On Two Dollars a Day

A student of international relations or global studies or public health etc etc may have heard these indicators spat out hundreds of times:

Those who live on less than a dollar a day. 
Those who live on less than two dollars a day.

I definitely have. In more than a few college classes. And textbooks. They're used by the UN and other large international organizations out there to define poverty lines. They've always been empty words for me, almost meaningless. I had no way to relate to them. But then, last week, I caught a glimpse of someone's salary at the Bihari guesthouse I was staying at. It completed a thought process that had started months ago, in Bhuj, while shopping for veggies...

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Indians have little trouble living contently.

Almost all the Indians I know, from middle-class neighbors and coworkers to street vendors and day laborers, are happy. Their existence sometimes appears to be one barely eked out, but it doesn't seem to faze them. They have families, and they are large. They have smiles, and they are large. I have come to conclude that their hearts are also large. Sure, this is a developing country. Life is difficult. But they seem to get by just fine. Indians are extremely happy, friendly people, buoyed mostly by family and relationships. 

Indians have little trouble living contently, working for two dollars a day.

The cook at the guesthouse gets paid 3,600 rupees per month, or roughly, $65 -- just over $2/day. The assistant cooks get even less, 3,000 rupees per month. At the guesthouse the cook wakes up at 5:00am to begin breakfast preparation. Then he prepares lunch. Then he prepares dinner. He must wait to eat until after every single one of the fifteen people staying at the guesthouse has eaten. We can come and eat whenever we want, and he will wait. His small, rare breaks when he's not preparing food might be between 10:30 and 11:00am, and then again between 4:00 and 5:30pm. He's a damn good cook. And he's a damn friendly guy. And he's indispensable.

A friend of mine had sent me data on NREGA, the National Rural Employment Guarantee Act, legislation passed in India which guarantees any adult in India 100 days of paid labor in a year. The data suggested an average daily pay of 51 rupees. That's about $1.10. Take into account that this is for unskilled labor, mostly construction jobs on public works projects, for 8-10 hours per day, under the sun, with little or no water, and no child care or health insurance.  As I pass these hard-working men and women on the streets, balancing pick axes and shovels-- their children running around naked in ditches next to the work area-- I give a head wobble and they smile back, don a namaste or Good Morning!, and a smile forces its way out of me. 

Indians have little trouble living contently, working for two dollars a day, miles and miles away from their families.

That same cook I told you about, well he is in his mid-30's with a wife and 3 kids. They live in his village 30km away. He gets 3-4 days every 2-3 months to go travel the 30km by bus to his village in rural Bihar. To visit them. Thirty kilometers is nothing compared to the distances of some of the other people who live at this guesthouse. Most of the other Gujaratis here are between 25-50 years old and have families back in Gujarat. They get 1 month off every 6 months to visit their families 2400km away. To visit their wives. And their children. And their parents.

Each time I sit down to get to know one of these guys at the guesthouse, I invariably come to a question about their family. Do you have a wife? Yes. Do you have children? Yes. How many? What are their ages? Where are they? Gujarat. It doesn't seem to be a big deal to them. Family is by far the first priority in India, well ahead of work and self. Yet, this immense time and physical distance from the family is nothing. They don't talk about their families with each other, and I never catch any of them on the cell phone with them. In the US I've heard stories of this, where the husband and wife live in different cities, commuting every weekend to see each other. But these are rare and always draw a skeptical, how-does-that-work? smirk from me-- and mostly from everyone else too. 

Indians have little trouble living contently, working for two dollars a day, miles and miles away from their families, for years at a time.

Many of the people at the guesthouse are on multiple-year contract commitments to finish out these projects in Bihar. The main project they are working on is three years in length. They have left everyone behind to move here permanently. While many of them make much more than the cook's $2/day, he too will be here for the next 3 years. More time away from their families. Some making little to no money doing it. Yet they all seem to be... happy. And they don't complain. Nor tell me there was any hesitation in accepting the three-year contract offered. And I have come across countless similar examples in Bhuj. How is this so?

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Back in Bhuj, I went to the local vegetablewalla to get me some veggies. Adam was with me, visiting from the US. I loaded up on 1 kilo of potatoes, 1 kilo of tomatoes, and a bunch of other stuff. The bag weighed 6 or 7 pounds when I was finished. The final price was 35 rupees, or about $0.75. Adam was shocked. He said:

If we were at Whole Foods, that would be at least five or six bucks.

Yet, that one transaction seemed to sum it up in a way. It was all relative. I did some calculations in my head and saw how it was easily possible to shop for a day's, week's, even month's worth of food for a family of five or six or seven on a tiny amount of money. That $2/day, no matter how small it seemed, was manageable in this place. That my 35 rupees worth of veggies would actually last me close to three to four days.That my stipended daily wage came out to something like $7/day, and that was barely enough to keep me afloat per month. What was I spending all my money on? Was I living that luxuriously?

With the discovery of the cook's salary in Bihar, travel to rural villages, and talks with coworkers who work in Bhuj slums, the poverty line concept has become a little bit more tangible to me. But it has revealed itself in a way I hadn't expected. The indicator does apply to a large portion of Indians that I interact with and see on a daily basis; it helps to define their financial situation I suppose. But it stops at that. It has little effect on defining anything else it seems, at least in this country. The pictures I have in my head from college classes and textbooks about the "bottom billion" doesn't even seem to get it close here. These people remain happy, faithfully committed to their families, and with a clear sense of duty and work ethic. I guess I finally got a whiff of what I'm looking to gain here.I guess this is what an experience like mine opens you up to. Being there. On the ground. With the people. Living their lives. Talking to them. Learning their language. Figuring shit out. A textbook definitely can't teach you that.

I, Bamboo Centre

I am Bamboo Centre. I am rural. I am surrounded by bamboo thickets. Dirt roads. Dusty cricket fields.

Captain of the Bamboo Centre is Sankalpji. Areen, first mate. Ibrar, second mate. Andrew, periscope. And Lazuben, look-out. Lazuben is a doggy. She sits at the foot of the door, all day, scanning the neighborhood for rival canines. Lazuben's name is actually "Lazy" but the ones whom she protects are unfamiliar with this English word. It has become "Lazu". She is pregnant. Little lazies in the Bamboo Centre.

I am early morning, hazy, cool breeze. I am a cool drink of water from a tin cup, drawn from an earthen pot.

I am chapakal, old-style hand pump. Pump water from deep in the ground. For bathing, washing, cleaning.

I am Hindi. No, Gujarati. No Hindi. I am confusion. I am one language, then the other. Sometimes I'm Center, not Centre. Sometimes I'm English.  Never quite Indian though.

I am wireless internet. Occasionally.

I am the nicest eco squat toilet around. Except at night. When there is no light. And mosquitoes.

I am three Indian meals per day, at 8:00am, 1:00pm, and 8:00pm. I am fresh tomatoes and cucumbers. Twice a day. Always. Jitenbhai, the cook, asks "Khana acha hai?" (food is good?). It is always acha.

I am afternoon nap. With ceiling fan strong.

I am intense humidity at midday. Sweat dripping. Fans going in Bamboo Centre. I am power outages 3 times per day. I am utter lack of comfort when fan ceases.

I am the trepidation of evening time. The mosquitoes. The cockroaches. Flying cockroaches. The bugs. The humidity. I am the daily, midnight shower. With bucket.

I am the mosquito net-fitted bed. I am the anxiety of tucking all corners in. I am the search for holes in the net. I am a mosquito net bubble in a mosquito world. I am 30+ bites and counting.

I. Am. Rural. Bihar. The most impoverished Indian state. Three years back, lawless bandits ruled my fertile lands. Kidnapping. Murdering. But now, I am better. People don't understand me. They think me dangerous still.

The 3-day training has begun. I am Bamboo Centre. And 50 artisans are here for me. I am their meekness. Their seeming inability to order themselves. Their concern for my joinery. My strength. My beauty. My usefulness. My value. My cost. I have been with them their whole lives. My captain speaks eloquently about me. I can withstand the elements, he says. The drivers who drive the artisans sleep on my mats, in the shade, under my awning.  

And in the Bamboo Centre, Lazuben stands guard out front. Another day.

Tamaru Naam Su Chhe?

The other day I made a joke to my American friend that all I had to do was blurt out a sound and then add the letters "esh" onto the end of that sound to figure out someone's name in Bhuj. Anyone on the street. Perhaps it was insensitive, but then I started to really think about the names of all the Indians I know here. And in my head, to the tune of pop-goes-the-weasel or something like that, this is what happened:

THERE'S...........

Miten and Hiten (web designers from Ahmedabad)
Hiren and Kiren (neighbor kid, boss)
Rupesh, Mupesh, Mukesh (coworker, vegetable vendor, coworker)
Litesh, Hitesh, Mitesh (boss' husband's brother, coworker, coworker)
Ramesh, Ritesh, Dharmesh (Ashram director, coworker, coworker)
Manesh, Ganesh, Dinesh (coworker, elephant god, coworker)
Kamlesh and Sailesh (coworkers in Bihar)
Haresh and Paresh (boss, coworker)
Jignish and Jagdish (neighbor boy, Ashram guy)
Sandeep, Sanjay, Sankalp (boss, boss, boss)
Ajay, Jay, Jaydeep (coworker, coworker, my given Indian name)
Vijay and Visenji (coworker, coworker)
Vishal and Vishram (coworker, coworker)
Daval and Raval (father and son; coworker, watchman)

AND.....

More than a few Bharats, or, "India" in Hindi. As if you named your kid America.

Then I hummed it again.

That's all for now, off to Bihar for 2 weeks! See ya.

MIDPOINT Megapost

Ahoy, loyal blog followers. As some of you may or may not know, I recently went on a 12-day vacation of sorts (read: fellowship midpoint retreat) to the south of India (Kerala), making sure to pass through the wet (as in alcohol) city of Mumbai on the way down and on the way back up. In the spirit of my original Guate Megapost (see October 2009), I have written a second one, sprinkled with some highlights. Enjoy.

Part I: From Small Town to the Big City

As I boarded my third overnight train in India, my backpack caused me to hunch over slightly. I had of course packed it only 3/4 full to save some empty space for the illegal liquids I'd be smuggling back to Gujarat just 10 days later. Gabe was excited for his first train in India and as we boarded I was aware of the differences between this one and the Khamakya Express I'd taken before. Now this was a train! Outlets, clean beds, working A/C and no cockroaches. Within 15 minutes we took off and almost 30 minutes later, we arrived at highlight #1: Gabe gets his berth jacked by an old Indian woman! It went a little something like this:

Three young Indian men talk us up for a while. They are friendly, and on two occasions casually inquire if the side lower berth is ours. Yes, we reply. 20 minutes pass.
Young Indian: my mother is just going to rest on your bunk for a few minutes.
(old Indian woman appears out of nowhere, sits on Gabe's bunk. She smiles at us.)
Gabe: uh...
Young Indian: She is old and sick. She will just rest for a few minutes, it is okay.
Me: (to Gabe) you just got your bunk jacked.
Gabe: what? really?
Me: yea man. It happened to me on the Bihar train. You gotta guard your lower berths.
Gabe: (to Young Indian) Did I just lose my bed?
Young Indians (all together): No NO NO, you see, it's just a small trade and then when the other person comes, we will trade here and... (goes on for a minute about some nonsensical trade of berths)
Me: yea, she took it.
Gabe: oh well, I guess I'm going up top.

To let your guard down on Indian trains is to lose your lower bunk to an unsuspecting, old often decrepit Indian lady. To be vigilant at all times is the rule. This is India. And so Gabe took the top tier of 3. Atleast there was room for his feet to hang off. We approached Mumbai and upon stepping off the train were hit full on by the humidity of that sub-tropical climate. I immedately became woozy with the heat, but also the excitement! Haggling in Hindi was an adventure and we finally found ourselves a rickshaw to take us to Khar Danda for 60 rupees. We met our friends and soon grabbed another auto to the coastline nearby for highlight #2: drinking a beer at Juhu (Jew who?) beach in Mumbai. One large Kingfisher beer was twice as much as I needed, but the sight of a beach, seagulls, and a sunset made me think of a familiar place I left almost three years ago...

Part II: Welcome to the jungle

I met my cohort and we rejoiced in seeing one another after the prolonged four and a half month gap. Not much time to dilly dally as we boarded a plane for the south: Coimbature, Tamil Nadu. We stepped off the plane to another immense wall of humidity, taken up a notch or two from Mumbai. We were suddenly in a place completely different from any of the India that I had known. It was jungle. Thick, everywhere. A state adamantly opposed to the use of Hindi, I couldn't read, understand, or speak a word to the locals either. But that didn't mean the food wasn't good! Also completely different from most of the other Punjabi, curried stews of India, South Indian food is grand. Dhosas, vada, sambar, idli. Heavily oiled and fried, yet delicious going down. Will save the "going back out" part of the food for later in this post.

After an hour and a half ride through the countryside in our packed van, we settled down at a quaint little country house in rural Kerala. The neighboring state to Tamil Nadu, Kerala is widely known as a resort area with beautiful beaches. Of course, we were in a rural village with more jungle, snakes, and what I estimated at possibly 1,000 mosquitoes per square inch. Our hosts were nice enough, and there was a neighborhood 15-year-old whizkid named Sanjay who spoke 5 languages fluently, liked baseball (!), and provided me with highlight #3: After a few hours of conversation, Sanjay told us "One day I will become an astrophysicist, or, a wet (he meant vet) and start a foundation for sick animals called the Steve Irwin Foundation. He was the best crocodile Hunter ever. I loved him." We later discovered that Sanjay, whose favorite animal was the elephant, carried around a notebook everywhere that was covered in elephant stickers. Unfortunately, the country cottage was too small for our needs, and we boarded the packed van once more the next day to head out to Cochin, the major hub of Kerala.

Part III: Jewtown, and that time I wore a skirt for 2 days

In Cochin, we arrived in the burbs to the Highway Garden Inn. A name ringing of a small town America motel, I was quickly impressed by clean beds, 24/7 A/C and... and... and.. my first real shower in 5 months. To stand under a high pressure nozzel with realtime temperature adjustment capabilities is an experience not to be understated. The shower was utilized. Twice a day. Curiously, I will not include the shower under my highlights, but rather highlight #4 was the overwhelmingly approved, name-changing fried gobi for lunch and dinner. The first day it was Manchurian, the second Teriyaki, the third Kerala Special, and the fourth, well, it gave me the di-di. Nevertheless, it was spicy, Chinese-like, fried cauliflower and it was magnificent. Then, I had 2 shots of Romanov vodka with some of the fellows.

Our next day in town was our token free day and the ten of us crammed into a few taxis en route to Fort Cochin - the touristy, old part of the city made famous for its Jewish and Christian influence - lined with basilicas, churches, and the oldest synagogue in the Commonwealth, dating back to the 1500s. At once the humidity overwhelmed me and I had no hesitation in embarking upon a Christian mission of my own which would constitute highlight #5: immediately purchasing a dhoti, the common item of clothing worn by all males in Kerala. It was, basically, a skirt. And I wore it. For 2 days straight. It was quite possibly the best decision I have made of 2010. Where I was sweating profusely before the dhoti, I was only mildly sweating after. And that's a big deal. Although it should have only cost about 50 rupees, I let the man swindle me for 220. Then I had him dress me in it. It kept coming loose throughout the day, so many other random men of Kerala were asked for assistance in dressing me. When in Kerala...

Our group split into two groups of five and we wandered the old, colonial streets of Fort Cochin, finally arriving at the Jewish sector, dubbed Jewtown. Yes, it was called Jewtown. We toured the old synagogue where we learned that the first Rabbi of Cochin, who founded the synagogue, escaped from the Moors in the 1500's, swimming from the mainland to Cochin with his wife on his shoulders. Upon entering the synagogue, I got that familiar feeling, that connection, shared by Jews across the world. Then we wandered down Jewtown streets, making sure to snap pictures of the swastikas alongside the Jewish stars. The evening ended as the two groups came together at a small restaurant which assured us they had beer, yet no alcohol license. Thus, we arrived at highlight #6: beer in a teapot. 30 minutes later, our beer arrived... in a teapot. We looked at each other, shrugged, clanged together the tea pots and, up-turning the spouts, poured it down our throats.

Part IV: A dip in the river and a dinner on the dock

One of the most popular tourist activites in Kerala is to tour the backwaters by boat. The area around Cochin has a unique blend of inland jungle rivers and creek systems, enclosed with thick jungle. Our group booked a half-day boat tour and we headed out early Saturday morning for our day on the river. With our boatman propelling us along, we cruised down taking in the jungle scenery, and hopping off the boat twice for an intimate look into the local work of rope-making and the fine art of eating cashew nuts right off the tree. Highlight #7 was an impromptu jump into the river, where after about 1 minute we realized how out of shape we were, and struggled to keep afloat while catching up to the docked ship. The whole time I was in the water, all I could think about was the movie Anaconda.

The last two nights in Kerala, we got put up in some sweet little cabanas on a dock jutting out into the Arabian sea. Watched two beautiful sunsets and had dinner right on the dock. Although the mosquitoes were in full force, the cooler location was well worth it and it was the perfect end to our Keralan adventure.

Part V: Passover: strangers in the land of Egypt India

Alas, our time in Kerala had ended and we boarded our personal van for a 4-hour ride back to Tamil Nadu and our plane to take us back to the big city. But the trip was not over! We still had 2 more days to spend in Mumbai, and a Passover seder to organize. With 20+ people expected for the event, we staked out a location, cooked up some Matzah Ball soup and haroset, and catered in some much desired hummus and falafel. What happened next was an experience not wholly different from that of the ancient Israelites and provided for highlight #8 of the trip: our improvised Passover seder. An unexpected series of events expelled us from our original site, just as we sat down to start the seder. Reminiscent of the Jews fleeing Egypt, we carried all of our food, matzah, and haggadot, marched outside and crossed the 4-lane road (Red Sea) amid heavy traffic, marched down the street and then through the windy maze of alleys in a slum (the desert), and arrived to a cramped apartment living room in the same slum, where we settled down to a night of drinking, songs led by a random 50-yr old bearded Jew named Richard, and the most makeshift, medlied passover I've ever experienced. Much more than 4 glasses of wine later, I shuffled to my friend's apartment, plopped down on the pullout couch, and got bitten up by mosquitoes for the rest of the night.

And we will end this megapost on highlight #9: getting my first bagel and lox in 6 months. Within the 3 days I was in Mumbai, I visited The Bagel Shop an average of once per day; it's possible I may have overdone it when it came to non-Bhuj luxuries (aka M&Ms and olive oil). Overall, those 12 days could be characterized by friends, food, and fun, and it was a memorable time. Thanks especially to Toma, Dafnah, and Gilad for hosting me in Mumbai.

Wherefore Art Thou, Mousey?

Act I

Scene 1: Andrew washes face in the morning. He is acutely aware of the abyss below his kitchen sink, but this morning he is too lazy to check it for creatures. Something grazes against his foot. Dark, black mass bolts off into the dark. Andrew jumps.

Scene 2: Andrew uses broom to sweep kitchen area. Behind propane tank. Behind door. Behind fridge. Dark mass jumps out and crashes into wall, scurries behind door. Andrew unloads poison spray into crevice. Andrew waits 1 minute. Throws back door. Dark black mass no where to be seen. Dark black mass renamed "hybrid roach lizard thingy".

Act II

Scene 1: Andrew returns home from day at work. He has almost forgotten the encounter in the morning. Andrew goes to bed around midnight.

Scene 2: It is 6:04am and hot in the room. Andrew, half awake, reaches downward to pull up covers. His hand grabs something that is definitely not blanket. It jumps away. Andrew leaps to his feet and launches blanket into the air:

Andrew: What the &#$^@#&@#!?!?!?!

Andrew runs and turns on light. Begins cursory examination of the room. Spots dark mass under bed. Hybrid roach lizard thingy runs into the open.

Andrew: What. Are. You?
HRLT: ...

Andrew realizes that HRLT is actually a mouse. HRLT renamed "mousey".

Andrew: You know mousey, you shall never escape this room alive.
Mousey: ...
Andrew: I'm sorry, but you know the way here, you're bound to come back. It's only logical.

Andrew blocks both exits, stuffing the crevices below his doors with shirts.

Scene 3: It is 6:20am. Andrew is sweating from chasing mousey around the room. As Andrew fishes for his REI headlamp, mousey disappears momentarily.

Andrew: wherefore art thou, mousey?

Mousey pokes out from behind desk. Mousey climbs lamp cord from power strip up to desk. Mousey runs across desk and leaps the one foot gap from desk to bed. Mousey runs around under the covers. Andrew watches the bump of mousey's body moving all around the bed, under the covers. Mousey's face emerges.

Andrew: [hissing sound].

Mousey leaps away, bounces on the stool, and runs for Andrew's backpack. Andrew throws book. Mousey leaps into open backpack.

Scene 4: It is 6:45am. Andrew is sweating profusely. He up-ends backpack and mousey leaps out.

Andrew: you have no where left to run. Give it up.

Mousey runs for the door. Leaps into Andrew's shirt, stuffed at the bottom. Andrew turns to his desk. Eyes 800-page book: Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States.

Andrew: Now, for some American justice.

Book slams into shirt.

Act III:

Scene 1: Andrew kicks shirt out of his room and out of the apartment. It is 7:03am. Andrew settles down to try and go back to sleep. Andrew contemplates...

How long was mousey next to me for?
Perhaps he just wanted a sleeping buddy.
If he had left me alone, it would have been all right.

The memory of mousey lives on.