Missing these two already, SO MUCH.

 Dr. Sam Ward, my erstwhile deranged snake hunting companion.

And Vennila.

Let's Call It A Day

I'll be leaving for HOME in less than 24 hours. My Mother needs me worse than India and I need to go.

It's been a wild ride. I thank every one of you who have supported me with kind words and warm wishes. Thank you to everyone who kept up with my rantings. Thank you to those of you who loyally posted and voiced your love and support for me. I could not have done India without you.

I will miss this people. I will miss them so much.

Vennila, I'll be back for you. A promise is a promise.

Deepenraj
Joseph
Tammilakya
Pryanka
Theresa
Papitha
'Special' Sangeetha
Pasitha
Ambiga
Mahalakshmi
Shankar
Sujatha
Beulah
Gracie
Soniya
Krishmamorthy
Manadoya
Karpagavalli
Devi
Prithika
Keerthika
Nagalaksmi
Usha
Gracie (again)
Mani
Sumithra
Devi Prya
Sarenraj
Ashok
Rameesh
Vignesh
Divya
Buji
Shalini
Monisha
Monika
Vonodhini
Ashwin
Gopi
Pryanka (again)
Angelique
Vadavu
Kala
Nathan
Sankar
Rajah Kumari
Vinodhini (again)
Megala
Logashwari
Karchik
Sathya

My. Heart. Is. Breaking. Because of you, I will always be a part of India. Thank you for the hugs, the kisses, the spontaneous love, the smiles,  . . . . . and for not giving me head lice.

I love you all, forever. May God be with you. May the wind be forever at your backs. May you bless your country with your skills and abilities. "Be the change in the world that you wish it to become." -
Mahatma Gandhi.

With so much love,
Mr. Johnson

The Lonely Planet's Travel Guide to India

Forget the Taj Mahal. Forget bathing three times in the Ganges River. You aren't going there. Your travel in India will be confined to the little villages and dirt roads of rural India.

1.  Please stop by your local bookstore and pick up the 1,500 page illustrated book entitled "Dangerous Snakes of India". Memorize this book. After your lengthy stay in India has completely emptied your brain of logic and good sense, you will be out in the dead of night with one other equally deranged person. You will be looking in the bushes with a tiny flashlight for snakes. You're going to want to know what it is that just slithered over your foot. There are lots of possibilities. If you're packing the actual book, it may come in handy as a weapon. Drop it. Run for your life for about a mile. Stop. Laugh. Go back for the book. And whatever is under it that you just killed.

2.  You are going to get deathly ill in India. Count on it. You only think you're invincible. You're not. You WILL end up in a ball on a bathroom floor. At this point, whatever swear words you may be thinking, are perfectly acceptable. Just try not to say "Holy Cow, I'm sick." H-I-N-D-U-S.  Sh-h-h-h.

3.  As a corollary to #2, you will feel an increased desire to repent of all your past deeds including swearing. You will want to repent for any future mis-deeds you even thought of committing in an effort to strike a bargain with God which goes something like this: "I, (your full name here), swear upon my 1,500 page "Dangerous Snakes of India", that if I miraculously survive (insert hourly death defying experience here), that I will never (insert latest sin and weakness here). Think stuff up if your bad habits aren't bad enough. You've got to get God's attention.

4.  Men are going to stare. Stare back. Walk into ditches, doorposts, vehicles, and off of steep cliffs and stairs. Hold that stare. This will require practice. So many men are staring, you will have to be selective. Choose the one without a mustache.  Refine your staring technique. Learn to gracefully exit that sewage drainage ditch you just fell into while holding the stare. Work it. Looking isn't free.

5. Never try to 'guess' what it is that you may be eating. It's red rice. Pretending that you don't know it's red rice will only lead you down the path of delusion, illusion, and delirium. Guessing is the first step. You KNOW it's red 'gravel' rice. What's that you said? "Where's the Indian cuisine?" You, my friend, have taken the first step into delusion. Bon Apetite.

6.  You will wear 'modest' clothes that make Charlie Chaplin look like a fashion statement. Your pants look like two flour sacks with a waist. Your top will not even be in the same orbit as your pants. India is in love with color. Any color, in any combination, in any style. You're not seeing things. You really are wearing a red and purple striped top with orange pants. Super! Super!

7.  Never ask anyone for directions to anywhere. There is a fine possibility that you could find yourself in the middle of an Indian 'cemetery'.  If bad directions lead you to a dirt road careening off into nowhere, suppress your natural tendencies to explore. If there are flowers strewn along the road, GO BACK. You are entering a burn area. And I don't mean wood.

8. Never get a ride one-way into 'town'. You're going to be hiking five miles back home. There will be buses full of men. Rickshaws full of men. Bicycles with men pedaling. Motorcycles with men. NONE of these drivers are interested in the safety of pedestrians. Please see step #4.

From your Lonely Planet travel guide, this is a work in progress. Stay tuned.

HO HUM

My THIRD snake. I caught this one all by myself. I've been here way too long. I was actually a little bummed to discover that it's just a harmless green tree snake. I so wanted to have a cobra by the tail. I named him Nehru. He's my pet. (cue weird, scary person, music)

On the bright side . . . . . . . . . . the concept of "Mr." and "Mrs." has been nearly impossible to make students understand. I try on a near daily basis. I surrender. So -o-o-o-o-o. I have been Mr. Johnson for three months now. Mrs. Johnson, how is Tax Season going for you?

God and My New Ecco Sandals

Today is Sunday. The Sabbath.

 It is a two-hour drive one way to Church through the most incredible traffic imaginable. Motorcycles, Rickshaws, buses, cement trucks, bicycles, and every driver with a strong death wish. I begin my Sundays with a prayer for safety and end them with a prayer of thanks.

Today, I have a little something more for which I must express my thanks and I want to thank Him publicly.

I was told before I came to India that I should wear only closed-toe shoes. When I got here, I realized that advice was not going to work out very well. Everyone wears sandals. It's too hot to do anything else. Thankfully, I had brought a pair of rubber flip flops for the shower. I have been walking around for over two months in rubber flip flops and frankly, the tread was wearing a little thin. The situation was exacerbating some foot problems I already had and I felt desperate for some kind of solution. I couldn't exactly run out on a shopping spree and buy me a pair of good sandals.

So God went shopping for me.

There is a closet here full of the cast-offs of my predecessors. Every time I look in there, I'm reminded of the personal belongings of pioneers strewn along the Oregon Trail as they 'lightened' their loads. I had been through those cast-offs a number of times looking for some kind of shoe that might replace my shower flip flops. I never found anything.

Last week, in a desperate move, though I had already searched the shoe selection quite thoroughly, I decided to look one more time. There, in plain view, rested a beautiful pair of Ecco sandals, just my size. I hesitate to admit this, but I stood and cried. Those shoes hadn't been there a week ago. We hadn't had a volunteer group come through since the last time I looked, so the sandals hadn't been left recently. Apparently, I had just missed seeing them all this time . . . . . . . . . . . .Or not.

I dusted them off, cleaned them with a damp cloth, and put those babies on. I have died and gone to heaven. Wait. Maybe. Heaven couldn't possibly be this hot. Uh-oh.

God has good taste. My sandals cost over $100 on Amazon.

Today is Sunday. The Sabbath.

Thank you, God. Thank you. I love you. Credit given where credit is due. Even though I'm in India, you still know where I am, you are still aware of my needs, and you love me back.

Amen.

The Beauty of an Indian Sunrise

You have to get up early to enjoy this day because in about three hours, you're going to be swimming in heat and humidity. Think Florida on steroids. Phoenix on testosterone. Houston on muscle drinks.

The early mornings are my favorite time of day here. It's eerily quiet. I suddenly realize why. There is absolutely no noise pollution. None. Zero. Zip. Nada. Zilch. I have not seen a single-engine airplane since I left Portland. I haven't seen any type of aircraft, large or small, flying around since the Indian Air Force buzzed the school building about eight weeks ago. That was my exciting, eventful aviation experience in India. Someone wanted to know what country could possibly be flying fighter jets so low in India. I said, "W-e-l-l, this IS India. Let's think about that." Then I uttered a silent, fervent prayer that those fighters weren't Pakistani.

There are early morning bird calls and lots of raucous arguing in the trees, but even the birds take cover with the arrival of the heat and humidity. There is very little traffic on the dirt farm road outside the gate. Occasionally, there is a motorcycle or a farm cart pulled by cows. Once in a great while, a little truck of sorts goes putt-putting by. With those few exceptions, it's utter silence. I never knew how nostalgic I would get for the hustle and bustle of the Sunset Highway.

Sudden, awkward change of subject . . . . . . .

The school is not air-conditioned. The kiddies would freeze in air conditioning. There are fans in the classrooms, but they're pretty useless. When they are turned on, they have one speed: Hurricane Katrina in a bad mood. There are four of these bad boys in every classroom. I wait to comb my hair until I get to school. The fans do it for me with half the trouble. Oh, and did I mention that when the fans are on, there is PLENTY of noise pollution? As in we use sign language so we can communicate? It's such a perfect environment for Second Language Learners. I can't hear them. They can't hear me. Klassroom Karma Dharma. There is one word that I'm pretty certain my students know very well: WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? Repeated, oh, about a thousand times a day.

Oh, and here's just one fine example among many of my well-honed teaching abilities. Yesterday, I gave a 7th Standard kid a wedgie. He was long overdue. Today, he informed me that I had permanently damaged his 'man parts'. I used that precious teaching moment as an opportunity to introduce and illustrate the amazing science of a sports cup. His eyes were as big as saucers.

If only they would stop asking me when I am going to leave. I could bear this much better. I'm deaf, hippie-looking, sunbleached, and drinking more water than your average fish. That's why there are so many hippies in India. Underneath that unwashed, unkempt, bleary eyed exterior, is a buttoned down, tailored, widdo pweppie heart.

But that sunrise. . . . . . . . in the quiet, beautiful, stillness of another Indian morning, I am. Still. Here. Thank you, God.    

"This Swamp's Gotta Be Drained" HOOYAH

That's a direct quote from the new Program Director of this school! Well, partly. The HOOYAH is my own addition. It represents my relief and joy that major changes are afoot - changes that will improve tremendously the education offered to these kids. It had to happen.

I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be asked to the Prom this month. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, that's true. The addendum to that sage advice is that the squeaky wheel is annoying, loud, unpopular, and demanding. I'm fine with that. I will leave here having made a difference. Speaking of Prom, what I wouldn't give for a big piece of Costco carrot cake right now. It's amazing the things a person begins to dream about. I wouldn't touch Costco carrot cake at home. Now, I could eat the whole cake right down to its cardboard box.

Yesterday, I reached into a small bag and pulled out my cellphone. "What is THAT?"
I temporarily forgot, that yes, I do have access to another world. I have a whole bank of phone numbers for people I used to call. That funny little keyboard is what I used to text people on. Weird. That life of ease and access is so foreign to me now.  Who ARE those people in my cellphone address book? Did I used to know them?

I think my contact with the outside world is about to get much worse. The power cord to my computer is gradually cooking itself to death before my very eyes. Not even a step down transformer is going to save it. I'm trying to coax another 23 days out of it, but I'll be lucky, very lucky if we make it. I'm going to be so heartbroken. Don't be surprised if I hold a funeral service for my power cord and a graveside dedication. No, I won't be able to replace it until I get home. Yes, that leaves me out of touch, out of luck, and out to lunch for another three weeks. Alas and Alack. T.I. I. - This Is India.

Civilization leaves me bit by bit and I begin to think simply . . . . . .

 . . . . . . .I function more freely. - Paul Gauguin.

When I arrived in India on December 31st, I had three suitcases, a carry-on and a large bag. When I return home, I'll have less than half of one suitcase, a carry-on, and a bag. I should probably give some more of it away and come home with just a carry-on.

I have learned to live more simply. I know that I can do without. I have learned how unimportant most things are. I should list all of the things that I brought that I thought were necessities. I came to India as a spoiled, naive American. I will leave India much less concerned with what I own than with who I am. I am indebted to the Indian people for lessons in resourcefulness, selflessness, patience, friendship, and creativity. They are amazing. I am ever so humble and humbled to be in their presence.

Yesterday was a special day. I couldn't do much because of a nasty critter bite on my foot, so I hid out with the maids, my favorite thing to do. Together, we tried to catch up on a mountain of laundry from the other 'guests'. We washed, hung out, and folded all day until the little tiny washing machine broke down. I'm not sure why it is so much fun because we probably understand about ten percent of what the other person is saying. I'm discovering that the important communications need no translation. Doing laundry is a universal task. Hanging out the clothes is a peaceful, fun activity to do with friends. Folding clothes with two Indian maids is hilarious. I found out that EVERYONE has a special way to fold sheets and NOBODY is backing down.

Here is a photo of four of my Indian friends. They are all dressed up for a festive occasion. Indians love festive occasions. They cook up any excuse to have one. This grand fete was nothing more than a school science fair, complete with visiting dignitaries and the sprinkling of rose water everywhere. Don't you love how they wore complementary saris! To get the full effect of a sari, it's necessary to watch how Indian women walk when they are wearing one. Their gracefulness is amazing. Michael Jackson stole his 'moon walk' from an Indian woman wearing a sari.



The survival clock is ticking down.

My second allergic reaction to some kind of spider bite. My survival clock is ticking down.

I fought a good fight . . . . . . . BRAVEHEART, Indian Style

SOMEONE gave the kids ALL of the colored powder.  I'm never going to get that blue splat out of my ear.

What!???

Quite frequently, parents bring their little ones to the school for registration, hoping the child will be accepted. The public schools in India, particularly in the rural areas, are a joke. It's not unusual to see an entire school of several hundred students and nary a teacher in sight. They have all gone fishing or whatever it is they do here when they call in 'sick'. So parents try anything to find a better education option for their children. Because this school is a private school run by Americans, poor, desperate Indians assume their children will get a better education here.

I have noticed parents and their children coming in the morning around 8AM and they are still waiting as late as 12:30 PM. Sometimes their children are as young as five years old. This morning, I noticed a worried looking father with his beautiful little 5-year old boy waiting. It was 9AM. The following conversation with our erstwhile principal then occurred:

Me:   "Celina, did you notice the father with his little boy waiting to register?"
Celina: "Yes. I make new registrants wait for a long time on purpose."
Me:   "Celina, that's cruel. That's really cruel. Why would you do that?"
Celina:  "Okay, okay. I'll take care of them after the bell."

I have never met anyone so cynical and cruel. We are also ankle deep in raw sewage because the same person insists on throwing toilet paper down the toilet, something the Indian septic system was not designed to accommodate. Remember? Indians do not use toilet paper. Just when I think it can't get worse - it does.

On the bright side! I feel giddy. I feel giddy. I feel giddy and witty and gay! It's the lyrics to an old show tune just in case you're wondering. I got bettah!

I was wrong about Sally

Dear Sally, (my daughter), the record still stands. I have never met a Sally I didn't like.

This Sally that I know here in India was a little harder to get to know because I felt that we were at opposite ends of a philosophical belief system. I saw things in a much different way than Sally did. Or so I thought. I was wrong. I know when I should admit it.

Sally has a big job on her hands. She will be trying to manage a school for 200 children, most of whom are from the Leprosy Colonies of India. She has listened, even when the news was hard for her to hear, personally. She has read everything I have written. She is going to get some things done. She will be a hands-on manager of this school. She is exactly the change that the school has been needing.

So . . . . . . . Sally, my own daughter, Sally. We love you so much. The record stands. I have never met a Sally I didn't like. Even though the other Sally will never read this blog, my heartfelt prayers go with her as she undertakes such an important task - providing the best education she can possibly give to these children. I love them. They have become a part of who I am. I will always think of them and be pulling for their every success. I feel confident that 'Sally' feels the same way. I can go home in peace.

The children are already asking when I will be going home and wanting me to write to them. I'm headed for heartbreak hotel. I care very little about what most people think of me, but I DO care very much about what the Indian people think of me. They matter to me and I want to always treat them with the respect and admiration they deserve.

I'm so glad that I stepped forward. I'm so glad that someone listened. I'm so glad that I have made so many wonderful Indian friends.

My luck has run out.

After 64 days of dodging the bullet, I am so sick.

Yes, this is a shameless ploy for pity. Please sign my death register below.

American Moses

Wow, what a difference a day makes! Before I tell you what I did, I have a funny story.

One of the Indian teachers has invited me to his wedding in Kerala, the next door State to Tamil Nadu. His parents are busy selecting a wife for him. The way this works is that the girl is chosen, my colleague returns home, checks her out, gives his approval, and then they are married. The girl must be in agreement, also. This is not a bad arrangement. He's a handsome, very nice person. She is going to be pleasantly surprised. I would love to go to his wedding. It's quite an honor to be invited.

Anyway, he came up to me today and said that he had heard that an OLD, retired teacher was coming to teach here, someone who would probably be wrinkled and look as old as Moses. When I got here, he was surprised. He didn't mention whether or not it was a pleasant surprise, but I'm going to take that comment and run with it.

But here's the GOOD news. I'm still being cranky, crotchety, direct, blunt, and generally a pain in the behind. You are NOT going to believe what I said to the Boss of the Board this morning. I hardly believe it myself, but that's the advantage to having an out-of-control mouth. It surprises me as much as it does everyone else.

I told him that all NGOs' in India should be working toward quitting India. The long term goal for every foreign country and NGO setting up shop in India should be to turn over responsibility to the Indian people themselves and let them take charge and govern their own country. India will never realize its potential until its people take charge. Was I heard? It doesn't matter. I stood up and told the truth. What's done with that truth is out of my hands.

I am in good company. Gandhi would have agreed with me a hundred times over. That little man in the dhoti with the old tin plate and spoon occupies a special place in heaven for what he tried to do to help his countrymen. Did you know that in Calcutta, while Gandhi was alive, the millions of poor people subsisted on fewer calories per day than a POW in a Nazi concentration camp? It is a little better now, but one gets the feeling that the entire population is at any give time, teetering on the edge of the blackest abyss. The slightest change in weather, economy, government, war, etc., could send millions hurtling into a black hole. It will keep me awake at night for a long time.

Anyway, I'm still here. I haven't been kicked out of India. Yet.

I wish they would quit cornering me. Do they LIKE being disparaged? Do they LIKE being told they aren't so hot? Are they masochists or something? I seem to never disappoint them. I can't seem to shut up. It's like poking a rabid dog with a stick. If you don't like the bite, don't poke.

Anyway, I'm feeling better today. I love picking on powerful people and making them uncomfortable. It makes my day. I'm BACK. Moses or not, wrinkled or not, OLD or not, I'm BACK.

Three Reasons Why I Stay

Usha, Keerthika, and Devi Prya



Thank goodness, it wasn't too late when I realized that what these children need the most is not an English teacher, but the warmth and love of a mother. That, I know how to do. Their love is unconditional. And so is mine.