Fashion Week in Mavelikara

This fashion show was part of the Sister Rachel Joseph "Hostel Day" program.

A Walking Dollar Sign

Two days ago in Goa, a young Indian man perched on his motorcycle jumped up when I walked by.  “Excuse me ma’am, I have a question for you.”

Ugh.  I don’t want to buy anything and I don’t want to go to your shop and I don't need a taxi ride and I don’t need a scooter or drums or marijuana, I thought.

I stopped and waited for the solicitation.

“Why don’t foreign people want to stop and talk to Indians?  Why do you always think we’re trying to sell you something?”

Hah!  He caught me!  But seriously, because I’m a walking dollar sign in a tourist town like Goa.  If cash registers still made the “chi-ching” noise and I were a cartoon person, that noise would be my personal sound effect.

“Because, typically, Indian people are trying to sell me something.” I replied.

“You come here and you stay in hotels and you never get to know Indian people!”  He protested.

Awesome.  I come to Goa to relax after visiting Mavelikara, where I lived for a year, and I get harassed by an oily-haired motorcycle-dude for not knowing any Indians.  He is messing with the wrong foreign chick.

“I lived in Kerala for a year, I…”

“I know, I know,” He interjected nonsensically.

“Wait a minute buddy, you stop me on the street to ask me a question and then interrupt me while I’m respectfully answering you?!  No way!  You listen to me finish my sentence if you want to ask questions!”  I berated him.

Silenced, he let me continue.  

I explained that I have lived here and I do have Indian friends who I care about.  But, if he were to walk down the Goan streets in my shoes, he would not feel surrounded by friends, rather people whose income is desperately dependent on my dollar bills.  So yes, in Goa I don’t stop and talk to Indian people because, mainly, they just want me to buy something. 

I walked away in a huff, frustrated at being blamed for something I have no control over in a place I came to seeking relaxation. 

I also immediately considered immigrants to my country, a land of immigrants that often welcomes them with judgment and even fear, especially if they are Muslim. 

While living in Chicago, I met many immigrants who were struggling to survive in an unfamiliar land.  I will never walk in a new immigrant’s shoes, but one of the greatest gifts living in India gave me, was the ability to imagine what it might be like.   

I felt like a helpless child each time I tried to go shopping for basic necessities, when I stood at the bus stand not being able to read a single sign, when I didn’t know how to flush the toilet or how to find personal medication that I’d rather not have to ask everyone and their brother how to find.

I felt torn when I people harped on American foreign policy, wanting to defend my country but knowing I probably wouldn’t defend it if I heard the same in Chicago.

When I expressed frustrations about gender relations in Mavelikara, or religious intolerance at Bishop Moore College, it was met with defensiveness and distain.  Fair enough.  I was here for only a short time, enough to get my feet wet.  How dare I express frustration about things I was only beginning to understand?   

I had a few people I consistently went to for advice and help.  It was comforting to have those close friends, but I realized that they would never know who I really am.  How can you imagine someone being successful and independent when that person doesn’t even know that there is more than one type of mango?   

And, it took me until this return trip to realize that, when random people on the street asked me if I had bathed, they were really just saying hi.

I’m only realizing now, upon my return, many of the things I learned while living in Mavelikara.  

"You Are Not a Guest, You Are Family"

It was a joyous return to Mavelikara, with lots of laughter and love.  People showed me that they cared by remembering stories, bringing out photographs of us together and sharing homemade meals.  Many remembered my favorite food, aapam, which was a huge surprise and a repeated treat for me. 

I also felt the frustrations of the year return in an unexpected way, condensed into one-week as if time were flying by and I was experiencing the year all over again. 

I kept imagining the unending, spiraling embrace in Dante's Inferno.  They loved each other, but they desperately needed some breathing room.

During my second night staying at the ladies’ hostel, I sat down to email my Mom and my Joe.  A few of the hostel girls hovered a few feet away chattering together.  Then they came up behind me, so they could see the computer screen and still be able to ask me questions.

“What is your name?” 

I stretched my neck around to say, “Cate.”

“Where are you from?”

“I’m from Chicago.”

Then they whispered to each other and I heard one of them say, “Dear Mama,” as she read the first paragraph of my email to her friends before they scampered up the stairs.

The next morning I saw Kochamma for the first time during my visit.  An ancient matriarch, at least 200-hundred-years old, she was married to a Church of South India (CSI) pastor who died years ago (“Kochamma” is a title that means pastor’s wife). 

She now has a mysterious job at the hostel.  No one is quite sure what she does, but she visits a few times every week to tell people what to do and scowl purposefully as she scans the hostel budget books.

When she saw me she made an “aww” noise and pinched my chin.  Unsure of how to proceed with adult conversation after commencing that like, I went with, “Hi Kochamma.”

She asked the obligatory questions and then disappeared into her office to do important-looking but unnecessary things.

On my last day in Mavelikara, Ammamma asked lots of questions about where I was going and what I was doing, astonished that I was alone. 

She wrote down the name and phone number of the homestay I was bunking at for the next week and I shuddered.  Will she call me daily?  Will she check up on me?

At 29-years-old, I felt like I had returned to high school, except this time my mother is a voyeuristic nun who is very concerned for my well-being but knows very little about the capabilities appropriate to a near 30-year-old. 

If I were married and had children, very reasonable for my age, I would be treated quite differently.  Adulthood in Mavelikara isn’t reached until you’re hitched.

But, now that I’m in Goa watching the sunset over the waves of the sea, I can recognize that I was given an immeasurable gift to have a bundle of Indian friends with whom I’ve shared laughs and tears, who all want the best for me and I for them. 

“You are not a guest, you are family,” Ammamma said when I thanked her for making up my old room so nicely. 

No Such Thing as an Uneventful Massage

I fell into a relaxing routine while in Alleppey.  I woke up late and ate a delicious breakfast curry, made by the woman who owns the house, and then grabbed a rickshaw to head to my 10:30 Ayurveda massage. 

Sushila, my masseuse greeted me with a smile and led me through an array of loud construction to a hut out back.  I took off my shoes and walked into the room. 

When you sign up for a massage, you are never quite sure what you are in for until you’re lying naked on a table, a vulnerable proposition to say the least.

In Chicago, I was gifted a birthday massage by a generous friend.  The masseuse was a gentle giant with soft hands and an equally soft voice.  He seemed almost timid about the whole process so much so that I wondered if it was his first massage. 

At one point he stood at my head massaging my shoulders so hard that he had to catch me in his arms as I fell off the table.   Both of us ended up in a giggle fest that lasted the rest of the 30 minutes.  He left so I could dress and returned with a glass of water, apologizing profusely but still laughing.

“This was probably your worst massage ever!”  He said with embarrassment. 

In Italy I visited a spa somewhere between Pisa and Florence.  It was off the beaten trail and nearly empty minus staff, maybe for a reason.  I chose both a massage and a scented oil (lavender) and followed my masseuse to the room. 

For this massage, I was given a pair of disposable underwear that were made of the same material as the hair nets the cafeteria ladies wore at Leader Heights Elementary School. 

My masseuse turned on Enya and got working.  Afterwards, she left the room to give me a few moments of relaxation, during which time the Enya CD started to skip. 

I wondered as I lay there, do I get up and turn of the CD or is this a test of my ability to truly meditate no matter what the distraction?  The woman would inevitably return as I’m standing there in my poofy, cafeteria hair net underwear fumbling with the CD player.

With this in mind, I hesitated before entering the hut the first time, wondering what I would find.  

It was a small room with thatched walls, the centerpiece of which was a huge slab of oiled wood in the shape of a person, sloping down in the center with raised sides. 

Using hand gestures and broken English, she told me to undress.  Then she made me a loincloth by taking a long piece of white cloth, ripping the sides down nearly the entire length of the cloth, making strings that would tie around my waist.  She tucked the long centerpiece between my legs and hooked it around the strings at my back.  Brilliant.

Sushila pulled out a dirty plastic stool and beckoned me to sit down for a soothing head massage.  Every now and then she let out an airy belch, which only added to my own relaxation.

In a few minutes she patted the side of the wooden person, asking me to lie down.  It was cold, dirty and a little slippery.  It smelled like wood and medicinal oils.

It was a wonderfully uneventful massage until she stuck her thumb in my armpit.  I flinched and tried to prevent smiling, which made me burst into laughter.  She smiled, but continued and soon we were both giggling. 

To indicate she was finished, she drummed my bum with a pa-rum-pum-pum pat and put a towel on the door to the bathroom, clearly indicating it was time to shower.

Traveler’s note:

I found the cost of staying at an Ayurveda hospital far too high for my tight budget, so I opted to bunk at Arunima Homestay, which advertised in-house Ayurveda massages. 

When I arrived, I found out they no longer provide in-house massages, they now book them for guests at a place across town called Snehadara Guest House. 

Though Sushila was a fabulous masseuse, Snehadara was not only a bit gruddy but also undergoing construction immediately outside the massage hut.  It was loud and distracting.  Also, taking a 10-minute rickshaw ride across town ruins ones post-massage zen!

I cancelled my last massage and would look for a different option next time.

Not a Walk by the Lake

Rejuvenated by an ayurvedic massage and refreshing nap, I headed out for an late afternoon adventure by the lake in town.

My first hurdle was communicating to the rickshaw driver my intentions.  Map in hand, I thought it would be easily sorted.  I just wanted to go for a walk by the lake, so I didn’t really care where exactly he took me.

Allepey is bookended by water, the sea on one side and Pallumalla Lake on the other with canals in between.  The lake is the location of a famous annual boat race. 

The driver held my map in his hands and stared at it blankly.  It was written in English, but I thought the bodies of water would be clear in either case.  I repeated the name of the lake, probably without coming close to the correct pronunciation.  We repeated this charade a few times and he finally gestured for me to jump in.

We drove through downtown Alleppey, passing jewelry shops on one side and spice carts on the other, horns honking and pedestrians hurriedly crossing the street between bikes and rickshaws and lorries.  We passed the docking point for houseboats, all in a line along the shore in an array of casual to fancy.  Some had two floors, the bottom with a private room for sleeping and the top a deck for lounging and eating.  Others were like canoes on steroids, with plastic chairs strewn around the deck for passengers to organize to their liking. 

We continued further into the neighborhood, passing rickshaws filled to the brim with small children who saw me and did double-takes (I love that) and waved maniacally as if getting my attention would save a life.  As we continued, the road became rougher.  I bounced along, holding on for dear life less I tumble out of the rickshaw and attract more stares than I do by existing.  We turned a corner and I found myself in a gated resort by the lake, much further north than necessary for a simple glimpse at the lake.

The driver escorted me to the resort’s reception desk, desperate for some real communication.  I conveyed the mishap to the concierge, who seemed to have difficulty thinking of a place I could go to enjoy a view of the lake and take a walk. 

After telling me that the docking point isn’t a great location for walking, he told me that the driver would take me there.

“But I thought you said it wasn’t a good place?”

“Yes.”

“So maybe I shouldn’t go there?”

“Yes.”

He discussed some more with the driver.

“Do people walk by the lake?  Maybe people don’t walk by the lake…” I interjected, wanting to sort this out sooner than later.

“Sorry ma’am, I’m translating for your driver,” he said.  Annoyed at my interruption.

After he finished I asked my question again. 

“Typically people go on a boat ride,” he said in explanation of how people may enjoy the lake. 

This being established, I asked him to convey to my driver that I’ll just head back downtown, close to the mouth of the lake.

After a few more minutes of translating, the concierge said, “He will take you there.”

“Where?” I asked, needing confirmation that I wasn’t being dropped off in no mans land by the lake.

“Downtown.”

I asked for change for my 500 rupee bill, which he didn’t have, and hopped back in the rickshaw sorely disappointed at the failure of my expedition.

After riding through the neighborhood, startling more small children in the process, he turned onto a side road that headed towards the lake. 

“Ah!  Where are you going?”

“Lake.”

Heeding the concierge’s advice that walking by the lake isn’t really done, and worried that he would drop me in a place where rickshaws are hard to come by, I reminded the driver that I really would like to return downtown.

“Vendu, downtown madhi”  (Very childish Malayalam for: I don’t want, downtown is enough.)

We reached a point central enough to grab a rickshaw and close enough to the lake to do some exploring.  I paid him 150 rupees ($3.35) and hopped out, feeling exhausted from the unaccomplished mission and communication disaster.

A few blocks away I happened upon a tourist information center.  Having learned my lesson, I paid 200 rupees to book a sunset boat ride the next day.  

Eating in India

Cutting down a jackfruit, chopping up a fish and cooling down your tea.  Here are some food moments from Kerala!

"What a Christmas!"

“What a Christmas!”  Ashwathi exclaimed to all of us from the kitchen where she was fixing tea.

With a packed social schedule, it wasn't until  my last day in Mavelikara that I was able to visit Ashwathi and her family. 



A 2007 photo of Ashwathi, Adulia and Adira with their neighbors.


Ashwati, (above in the white puffy dress) who was in fourth standard when I left India, is the youngest of three sisters.  Her father is out of the picture and her mother has a heart condition. 

After school, I often tromped to her house for a rousing game of tag.  Afterwards, I would sit on one of two twin beds drinking a cup of tea adorned with ants and watch an episode of Mr. Bean.  Their hut had two rooms and a kitchen.  A latrine was outside, shared by a few houses.  The cow hut stood two feet from their house and the mooing was audible from within. 

Ashwathi was tiny.  It was hard for me not to pick her up and give her a good squeeze every time I saw her. 

Ashwathi and her grandmother in 2007.

She’d show me her cow on a near daily basis and, though it seemed to her like a pet, I knew it was part of her family’s livelihood.

Ashwathi and I in 2007.

Four years later, I tromped down the same path noticing small differences but not many.  The road leading to the dirt path to her house was now paved.  Instead of the patter of shoeless feet and screams of, “Cate Miss!” as I approached, there was a lasting silence.

Do they still live here?  Is everyone healthy?  Are there improvements to their house?  Has the father reappeared?

I turned the corner onto the dirt road and immediately saw Ashwathi’s aunt walking to the water spigot.  We both stopped when we saw each other.  I tilted my head and smiled, waiting to see if she recognized me. 

“Oh! Hello Miss!  Enda devame!  Evide poyo?!”

She did.

I followed her as she nearly ran back to the house, screaming out things as she approached.  I could tell she was saying things like, “Wait until Ashwathi sees you!  Sister!  The strange, severly-white lady has returned!”

Ashwati's Mom, Aunt and Grandmother.  A matriarchal household of three generations.

Ashwathi’s grandmother looked exactly the same.  She stood with a crouch, donned in a dirty saree blouse and colorful mundu wrapped around her waist.  She gave me a gaping smile and pinched my chin.

When I stepped into their house, I first noticed her mother, clapping her hands together and slapping her chest.  “Sandosham!  Sandosham!”  She yelled exuberantly.  This woman was really happy.  Tears welled up in my eyes, both in relief and happiness.

After settling down a bit, I looked around to find myself sitting in an entirely new room with a TV, simple sofa set, white-washed walls and a dining table.  They have a living room!  I glanced towards the kitchen and noticed a gleaming red refridgerator.  A fridge! 

“Ashwathi!!” Her mother screamed.  Ashwathi came out, not sure what to expect.  She saw me and smiled.  We clasped hands and looked at each other for a minute.

“Do you remember me?”  I asked.

“Yes, Miss” She smiled. 

“You’re so tall!”  I stood up and make a quick comparison, then sat right back down realizing that my seventh grade friend was nearly my height.

Adulia is in 9th grade and Ashwathi, on my right, is in 7th grade.

She looked beautiful.  Her hair was in long pigtails down her back.  She wore her green and white government-school uniform, looking much older than in the elementary school frocks she wore before.  Her shoulders slumped a bit as she walked, lumbering a bit now instead of frolicking as she did four years ago.

She always stood out to me among the kids in the elementary school.  Not only because she was the tiniest in her class, as I typically was, but because of her ability to exuberantly dance during recess while at the same time, her eyes spoke volumes to the depth of her life experience.  This was a kid who lived in poverty and didn’t know what to expect of her future.

I noticed now the weight of responsibility that hadn’t been there in fourth grade.  No more Mr. Bean and tag after school, she attended tuition classes and sold her cow’s milk around the neighborhood.

Though I had stopped by for a surprise visit, she took care of her responsibilities.  She ran to her tuition center to postpone her class and she did a quick run through her neighborhood to sell milk.  She returned in a flash and sat next to me, sifting through the earrings I brought for her and her sisters.

“Cow?”  She asked.

“Yes!”  I responded, and we trekked to the back of the house to see her cow, the same one I timidly petted four years ago.

We took a picture, just like one we had taken after tag one day back in 2007, of her standing by her cow’s head.  The cow now had strangely twisted horns and seemed enormous, and Ashwathi seemed to tower over it unlike before.

Ashwathi and her enormous cow.

We returned to the house and Ashwathi’s aunt presented me with her wedding album.  She was married in 2003, before I lived in India, but didn’t yet have the photo album probably because she didn’t have enough money for it.  She proudly brought out the saree that Ashwathi’s Mom had given her as a wedding present, it was cream colored with rich embroidery.  

I found myself staring at Ashwathi through out the presentation of tea and photos and exclamations of surprise and happiness.

I assume her life will always be hard.  Her shoulders are already slumped a bit, maybe with stress and self-consciousness.  Her smile a tad less exuberant and her childishness evaporated.  But, she was doing well in school and selling her cow’s milk.  Her smile held vestiges of her childish exuberance and her eyes were those of an adult.

I realized as I stared, that I felt proud of her.

Bleating goats and backwaters bliss

The covered 15-passenger boat surged to a start and my cheeks immediately began to jiggle with the jumbling of the motor.  I bit my lip to avoid making a childish whirring noise in reaction. 

We puttered through the narrow backwater canal, the crew plus eight passengers.  Two Indian couples, one Japanese couple, an older German woman and me.  We are a frugal bunch, opting for the three-hour sunset boat ride that costs only 200 rupees (less than $5).





Backwaters bliss

As we left loud Alleppey in the dust, we passed the biggest resort in town on our right.  Through the boat window, I saw white, two-story bungalows in a row with an enormous backwaters boat parked in front.  Across the canal on my left, I saw the ubiquitous Indian fishing community homes hidden behind trees. One-story cement homes with two or three rooms, the outside painted in a variety of colors making them shine brightly through the green backdrop.

Fishing village homes

Resort in the distance

I listened in amusement as the younger of the two Indian couples explained the numerous languages and dialects spoken here to the Japanese couple. 

“In Kerala, they speak Malayalam.  In Tamil Nadu, they speak Tamil.  In every state a different language!”

“Ohhh!”

Later in the trip, the Indian man who explained languages turned to humming incessantly.  Convinced he was ruining my zen, I was about to move to the lower part of the boat until he started air guitaring to himself.  I stayed put, recognizing a true zen moment when I saw one.

The German woman sported tan, quick-dry pants that zip-off into inappropriately short shorts.  She made repeated trips into the bowels of the boat to spray herself vigorously with mosquito repellant, carefully never to rub it in with her hands, using her legs like a grasshopper to spread out the deet.  Meanwhile, the older Indian woman watched in a combination of interest and skepticism as she lounged in her free-flowing cotton saree. 

Large, luxurious houseboats lumbered past our significantly smaller boat.   As we puttered by, I wondered how many of the families we passed benefit from the backwaters tourist trade.   

Big, fancy houseboat

Tiny one-person fishing boats were parked outside neon pink homes.  During the obligatory tea break at four, one fisherman pulled up to the café in his boat to sell fish to a few women.  His cigarette hung precariously from his lips as he scooped about fifteen fish into each of the bowls the women brought.  Afterwards, he was served tea in a glass, pouring the remainder out into the canal when he finished.

Fisherman taking a tea break

We whirred by bleating goats and cows ready to be milked.  Kids scampered out of passenger boats coming home from school and women worked in paddy fields with bellowing hats on their heads.  Chickens picked scraps on porch steps and women slappedlaundry on rocks.  People were bathing and working and eating and washing as I clicked photos and passed quickly by, a tableau that each tourist views from a distance.

Students take a school boat to this government school.

Villagers had different reactions to being an unintended part of this tableau.  Some waved and smiled, directing their children to the tourists waving at them.  One woman put her hand up to her face and turned away, avoiding our cameras.  How many times must she do that everyday?  A few hawked fresh coconut juice or treats along the way.

It was a wonderfully relaxing evening.  Repleat with beautiful village vistas, a cloudy sunset and some major-friggin-air-guitar.