I Appreciate Equipments Day

This weekend I was standing in the foyer of a bank, waiting for my turn to use the ATM machine with my flatmate. As we entered the welcome pocket of air con, the young man who brushed past us took a smallish sized coconut – the brown, hairy kind – and hurled it onto the pavement in front of the bank. Nicolette and I exchanged raised eyebrow glances and quietly got out our rupees. Outside, we noticed more crushed objects and splattered produce. “Must be a festival,” she said nonchalantly.

And it was a festival. According to popular wisdom (aka Wikipedia) and confirmed by locals in The Know, pooja is “a religious ritual performed as an offering to various deities, distinguished persons, or special guests. It is done on a variety of occasions and settings, from daily pooja done in the home, to temple ceremonies and large festivals, or to beginning a new venture.” Unbeknownst to me at the bank, I was observing that young men doing pooja to the ATM machine – appropriate as it was “Equipments Day.” He was literally honoring/thanking the machine for working.

I find many of the Hindu rituals counter to my Western notions of religion and my own experience as a Christian. Upon first hearing of Equipments Day, I was befuddled by the smashed watermelons on pavement and the green, leafy banana leaves tied with twine to the sides and hood of cars, trucks and bicycles. Below, you’ll see a photo of autos parked outside my office – I was surprised to see one windshield lettered with “PRAISE THE LORD” and still decked out with tropical leaves, flower garlands and incense. After I talked to a friend (thanks Magda), about my confusion, and admitted my initial incredulous laughter at this praise of lifeless machines, I realized I was missing the point. Appreciation.

So I’m a few days late, but today I tried to be thankful for the “equipments” in my life. I have switches that power lights; a computer I use to type up stories of slaves and keep in touch with friends back home; my iPod full of music I love; my camera; the French Press; Nicolette’s scooter that transports me all over this crazy city...to name a few. I suppose an important difference remains – I see these technologies and ammenities as blessings from a God who created people to be creative, inventive, communicative. But maybe I’ll still go smash a coconut onto the sidewalk after work to demonstrate some appreciation.

Autos outside my office, lined up and ready for Equipments Day.

Auntie's car (my landlady) in the pretty carport beneath our flat

Traveling by bicycle definitely requires an extra special blessing.

Not pictured – but seen on Equipments Day: the light switch board at the post office smeared with white paste and turmeric dots, the elevator in a friend’s apartment complex with splattered watermelon, a cash register at a snack shop down the street adorned with tiny yellow flowers and a cluster of roots, shells and aloe vera plant parts and, of course, the ATM machine.

This is where I live

This week I spent half a day at Freedom Training, a three-day series of workshops and interactive lectures led by IJM social workers -- intended to instill basic knowledge and begin the fragile process of rebuilding the lives of newly released forced laborers. My moleskine is filled with facts and quotations I scribbled down, pestering the patient staff to translate and repeat answers. This entry was jotted down among these notes.

Sometimes I still have moments where I have to blink a few times really fast and whisper aloud "This is where I live." Like right now. I'm sitting in a large cement room, lit by fluorescent tube lights and cooled by eight plastic ceiling fans. Cooled, of course, being a geographically relative verb. The voices filling this space are laughing now, some comment about cigarettes or insight into substance abuse shared by the IJM social workers has struck a chord. The men laugh a deep, admitting laugh; the women laugh a knowing laugh and then exchange glances with one another, settling back into their plastic chairs with placid eyes on tired faces. The babies are antsy. Tired, perhaps, or hot and hungry.

I'm watching one woman now, her tiny arms believable only when I stare at her proportionally tiny face, pretty features pinched into narrow symmetry. The baby she now feeds at her tired breast was born in July, the day before this family of four and four other families were brought out of the rice mill where they laboured, endlessly tired, illegally and hopelessly trapped as bonded labourers. Her husband is also well-kept, his somehow still white shirt hanging, billowing almost, over his jagged frame. Their daughter is in his arms, fussy and not allowing him to sit down.

The slide that's projected on the wall has pictures and words explaining dependence on and tolerance of alcohol. I think of the documents I read last night, in my cool A/C bedroom, on my cool iBook laptop, to prepare for the interviews I'll do later today. I read of one woman who explained an incident when the owner of the rice mill had hit her husband. Why? The radio was too loud. I am filled with anger at this man -- who owns a rice mill and fills it with dispensable workers as he might stock it with bulk rate rice sacks. I almost read over the next part -- I wanted to -- the part where she mentioned that her husband had slapped her across the face just before this incident. I stop. Even in remembering I stop. What of this man -- the husband -- a victim himself? A man I pity as he sits quietly in front of me, seemingly attentive to the discussion and intermittently picking up his small, pig-tailed daughter. Why does he perptuate violece, exert power through brute strength?

I don't think anger or pity are the answers. I don't think there are answers, at least not complete ones, this side of heaven. I blink again and this time everything's normal. I look around at these faces again, willing the words I don't comprehend to sink in and somehow shift thinking, spur dreams. I project hopeful futures in spite of the domestic violence and rampant substance abuse they've been learning about. I wipe a line of sweat from my upper lip and think, "Yes, this is where I live."

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

Sometimes the things I appreciate most are the things I speak about least when I talk to friends and family back home. In my attempt to explain a single day or illustrate a simple story, I forget to mention the crucial details of familiarity. These little things that have grown blessedly familiar to me are worth a mention. A few that I'm grateful for tonight -- in no particular order:

Hand signals. Learning to manage the traffic through the use of decisive hand signals has been one of my favorite parts riding on the back of the Blue Wonder. It makes me feel like I can order the madness, if only for a moment. Extend right palm to turn right, left to do the same. The more casual the cooler. To stop someone from cutting you off, throw out that same hand and fully extend all five fingers. Dirty looks permissible.

Friends passing through. As many cities are, this is a transient place. My own days here are passing quickly. Yes, some of the friends I have made have deep roots and big families who proudly name this quickly changing place their hometown. Others are fellow expatriates, adjusting and laughing and learning and reeling from the cultural discoveries that come from doing very normal things in a strange place. Still others are visitors, here for a long weekend. Nicolette and I have enjoyed the company of one such passer-through for the weekend. Visits like his are sweet because they remind me that things like good coffee, thoughtful conversation, favorite music and intentional relaxation are worth slowing down for.

Kipling Place. That's my flat. Named after a lovely restaurant I've mentioned before, decorated with gauzy white curtains and rich furniture. We do have lovely white curtains, but more than decor we aim to emanate the vibe of oasis. This city is full of character and charm, lots of chaos and pockets of quiet. Kipling Place is quite similar -- home to delicious dinner fetes and dance parties as well as candlelit evenings meant for conversing. Last night we sat out on our refurbished rattan furniture on the terrace, marveling at the still night and dim stars, poking out of clouds set in the heavy, humid sky. We talked a little, listened to some guitar and mostly just sat. It was a favorite.

Back from the USA

A few snapshots to follow explaining my silence in cyberspace for the past couple of weeks: I had the honor and privilege of standing beside my dear friend Meggie as she became Mrs. Joshua Simmons this past weekend. My trip home to the US of A was a wonderful blur of family, friends, food, lots of laughter and snippets of conversation I'll treasure for months to come.

Meggie and Josh are married!

With the happy couple, who incidentally had the most charming first dance everPretty bridesmaid-bouquets to match the gorgeous fall day and stunning bride (and her handsome groom)Very pretty music played by my oh so talented friends as Meggie walked down the aisle
Me and the Missuses, at the rehearsal dinner In addition to my fabulous friends, I got to spend time with my wonderful family -- and see Mary Grace's (adorable) dorm at Furman!

And now I'm back, jet lagged and clicking through pictures on facebook, wondering if I was really in Greenville two and a half days ago. My time was short but sweet, full of wonderful familiarities (like Furman friends and sweet potato cake from Brick Street and drinks with the rents from Up The Creek and driving down Main Street and Starbucks everywhere) and unexpected surprises (like noticing how many Americans have--visible--tattoos and wear cowboy hats for real, or how quiet the streets of Atlanta are at night). A very big thank you to each of my friends, siblings and mom and dad for making my time refreshing and reminding me that there really is no place like home.