Fainting Spell

A few days ago one of the women at the teacher-training course fainted. It was after five, when most of the participants had left, and only Melody, Daniel, myself and two Indian women were there, one of which was the person who fainted. The girl had apparently fainted about four times in the last two years, and I believe the spell was brought on by a combination of dehydration, low blood pressure and some stress caused by an issue in her family. Luckily Daniel has her CPR. We turned her on her side so she wouldn’t swallow her tongue, gave her water mixed with salt (good for dehydration) during the moments where she was partially coherent, and called Sohayl. I forget if I mentioned it before, but Sohayl has a medical degree.

Daniel wanted some sugar, in case the girl had low blood pressure, but we had none so she ran out into the street to ask one of the neighbours. There was a man standing in the yard of the house across from us, and she explained to him the situation and asked for sugar. Apparently he spoke enough English to understand, and not help us at all. He went away. Finally Daniel managed to talk to the daughter of the family, who called the mother and they came to the house with a tiny bowl of sugar. We gave the unconscious woman some sugary water. The neighbours stayed for a couple of minutes, asked us what had happened, then asked us for the sugar back, and left.

Sohayl came and took the girl to a nearby clinic. She’s fine and still attending the teacher-training course so all ended well.

Of Poultry

A few people actually did ask about the doorbells of India. Some of them, like the doorbell of the Office, make the sound of a bird chirping. It would be lovely, except for the fact that it sounds almost exactly like one of the birds that lives near the office. For the first few weeks I was really confused.

Speaking of poultry, a while ago I went to an Indian butcher. I’ve always had a good head for the biological; in fact I took biology every year in school just so I could dissect animals. So as you can imagine when Arastu tried to scare me away from the butcher's through descriptions of gore, I took the challenge. Besides that, as a writer one of my goals is to gather as many experiences, see as many things as possible. If you don’t like vibrant descriptions of butcher shops you may not want to read the following paragraph.

Nicole and I took a bicycle rickshaw to a market nearby. It’s made up of straw, canvas and burlap shops, and floored with packed earth. The market primarily deals in vegetables, but there is one lane of butchers. The scent was heavy and sickening but we got used to it after about two minutes. The air was thick with flies, as though a snowfall had suddenly become animated, black and malevolent. The sides of the lane were spattered and trickling with blood. At the far end of the section were a few fish stalls, but the fish here aren’t sanitary because they come from the Gomti River, which is essentially part of Lucknow’s sewage system. A half-skinned goat’s head sat on a table exposed to the flies. Live chickens walked about in steel cages stacked one on top of each other, and skinned, cross sections of goats hung about, the few organs which had not been cut away dangling and dripping blood. We went up to one stall with two men inside. One was seated on a table, with a long knife held by the handle between his toes. The other took the chicken we had purchased, and turning away from us so we couldn’t see, he sliced its neck and dropped it in a large bucket where it flopped around, bleeding, until it died. This took several minutes, after which he plucked it, took out the organs, chopped it up (the knife he used had almost seemed organic. The swarming black flies on it were like rippling skin before he picked it up) and gave to us in a little plastic black bag.

You are probably wondering if the meat was sanitary, but of course the chicken was well cooked and we all ate it without getting sick. In fact Nicole made a really delicious chicken soup.

No Comment

My parents keep telling me that there are actually people reading this thing but you wouldn't know it for all the tumbleweeds bouncing about. If anyone out there is reading, and you have something to say whether it be a comment, question or kindly phrased suggestion, please drop a line. At the bottom of each post is a little "comment" link, just click on that and ask if you want to know more about street dogs, or the unique doorbells of India.

Teacher Training

Well Natasha left shortly after arriving, but when one door shuts another westerner arrives in Lucknow. Danielle is from England and came to India to attend the teacher-training course we’re currently running here at FAS. She’s twenty-five and plans to go into curriculum development. After the course she’s going to China to work in that field.

We’re currently holding a teacher-training course, which started last week and will last for about forty days. Obviously we’re training people to become teachers, but the essence of what we’re doing – and I use ‘we’ liberally because I’m doing very little – is so much more. The teachers that we are creating are very different from western teachers, and extremely different from Indian teachers. In India teachers still use corporal punishment and their main task is to force children to memorize information. They do not teach children how to gather knowledge, analyze knowledge and apply knowledge. Answering a question involves copy the answer direct from the textbook.

What is being done here is something of a revolution in India. What we’re attempting to do is create a curriculum, and teachers to teach it, that will produce thinking people. The students of these schools should fall in love with learning, should develop a desire to seek the truth and apply it to their own lives.

The day begins at eight when we set up chairs and such. From about nine to eleven thirty Melody gives English lessons, during which I usually work on my main project - Pathfinders. Around eleven Sohayl gives a talk, which I take notes from. So in other words I’m a kind of scribe. The talks are about education of course, and have covered practical techniques of teaching, psychology and the personal character a teacher should develop. It is incredibly fascinating stuff to listen to. The talk usually lasts for a couple of hours after which Danielle takes the participants through part of the curriculum they’ll be teaching.

I spend my spare time now a days, reading, writing, and surfing the Cyber Ocean. Often there are Bahai activities, and sometimes we go to the malls, or Sohayl’s mother’s house. It’s getting hotter, now averaging at about thirty-nine to forty, but it’s not really that uncomfortable.

Rain

India unfolds itself in little moments.

It was raining lightly so Melody, Rohit, Sohayl and I took special pleasure in our walk to the samosa store for our mid-morning tea. The light wind, the grey skies, the washed out scent keenly reminded my of the Pacific Northwest. Home. We bought and ate our samosas, with the rain still only dribbling on us. Across the street from the samosa store is a little strip of grass between the road and a wall, usually populated by fruit, vegetable, and tea wagons. Our current favorite tea seller, a boy of perhaps twelve was standing behind his wagon, a small wooden surface on iron wheels. He made us tea and we stood around the wagon, Rohit, Melody and I laughing at our conversation, Sohayl chatting with the boy in Hindi about the child's life. He was working the wagon because his mother was sick, and Sohayl invited him to the children's classes held at their house. The clouds suddenly unburdened themselves, and we stood uncaring in the rain. Vancouver. The heat rising from my tea, contrasted with the cool wet air, at once supplying a sense of warmth and security. At a moment like that, I could almost love India.

Global warming has hit India too of course. A few days ago the heaviest rain of my life struck, four months out of season for India. The youth I was with were comparing the roads to Venice, and the water fell through the office roof in once place. It was raining inside. When the rain comes early, and so strongly, it knocks all the mango tree flowers down. There won't be many mangos this year, and many farmers will have a hard time of it.