Rajasthan or Bust (Mike and Len’s Barmer Schedule)

below is an email from Mark, fellow volunteer based in Barmer, Rajasthan. Mike and I are planning to visit him before his trip back to Canada in February. It made me smile this morning that i could not resist posting the email here. With his permission.

your dream vaction awaits you!

Rajasthan or Bust
Mike and Len’s Barmer Schedule

Arrive Saturday morning by train around 10 am, Barmer is the last stop on the run so you don’t have to worry about missing it. If for some reason the train does go on, you will end up in Pakistan . In any case you should have your passport with you.

ó Picked up by Mark and all take a tempo (auto-rickshaw) to Mark ’s house
ó Settle in and breakfast number one of oats with fresh fruit, coffee, tea or juice
ó Alternative breakfast number two is eggs with brown toast

ó Nice walk through back streets of beautiful Barmer to main market road and up to lower mandir
ó Shopping along way if needed

ó Walk down to SURE office to meet the staff
ó Chai will be served at some point
ó Then off to Brahmin Lodge for lunch

ó Walk or tempo back to Mark ’s for rest
ó Engage kids on street as necessary

ó Evening will be a walk to dosa/pizza restaurant for supper
ó And then return home for evening rest

ó Awake Sunday morning to same left over breakfast from previous day
ó Take a long walk up to the Shiv Mandir (the high one)
ó This will take about an hour to get there, some time up top and an hour back
for chai break at Kalinga Hotel

ó Then a look around at textile stores for famous Barmer prints
ó Pick up snacks long the way for return train ride

ó Return to Mark ’s house for rest
ó Pick up bags and go to train station around 6:00pm
ó Train will be at platform
ó Leave Barmer at 6:30pm Sunday
ó Arrive Delhi Cannt the next morning around 9 or 9:30am

Re the trains: 3AC and sleeper are almost the same except the sleeper class is about 300 rupees each way and the 3AC is about 800 rupees. You get sheets, pillow and blankets in 3AC but not in sleeper so bring something to keep warm with if you take this option. There is no food service on the train but sometimes you can buy from local entrepreneurs selling all sorts of fried foods and chai on the train. So bring some food and water and toilet paper for the toilets. Station stops are usually 5 minutes only except for Jaipur and Jodhpur . Jodhpur is often a couple of hours as the train switches cars, but you will not notice this as you will probably be asleep at 3 to 5 am.

Let me know which class you will be traveling on so I can try to wait in the right place for you.

It's Christmas almost all over the world

December 25 is an official holiday because in spite of India being dominated by Hinduism, a large chunk of the population is Christians, larger than entire Philippine population even.

I find some commercial establishments gearing up for Christmas, putting up trimmings in their stores, a life-size dancing Santa Claus doll at one Archie's branch, snowflakes made of polystyrene decorating the glass door of my favorite coffee shop. During lunch today I saw an emaciated Indian wearing Santa costume walk by, made me think even Santa Claus didn't escape the economic depression. Other than that, there's not much raving about Christmas I can observe here. No Christmas trees, no carols, no star-shaped lanterns, no last-minute shopping for gifts, no parties, no queso-de-bola (edam), no chestnuts roasting in an open fire, no Adelina's ham which I am craving for as I write this.

I am not a big fan of Christmas. If not for tradition and it being a time of the year when my family makes sure we get together and exchanging gifts with them and friends is most fun, I would consider it like any other official holiday, just like the way it is being considered here in Delhi. And for this reason that I should be feeling at ease. But there is something about being away from my family and friends that makes me miss Christmas now and actually wish I could celebrate it somehow.

I miss home and I miss my family on this day, in a few hours it will be Christmas, in a fewer hours, it will be Christmas in the Philippines and my family will partake of traditional Noche Buena (Christmas Eve dinner)and open presents. Two of us won't be there, I and my dad who passed away just two months ago.

I have not firmed up any plan for tomorrow, Mike is Jewish and does not traditionally celebrate Christmas, we have two American guests who also do no celebrate Christmas, i am atheist.. I am thinking now, it is not really about Christmas, it's about being in another place and culture on a day that is special to my culture, missing a tradition I have grown up with that is making me start to cry....

And just about when the first tear drop is about to fall, a colleague comes to my cabin, gives me samosa and chai. I get up from my seat and go around to ask to what do i owe the pleasure of unexpectedly getting samosa and chai, one colleague said the Admin officer ordered it distributed to everyone.... he doesn't know why, but i'm guessing it's because it's Christmas. :-)

Dance with Umesh

< World Disability Day Celebration

When: 4 December 2010

Where: Dili Haat Pitampura New Delhi

The event didn’t draw as much crowd as we wanted. Primarily because (I think) the venue is off course of many commuters and is not yet as popular as the other Dili Haat. Secondarily, the majority of Indian society is still apathetic to issue of disability. If the information I got was reliable there was a paid ad that came out in a major daily to invite the public to join the disabled people in commemorating World Disability Day. But only those who are already aware of the issue and/or families with at least one disabled member came.

The National Trust (NT) and ARUNIM staff, together with unnamed volunteers, put up banners and drawings and pictures about disability that transformed Dili Haat into an effervescent and festive place. They were meant to raise awareness and knowledge of the wider public about disability in India, unfortunately aside from the already ‘convinced’, there was le­ss than 20 shops open with occasional or accidental shoppers and young lovers in no-longer-odd-these-days public display of affection.

Later that day was a program at the outdoor amphitheater, the celebration would be graced by the State Minister Shri Napoleon, expected to arrive at 5 pm. Let me just click the fast forward button to when the minister arrived. He was impressed with the displays of information and campaign materials but was dismayed to see a small crowd, less than 30 by the time he arrived (most of the PWDs have left by 5 pm). It was disappointing, but looking at it in a positive way I think the Minister will work harder to help the disability movement to get more attention, priority and support from government and public. With two disabled sons, he assured the crowd that the disabled people could always count on his support. In solidarity with the occasion, he rendered a Tamil song.

And now back to the scene before he came. While the small crowd waited, Indian and American music were played on very loud speakers. People with intellectual developmental disabilities went on stage and danced, or moved to the beat of “All is Well” and “We will Rock you”. It was charming to see autistic children, teenagers with mental retardation, adults with multiple disability along with their parents or caregivers shaking their bodies, stamping their feet, swaying their hands, bobbing their heads; often off beat but they were dancing just the same.

The thrill was contagious, not long after, everyone was going up the stage including the chairs of NT and ARUNIM. Mike moved his body in spite of the beat and was having fun. I, with confessed two left feet and lacking rhythm, was compelled to go up on the stage, summoned the intrepid spirit of the VSO volunteer in me and did try to shake my body. Just 2 minutes up on the stage and my nerve weakened, subdued by debilitating inhibitions that only ‘normal’ people could have

Among the audience were young male adults with crutches or on wheelchairs huddled with one another as they marveled at those on the stage. I could understand that dancing wasn’t for them. I presumed they were proud enough to see one of their wheelchair-bound pals on the stage emceeing the program, and perhaps occasionally mentioned their names.

Towards the evening the crowd thinned even more, the one-day party animals have left, the Minister had sung and bade goodbye. The loud music came back on, only there was no one left to dance. Or so I thought. These young male adults with the aid of their crutches clambered up the stage and displayed their Bollywood dancing prowess. One guy, asked me to dance with him; he, Umesh, who could not even get up and needed my help so he could raise his wheelchair on the platform. I shook my head almost fiercely and hollered, my voice competing with the loud music, “No, no, no. I can’t dance. I have two left feet,” with my thumbs pointing down at my legs.

He laughed at me and pointed to his legs. I may have two left feet but both are functional, while he’s got two disobedient and lazy legs. He offered his hands for me to grab and said, “Just dance, just dance, come, come”. With cheering from his friends and from Mike, I took his hand and he escorted me to the center stage. He caused all his able body parts to move with the music. He raised his arms sideward, palms down and pushed his shoulder left, right, left, right. He wriggled his neck front, back, front, back. I copied all his body movements and soon I thought I was really dancing. He was singing and smiling at me, and every time I felt like giving up he would exaggerate his moves to encourage me to go on. And I did go on.

When the music died, he thanked me. But it was I who needed to thank him for I did something that I had always thought I couldn’t do even with my full mental faculty and physical capacity. Yet, here was this man, here were the men and women, whose physical or cerebral conditions limited their ability to perform things ‘normal’ people could do , who did not allow their disabilities to impede them from and have the courage to do things only ‘normal’ people can do and enjoy, even if they had to do it differently.

NT promotes inclusion of disabled people in all aspects of society, with focus not on their disabilities but on “discoverabilities”. At the end of the day, the disabled people also helped me discover my abilities.

a different kind of diya for diwali

Diwali is a five-day festival for Hindus, Jains and Sikhs, and each has their own story to tell how it began. But since my experience was limited I can only speak of the Hindu version.

Diwali is the time of the year when Hindus light diyas (clay lamps) and firecrackers. It's a tradition that was carried on from the day the mythical Lord Rama returned to Kosala kingdom, along with wife Sita and brother Lakshmani, after 14 years of banishment and having successfully defeated the demon-king Ravana. The people of Ayodha, the capital of Kosala, welcomed the trio with joyous celebration, they illuminated the kingdom with diyas and also burst firecrackers.

Diwali does not happen same time each year, the date is calculated according to the moon. This year it fell on November 5, the moon was not visible in the sky. That night we (Michael, fellow volunteer, and his visiting American friends) joined our landlord's family in their commemoration. After the traditional puja, rangolis, kumkum, incense, lighting of candles and all we went to another building the family owns, located a few blocks away. Amidst the explosions, we entered alleys to go to the building, skillfully evaded lit firecrackers and reached there with all our limbs still intact.

It wasn't just the firecrackers we tried to elude, in spite of diyas in every house we passed the streets were dark. We had to tread carefully, almost as if we were watching out for landmines. The landlord's daughter warned us about accidentally stepping on diyas laid on the streets. These are supposedly cursed diyas; people who believe in black magic and who have family members who have been sick, or been into series of unfortunate events go out on a moonless night to plant this trap. The belief is that the diya is placed there with an intent to pass on the illness or the misfortunes to any one who steps on it. Makes sense to me that they do this when the moon is out. Those people lit the diyas, the flame would eventually die but the curse remains. With the Diwali's raucous celebration you could easily ignore the ground you are walking on.

Along the way, we did pass by a 2 women boldly lighting a diya in the middle of the street. At the time, I thought it was very devout of them to spread whatever health and prosperity the diyas bring. Strange that people knew what evil it could bring to them but no one stopped the women.


Photos from top to bottom: 1) diyas, 2) rangoli, 3) landlord's family preparing for the puja, 4) landlord's daughter applying kumkum on mike's forehead, 5) fireworks, 6) cursed diyas. (Photos by Mike and Len)

ruminating in delhi

(I’ve moved to Delhi last week of October and will be here for 9 months or so for my new assignment under disability programme area)

A few meters away, across the street from where I live, right behind the bus stand, there’s a fenced lot where a group of migrant/homeless people live along with a number of cows; big and small, young and old, people and cows. The fence is made of hurricane wire that from where I stood this morning I didn’t have to crane my neck to see the tents where their meager belongings are stashed, and watch them as they did their morning rituals. There was a mother sitting on the bare ground, her legs outstretched, a naked baby on her lap and right beside her was a steel bucket. She was bathing her baby not only in full view of passersby but in what to me was a chilly morning. Standing around her were 3 or 4 women wrapping their saris around their waists. The men were gathered in a stall with canvas roof, they seemed engaged in animated discussion while smoking bidis (leaf-rolled cigarette made of coarse,uncured tobacco). It was the start of their day. I didn’t look long enough. If I did, perhaps I would see makeshift stoves and even find out what they’d have for breakfast other than the stares from the commuters as they waited for the bus.

Yes, I could ogle and be awed by their courage to flee their native places and try to survive, or be disheartened by the sight of their homelessness, of their lack of privacy as they do their own thing. I wondered, it may have been their choice to make that piece of land their temporary home in order to earn a living, but was it also a choice to become a showcase of poverty? They were fully aware of the eyes gazing at them; the wide smiles on the faces of the women as they gazed back impressed me that they took pleasure in being a menagerie. But it is what they really wanted? Or they just accepted their predicament? Deprivation of privacy, the price they paid for a survival.

As the women covered themselves with sari I felt like I was stripping them of their dignity if I took a minute longer to stare at them. I find it dreadful enough that they don’t have proper shelters where they can feel secure and protected. It is more appalling for me that these women cannot even have their privacy. Homelessness is no longer a phenomenon in New Delhi, I see them here everyday. I cannot do anything about it. The least I could do is not to deprive them of their personal space. I looked away, but I didn’t know if looking away meant indifference to their plight.

"sharing skills, changing lives"

(another post i was not able to publish earlier, was written some time in January 2010. i have now joined another organization, but i am carrying with me fond memories of the former organization)

I came to India with passion and commitment seven months ago (July 2010). Two months in my placement as M&E Advisor and I could feel the passion slowly petering out and started to think that the only life changing here was mine. Why not? For two months all I did in my organization was to read documents and harass people with my incessant questioning to serve my selfish purpose of understanding the organization, their system and ways of working. That was not easy. Back in my country I didn’t like drawing attention to myself but here, with people always on the go I had to watch out for perfect timing to grab attention and be attended to. I constantly observed people and anyone who made a mistake of looking away from their computer monitor would be interrogated by me regarding their projects.

So okay, I did manage to do a few things other than read and talk which gave me an illusion that I was useful to my organization, that all the hard work of making people sat down with me and told me what they thought I could do for the organization paid off. I was happy to be asked to make a presentation about management information system (MIS), although the most I could actually do was the Powerpoint slides and didn’t get to present it myself. One or two people here came to learn of mind mapping technique which I used when I presented my proposed plan on how to accomplish my placement objectives.

When I had meetings with group of people it was not easy to keep them still and focused, even if I incarcerated them in conference room. Next thing I knew I was conducting meetings on exact spots where I bumped into them, within earshot of everybody. It actually served my purpose because those I peppered with question at most time needed to consult others as well to provide me answers.

My preliminary review took place exactly four months and a day after I joined my organization. Before that I had to fill up a review form, some kind of self-assessment. I was lackadaisical answering the questionnaire. I could not feel that I have done anything at all. One question I remember was “What personal lessons have you learnt?’. What could be the best answer? “I learned that there’s so much more to learn”, but I decided it was too self-serving and too obvious that I didn’t learn anything. But I have mentioned early on that my life is being changed by this volunteer work and certainly I, must have gained something from this experience. The best I could come up with was: I learned that people here can accept me by just being me. I don’t need to try to be an Indian, it’s more about being true to one’s self and being sincere; be humble to admit that I don’t know many things; that it’s okay to ask. I also learned to be assertive without being pushy.

I was just so glad that there was no question on what skills have I shared so far or I would have just packed my things (made sure the friendly pressure cooker is tucked in my suitcase) and voluntarily deported myself back to Manila.

Came the actual review day. The people I worked closely with in the past months were all seated around an oval glass table in the conference room (and yes, their number dwindled at every tick of the clock). My line manager began with, ”she’s on the right track...” and then enumerated the tasks I did based on the (no) progress report that I submitted to him. If the rest of those who were present had read my report I reckoned the review would be drab, unless there was a plan to drop a bomb later and say having me as volunteer was a futile exercise and a waste of resources.

I waited and waited but did not hear any explosive remark that would crush me into pieces out of debasement. Each of them shared about their encounters with me, and humbled as I already was, I was even more humbled by what they said during the review. While I counted my concrete output (which was minimal at the time) they took stock of my ways of working that influenced theirs. The rest of the review made me dizzy with modest euphoria and felt my passion drawing back to life.

“She asks questions that make us think and look at the organization in a holistic manner.” I didn’t know that my snooping actually had positive effect on them. One of my goals in my placement is for them to look beyond their projects and see the bigger picture. I felt that because they are so bent on accomplishing each of their tasks they become project-focused and tend to forget their higher purpose.

I learned to KISS (keep it short and simple) whenever I talked to the people in my organization because everyone seemed to be occupied that there is a shortage of attention span. When they mentioned that “She listens…” what immediately came to mind was that listening is a least-developed skill here but greatly appreciated when someone can actually stop and listen when they are saying something.

“She advises..” I kinda like the idea that I am constantly referred to as the advisor because it gives them the power to decide on matters and therefore have a sense of ownership of whatever process we are going through.

“She interacts with everyone..” I talked to everyone, including the watchman who only comes to work every afternoon and leaves in the morning (and whose name only few people are aware of). Everyday, I patted someone’s shoulder or asked how they felt in a particular day. In a hierarchical organization and a state where the caste system is still strongly practiced I suppose this is a big deal to them, albeit any manifestation of caste difference is absent in my organization.

Throughout the four months prior to my preliminary review I constantly complained to myself that my time and their resources are being wasted because I kept track of concrete outputs. It never occurred to me that when they said I made a ‘good start’ they were referring to what they felt about my being in the organization.

My role here is to develop an M&E system that will help determine how their various projects are contributing to the attainment of their goals, and veer away from donor-driven monitoring and evaluation. My best bet is that when I leave next year, they will have the system that they want and use it for another one or two years. But because of pressure from many donor agencies and other factors beyond the purview of my assignment they will likely revert to the old system. Yet I am pretty much assured that even after I am gone they will retain some values and attitudes that they have learned, not from our planned activities but from our daily encounters. As for me, I am learning to stretch my patience, appreciate more cultural differences and be comfortable with slow but steady progress. I also learned how to hand-wash clothes properly.

A day before I wrote this I had a meeting with 6 of my colleagues, some of them tried to talk at the same time but no one left before the two-hour meeting was officially adjourned. :-)

Breaking language barrier

written some time in December 2009 and came out in Volunteers' newsletter in India

Half-heartedly I set off to Kerala one November evening. Never mind if it’s one state many volunteers want to visit, and in the cultural capital, Thrisur, at that. I’ve just been to another state a week ago to visit a state level network (SLN) of people living with HIV (PLHIVs) and observed their programs. Travelling again so soon, on a night train, to observe activities of yet another SLN was the last thing I wanted to do. One, despite being in 3AC coach I spend most of the night just tossing and turning in my bunk. Two, the programs in every state and district are similar in nature. Three, the activities that I observed were in local languages. But the people in INP+ (the NGO where I’m placed as volunteer) guaranteed that I was not going to be a mere observer this time but would conduct orientation to district level network (DLN), as part of the leadership and management workshop. So off alone I went.

The train arrived in Thrisur railway station at 4:45 the following morning. Tired and half-asleep I got on a rickshaw, 5 minutes later I was looking at the façade of the shabby Elite Hotel. The equally tired and half-asleep front-desk officer roomed me in with someone named Rada I assumed was a participant. I knew immediately that there was a mistake; I was told beforehand I would share a room, but with the resource person from INP+. I decided not to protest and just settle it later. All I wanted was to lay my weary body in bed and take the longest nap possible before the session started at 9:30 that same morning.

My roomie was a Malayalee woman, about 50 years old, and spoke only Malayalam. She struck a conversation with me, cogitated who walked in and interrupted her sleep. By this time I was already cranky as I had repeatedly said “INP+” to assure her I came from a kindred organization. I motioned her to go to sleep, that I wanted to sleep too but she just went on. Of the many words she uttered I could only understand two. Did I speak Hindi? “No Hindi, only English”. I suspected that because of my physical features, I was mistaken again for a Northeast Indian and therefore should be able to speak little Hindi at least. Then she asked “Positive?” I answered in the negative which prompted her to talk more. I wondered if it would have assuaged her doubts if I said I was positive with HIV like her.

Finally, at almost 6 am, she spared me quiet time. I instantly drifted off to slumber only to be roused by knocks at the door at little past 7 am. Rada was up, had taken a shower and was putting on her sari, but still could not speak English. She beckoned me to get up and have breakfast.

Breakfast was served at the conference hall. I walked into a roomful of PLHIVs. Everyone looked at me with perplexed faces. I introduced myself as someone from INP+ but that didn’t take away the bafflement. I was famished but coyness preceded my desire to partake of the morning meal so I stepped outside and waited for Reshana, the coordinator. Finally she arrived and I was able to take my repast. Though I positioned myself in the farthest nook I could feel occasional glances towards my direction.

My task that day was to orient the DLNs on computerized management information system (CMIS). I was briefed again who were the participants. They are new board members. All of them have the virus. Some of them have low levels of education, others have reached 10^th standard plus one (finished high school and one year in college). Most of them do not speak English. Majority is computer illiterate. No computers in DLN offices. I knew some of these facts beforehand but Reshana qualified ‘new’ which meant they didn’t know anything about their roles and certainly not know what is MIS at all.

I prepared a technical presentation; with this kind of participants there was no way they could understand what I was to talk about, much less appreciate. I was slated to present in the morning but requested Reshana to reschedule me later in the day as I had to revise my presentation to fit their need. It took two cups of coffee.

The workshop started an hour late. I had the opportunity to be introduced as a volunteer in INP+, not Indian, not positive, to about 30 men and women with HIV, of various ages, the youngest present being 5 years old.

I realized I wasn’t wearing my wristwatch. Rada had the key to our room. I approached her during tea break, talked and motioned that I needed it. There must be another meaning in Kerala when you make a semi-fist with index finger and thumb extended a little and act like unlocking a door, for it took her a minute and interpretations from the other PLHIVs to understand what I was telling her. After the brief charade, I got the key and then my watch. I decided to just keep the key in my pocket.

I went back to Rada and told her the key was in my pocket if she needed it. Again, she could not understand. So I pointed to the key and asked what they call it in Malayalam – takol. I told her it would be in my pocket fingering the back pocket of my jeans, which she said is the keshayil. Glad to make progress, I told her, ‘The takol is in my keshayil.”

The other PLHIVs, by this time no longer puzzled who this stranger was, watched us with amusement and took notice of my earnestness to learn their language to be able to communicate. Joseph, a SLN officer who could speak English well, taught me to complete the sentence in Malayalam, but insisted that I also taught them Filipino. So I wrote it on the board and that broke the ice.

The key is in my pocket.

Takol enti keshayil annu. (Malayalam)

Ang susi ay nasa aking bulsa.

When I did my presentation, Reshana acted as my interpreter. I deliberately shortened and simplified my sentences so she would not be lost in her translation. I was lost in hers though. I sensed she told them more than I did, but it was alright. My apprehension was that they would not get the one joke I said to keep them awake. Luckily, they did after the translation. Call that delayed gratification.

After my presentation the PLHIVs were more at ease with me and I with them. They spent most of their breaks gathering around me teaching me Malayalam and me teaching them English. I could absorb only so much that I requested they taught me just ten words a day. The language lesson was ended with Rada cupping my face between her hands and said “Ninte mukham sundaram aanu.” It was later translated to English for me, “Your face is beautiful” Another delayed gratification. J

to add to the volunteers' visa saga

I am not the first volunteer in India to write about experience with FRRO. FRRO is Foreigners’ Registration Regional Office where as the name implies, foreigners register. Any alien who intends to stay in India for more than 180 days has to go to FRRO and be registered as a temporary resident. That is aside from police registration that has to be accomplished within 14 days upon arrival. And then if you need visa extension you also go to FRRO.

One of the challenges both VSO India and the volunteers face here is the visa extension, and VSOI actually encourages volunteers to write and talk about what it’s like getting our visas extended. One volunteer made 17 visits to FRRO before she was granted extension and no one has broken her record so far. In my case, I attempted 4 times before I was able to actually sit down and submit my documents. First, I went to the wrong offices. Second time, I went to the right office but was not allowed to get in because FRRO Chennai does not process extension for XV type of visa. Third attempt, I went at 2 pm only to be told they accept applications between 9 am and 12 noon, but at least they already gave me a list of the documents that I needed to submit. On my fourth trip to FRRO I came with complete documents and was granted entry.

First stop was the Person of Indian Origin (PIO and no, I am not a person of Indian origin) office. In the PIO office there were chairs arranged in rows, I was instructed to sit next to the last person in the last occupied row. Each time a foreigner gets his/her turn we move one seat closer to the PIO. Several seats later and I was standing in front of the PIO stating my case, documents scrutinized , I was then given an application form I had to fill in and submit together with letters expressing intention to register as foreigner and apply for visa extension, letters from VSO and my organization 1) certifying I am indeed a volunteer, 2)I am not receiving salary, 3)requesting that I be granted visa extension, 4) be registered as foreigner; a letter from my landlord as proof of residence, lease contract entered into between my landlord and my organization, photocopies of my 1)passport 2) page that shows my arrival and 2 passport photos (with blue background, like this shade of blue. All documents have to be submitted in duplicate. Next stop was the waiting room where like in the PIO office there is a seating arrangement. In the waiting room are divans. The last person to come in had to occupy the seat farthest from the door. Each time a foreigner was called in for her or his turn we moved one seat closer to the door. I brought a book with me but I couldn’t even finish 2 pages before I needed to get up and sit down again. Less than 15 minutes and I was already in the office of the immigration officer, third stop.

The immigration officer happened to have the same name as one of our past presidents, but was quick to deny that he is a dictator like his namesake. But I didn’t know that till late, that his name is Mr. Marcos and he’s not a dictator.

A week before that I just finished “Being Indian” by Pavan K. Varma where I read that Hindus (he referred to Indians in general as Hindus in his book) have penchant for brandishing their power. When Mr. Marcos interviewed me, I embellished all my sentences with “Sir” and “Yes, sir” and complimented the state of Tamil Nadu for the good work they are doing about HIV. That won me a potential one year visa extension.

On half a sheet of bond paper he scribbled something and handed it to me. It was my Intimation B form. That one-half sheet of bond paper that doesn’t even have the seal of India is the second most important document in my possession, next to my passport, while my papers are in the Ministry of Home Affairs office in New Delhi. The intimation B is my proof that even if my passport shows an expired visa, I am still a legal alien in India. I thanked Mr. Marcos profusely because it meant I did not have to go back to FRRO after 6 months and try to get another extension, regardless if I have been impressed by their efficiency which I heard is absent in FRROs in other states.

Last stop was an office with 4 glass windows separating the employees from applicants. This time, I could choose any seat I wanted because we were handed a waiting number. When my number was called, I went to window 4, handed all my documents and was told to return after a week. A week later I was back, handed the Intimation B to the woman at window 4, she looked at it handed it back to me and told me to wait for their letter they would send by post. That’s it. No fuss, no payments made. Just sit down, relax and wait, possibly three months. I’m a legal alien and can travel anywhere in India.

Getting an exit permit

In many cases, where a visa extension is under consideration chances are the foreigner won’t get it till the time that the consideration has expired and needs further extension. In such instance, one has to apply again 2 1/2 months before the expiration of Intimation B. A foreigner is required to get an exit permit if he or she wants to leave the country but has a pending application for visa extension. (Also to delist from police registry). Without the permit s/he can’t leave the country.

So now it’s my time to temporarily leave the country on a compassionate ground. My dad will undergo coronary bypass surgery and I want to be there for him. Top priority is to get an exit permit and apply for return visa. I forgot to mention earlier that I learned one lesson while processing my visa extension. That India has a reliable website http://www.immigrationindia.nic.in that provides tremendous information including what documents are required for visa extension. Unfortunately, it doesn’t say anywhere in the site what documents are needed to get exit permit. I found the FRRO Chennai office and called them to inquire. I didn’t get the information I needed and was instead told to go to FRRO and there it would be explained to me.

Let me digress for a moment. You see, Chennai is a huge city with sharks moonlighting as auto-rickshaw drivers. Round trip to and from FRRO is staggering Rs.300 for a mere 10 kilometers, that’s because i know the way and I have learned to negotiate well. At the gates of FRRO are more sharks, er auto drivers, on the lookout for foreigners leaving the premises. Regardless if I projected a mien of nonchalance they would approach me and offer their autos. Hope springs eternal in me so I tell them where I want to go and they immediately say, “come, 300”. I express incredulity if not defiance, “okay, 250”. If I try I could make it go down to 150, but in my one year in Chennai I’ve learned that getting them to agree to my price comes with hitches. They can do either one or all of the following, 1) stop at a petrol station to gas up, 2) drive recklessly and steal glances thru the side mirror to check how fast you lose the color in your face, 3) tsk-tsk and complain about the traffic, 4)pretend that they don’t know the way and ask around for direction, and 5) 50 meters to your destination they whine about the long distance.

As I was saying, that trip to FRRO just to get list of required documents is already taxing, financially and emotionally. I went anyway. A man at the PIO office pored over my documents and asked for my registration paper which I didn’t have because my original visa was only for 180 days. Therefore, I am not a registered alien. I needed to apply for exit permit and return visa, so he said if I came back the next day with confirmed ticket I would be issued both. The next day, I had my confirmed round trip ticket, but there’s a new person in charge and she asked for 3 more documents. She said I am not eligible for return visa because I am not registered and my papers are in New Delhi. As I intend to return after a month I have to get fresh visa in the Philippines.

I returned yet another day (today) with docs, she checked docs, signed and instructed me to go to counter 5. There is no counter 5!!! But there was a man standing right behind me where I was made to wait, he is the Counter 5. Examined my docs, affixed his signature, told me to go back to PIO office. Another look at my papers then was told to pay Rs5580 ($120)by demand draft.

This took much longer than all the previous procedures combined, half an hour at Axis Bank, 2 motorists provided entertainment, a 40 something guy (Man1) was parking his car but was taking a bit long, an old man(Man2) on another car behind his was impatient and yelled at him. Man1 got out of his car and yelled back, exchange of tirades in Tamil. Another man (Man3) joined in the ruckus, Man1 finally parked his car, Man2 directed his rage to Man 3.

From Axis Bank, went back to PIO office, woman issued a receipt, proceeded to Counter 1, papers examined and was handed another half-sheet of bond paper. “Read,” said the woman in Counter 1. It was Intimation A, saying I applied for exit permit and should return the following day between 2 and 3 pm. So tomorrow I go back to FRRO with high hopes that I will be issued exit permit.

On HIV Testing

On June 9 and 10 this year, Francesca held a consultation with members of the INP+ networks for developing a customized advocacy tool kit. One of the essential contents of the tool kit would be case studies of how the networks in varying levels used advocacy as a strategy to improve lives of people living with HIV (PLHIV).

The PLHIVs present in the consultation who are also the leaders of their networks, related stories after stories of the problems many of them confront. One that struck me was the story about two different people from two different states about their HIV tests. And when I said tests, I meant tests for each.

One network officer from Delhi, Hari, narrated the story of Murali (not the real name). Murali has a “concordant family”. In health sector parlance it means he and his wife have HIV, their child has the virus too, apparently transmitted at birth. One day, he got very sick from what seemingly was an opportunistic infection (OI). He went to a hospital to be treated, but before that he was first tested for HIV. A surprising revelation, the test said he was negative of HIV.

Due to dearth of details, I am making up this paragraph. Assuming Murali belongs to the lower economic stratum of the society - a safe assumption because statistics say majority of the PLHIVs is from low income groups – him being sick but HIV negative would not be able to avail of treatments reserved for people with HIV, unless maybe he has a Below Poverty Line (BPL) card that would allow him to avail of government schemes reserved for BPL card holders. But he was found not to have HIV, so that’s still good news. I can imagine his relief. But wouldn’t you now wonder how the wife and the child had become positive?

Anyway, Hari went on to say that Murali had another test in a different testing center after a few months. There he was found positive again. If I were in his wife’s place, I would be relieved; at least any doubts cast upon me when he tested negative would be erased. But would Murali be happy too? Probably not. So after some window period elapsed he went yet again for another test, and the result showed…. make a guess.. no traces of HIV was found in his body. Hari said, “so far he is negative”.

In Tamil Nadu, Sarovanan (not the real name again) tested positive with HIV. Like many of us Sarovanan wanted to get second opinion, or third, or fourth when ill. Second test showed Sarovanan negative, third showed him positive, the fourth said negative. Given the odds if he took a fifth test it would show he is positive. But if he wants to even the score would go for another round and may end up negative. Sarovanan has probably had enough blood extracted from his veins because of these tests that he just decided to approach a person with HIV and asked, “Am I positive or not?” But as Indians are wont to say in helpless situation, and the guy Sarovanan approached did, “what to do? I am not a doctor.”

I wouldn’t blame Murali and Sarovanan if their moods would start to swing extremely back and forth from depression to jubilation. In a country where discrimination (still) exists on the basis of caste and with an HIV stigma to complicate the matter I wouldn’t be surprised if their mood swings develop into bipolar disorder. Fortunately, they still haven’t lost their wits.

It’s alarming enough to know that the number of cases of HIV in India is still uncertain. According to reports half of this has already been identified, but about 15% of the identified cases may be duplication, because many Indians go for several tests in different testing centers under different names. (According to a National AIDS Control Organization (NACO) representative who gave a presentation during VSOI’s HIV workshop in Faridabad in December 2009 when asked about possible duplication of data). It is also alarming that the people who took guts to get tested could test positive and negative alternately. Murali and Sarovanan are just two cases, what is it when a government has to worry about 2.3 million people estimated to have HIV? It may not be enough to cast even an iota of doubt on the reliability of testing centers, but wouldn’t you want to pause and wonder how this could happen?

I took HIV test twice in the Philippines. During the first time in 2005, I agonized while waiting for the test result. (don’t ask why if you want this one short, just read). I was told then of the procedure, that if at first analysis it would show that my anti-bodies were reactive to HIV they would do another test to confirm the result. The second test result would be final. Back then test results could not be known till two weeks later. Well, I tested negative and everyone who knew congratulated me as if I won a lottery. Anyway, that’s how the test is done, as far as I know. The second time I had an HIV test was in 2009 to fulfill requirement for visa application to India. I was 100% sure that the result would be negative. If it showed otherwise I was prepared to demand another. But while waiting for the result I thought of possible reasons how the result could be otherwise. I thought wildly about my dentist’s syringe and my surgeon’s scalpel, though I was confident I could not possibly contract HIV with sterilized medical and dental tools.

My point is, taking an HIV test alone could be tormenting, even more when done repeatedly and getting different result each time. It takes gumption to do it. This is HIV we are talking about, not only could it be a fatal virus, albeit not instant, this could also be a psychologically and socially debilitating virus that could alter the course of one’s life. Without proper and adequate support someone with HIV can be killed faster by humiliation, remorse, guilt, grief, social exclusion, discrimination. Times of India reported in late July that HIV stigma and discrimination still persists in India.

I also heard stories about quack doctors prescribing meds to PLHIV, but that’s a different story. As I said, Murali and Sarovanan’s may only be two isolated cases, but isn’t it worth checking by NACO? This made me ask if the government of India regulates HIV testing. This deserves attention if those working on HIV issues could gather ample evidences that this is happening in a larger extent. The estimated HIV population in India is overwhelming and by now I am no longer surprised. True, there is so much more issues the government, thru NACO, are concerned with as regards to HIV. But I believe a lot could change, even policies could change, if the first step to knowing the prevalence of HIV is addressed. It is one thing to provide crores of rupees for care and support of identified PLHIVs, it is another to ensure the reliability of procedure for identification.

The effort to prevent further spread of HIV starts by encouraging people with high risks to get tested, NACO should guarantee that testing centers are legitimate and dependable.

the story of my 48-hour train journey

I’ve forgotten all the fun I had co-facilitating the Capacity Building workshop with Michael in Ranchi, Jarkhand and Patna, Bihar and all the nice people I met there when I boarded the train in Patna to Chennai. From the onset, all indications showed it was going to be a horrible journey. First, I had RAC10 (reserve against cancellation) ticket which meant I could get on the train but not have a berth of my own. Well, I would get a berth but I would have to share it with another commuter. Unless 10 people backed out, I would be sitting up all the way to Chennai, over 1500 kilometers, 42-hour journey. I was already on panic mode 2 hours before when I learned about the status of my ticket. Half an hour before my ETD, I almost begged Michael to just let me get on his train to Delhi and proceed to Chennai from there.

A guy from JM Institute (JMI), the organizer of the workshop in Patna, assured me he would talk to the TT (the Train Inspector, please don’t ask how it became to be initialed TT) to inquire about how long I would be on RAC. At the railway station, Khan approached the TT who was either blind or deaf as he was just oblivious to Khan and me standing right in front of him talking. Suffice it to say that we didn’t get any assurance, not even a recognition that we existed. I no longer feigned any weakness and just started to shed tears out of frustration. What was I to do?

The train arrived on time at Platform 2, Michael, Khan and another guy from JMI helped me settle down on the berth assigned to me, second class with air conditioner, coach A1 seat no. 39. The heat inside the coach was ominous of my impending tribulation. Both fan and a/c were off, commuters edged their ways in the narrow aisle. Someone said fans are usually switched on at least 5 minutes before departure. It was 19:45 PM, the ETD was 19:55. Most of the passengers in A1 got out of the train for some air. The train left at 20:05.

July 22, 2010 - the ordeal begins.
20:05. as I said the train departed the Patna Junction station, passengers in my coach used their hands or whatever piece of paper they could get hold of to fan themselves.

20:15, the fan went on, to our relief. The train made an unscheduled stop.

20:20. Fan went off, train moved, lights flickered, then total darkness.

20:25. Train stopped for 5 minutes, still without a/c nor fan, lights back on.

21:00. Fan went back on, train gained speed. It ran at a steady speed, but not fast enough.

21:20 the fan was out again.

21:45. Fan on

22:10. Fan off. I couldn’t hide my consternation anymore and started cussing. I asked the college students in my coach if we could at least lodge a complaint. Said they already did, but I had no idea how when the TT hasn’t even shown up yet. Asked about the railways management’s response, they looked at one another, smiled and shrugged their shoulders.

22:20. Train stopped at Buxar station, no fan, no breeze from outside. A Tamilian woman working with AID India was visibly annoyed (who could blame her?) and grumbled. ‘they should change the bogey even before we left Patna”. One of the college guys came to tell us the management wanted a proof that complaint was filed before they did anything. What the f…. He added though that ‘problem will be solved’ at Mughal Sarai station, 1 ½ hours from where we currently were.

22:50. Train started to move again still without a fan, dragging all 20 coaches to the next station. I went to the vestibule to get some air. I wanted to say ‘fresh air’ but the stench from the commodes dominated the air. The Tamilian woman came and told her companions who were also at the vestibule, two of them white people, that they could temporarily occupy empty berths in the next coach where the AC was working.

23:05. Fan was back on. Notice how I barely mention a/c now, I’ve dumped any hope of AC by this time.

23:10. The TT came to inspect our tickets. It was my chance to ask about getting my own berth, and be noticed. A woman named Sumitra was to share the berth with me but there was no sign of her so far. I thought I could get a confirmation that I’d have it to myself. If I had to fan myself all night, I was hoping that I could at least do it with my back rested on the bunk. “just a minute, just a minute,” the TT told me. And then he was gone before I could say another word.


23:25. Fan out as it neared a minor station, lights flickered, teasing us they’re going off anytime. The train stopped again, it seemed to me an unscheduled stop. Or maybe not, cops got out of the train.

23:32. Train left the station, fan on.

23:35. Train crew distributed pillows, bedsheets and blankets. The guy occupying the berth atop mine wanted to make sure he got a blanket. I couldn’t help commenting, “what do you need a blanket for? We’re being stewed alive here”. Regardless, i made sure I had a complete set and immediately spread the bed sheet. I marked my territory. I decided that if ever Sumitra came on board I would dissuade her, tell her to get off while she could for it was infernal on the train.

July 23, 2010 – the ordeal continues

00:30. Feeling more confident that Sumitra had already changed her mind, I dozed off in spite of the heat. I was roused from sleep when the fan went off again as train slowed down. I noticed the pattern; obviously there was not adequate electricity to power the train and the fan at the same time. I was thinking we could have fan on all night but the train won’t move, or the train moves and the manual fans get into action.

I looked out my window, from the look of the station we had reached Mughal Sarai, where ‘problem will be solved’. We were still in the state of Bihar. From my window I saw several men got on our coach with flashlights and cables. A glimmer of hope, I must say.


1:00. We were exactly where we were half an hour ago. There was no sign at all that the train was going to depart soon. The sauna, er the train still didn’t have the fans on. Most of the passengers were awake, save for a few older women who seemed impervious to the atrocious temperature inside the train.

The Tamilian woman came back to our coach, more outspoken now and carped at the ineptness of railways authorities. “All these railways people, they don’t care. Bhanerjee is not doing anything, and the railways system employs the most number of Indians.” I don’t know who is Bhanerjee, I supposed s/he is the top honcho in the Indian Railways System Authority.

Situation update, no fans, no water in the bathroom, all men were outside the train, swarming around the TTs, demanding the bogey be changed or we all stay till they get the problem fixed. Five hours on the train without any ventilation finally got Indians to rise up and didn’t just accept the often bad customer service accorded to them.

I was back in the vestibule, for want of some good news, I curiously watched the commotion just outside our coach. A red-haired Indian was being pushed and screamed at by an angry railways authority while men gathered around them. Normally, I would be wary if I witnessed a brewing clash, but being here in India for a year (1 year and 2 days to be exact) I’ve observed that Indians are not at all violent. All these pushing, shoving and shouting would dissipate in seconds and no fist would land on any person’s face.

1:11. I went back to my berth, skipping my way over cables that power charged the train generators. For a brief moment a droning sound came from the ACs only to quiet down after about 10 seconds. The AC went on and off but wasn’t cooling the bogey. The stench from the toilet filled the air, flies multiplied by the minute.

1:30. The AC was officially on but was still not cooling the coach. Everyone was still up and about, I started chatting with the Tamilian woman. She and her companions were in Bihar for 6 days, they visited remote communities where their organization provides education assistance. They had a chance to visit Bodh Gaya, site of Buddhist temple with colossal golden statue of Buddha. Michael and I didn’t have the same luck, it was 100 kilometers away from Patna; we didn’t have the luxury of time to see the touristy places of Bihar.

I was tired, sweaty, sleepy, hungry. The pantry crew didn’t serve dinner the night before.

2:54. The train finally revved up its engine and we resumed our journey. The AC failed to work.

3:29. I awoke with the train in total darkness, silence and heat. Too exhausted to even bother I forced myself back to sleep.

6:00. Chai wallas bellowed, “chai, kapi”. I wonder if they knew that we, on that coach, were wide awake through most of the night and would rather doze off than drink tea or coffee. And surprise, surprise, AC was on.

7:30. Allahabad Junction, Uttar Pradesh. We were at last out of Bihar. Got up and had a cup of coffee. AC was still working, thank goodness.

9:30. Still in Allahabad Junction, AC gone, replaced by fan that was threatening to die any minute. Rumor had it that bogey would be changed.

9:45. Police, media people and railways guys in familiar black vests huddled just in front of the coach. Miss Tamil was back to grumbling and me, to cussing. I wanted to defenestrate myself but the window was made of fiber glass and there was a fine of several hundred rupees for breaking the glass windows without a valid reason.

The authorities ultimately got hold of the complaint filed 12 hours ago and decided to do something, ‘we’ll change bogey at the next station’. This phrase was becoming like their ‘tomorrow’, it almost never comes. What’s really infuriating was that they were aware of the problem while we were still in Patna, it would have been the best place to get new coaches but instead delayed any action till people protested against the inhumane condition. Man, the people in these coaches could very well belong to the middle class and paid high price for comfort (not me, mine was paid by JMI). The passengers in the general coach I assumed were in better condition.

9:55. The train left the station sans the AC. Just fan now. Same old inoperative bogey.

10:19. Pantry crew came to take orders for lunch. If they were taking orders now it meant we would be in the same coach till at least after 1 pm, after lunch has been served and consumed. AC was working now, quite stably. Halleluyah.

12:00. Train stopped again. Arggh! It didn’t look like a major and scheduled stop, maybe they were just giving the engine a break.

12:40. Long break the engine had, the train started moving again. The AC was still working. By this time, there was no more agitation, my fellow commuters have submitted to the fact that we’d all never get to our destinations on time. I was still struggling with myself, I thought of invoking the powers of Brahma, Shiva and Vishnu.

14:00. Lunch time was over. The young man atop my berth set up his laptop on the tiny table next to my bunk. We watched Bollywood film called ‘Melenge,’ an obvious and forthright adaptation of Serendipity (John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale). It was in Hindi with occasional subtitles; the curtains in our section of the coach were pulled up so everyone could watch. It was a better treat than the Hollywood movie we watched earlier with my laptop, Turner and Hooch, an old movie that starred Tom Hanks and a brown Rottweiler (don’t trust this one, I have limited knowledge of canine breeds).

From then on, the journey was uneventful, or we were unmindful of the journey. Train still stopped almost every quarter of or half an hour, but with the AC on it was a more comfortable ride.

July 24, 2010

7:30. I decided to get up. My next-bunk neighbors have had their chai. We were already in Andhra Pradesh (AP), just one state away from Chennai, two from Bangalore. I could not hear the drones from the AC, but it was raining in AP so it was okay. I sensed enthusiasm in the people aboard the train. We were just 10 to 16 hours to our destinations, Chennai and Bangalore respectively. The crucial station was Vijayawada. If we reached there without any incident, the next leg would be smooth.

12:00. Train reached Vijawada. Whoopee! Fed up with unsavory meals on train, many got out of to buy provisions for the remaining hours on the train, popcorn, fruit salad, biscuits, ice-cold juices, bananas, ice cream. I got my chocolate ice cream bar for Rs25, while Ms. Tamil got hers for only 20. Darn, I should constantly carry a badge saying “I’m a struggling volunteer. Don’t rip me off”. I can flash it every time I have to purchase something or haggle with rickshaw drivers.

14:00. Another Bollywood movie, comedy this time. I’ve completely lost claim to my berth as there were now 3 people snugly roosted on it as they laughed heartily. It didn’t have subtitle but one of the stars is a finer version of Jude Law, so I stuck it out and finished the movie. The AC was completely out, but it was still cool inside

.18:00. I readied my baggages, only to find out that we wouldn’t reach Chennai till 8 pm. I looked at signages, I couldn’t read them. I was frustrated.

19:30. Suddenly regained my reading proficiency, we were already in Tamil Nadu, half an hour to my destination. Even my neighbors who didn’t speak English, bound for Bangalore were excited.

20:00. Train reached Central Station, there were exchanges of relief, gratitude for the fleeting yet indispensable friendship and wishes of good luck for those were to stay on board for another 6 hours.

After 48 gruelling hours, I am now thinking of my next trip, 28 hours, 2000 kilometers, Chennai to Delhi. Aside from the three major Hindu god this early I’m invoking the powers even of their avatars.