Our Case Study in Numbers

Members of research team: 4
Total number of people interviewed: 52
Days till first draft is due: 2
Hours spent working in the office yesterday: 12
Maximum page length: 35
Current page length: 47
Times I threatened to kill a co-worker: 1

Dalma

One of my good friends and fellow bloggers asked me why I don't write about food in my blog. This is a good question. Food is such a huge part of culture, and normally it is my first entry point into a country that I visit. Dumplings in Hong Kong. Pho in Vietnam. Pisco sour in Peru. My feet tend to follow where my stomach wants to go. However, since i'm living on a university campus, a few kilometers from the main action of the city, it is most convenient to just eat in the canteen.

Make no mistake, the canteen is the epitome of uninspiring food. Its shortfalls are similiar to those of most eateries that mass produce food. When you try to accommodate to a variety of tastes for the cheapest price, you get medicore results. Not terrible. Certainly edible. But pretty boring. Every day we have yellow daal (lentil soup), rice, some kind of mixed vegetable curry, a chutney and cucumber salad.

But all the while that I have been enduring the canteen, I've been trying to hatch a plan to get authentic Oriya food. I have asked people on campus where I can get it, but they mostly point me in the direction of five-star hotels (which, by the way, don't have Oriya food) because they are the most hygenic. Then I found out there is a restaurant called Kalinga Cottage. Since "Kalinga" is a former name for Orissa, I thought I'd have luck there. That thought was absolutely incorrect. The restaurant has a nice assortment of North Indian dishes. But then two friends from Bhubaneswar and my supervisor recommended a place called Dalma to have Oriya food. Apparently, dalma is a special Oriyan dish, often called the poor man's food, which mixes daal with veggies.

So tonight we went to Dalma for the first time. On the waiter's recommendation I ordered the veg thali (a plate with a small selection of a variety of dishes), as it was meant to be the most authentic. I was nearly giddy for it to arrive. The service was fast and within 10 minutes or so, the waiter placed my meal in front of me. It was yellow daal, rice, mixed vegetable curry, a chutney and cucumber salad...oh and a small helping of dalma.

That's right, I've been having Oriya food the whole time and didn't know it. The saddest part is that I think the food at the canteen is actually a bit tastier.

Bathrooms in Bhubaneswar

A Total Eclipse of the Heart

According to NASA, this morning from 5:28am to about 7:40am, the moon would cast its shadow over the sun creating an eclipse that could be seen in India, Nepal, Bangladesh, Bhutan, Myanmar and China. In some areas in India - Gujarat, Madhya Pradesh, Bihar - a total solar eclipse would be visible for six minutes and 39 seconds. But here in Orissa, we would only be able to see a partial eclipse.

We had heard that the peak of the eclipse would be from 6:26 to 6:30. So even though we had a late night last night, we set our alarms for 6am for what was billed as the longest solar eclipse that we would be able to see in our lifetimes.

After some small hiccups, including waking up the warden to unlock the gates of the nunnery and walking around in circles trying to figure out which way was east, we found the best place possible to watch the eclipse. Unfortunately,the best place possible had some buildings obstructing our view, but it wasn't a big deal. The big deal came around 6:20 when we noticed dark storm clouds coming towards us - completely eclipsing our eclipse.

More than a little disappointed, we made our way back to the hostel and climbed back into our respective beds for a few more hours of sleep.

"Once upon a time there was light in my life
But now there's only love in the dark
Nothing I can do - a total eclipse of the heart"

Bangles

I wish I could say that the New Year's Resolution I made this past January was lofty and inspiring. I wish I could say that I vowed to volunteer more or be kinder to friends and family. I wish I could say I decided to spend this year devoting my energy towards world peace or fighting to end hunger. But the truth is that my resolution for 2009 was to accessorize more. Seriously.

The good news for my silly resolution is that in India accessories rule. Earrings, nose rings, bindis, bangles, necklaces, anklets, toe rings, regular rings...you name it, Indian women wear it. Of course, there are some rules. No gold below the waist. And some things - like toe rings or anklets on both legs - may be signalling that you're married. But for the most part, everything else is fair game.

When a friend from Bhubaneswar left last week, I inherited her glass bangles. I had previously only worn the metal variety. I know this should go without saying, but the glass ones are significantly more fragile.

The First Attempt
I tried to slip on the first bracelet but it wouldn't move past my knuckles. I told my coworkers that they were too small, but they insisted that they would fit. I gave a bit more of a tug and the whole thing shattered in my hands.

The Second Attempt
Saryu told me that I just needed to be more gentle. She said that the bangles would easily fit if I positioned my hand correctly. She then demonstrated by folding her fingers into her palms in such a way that her hand shrunk to half its size. She then slid all four bangles past her knuckles and onto her wrist in 3 seconds flat.

It was then my turn. This time she would help me. She tried to inch the bangles past my knuckles. No luck. She gave the instruction to squeeze my fingers in. I did my best to imitate her incredible shrinking hand trick. She said "no, hold it like an Indian." Not surprisingly, this direction did not produce the result she was looking for. She slapped the backside of my hand. "Keep your knuckles flat. Like a girl. Hold it like a girl." Failure again. After 15 minutes of her coaxing the bangles and admonishing me for my poor hand posture, all four bangles found a place on my arms.

The Third Attempt
I got the bangles off with the help of soapy water. But then the following day, we were dressing up to go out, and I wanted to wear them again (this is how resolutions go). Focused, I greased my hands and wrist with a copious amount of body lotion, pinched my fingers together, while attempting to prevent my knuckles from jutting out, and with some manuevering got the bangles on in just a few minutes. Success. And I had thought garbha pindasana was difficult.

The Cute and the Beautiful (Photos from Koraput)

 

 

 

 

I Just Might Be Famous

After visiting the Tribal Museum in Koraput last week, I was approached by two men with video cameras. They were from a local news station and wanted to ask me about my experience of the museum. Normally, I would turn down such a request as impromptu interviews are not a part of my skill set. However, I got the distinct sense that they wouldn’t really take “no” for an answer.

I can only hope that my fumbling, wandering , incoherent responses have not been broadcast all over Koraput. Just as I can only hope that the snapshots that people take of me (either by request after a brief interaction or surreptitiously by passersby on their cell phones) have not found themselves all over the Internet.

I understand why I get so much attention in Orissa. I look different. I’m an oddity. There’s something very normal and usual about wanting to take photos of the abnormal and unusual. To be honest, it’s actually not very different from how I take pictures. I rarely click photos of streets in Orissa that look like the ones I see in the U.S. My lens is drawn to that which is different or surprising.

And this is part of the reason why I am nervous about photography and film as mediums. Perhaps my image is now being used as proof that Orissa does attract foreign tourists, which I suppose wouldn’t be a terrible thing even though it’s not particularly true. More troubling for me is that the pictures I take may be understood by others as a generalization of what India is like. This would also be misleading as my job here for the summer is to document the schools and health facilities that are struggling the most – the things that are in some ways atypical.

So what do I do? For now the best compromise I can come up with is to only post photos of the cute and the beautiful. For other pictures, you’ll have to come and visit me so I can give you the entire context behind each image. As for addressing my new found fame, the best course of action for now seems to be to double check before going out that there isn’t food wedged between my teeth or toilet paper stuck to my shoe.

For Anjali

A good friend of mine from Bhubaneswar is leaving today for a few weeks of traveling and then a return to the States. As sad as I am to see her go, I’m also excited for her future adventures in D.C. and beyond. In honor of her, I have created a top ten list of things I miss about the States and hence things that she will soon be able to enjoy.

10. 24-hour diners and all-day breakfast
9. Wearing spaghettis (tank tops) in public
8. Co-ed dance clubs
7. Toilet paper in public bathrooms
6. Roll-on deodorant
5. Fahrenheit
4. Drinking from the tap
3. Anonymity
2. Hot showers
1. Eating sushi, berries and other un-peelable and un-boilable foods

Farewell Anjali. Bhubu will miss you.

Tradition

I often travel in social circles where people have a respect and even reverence for tradition and rituals. I often hear arguments about how mankind flourished for millennia before modern medicine was invented. Or maybe more accurately, there are treatments and practices that have been passed down –tested and re-tested – for centuries that can just as effectively cure people as pills, procedures and PhDs. I have heard and seen much denigration of mainstream medicine in favor of alternative medicine. And in some cases, it seems right and necessary to question whether MDs are too quick to prescribe a drug or focus too much on treating symptoms over root problems.

However, traveling to Koraput it’s clear that tradition alone is inadequate to treat a population. Koraput has the highest infant and maternal mortality rate in Orissa – a state that has one of the highest IMR and MMR rates in India (71 out of 1000 children do not reach their first birthday; an additional 50 do not reach their fifth). Most of these deaths are entirely preventable through things like immunizations (i.e. TB and polio) or behavior change (i.e. regular hand washing to prevent communicable diseases or stopping children from playing in stagnant water to decrease incidences of malaria). One of the biggest public health pushes right now is to encourage mothers to breastfeed within an hour of giving birth. The yellowish breast milk that is produced during that time contains nutrients and antibodies that can significantly boost child survival rates. But tradition dictates that mothers refrain from feeding the child until the milk is a more whitish color, even if it takes days.

While in Koraput I talked to doctors, midwives and health workers asking them what they think is the biggest roadblock to reducing IMR and MMR. As I am researching government support mechanisms (and because everyone likes to blame the government for problems), I expected answers like insufficient supplies of medicine, delays in the receipt of funds or inadequate trainings. But time and time again, the workers mostly pointed to tradition itself as the biggest challenge to saving lives.

The Backward Classes

This past week my coworkers and I spent three days in Koraput doing fieldwork for our case study. From what I can gather, Koraput is most known for two things: being astonishingly beautiful and being one of the most “backward” places in India.

Fifty percent of Koraput’s population belongs to scheduled tribes. Scheduled tribes are aboriginal groups that the government of India has identified as having been socially and economically discriminated against and in need of social welfare assistance. An additional, 13 percent of the population belongs to scheduled castes. These are essentially people who were untouchables under the caste system and are now afforded special privileges under the constitution. On top of that, there is a small percentage of the population who have been recognized as “other backward classes.” These people may belong to smaller or hardly known tribes who also have not benefitted from India’s economic boom.

There are quite a number of cultural differences between the backward classes and mainstream Indians. To name a few: they wear different clothing and jewelery, celebrate different festivals, adhere to different belief systems and the norm is to have love marriages.

For tribal people, the main industry is agriculture. However, this has been difficult to sustain in the industrial world as they have been stripped of a lot of their land. Also historic discrimination has created a population that is ripe for revolution. Koraput in particular has been a stronghold for Naxalites, a Maoist group that is using violent means to promote change. In the last year, they have targeted government offices and uniformed officials. These safety concerns make it difficult to get qualified people to stay in the area to do development work.

The government of India has partnered with a number of external agencies to design interventions in Koraput to accelerate the delivery of services. These interventions are in sectors ranging from education, to health, to nutrition, to rural infrastructure to water and sanitation. Part of our job as researchers is to look at some of these interventions to see how they are fairing. I guess I’ll let you know what we find in August.

The Vanishing Sea

Chandipur is said to have one of the longest beaches in the world. But this is only partially true. To be precise, for 12 hours a day it has one of the longest beaches, and for the other 12 hours it has probably one of the shortest. Following the cycles of the moon, the sea recedes five kilometers each day unveiling long stretches of sand. Later, the sea returns to cover it all up again.

Apparently there are only two other beaches in the world like this: one in Norway, the other in California.

When we first visited the beach, we had to walk a kilometer from the guesthouse before the water reached knee level. But then in the evening, after dinner when we were playing cards, we had as our background music the sound of waves crashing against nearby rocks.

A Weekend Holiday

This was the plan.

My four co-workers plus a good friend of ours from Bhubaneswar were going to take a 6am train to Balasore together. Then we would split up: our friend to her family friend’s home, my coworkers and I to the beach at Chandipur to find a place to stay for the night. Several people had suggested we stay at a government-owned hotel called Panthniwas, but one of my coworkers had found on the Internet that there were many guest houses, hotels and resorts in the area. She insisted that it would be better to pick among them when we arrived for the option that was nicest and closest to the beach.

Well plans have a way of unraveling. Here’s what acutally happened.

Groggy after a three-hour early morning train journey, we exited the station not quite knowing where to find a taxi. Our friend had a car waiting for her and casually suggested that we join her for tea.

Now, quick-decision making in a group of four can be tricky, especially when an invitation is given. You usually need to exchange furtive glances to attempt to gage each person’s preference. I, however, skipped this step and impulsively announced that I would love to see an Oriya home. And with this we were locked in.

We rode 15 minutes before coming up to these large white gates. As they swung open, they revealed a bright white house standing squat and wide in a sea of green. The extensive front lawn had trees bearing jackfruit and coconut, and there were vibrantly colored plants lining the edge of a large veranda. We found out later that the husband of the family friend had a prestigious and lucrative job with the police.

Our hostess greeted us at the car and escorted us into her living room. She brought us all tall glasses of water and we took our seats on the couch. It was at this moment that a small bit of dread started forming in my stomach. I had forgotten till that second that tea = awkward small talk. The conversation started blandly as we explained where we were from and what we were doing in Orissa. Then it turned to our plans for the weekend. Our hostess asked us if we had booked at Panthniwas. When we told her we hadn’t, an expression of shock and surprise took over her face. "But what will you do if it’s booked,” she blurted out. She went on to explain it was second Saturday – a day when government offices were closed and getaway areas become packed. We explained we thought we’d try another place. To which she said: “there is no other place!” Talking out loud to herself she said, “I mean worse comes to worse you can stay here."

But then she composed herself and told us not to worry. She ushered us outside for a tour of the grounds. As we walked out we heard her well-connected husband on the phone clearly inquiring about accommodations for us in Hindi.

By the time we had seen her massive kitchen garden with vegetables ranging from okra to corn and took a look at her two cows gorging themselves on bushels of hay, a new plan had been arranged for us.

We walked in to find an elaborate breakfast spread out for us. As the couple was originally from South India the breakfast included idlis (a bread that I had previously thought I didn’t like as the canteen manages to make them taste like vegetarian chik nuggets), sambhar (a kind of curry), homemade papad (think paper-thin, large crispy crackers) and two Oriya desserts. My favorite was a version of rabdi, a pudding-like dessert made of condensed milk, sugar and honey. As we ate, we were informed that her husband had found us a place as the sole guests at Forest Guesthouse, a secluded house right on the beach. They had also booked a car to bring us there.

When we arrived at the guesthouse it was much more beautiful that we could have imagined. We were offered two high ceiling rooms with queen-sized posted beds. Attached to each room was a dressing room and a bathroom (with hot water!). The bedroom doors could open up to the front porch for a clear view of the sea. As we took our self-led tour, the caretaker was busily picking up things here and there. He apologized that he hadn’t had a chance to fully clean up from the last guests. I quipped that they probably got kicked out when he got a call from a top official about our need for a room. But then later, when we had our swimming gear on and were walking towards the water, we passed by a few people sitting by a vehicle. There were in fact the previous guests who were asked to vacate the guesthouse 30 minutes earlier.

Mind Your Head

Indians are very expressive with their heads. They have head movements to say yes. Head movements to say no. Head movements that mean probably yes. And head movements that mean most likely no. There are head movements to show that you're paying attention. And head movements to show ok, ok it's time to move on. Head movements for hello. Ones for goodbye. Ones that approve and ones that disapprove.

I've ordered items like club soda in a restaurant and got in response a friendly bobble of the head. I'd then have to wait five or ten minutes to figure out whether that meant that he was going to the fridge to get me one or I was out of luck for the day.

The best advice I have probably received since arriving was that if I want a clear answer to any question, don't look at the head.

An Entry From the Indian Slang Dictionary

get down intransitive verb : to undergo menstruation : to have one's period. Not to be confused with the American slang meaning to dance infectiously as in the 1997 Backstreet Boys song "Get Down (You're the One for Me)" ::I must go to the toilet because I got down::

Monsoon!

Last week, Bhubaneswar was a pressure cooker. The temperature was escalating every day, the sun was unforgiving and the air had become suffocating from the humidity. Going outside midday was not an option. Power outages were occurring daily. Newspapers were reporting of villagers performing special rituals that haven't been done since 1987 in order to coax the rain to come.

And then the monsoon finally arrived. When it first started pouring, people on campus cheered. Honestly, I wanted to run outside myself and get cooled by the water. It was a relief. Almost instantaneously, the temperature dramatically dropped, and I could wear jeans in the evening again. I started to wonder why everyone warned me against coming to India during monsoon season. It was wonderful.

Then today I began experiencing in earnest some of the problems with monsoon season.

Problem 1: The shower
I have failed to mention that the campus, like most places in Bhubaneswar, does not have hot water. I am the first to admit that I am a big baby about taking cold showers. However, when the thermometer was reading 44 degrees Celsius, it was tolerable - sometimes even pleasant- to be soaked in the icy water. Now that we're at 30 degrees Celsius, I have to give myself a pep talk to turn on the tap and then brace myself for the shock of the frigid water.

Problem 2: Walking at night
There are hardly any sidewalks in Bhubaneswar and most of the small roads are unpaved. As a result big muddy pools of water form in the street, and walking home at night is like navigating a minefield. In slippery sandals, we try to dodge the camouflaged mud puddles, while at the same time being mindful of the crazed traffic. Risks abound as motorbike drivers balance umbrellas in one hand as they speed by and cars and trucks transform into the enemy that at any moment can wield its power by charging a puddle and spraying you with dirtied rainwater.

Problem 3: The mud
It's everywhere. Caked on my feet. Splashed on my pants. In the bathrooms. Tracks running down the hallway. It cannot be escaped. The mud gets so bad (and the water levels so high) that some areas in Orissa become completely inaccessible.

This just might have something to do with why people prefer to visit India in the fall.

Buying Train Tickets in Bhubaneswar

Matters of the Heart

When I was in Kolkata I invented a game for my colleagues and I to play. Now this game isn't particularly original - or fun for that matter - but it is a game none the less. The rules are simple. You see a couple while you're out and you ask: arranged marriage or love marriage? Then everyone has to give their guess.

Arranged marriages and love marriages exist side by side in India today. I liken the relationship to that of radio and television. Radio may be the older medium but it has not been supplanted by television. There are people who fervently argue that one is better than the other. There are also those who may change their opinion on the topic depending on the circumstances. And then there are those who couldn't care less between the two as long as they get their entertainment.

Even though I invented the marriage guessing game, I am really bad at it. Horrible, actually. Here's why. I had this assumption that just because you haven't chosen who you will marry that somehow you'd be paired with someone that you would never want to marry. I imagined that talented, pretty young women would be arranged with guys who were three times their age or who had severe flatulence problems and diagnosed halitosis.

But that's actually not the norm. At least from the outside, on a purely superficial level, couples who are the product of arranged marriages seem perfect for each other. After all, these couples are matched based on similar levels of attractiveness, education, family income and social status, with the guy usually two to three years older and two to three inches taller. In other words, they are mainly matched on the criteria that from the outside they look like a good fit.

Love marriages are a whole lot messier than that. Love is not bound by caste or class, religion or age, horoscope or height. Love is what makes you see beyond flatulence and bad breath. Love is what accounts for the lopsided couples I see around.

Now if you want to ask me which of these couples I think are the happiest or are the most likely to stand the test of time, I cannot say. I'm still trying to figure out the strategy to that game.

Fourth of July

A friend from New York asked me last night if I was planning on celebrating the Fourth of July while in India. The thought had never occurred to me. I usually celebrate the day by going to a barbecue and watching fireworks. Neither of these activities are particularly feasible here. However, I figured I would ask the readers of this blog if they have any Fourth of July traditions that I can share with my international colleagues. Leave a comment with your ideas.

Setting the Record Straight

We haven't moved. We're still at the nunnery.

I should have mentioned it earlier. People have been asking. But the truth is, I didn't have the heart to tell the story till now.

We had found the perfect little house in Bhubaneswar. It had two bedrooms that were bigger than New York City studio apartments, an additional small bedroom, two bathrooms, our own kitchen, a sizable living room and a terrace. The whole place was newly renovated with brightly colored walls, and we were going to be the first tenants. The rent plus made-to-order meals plus a cleaning service for two months was $8,750 rupees per person (that's approximately US$194).

We informed our supervisor. We informed the UNICEF office. We wrote letters to the university acknowledging that we were taking our safety into our own hands by moving. It was all arranged. On moving day, two drivers came to the hostel, and we packed all of our luggage into the backseat. We handed over our keys to the warden, said a quick goodbye, and piled into the car.

Four staff members, our supervisor, and our UNICEF rep all came to help us settle into our new place. When we and our entourage arrived, the landlord opened the gates, and the staff members started unloading our bags.

Joyously, we entered our new house ready to live like adults again. But then we looked around only to find that the house was completely empty. No dining room table. No stove. No beds. No nothing. Empty. Well, with the exception of the seven witnesses to our aborted plans.

Now just to be clear the place was empty when we first visited it. But the landlord assured us during several conversations that occurred over five days that it would be ready in time for our arrival. That clearly was not the case.

Feeling like the air was sucked out of our bodies, we did the only thing that we could do. We loaded our bags back into the cars, sat down, and had them drive us back to the hostel. The warden met us at the door, handed us our keys and we dragged our stuff up the stairs to the rooms we will inhabit for the rest of the summer.