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...

Released from bondage

Since I have come to IJM, I have been richly blessed to be a part of three separate rescue operations. The operations to release families living in slavery are conducted in tandem with goverment officials and police, who enter the paticular facility (rock quarry, brick kiln or rice mill) with select IJM staff. The victims of forced labor are briefly "enquired" inside the faciilty by the head government officer. Then we help them pack their simple belongings into large trucks. We travel to the government office where the official "enquiry" is conducted to determine if they are being held there in violation of the Indian law which prohibits forced labor. (Essentially, someone is considered a forced laborer if she/he is: providing labor in exchange for a one-time monetary loan, paid below minimum wage, prohibted from moving freely, or not permitted to sell their own goods freely.)

At the government office, my role has been to photograph the laborers as they are documented by our aftercare staff and as they take turns going in to answer questions with the government officials. Since I do not speak the language, my responsiblities are limited. But even using a laminating machine hardly feels mundane -- as the piece of paper bound between the plastic sheets is a Release Certificate, cancelling all debts and literally declaring that particular individual free.

More importantly than my own involvement, since I arrived in January 2009, 154 Release Certificates have been issued in IJM cases. 43 families have been released from faciilties where they were working illegally as laves. All of these families are part of IJM's aftercare program, designed to support them as they reintegrate into a society which is strictly delineated by caste and plagued by poverty. One IJM aftercare manager is assigned to each family. The IJM staff visits the family's home monthly, conducts group meetings by region and connects these "clients" with longterm resources to ensure a sustainable life in freedom.

To read about our most recent rescue operation, check out IJM's website and read this story I wrote!

Its all business here

The past few days I have been in Madurai, a small city an overnight train ride away. Accompanied by a lovely colleague and IJM aftercare manager, I had the privilege to interview a couple of students in the government law college there. Both are children of former forced laborers, rescued from a brick kiln in 2004. Both are the first in their families to attend college. Both are full of ambition, driven by a desire to excel so that they might fight for their humble communities. Sitting on a rusted green folding chair up on the rooftop of the law college hostel, tape recorder capturing the answers to my questions asked for me in Tamil, moleskine in hand as I scribbled translations, I thought to myself, how do I do this justice? And justice is a word I do not use lightly. His story deserves an audience. His story deserves a truthful telling, neither polished off nor embellished.

I suspect this question will haunt me the deeper I am immersed into this work; how do I do this justice? The more I engage with the culture, the customs and -- mostly -- the people of South Asia, the more I doubt my ability to recount the stories and provide the panoramic view I can barely take in when I'm standing right here seeing and smelling it all in real time. I'll continue to offer simple snapshots of my life and work here...though no more tonight. I am too excited to sleep not in transit, with my backpack looped through my arm on the third bunk of an overnight train like last night, or in the back seat of a car bumping down a dirt road then scraping by buses on the four hour journey back to the city, like my nap(s) today (I got off the train this morning at 7:30, brushed my teeth at the office, had a coffee and headed out on another trip to interview a family very recently freed from a rock quarry).

Perhaps I'll sort out some of the bits and pieces from my whirlwind "business trip" over the weekend. Until then, I send you the blessings I (accidentally!) received from this elephant:

Celebrations

I have been thinking about transitions and transience lately. Just over a year ago, I began the transition from the structure and free time of school to the pressures and deadlines of the real world. Almost six months ago, I began the anticipated yet still jarring transition from the familiar--the smiling faces and beautiful places--of South Carolina to this foreign culture--also full of smiling faces and beautiful places--in South Asia. The work at IJM has taught me even more, as I have watched, wondered and written about the released laborers' transition from slavery to freedom. Reflection on transition inevitably prompts reflection on transience--the temporary yet significant friendships I form, the relative nature of time that shrinks or stretches depending on how much you want it to, or need it to. More deep musings later!

Yesterday was a double celebration for two friends I am blessed to know, even for a short time. IJM legal fellow and Explorer Extraordinaire Martine and her husband will be leaving soon to return to Oz. So Andy threw Martine a surprise Farewell, where friends and coworkers gathered to celebrate her with good food and send her off with scraps of fabric!

Andy cooked up a storm and we got to taste some Aussie dishes: mango-pork risotto, veg. lasagna, fresh salad with cheese and pears, rice and channa, homemade tomato soup, fried fish, lemon meringue pie, fresh fruit including papaya and starfruit, and homemade vanilla bean icecream. Yes, he made all of that by himself. Impressive, and tasty.

Saturday was also my friend and akka Lakshmi Priya's birthday. (Akka means older sister and is used as a term of endearment here) Festivities included dinner, dessert and lots of laughings. Fun fact of the day: Poo means flower in Tamil. I had the pleasure of explaining the irony in this false cognate to Priya!

Here: Chardaie, me, Priya, Kim, Martine.

After a tasty meal of idly and dosai with some of the best sambar I've had (two South Indian dishes: idly is somewhat like a small, thick pancake and dosai more like a huge fried crepe; sambar is the ubiquitous liquid-gravy seasoned with tomatoes, a few spices and the occasional extra vegetables) we taught Priya how to bake a cake. Here we are frosting the cupcakes.

I loved celebrating these two special friends on the same day!