rural bazaar town, made famous by its hospital, CMC (Christian Medical College) Vellore. Founded more than 100 years ago by a sprightly young lady, Ida Scudder, people today travel great distances from all over the Indian sub-continent to Vellore for treatment.

Boasting western standards of healthcare, CMC Vellore has a strong ethos to make healthcare available for all, even to the poorest of the poor.

“When you have a problem, go to Vellore.”

Dr Sunil Abraham of the LCECU (Low Cost, Effective Care Unit), remarks proudly, “It’s capitalism that works”. In this department, patients only pay as much as they can afford, but at the same time, have access to sophisticated investigations like echo-cardiograms and the latest microbiological tests. Even so, I was quite amused to see Dr Abraham collect money from the patients.

Let me take you on a brief tour of this department.

At the entrance, you’re greeted by the sleepy gaze of a cow

“Here in the LCEC, we doctors are the cashiers as well” – Dr Abraham with his money box

A patient with Psoriasis, a skin condition (pretty obvious!) I was told that there was improvement from the last consultation

We saw a patient who had poured kerosene over her body, and set herself alight. At a government hospital, her wounds weren’t dressed adequately, and started to fester. Eventually, she was brought over to the LCECU to be properly treated. I didn’t take a picture of her as she looked a little self-conscious.

“Surely

setting oneself alight is not the way to go! At least slitting writs or taking pills would be less painless.” I thought to myself. Shruti, a Canadian on elective explained that Indians have a penchant for the dramatic. That made sense.

And then, we had a patient come in complaining of...guess what? Back pain. He was the guy who prepared my sweet Indian tea in the morning at the hospital cafeteria. The fact that he was complaining of something so common place made me feel that the consultation room was like anything you would find in Melbourne.

Our tea maker with his X-ray up on against a natural light box

On Saturday, I had to go to the main hospital, the gargantuan 2000+ bed CMC Vellore to pay my elective fees. I was fortunate enough to have a guide – Shruti. Being the premier institution for healthcare in South Asia, great crowds throng the hospital grounds. The hospital serves in excess of 50 000 patients each day.

Crowds thronging the entrance of CMC Vellore

“Most of these patients are not from Vellore”, says Shruti.

A boy selling one of those blowy party things at the hospital across the road from the hospital

That evening, we were treated to a rendition of Beauty and the Beast. To my surprise, there was hardly a hint of the typical ‘Indian accent’. Russell Peters floated to mind,

“You think Indians don’t know that we sound funny? Let me tell you, vee do it on purpose!”

I’ve always loved college musicals. Regardless of what others might say about the quality of the singing or acting, I’m constantly amazed at how mere students can string together a performance, complete with costumes, backdrop, lighting, dance and music. My favourite was the candlestick.

Foreground: a girl on the edge of the stage, mesmerised by the unfolding drama. Background: my candlestick

Halfway through, a dog ran up onto the stage, adding to the drama. I guess this could only happen in India!

Sunday evening came, and I sat through the institutions Baccalaureate service for the graduating batch of students. An esteemed professor exhorted the students to resist the temptation to be lured by the increasing commercialisation of medicine, to serve rather than to be served, and to be visionaries of change in a world fraught with greed, injustice and inequality. I reflected on my past 3 years in the University of Melbourne, and realised that I had yet to meet a professor who would model this, and exhort us to do the same.

As my BigW slippers flicked the specks of dirt onto my calves, a familiar tune waffled through the night air. “Go light the world” was being played over the auditorium speakers.

“Where Lord, where?”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ZUUpyjdwGQ