Another day in the life

Today was just a normal day. Rolled off my mattress, a few inches above my pink speckled floor and in the direct path of my window AC unit. Nearly stepped on a tiny lizard as I groggily made my way to the shower. (Bizzy Lizzy was lucky this time -- last week I tried to save her from the soapy dishes she was exploring in our kitchen sink and I plucked her little tail right off. It wriggled. I screamed. Magda jumped. Nicolette laughed. Bizzy Lizzy recovered and apparently found her way to the humid ambience of my bathroom.) Took an auto to work and spilled lots of coffee from my never-tight-enough-lid of the Prego spaghetti sauce jar on my light tan pants. Normally I scoot, but Nic's (and now my!) friend and guest for the weekend, Ryan, occupied the seat with himself, his backpacking gear, laptop and baby sombrero he's traveling around South Asia with, researching the country's response to trafficking as it relates to international pressure.

Work was busy as usual. I finished one filing project and started another. Made a folder on our office database called "2010" and had momentary freak-out that two thousand and a double digit are just around the corner. I also helped finalize design and print our press kit materials for a training IJM is participating in for the Press Bureau tomorrow on child trafficking. Lunch was a late one and combo of leftovers and paneer chili fry from Palimar, eaten while stuffing our quarterly newsletter into envelopes and sticking on labels -- and not sealing them: did you know you pay a whole extra rupee (which is a 20% increase) if you seal a letter? We tuck the flaps.

After a full 12-hour work day, scooted to say our farewells to the Summer Legal Intern. Came home for another yummy dinner prepared by Chef Nicolette and reflected on our strange and finite lives and God's tangible, unfathomable goodness. Sat on the couch (yes! we have furniture!) and devoured choc chip cookies I baked yesterday, eight at a time, in the trusty toaster oven, as I watched Nicolette iron six yards of sari that she'll wear tomorrow. Not for lack of wrinkles, my patience did not extend quite as far and my sari still hangs on the back of the sofa. Maybe the humidity will flatten things out?

Nothing exceptional to report, except to say I'm quite content with life in Chennice.

Holiday in God's Own Country

Kerala is proudly called God's Own Country by the Malayalis who live there. The moniker fits. In honor of Magda and Nicolette's August birthdays, the three of us hopped on an overnight train after work last Thursday and headed south to stay with Magda's friend for a fabulous weekend. Below, Fort Cochin. One of the tourist hot spots in Kerala, renown for its authentic Chinese fishing nets and backwaters, among many other beautiful things.

Magda, Nicolette and I helped haul in the fresh catch. Please note the cigarette casually drooping from the shirtless guy in mundu/lungi (essentially a pleatless, wraparound skirt -- traditional dress still worn by many locals in South India).

I don't think we caught anything this big, but it was fun to wander along the harbor and oogle and aahh over the delicious sea critters. Kerala cuisine is my definite favorite of the Indian food I've had. A perfect blend of spices, coconut, mustard seed and lots of love.

Joe, our host with the most, owns Ishka, a lovely art gallery. At the moment, Laxman Pandit is on display -- who happens to be his dad (a famous artist; I wish I had a few lakhs to spare!)

Casually elegant palm trees and so much more greenery line the low, stone-walled banks; narrow canals connect larger pools and bodies of water. Thank you Joe and Issac for a perfect getaway, including this speedboat tour of the backwaters.

Limited by words, but not by freedom

I enter the simple room barefoot, sometimes sitting on a plastic chair or cot, sometimes on a cement or packed-dirt floor. I open my small journal and glance at questions I've jotted down, though I hardly need these to guide the interview that begins and ends in Tamil, my English intruding into that tiny space. Inevitably, faces begin to crowd out the light as curious neighbors and noisy children wander by and see the strangers sitting opposite their friends or family. I listen to words I do not understand and intonations I still find a bit jarring, waiting for a translation to interrupt the next bit of conversation.

I have always loved interviewing people, piecing together parts of their story in an order and with words others will read and relate to. I find that the intentionality draws out fascinating bits of information and memories that are often left out of everyday conversation. The interview setting is, inevitably, a little awkward at first. But just as soon as the introductory formalities are out of the way, the comfort level increases and the talking begins. Who doesn't welcome the chance to speak when you know someone is really listening?

One of the most challenging, rewarding experiences has been interviewing the families who are no longer living as slaves and are now a part of IJM's longterm aftercare program. The language barrier is huge, and it would be insurmountable for me without the patient aftercare staff who I accompany on these home visits. As a writer, it is frustrating to be limited by words. But I am growing as a listener, and grateful for every single word I hear -- in the language I don't understand and the language I do.

Read the story of this beautiful family here.

Typical adventures

Life has been moving very fast lately. And to get to and from most of it, I've been on the back of Nicolette's scooter, The Blue Wonder. Adventures are typical.

Our daily commute to work is less than ten minutes, but every day there is, consistently, a brand new pot hole to swerve around or fissure in the asphalt to avoid. Some days we pass the man with gigantic slabs of raw meat strapped onto the back of his bicycle cart -- you can always tell he's coming because of the swarm of black crows ominously swooping down into that spot in traffic. Other days we pass families of four, not including the infant, squished onto a regular to small-sized motorcycle. Many days we are the object of laughter, fascination, gawking and other not-so-nice stares. Yesterday Nic was the target of a rude bird who also singled out "the foreigners" (I scraped the bird poo off Nic's arm as she drove with an envelope I dug out of my purse).

On weekends (and special week nights), we reunite with our third half and have the pleasure of cruising the streets of Chennice in Paco, Magda's zippy white car. This weekend we celebrated her birthday in varied forms of fabulous, including lunch at Kipling Cafe. Rich, dark wood and billowy white curtains are nestled into a tiny avenue off East Coast Road, sea breeze wafting through the bamboo and palm trees marking off this charming oasis. The three of us lingered over Indian-Western fusion food featuring special occasion imported delicacies like filo pastry dough, kalamata olives and goat cheese, plus our very own Bordeaux (no, we are not that savvy, they're just still working on a proper license).

Feeling even more relaxed than all those adjectives, we headed home rocking out to MGMT on the blissfully long and relatively empty ECR Road. Until. The front right tire blew. To make a hilarious and long story short, we were safe and the tire was changed. A nice and not sketchy young man on a motorcycle stopped to help the three girls at dusk changing a tire for the first time (actually, so did another man and his curious son. This do-gooder didn't seem to have much to offer, other than a very rusty tool of some sort that was useful in prying off the hubcap from Paco's stubborn little wheel).

Needless to say, adventures are typical.

Always up for a challenge, Nicolette utlized her emergency tights and crouched down to lift Paco off that dirty road with the handy dandy jack. She was all set to finish the job using Prasanth's over-the-phone instructions, which we're going to save in the trunk with the tools.

You just never know what to expect on the roads of Chennice...