Different Drums and the American Raj

Occasionally, we can hear drums in the village. I'm not sure what the meaning of it might be. I'm sure it has something to do with religious worship of some kind. Once in awhile, there are loudspeakers with very loud voices. I know it's an irrational thought, but I hope the villagers aren't stirring things up for a good murder spree. On second thought, I would gladly push the Principal out in front and say, "Here, take her."

It's the first time in my life that I have been marching to a different drummer and actually heard real drums. It's comforting. Kind of. But lonely.

I'm discouraged tonight. Is that okay? All that I have done while I've been here will come to nothing. I know that my time away from home and family has been wasted on an organization that, like India, is drunk on visions of its own grandeur. The Board has fired the Program Director, a man who loves this place and who is my friend. That leaves the Principal in charge. This is not good. She is filled with resentment toward me because I temporarily held her feet to the fire. But it was only temporary.

I'm sad tonight. No comedy. No sarcastic humor. I feel alone and friendless. I have failed.

36 days to go. I will never forget the wonderful Indian people. We have been in cahoots against the "American Raj" almost since the day I got here. India was governed for nearly 200 years by the British Raj. These past few days as I have watched an elite group of Americans assume that they know what's best for India and India's people, I couldn't help but reflect that things haven't changed much for India. Now, the "Raj" is American NGOs' like the one I have been teaching for. Indians are still at the beck and call of another country. They still work long, hard hours for next to nothing for 'handlers' from a distant, foreign land. My philosophy is so opposed to the one that governs this enterprise that I hardly know where to begin. So I won't.

I'm not making much sense tonight. Tonight for the first time, My family and I considered my coming home early. They have been so supportive, but not of what has happened here during the past few days. My head is swirling and I'm tired. How will I ever summon the courage to say 'good-bye' to friends, knowing that I did little to improve their circumstances? Like them, I worked, and I was at the mercy of the American Raj. I feel ashamed. I let myself be used. I will leave no footprints when I go.

I hear a different drummer. And I'm glad. Sometimes it's worth the loneliness.

A Flower in Her Hair

India. Sometimes this place can break your heart.

 Yesterday, yet another busload of Board members arrived. To plan for their arrival, the Indian staff had everyone wear flowers in their hair.

When the Board members disembarked from their tour bus, the children threw rose petals in their path. My fifth standard children who should have been learning something in my class were deployed during class time to throw the rose petals. Later, they came up to me and told me how much they missed being in class with me.

I did not know why the staff was putting flowers in my hair and throwing petals on my head until it was too late. I noticed everyone wearing flowers except for one person. Vennila.

"Vennila, where are the flowers in your hair? Everyone has flowers except for you."

Vennila's reply? "I can never again wear flowers in my hair because I am a widow and I am supposed to be in mourning for my husband for the rest of my life."

I instantly removed the flower from my hair and brushed the rose petals away. I hated the whole idea, anyway. I felt like a monkey on a chain yesterday. I can only imagine how the Indian Staff must have felt. I know that what they exhibit and how they feel are two very different things. Me, too.

India. Sometimes this place can break your heart.

How to take a Shower

This, my friends, is my shower. For very short people. Under three feet tall. Yes, friends, that is a quart-sized bucket sitting under the faucet. Yes, that is the corner of a small sink and in the other corner is the commode, a sight I deigned to spare you. What we have here is what might be called the 3-in-1. The simultaneous shower/potty/teethbrushing station.

Let's say you are brushing your teeth and you are suddenly smitten with the idea of a good squat in the 3-foot high shower. No problem. Keeping brushing. Fill the bucket with hot water. Dump on your head. Fill the bucket again. Dump. Repeat. But wait! Good heavens, can you? Why yes, you certainly may. If the urge should suddenly hit you while brushing and dumping water, you can also see to a certain pressing need without missing a single beat. It's heaven. Now, you're brushing, dumping, AND sitting on the potty. Such bliss.

But there's more. Since you're blind as a bat without your glasses and your chances are near 100 percent that you're going to come face to face with some crawly, creepy, slithering creature, the whole scenario speeds up to WARP speed. Brush, dump water, potty, put on your glasses, check for varmints, brush, dump water, potty, put on your glasses, check for varmints. Rinse. Repeat.

And more. Plan for power outages. Lots of power outages. Practice this routine in the dark. Try to remember where you planted your feet. That's VERY important because you are not going to want to move for a few minutes until the power comes thundering back on again. Just in time to come eye to eye with that huge Gecko on the wall, or millipede . . . . . .or spider . . . . . . or a giant frog in the sink. Or a snake slithering along the wall.

Coming to you live (at least for one more day) from India, that nation of eternal bliss and joy - the 3-in-1 bath system. Built for you upon your request. I'll throw in the wildlife for free.

The housekeeping staff

The one in the middle is such a slacker.

The house behind the housekeeping staff looks great, doesn't it? NOT where I live.

Does anyone know what the date is?

I seem to have mis-placed my calendar and the date thingie on my watch is broken. Seriously. I could use an update. I know tomorrow is Saturday . . . . . That's about it.

Do you remember the movie, "Castaways" with Tom Hanks? If you don't, here's a short synopsis: After a terrible airplane wreck, Tom's stranded alone on a desert island with just himself for company. After a lot of hard work, he manages to crack open a coconut and get a drink of water. Then he goes on to do his own dental work, make his own loin cloth, and engage in some serious fishing. Along the way, he becomes great friends with a soccer ball named 'Wilson'.

I don't think about that movie in the same way anymore. If I could find a soccer ball, I would paint a face on it and talk to it. I understand Tom's motivations now. I need my family and friends. I will appreciate all of you more, hug you more, tell you that I love you more often . . . . . . I miss your familiar and understanding faces, your cheerfulness, your love, and the warmth of your smiles. You are all my special 'Wilsons' and my life would be so empty without each of you. I have had an opportunity to spend time without you now. Though I can return home to all of you knowing that I worked hard, loved much, and left a little corner of India better off, I know now that I can't live without you. Any of you. I am alone without you.

So . . . . . . . . I never said it often enough, seldom let it get so sentimental, and heaven knows, was rarely deserving of such friends and family, here is my love to each of you. Thank you. Thank you so much for everything.

So please. Could somebody please tell me what the date is?

I've been too kind.

I was feeling kind of bad about my last post. Now that I've watched food being brought in that I haven't seen for months, been kicked out of my room to accommodate the 'visitors', and been cornered three times today by Board members, I've been too kind.

Honestly, at the moment, I am so tired, I could fall asleep standing up. I taught the regular schedule today, tutored Vennila, and then I had to move out of where I have been staying into another house. Every kindness done for me today has been at the hands of the housemaids and staff. They have been kept hopping trying to meet the demands of the board, yet they found the time to help me move. I didn't ask. They just did it. They looked sorrowful and that's how I felt, too. How I will miss their quiet grace and graciousness. I still get to see them, but no new English and Tamil words for a while.

This morning, at the request of the Program Director, I wrote an email outlining  some improvements and changes that should and ought to be made. All hell has broken loose. I've been cornered three times today for a little 'chat'. I've been asked to attend a meeting tonight. It's not going to be a picnic. The Principal has been less than honest. I have kept a log of her responses, rebuttals, and resistance to implementing a school curriculum and a student behavior code. She's all smoke and mirrors. I'm going to attend the 9th-10th study hall as I always do instead of the meeting. Right now, I'm exhausted and hungry. I've lost so much weight, my watch falls off of my wrist. I'm disgusted with the dog and pony show going on around me. I'm at breakpoint. If I attend that meeting tonight, I won't be nice and in order to leave these kids with something, I have to be tactful and nice.

On the bright side, there is a small, but glimmering hope that I will be able to help Vennila get her passport. We are going to have to ride an awful bus into Chennai, but Vennila has single-handedly killed a Krait snake. In my book, that makes her near god-like. She's worried about me on the bus because I'm white and it's such a novelty among the general Indian population to see someone white, particularly in this area, and particularly a woman. With me along, Vennila's chances of obtaining a passport will skyrocket because I'm white, brassy, and bossy. At heart, all Indian men are subservient. It's a carryover from the British Raj. I intend to use that knowledge to my advantage. I knew my pushy self would come in handy some day. Say a little prayer for Vennila. I'll pay the fees and the bribes. Just hand over her damn passport.

I'm so tired. I'm sorry.

I've been very bad.

Okay, so I've been bad. No surprise there. Right?

We are in the middle of an awful head lice epidemic. Imagine dozens of little girls frantically scratching their heads, picking lice out of one another's hair, watching head lice jump on tables and desks, and you get a picture of how bad it is. Thankfully, I don't have head lice yet, but it's only a matter of time. The children get as close to me as they can. Today, I drew the line when they wanted to be near me and started picking head lice out of one another's hair while they were sitting on my lap. ENOUGH ALREADY.

Here's the part where I start to go bad. I noticed that there are about 50 head lice kits in the Harry Potter closet. I asked the Principal if I could give the housemothers the head lice kits for the children. She said, "No, those kits are for the volunteers." I asked her what the children were using to help control the problem. Her answer? "Nothing." WHAT!!!!!! Long story short. The head lice kits have gone missing. I know where they are.  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Update on the bug bite problem. I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner, but I prayed about it. I asked specifically to be shown some kind of remedy for the worst bites. I needed help. I went to bed. In the morning, when I awoke, I looked toward the ceiling and there were two HUGE spider nests built of clay. They looked a lot like the wasp nests we see in Oregon. My bed is pushed against the wall where the nests were. Apparently, at night, they were crawling down and having quite a feast. Problem solved. I moved my bed away from the wall and destroyed the nests. Thank you, God. Credit given where credit is due.

Being in love with India is like being in a love affair gone terribly wrong. India is a demanding lover and absolutely irresponsible. You know India will get you in the end, and yet you still hang in there. You love the person, not the creep. Right? That's why I love India. I'm a schmuck.

"The earth provides enough to satisfy every man's need, but not every man's greed. - Mahatma Ghandi

Okay. India, (especially your corrupt government), here are a few statistics that tell the REAL story about you:

You're in denial. And here's why. You have a dark side. It's the poverty of your people. You account for over 36 percent of the entire world's poor. Nearly 40 percent of the world's malnourished children live with you. Over 77 percent of your population has been classified as 'poor and vulnerable'. Your chronic caste and religious tensions pale in significance to, and are often the result of, poverty.

India, you suffer from some short-sighted optimism, both at home and throughout the world. You are drunk on visions of grandeur. You will never become the world's "next superpower" until you do something about your millions of desperately poor. Instead of waiting for the wealth to 'trickle down', how about you try generating wealth from the bottom up?

You can start by cleaning out the rampant corruption and graft of your government. Then you can find a little national pride and stop relying on foreign countries and NGOs to care for and feed your poor. Get a little gumption, India. Step up to the plate and assume responsibility for cleaning up the stinking cesspool of your non-existent programs for the poor.

Okay. Enough editorializing. I just had to say it. India could be a beautiful country if it weren't a massive garbage dump in all but a few enclaves of wealth and power.

Done. Mom, I'm going to get arrested for sure for writing this post. Please send peanut butter.

Please Steal Me

Back to my cranky, cynical self. What a relief.

This place sucks. I would give a top ten list of reasons why it does, but I'm up to about a hundred right now and it's hard to choose the ten worst.

Lately, I have been rating my bug bites on a sliding scale. Numero Uno is the absolute worst, swollen, red, ugly, mean, no good, low-down bug bite that ever bit a human being, and Numero Dies (whatever) is just a good insect effort to irritate and annoy me. The Numero Dies' usually end up dead because I have learned to outwit them. I turn off all the lights in my room except for my computer screen. Then I KILL the little buggers when they are attracted to the screen. I can type, kill bugs, and scratch, all at the same time.

I have about 100 bites that rate a Numero Uno. I think I may be allergic to those little Satans. Scratching does no good because the bite area swells to a lump the size of a golf ball within about a minute and  scratching only irritates it even more. I feel like I'm in a horror movie about to give birth to a hairball with teeth. A hundred little hairballs with teeth running around. Nobody in India would give them a second glance.

Please don't tell me to put on bug spray. Have you ever tried to sleep with bug spray on? It must be comparable to being alive while the mortician is trying to embalm you. This is off the subject, but have you ever had that dream where people think you're dead and you're not really, and they try to embalm you and bury you and you keep trying to get someone's attention, but nobody seems to be listening? No? Well, okay. I've shared too much.

Okay, so I'm cranky. I hate, no DETEST, the food here at the 'dining hall' for reasons I have already mentioned in great detail, (please see The Three Stooges) Someone stole a whole package of my flour tortillas that I was counting on for survival. I know who she is and I know where she lives. Right next door. (Cue horror movie music here). I'm going to get her. Why she took my tortillas and left my horrible homemade spaghetti sauce, I just don't understand. I left a sign on the spaghetti sauce that says, "Please steal me". Nobody will.

Don't get me started on the shower accommodations here. Just don't.

And what in the heck is the MATTER with the power supply???? We have had, count 'em, NINE power outages in the last three hours. I'll bet whoever is in charge of the power grid around here just sits around and flips the power on and off again and gets the giggles thinking about how many people must be in the shower or on the potty in TOTAL blackness. Indians. What a sense of humor.

Later. I'm going to get my tortillas back. During the next power outage.

Falling in Love

If I just hadn't gone up on the roof tonight . . . . . .

 In the still of the cool and quiet evening, it is late and I cannot sleep. So I walk up the stairs to the roof and I stand gazing at the stars. There are millions of stars that seem so close, it feels as if I am standing in stardust. Orion, with his sword raised and belt blazing, ready to do battle. The North Star, directing sailing ships loaded with spices. Cassiopea. Jupiter. Venus still visible through the beautiful Palm Trees. This is the night when I, alone, seem to own the stars.

Alone. At one with a reverence and a comfort I cannot name; a longed for peacefulness of spirit and soul. I am humbled and awed before the majesty, splendour, and beauty of Heaven. I am forgiven. Peace at last. Imagine that.

In a heartbeat, I have fallen in love with India.  

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!!!

Valentine's Day is celebrated in India! Imagine that. It could explain why India has 1.2 billion people, but I'm not sure everyone's birthday is in October. I'll get back to you on that.

I'm still trying to figure out India's weird moral standards. If you pay any attention to the huge movie industry over here, nobody gets past the holding hands part of a relationship. Onscreen kissing is strictly forbidden. However . . . . . . . . for the men it's okay to grope women wherever and whenever getting caught won't be likely. For example, my first introduction to India was being groped on the airplane as I dis-embarked. As I said, figuring out how things work around here is like stepping into the La Brea Tar Pits. Hey, it's Valentine's Day! What better day to discuss being groped by an Indian?

Here's another thing about India that takes some getting used to. Because there are so many people, a person's individual space is non-existent. I LIKE space. Giving up my personal space has been an adjustment. For example, there is no such thing as a closed door for privacy. At first, I was a bit uncomfortable when the housemaids just opened the door and walked right into my room for a little tea and crumpets. It didn't matter if I was in various stages of undress. Nobody seemed to notice. I'm not sure whether I should be insulted or not. You decide. I have had the most interesting conversations in my underwear with ALL of the housemaids. At first, I grabbed a sheet, a towel, a curtain, blanket, anything. How fast we adapt. Now, I'm resigned to teaching English to the housemaids in whatever I may be lucky enough to have on. I don't notice it anymore. I don't think the housemaids ever did. Either that, or they're home drawing pictures for their large, extended families and everyone's having a gala time.

The housemaids are campaigning to dress me in a Sari. N-E-V-E-R. American women look dumb in Saris'. They look like mummies dressed up in Grandma's favorite head scarf. Just let me have my Ali-Babas' and let me be.

This is my official Happy Valentine's Day! blog entry. May you be groped by the one you love. Peace out.

Strange Coconuts - Fourth graders, please help me classify.

 I was strolling down the path yesterday scratching my bug bites, minding my own business, when suddenly I espy a very strange, odd looking coconut. It has clothes on! It talks! It smiles. It has a name, too! Have you ever heard of a coconut named Joseph?  BUT WAIT!!

MORE STRANGE COCONUTS! Let's see now. There's that Joseph Coconut again and there's a Sangeetha, Theresa, Tamilelakkya, Priyanka, Papitha, Ambiga, and Pasitha. That Deepenraj coconut is the highest, biggest coconut - and he's got legs and feet. Imagine that. Please help me identify this interesting sub-species of coconuts.

Not to be redundant, but . . . . . . . . . .

ANOTHER DEADLY VENOMOUS SNAKE! (hyperventilating). This snake is called a Krait Snake. One of my fellow volunteers found it in HER BEDROOM. (breathing into a paper bag) The Krait is one of the top four deadly snakes of India - which is one of the top four deadly countries of the world. This little guy crawled in from who knows where. (big deep breaths) Look him up on Wikipedia. I've got to run. I'm busy hermetically sealing myself into my room with duct tape. HELP!! That big black blob is the "Shadow of Death".

The Masked Avengers

Why should I worry about a thing with these stalwart, formidable, superpowers around to protect me? Dang, if they just weren't so cute, they would be scarier. But they will do in a pinch.

Construction of a "Yoga and Meditation" center is going on just outside my window. It's about the size of a comfortable yurt.  It has a metal roof, which means that for ten months of the year it's going to be so hot in there, you will basically bake your brains while you're meditating. That probably WILL rearrange your negative thought patterns.

The workers are interesting. I'm pretty sure they spend most of their day talking about women. This is the rhythm of the work: rev up a circular saw, pound constantly and angrily on steel pipes all day, yell obscenities in Tamil, hawk and spit all day, laugh lasciviously, cough constantly, repeat. I'm not sure what they are doing with the circular saw. The building is cement and brick. But then I'm no authority on building yurts. I'm pretty sure their coughs are tubercular in nature and that's not very funny. Coughs like that have an unmistakable chronically sick, "never going away" sound. I hear it in some of the children, too.

 It's starting to heat up here in India. It's a kind of heat that makes Houston in the dead of summer look like Vail, Colorado. The Indians here are finally beginning to take off their ear muffs. 70 degree temperatures in the early mornings are not for the faint of heart.

It's been an exciting couple of days here at the Ashram. First, the 'fire marshalls' came yesterday. They arrived in full military uniforms with nary a firesuit in sight. They marched crisply behind a Desoto Fire Truck that stopped just milliseconds before mowing down a row of suddenly quite attentive children. Then they stacked some palm fronds and started a fire. I thought we were going to have s'mores there for a second, but nope. The palm fronds were supposed to be a grass hut. It was indeedy quite the demonstration. The 'grass hut' was gone about as fast as a dried out Christmas tree and the whole thing was pretty impressive.Most of the children live in grass huts when they're not here at the Ashram, so the speedy demise of the palm frond hut was not a lesson wasted.

Then we had a 'track meet'. Try to imagine girls performing the high jump in long pants, covered by a long dress and with a long scarf tied around their necks. They cleared the bar every time until it got impossibly high and I doubt anyone, even in the states, could have cleared it. I couldn't help but think that the track coaches in America need to seriously recruit in India. These kids RUN like greased lightning and they are so fun to watch. They are inherently graceful and they run like gazelles. In long pants and skirts . . . . . . .and barefoot. No Phil Knight Nikes within a 100 miles of this place. Imagine what these kids could do for a track team in America.

One more thing. In India, the children call everyone Auntie, or Granny. I make my students call me Mrs. Johnson except for one child who isn't even in one of my classes. She has gravitated toward me since the first day I came. Poor thing. She has terrible judgement. Anyway . . . . . . word gets around. Everybody knows they have to call me by my name. As I have pointed out on more than one occasion, I couldn't possibly be their Granny. I'm the wrong color. Okay, where was I? Oh right. Anyway, this little fourth grader with the poor taste in people came up to me today and said, (in perfect English, I might add) "For everyone else, you are Mrs. Johnson, but for me, you are always my Granny." The kid has 'checked' me with her king.

BJ

Good things about India . . . . . .

I'm writing this post because my dear mother is afraid the Indian authorities are going to think I'm important enough to read this blog. Then they're going to cook up some excuse for arresting me and I'm going to wind up in an Indian jail, a far better option than an Indian government hospital. So, in the spirit of objectivity, well, no . . . . . . I'm never objective, I thought and I thought. I thought some more. I pondered the question: "What good things are there that I can report about India? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .still thinking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Okay. I've got something.

(1)  I get to go to school every day in my pajamas. They are actually called "Ali-Babas", but the effect is still the same. Actually, pajamas would be a step up.

(2)  Nobody here knows what I actually look like. The humidity makes me look like a 'Ghandi-like' version of Shirley Temple. Why bother to comb my hair in this heat and humidity? Or take a shower for that matter. Everyone else smells worse than I do.

(3)  I can swear and nobody will understand what I just said. For example, I get to say, "Sit down and shut up you little S---" and everyone thinks I just said, "Stand up and let's have a party." Groovy. I also get to say "groovy" and nobody here dates me back to the sixties.

(4)  When I walk by, all of the Indian teachers stand up and bow. I am able to nurture my Napoleonic delusions of grandeur freely.

(5)  I get to lie in bed at night and hear the craziest animal calls and shrieks and roars. I feel so protected by the flimsy screen on my window.

(6)  The full moon in India is so bright, it's difficult to look at. I'm serious. In Oregon, the moon is definitely sandbagging. It's got way more wattage than it pretends it has.

(7)  I can bobble head. I can bobble head that Brahmin jackass in the Administrative office and he doesn't even know what I'm saying. I love bobble heading. I have said some of the meanest things that way. Just today, I told someone I was thinking of killing them and I sincerely hoped they wouldn't take it personally.

(8)  I get to look into a 100 pairs of beautiful brown eyes and realize that I can and I am making a difference, one child at a time. I have to pretend I'm Nanny McPhee sometimes, but I always get to break the spell sooner or later and earn a hug from some needy child.

(9)  I am adjusting to a life absolutely devoid of comfort and realizing that I don't need comfort - but I do need to know that for a few brief months, I touched lives and lives touched mine forever.

 

Vanilla Mary

(10) I met Vanilla Mary. And I am forever humbled. Vanilla Mary is illiterate, but speaks Hindi, Tamil, and English flawlessly. She earns about $100 per month. A few days ago, she came to me and asked if I would help her fill out a donation slip. She can't even write her name. She gave 12 percent of her meager earnings and 'thanked God' for her blessings. The wet spots on the donation slip were my tears. I, who have so much . . . . . . . . . .

So, there you have it. Ten things I like about India. And you all thought I couldn't be anything but a cranky cynic, didn't you?

alu Kalai Vanakkam.  I'm learning Tamil. Wait just a SECOND . . . . . .didn't I come here to teach English??

Calling Mrs. Ottley's Fourth Graders

Wait a second . . . . . . I need your help identifying a species. Now which one of these pictures has the real monkey? I'm confused.

Chengalpattu's 'Hospital'

Well, it's been a pretty thrilling day here in India. We were visiting a small coastal 'resort' town when our driver suddenly received an emergency call from his 22-year old 9 months pregnant wife. So we jumped in the car and raced back to the 'hospital' with him. On the way, we had a flat tire. Please note the lack of tread on the tire, signifying the high value and esteem we volunteers enjoy. We're lucky the tire didn't blow. Either we would have killed someone on a scooter or in a rickshaw, or a gigantic cement truck or bus full of oh, probably 100 people would have killed us.

But the tire and nearly being killed isn't the real story.

The other photos are of the 'hospital'. I would have taken some pictures of the inside which, incredibly, is actually worse than the outside. I always hesitate out of respect for the dignity and privacy of the people caught in such nightmares as this hospital in "Chengalpattu" - the closest town to our rural area. What I 'saw' were scenes out of a horror movie; long, filthy rooms filled with the sick, some in beds, some not, surrounded by relatives trying to care for them as best they can. No medical services such as IVs or monitors of any kind were visible. Just very sick people everywhere.

 Our driver's young wife is scheduled for a C-section tonight at 10PM. She'll be lucky if she lives and does not die of infection. But here's some beauty in this story. Already, she's surrounded by half a dozen people who obviously love her and are concerned. I felt like an interloper, yet the family was, as usual, unfailingly gracious. Just being around them makes me want to be a better person. I want to tell them that when I go. But how? How do I tell them that I will remember their courage and resilience forever? I won't be able to do it without crying and then they would try to give me their houses to make me feel better. That just won't do.

So-o-o-o-o-o-o. I'm trying with considerable difficulty not to turn this into a soapbox on healthcare reform. So I'll shut up and just let the pictures tell you a sad story from a sad country about the sad options available to the sad, unfortunate poor. This experience is still fresh on my mind. I want to hit somebody. One of these stupid, dumb cows would do just fine. That would make me feel so much better. Just go out into the field and deck a poor, unfortunate, unsuspecting cow.

I'm Going to LIVE!!

I was rummaging around in a Harry Potter closet for some food to eat and you'll never guess what I found. A FLASHLIGHT! Yes, a flashlight. That works! No more heart-stopping sudden pitch black darkness when "Old Faithful", my former infamous flashlight shorted out at the most inopportune moments. I will say that I have developed some rather intricate dance moves in the dead of night trying to cajole "Old Faithful" into just a few more seconds of life giving light.

When I get home, I am going to become a professional Rumba dancer. I think I've got the moves. Rapid hops to the front, back, and simultaneously to the sides.  A few light on the feet twists and turns and some graceful HUGE leaps into the air. I make Michael Jackson look . . . . . . . .well . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .dead. (That wasn't nice)

There is always a silver lining in every cloud. Why, yes, I do live among the most dangerous snakes in the world. Yes, I do have a healthy desire not to step on one. Yes, 'Old Faithful' was a blessing after all. I am now going to be on PBS dancing the Rumba for the big prize money. Who was it that said Ginger Rogers could do everything Fred Astaire did, but she did it backwards and in high heels? I am now a member of that elite dancing group. And I learned how thanks to 'Old Faithful'.

Some of you thought I would never be caught dead in India. It's true. I don't want to be caught dead in India. Yesterday, I made the mistake of asking someone what somebody was burning alongside the road. BIG MISTAKE. Here in lovely, rural India, when someone dies, there are no mortuaries . . . and no cemeteries, something I failed to note.

Thank you, God, for my new flashlight. And the paper clips.

Your friend,
Betty W. Johnson
ODL 567982 - Just in case I need to be identified before the bonfire.