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

Joris

“When in India, remember the 3 Ts – things take time”

Joris (pronounced you-ris) was keen on getting me adjusted to life in India as quickly as possible.

Notwithstanding the fact that administrative matters in India are a little clunky, my first 48 hours in India has just been a whirlwind.

As a foretaste, I’ve given my only other pair of jeans away, participated in blowing up a stadium (exaggeration), realised that toilet paper is not used in Vellore (for the most part), got lost, and ate cake. Yes, cake.

But let me first tell you the taxi story.

As you know, 48 hours ago I arrived in a country where I didn’t speak the language, didn’t know anyone, and didn’t have a clue where what I was supposed to spend the night. So imagine my relief, when, as I walked out of the terminal, I spied someone holding a piece of paper saying,

“James Wei. CMC Vellore. International Modale Hostel” First base!

As the vehicle which possessed no side mirrors sped along, I learnt that my driver was a Christian. A recent convert, who faced a fair amount of rejection from his family for his decision. In a sense, that put to rest thoughts of the possibility of being kidnapped, and halfway through the 2 hour journey, I began to dose off.

“You want tea?”

He was offering me tea.

“Sure!”

He pulled off to the side, and we got out. In my dream-like state, I could barely make out a wooden stand in a little clearing. Something was brewing.

Tea was pretty good. Sweet, as most Indian beverages are. He paid for our tea before I could say “gobsswabble”, leaving me feeling a little bad for the rest of the journey.

Eventually, we got to a gated compound with a security guard. Second base. After a brief exchange, we continued puttering down a dirt road. We pulled over in front of a compound with a gleaming marble floor. A sleepy eyed attendant emerged from an adjoining room, and took a seat at the reception desk. After shuffling some stationery, he produced an envelope. I could see that it had my name on it.

“Read it.”

I proceeded to open the envelope, thinking that this was a really cool adventure. Out fell money, together with a letter. The letter instructed me to pay the taxi driver the 1700 rupees (slightly under A$50), or more if I felt like giving him a tip. The note also told me that the people who had received me would take me to the Modale hostel. Third base.

“How much is the taxi ride?”

“Ah...1600 rupees?”

I thought he was such a nice guy, so I decided to give him a little more than the standard fare and he left with 2000 rupees.

So that’s how I met Joris in pyjamas peering out of room three of the Modale hostel at 2am in the morning. In case you’re wondering, Joris is Dutch.

“Um, sorry, there’s someone else sleeping in your bed for the night...”

So in the wee hours of the morning, we went pulling out the cushions from the sofa chairs in the common room.

“You'll have to wait 10 minutes for the hot water”

That’s not too bad, I though. I was pretty much expecting to have to boil water and use a bucket and scoop the old fashioned way for a hot bath. 20 minutes later, fresh after a nice hot shower, I crawled into my sleeping bag on the cushions and fell asleep. Fourth base.

Joris and Me

In Transit

Bangkok.

After a few unsuccessful attempts at the phone booth at the airport, I finally managed to get in touch with Justin Foster, my field supervisor, and wasted no time in grabbing a taxi to TBBC's (Thailand Burma Border Consortium) Bangkok office.

"So how old are you?"

my response.

"Married?"

my response.

"Girlfriend?"

"Boyfriend?"

I laughed.

"Ah...boyfriend it is!"

Welcome to Thailand. Famous for the girl-boys. Or boy-girls. My taxi driver commented on how he had once fetched a couple from Singpore not long ago (not married, he stressed), and they were kissing for the entire ride.

"Singapore. Freedom." There was a slight note of disdain in his voice.

This coming from Thailand? Home of the infamous Tiger shows, condom restaurants, and risque scene?

"So what if your daughter kissed her boyfriend like that?"

He made a gesture with both his hands, universally understood as: don't even think of it, bubba.

Funny, since we're on this topic, there's a funny little shop not more than 5 metres from where I'm sitting now.

No doubt for honeymooning couples. Or other ki

nds of couples.

After a rather fruitful 45 min meeting with Justin (who had to duck out of an arduous meeting with UNHCR, Government officials, TBBC staff, and other field staff), I started to get hungry. So, after getting some advice from Lek, the rec

eptionist, and armed with my basic Thai from my last visit, I headed out to procure some nourishment.

Here it is!

The rice is Thai sticky rice (yumm!), and the piece of meat looks like roast pork, to which Lek agreed.

After catching up on Thai news (apparently they're not happy with the Cambodians), and filling my belly, I decided to go for a walk around the city, just to have a feel of things. After a while, I realised that I needed a hair cut, so I got one.

After one shampoo wash, a cut, another shampoo wash, spraying with some styling foam, spraying with some styling spray, and then some kind of wax, this is the finished product:

Lek wasn't too impress

ed. As you can see, it's a little lopsided!

After this photo was taken, I tried to fix it up, so I think it's a little mor

e presentable. After all, for 200 baht (A6.6), it wasn't that bad.

I decided to head out with my camera in search of some interesting shots.

Guess what this lady was trying to sell me.

Naaa...it's not what you think. It was free membership to a fitness first wannabe. But granted, the advertisement seemed to offer other services

In 15 minutes, I'll catching my cab to the airport. Lek is already chasing me.

And then you'll know all about my Indian taxi experience. Or not.

Humidity

"The humidity struck, and stuck"

The blast of warm, moist air is often the first thing travellers from Australia to tropical lands would notice. Walking out of the air-conditioned cocoon of Singapore's budget terminal, that's exactly what I got.

I spied Maccas in the distance, and headed over, eager to check the prices. !?! 6 dollars for a double cheese burger. A lame advertisement caught my eye "Apple pie of your eye". Only a Singaporean Maccas would have such a lame tag line, although I have some lame things on Australian TV.

Up to this point, the journey has been rather smooth. Too smooth, I feel. But hey, it's the first flight. I remarked to mum and dad just yesterday, that I'm quite sure that I must have stuffed up something on my flight or train itinerary - it's so complicated that the Therapeutic Guidelines for Antibiotics would seem like a comic strip. I slept the whole way on the flight, from 930pm to 230am (Perth/Singapore) time, not even noticing that the man beside me had vacated his seat, to let his wife take both seats for a more comfy nap.

From here on, things could go pretty wrong. When I hop to Bangkok for 12 hours, I'm supposed to link up with my field supervisor in the city. That's not such a big problem, except that our last email communication seems to highlight a communication breakdown-he thought I was arriving on thursday! To top it off, I still don't know how I'm going to find my taxi driver at Chennai, and even if I do find him, I have no idea where he's supposed to be taking me. At least I know we're supposed to head East, so I look at the sun, I should have a pretty good idea if he's not being dodgy. Hold on, I'll be travelling at midnight. Help!!!

I better end here, so there'll be a little more suspense. Once I board this flight (in approx 45 min), I've no confidence in getting online again...so for those who believe in God, send your prayers. And for those who don't, send your money. *Just kidding* Hope no one took offence there.

Sawaa di Kaap!!

promise to get pictures the next time. don't think you're allowed to by snappy happy in the airport

Catching the Taxi

"Don't worry, my taxi will be waiting for you..."

For a second, I'm comforted by the words of my Pastor (Sunny Philip), and then I realise I have done a silly thing. I have chosen to fly over 6000 km to a foreign land with a radically different culture and language from my own, arriving at midnight just in time to catch a taxi driver who has been patiently

picture of an Indian taxi courtesy of Google

waiting at the terminal to take me on the 2 hour journey from Chennai to his home town in Vellore. And I'm doing this ALONE.

I can't help but think of the nasty prospect of being kidnapped and held for ransom, or worse. I would like to think I a pretty faith-filled person, but sometimes, I think the line shifts a little, and moves from "ummm...faith" to "ummmm?!? faith?? or folly"??

Well, I'll suck it up for now I suppose, and in approximately 48 hours, you should be hearing from me...if I survive the taxi ordeal.