Fundraiser Ends on May 15th!

Help us reach our goal so Ammamma can surprise her family with a home!

A huge, "Thank you" to those of our friends and family who have already donated.

Building a Home

It is not often that one is given the opportunity to thank a friend for intangible kindness with something tangible in kind.  But, along with delicious curry, India dished up this chance.

Ammamma and her nephew, Abishek, 2011

Ammini Phillip, or “Ammamma,” is the headmistress of the women’s dormitory where I lived while volunteering in Mavelikara, Kerala from 2006-07.  We stayed up late playing ludo, we told each other about our families and she took care of me when I was sick.  We became great friends.

A former volunteer visited Mavelikara in February 2011 and told me some bad news.

Ammamma’s house collapsed in July 2009.  Her family has been renting a house since then, while saving money for a new home.

“Building a new house costs five lakhs ($11,100),” Ammamma said.  Her family lives in a fishing village in the backwaters of Allapuzha, Kerala.

Ammamma and her family at their rented home in Allapuzha, 2011

“Could you help me find a sponsor in the U.S.?” She asked.

The cycle of poverty has a harsh grip on families like Ammamma’s.  Already poor, a tragedy like this one could leave them in dire despair if, say, her 79-year-old father falls ill and the family earnings are required for health care as well as monthly rent.  Ammamma realizes this danger and is problem-solving her way through a financially tumultuous situation.

When each of the Mavelikara volunteers began our time in India, we asked our friends and family for support.  We come together now, years after our time in India, to ask for your financial support once again.  Our donations won’t solve her problems nor will it prevent them in the future, but it may help her bridge the frightening gap between desperation and survival. 

This is a difficult time to ask for money from friends and family.  Some of you may be struggling to find a job, to pay for student loans or to save to buy your own home or replace your old furnace.

Ammamma at the beach in her town, 2011

Ammamma built a home for the five of us when we lived in India, a pivotal year for each of us in different ways.  Please make a donation to help Ammamma build her family a house.     

Sincerely,

Heather Oleson (2005-06), Cat Rabenstine (2006-07), Katherine Bryant (2007-08) and Ariel Givens (2008-09) 

Donate through PayPal by clicking the button below (you do not need a PayPal account to donate, you do need a credit card).  


If you prefer to send a personal check, please email me.



Thank you for your donation!

What Does India Sound Like to Me?

Afraid to take the steps?

Do you avoid the stairs at the Apple Store on Michigan Avenue?  Do you freeze at the bottom of the atrium steps in the capitol building in Madison, WI?  

If not, you just don’t get it.  You aren’t part of the club.  You see, I am afraid of heights.  I don’t know anyone as afraid as I am.  Which makes me the leader of this club. 

Hiking-and-scared in Petra, Jordan

When I approach something high, my body freezes in shock.  My heart beats faster as I stare at the impending doom.  It’s decision time. 

I ask myself a barrage questions, “How high is it, really?  Can I see the top (or the bottom)?  Is there a fence or a railing?  Is there ever a point where the railing ends, leaving me in the lurch?” 

I sweat, my knees shake, I grab for something stable, sometimes the nearest person.   

If I’m at the top of something looking down, I feel as though I’m spinning, doomed to hurdle down. 

In the scariest situations, I feel nauseous and consider any other option (“Can I take a different train?  I’ll go anywhere else!”).  If I’m with a stranger, this is when it gets awkward.   If I’m with a friend, this is when they get annoyed.

Life goes on though, and I must, nearly daily, face this fear experts call “irrational.” 

Recently, my boyfriend and I went to the pyramids in Giza.  We paid extra to enter one of the pyramids.  I read in the Lonely Planet beforehand, that entering a pyramid was not for those with claustrophobia.  I felt comforted by that.  The idea of going up stairs in a womb-like, tightly enclosed space seemed easy.

The first stairway was so tight that you are basically forced to crawl up.  It was the second part that made me freeze.  I had to climb a precarious ladder that led to a precarious stairway with a precarious railing that led to a steeper stairway with a sad excuse for a railing in the middle of the completely open atrium of the top of the pyramid.  I could not see how far up it went, and only knew that it led to a hot, dark death chamber.

I looked at my boyfriend and said, “I can’t do it.”

The next few moments are now a blur.  People passed us awkwardly.  Tears streamed down my face as I stared up at the stairs helplessly.  I asked a woman who walked by, “How far up do the stairs go?” seeking answers that would make me feel like I could do it.

At last, after who knows how long, Joe looked at me and said, “Well listen Cat, I’m not gonna go up if you aren’t.”

That’s all he had to say.  I’ll skip something scary, but definitely don’t want someone else to miss out on the inside of a pyramid because of me.

So I went up. 

I cried the whole way.  I asked him to walk behind me (then I couldn’t turn back) and put his hand on my back, which somehow settled my spinning head.

So was it worth it? 

Yeah.  My tears quickly melted into my sweat.  But, it was where the pharaoh laid.  It was a room filled with mystery and spirits and history.  And, it was a room that I had to conquer my fear to reach, which allowed me to leave with my pride intact (once I wiped off the tears).   

A few months after the Egypt trip, I spent a month traveling solo in India.  Without Joe to convince me it was time to conquer my fear so he could see the inside of a pyramid, I had to face my fears alone.

I had a huge backpack on my back and a daypack hanging from my front.  I was standing alone on the catwalk that connects from above the many platforms at the Bangalore railway station, shaking, clutching my stomach and trying not to tear up. 

My first thought was, “I’ll have to go somewhere else on a train that leaves from platform one.” 

That should tell you where my logic goes when I’m frozen.

I calmed down and reminded myself that I had no option but to go down the stairs.  I had to do it and I could do it.  “I’ll be fine,” I told myself.

I waited for a few people to walk down the staircase and followed them closely.  Lucikly Indians do not require the same space bubble that Americans do, so I abused the privilege of bodily closeness. 

I focused my attention on the backs of their heads and held onto the railway that led me safely down.  Halfway down I realized I was muttering to myself.  I was the crazy, crying foreigner talking herself down the steep steps.

Once at the bottom, my flood of relief was interrupted by a sinking realization.  My train was, in fact, at a different platform. 

Defeated, I walked to a tea stall and said definitively to the chai walla, “I’m not going back up those stairs.  How else can I get to that platform?”

He saw the desperation in my face.  I was eyeing the train tracks, ready to hurdle myself over them to avoid the stairs. 

“There’s a tunnel that way,” he said. 

No longer the crazy, crying foreigner, I was now the solo-traveler ready to conquer anything in her path.  A tunnel, now that I can do!

There are alleged solutions to my problem: treating physical symptoms (mantras and candles), psychotherapy (what caused this?), behavior therapy (virtual scary situations), medication (for depression) and the support of friends and family.

I’m skeptical. 

As a kid one summer, I conquered the high dive at the Wynfield Club in York, Pennsylvania for one day.  One day.  I spent all afternoon jumping off the high dive, but the next day, I couldn’t do it again. 

I am able to conquer my fear when I have to, which means I could always conquer it.  The thing is, sometimes I’d really rather not be the crazy, crying foreigner talking herself down the steep staircase.  I’d rather be the leader of an elite club, facing my fear only when I must and then rewarding myself with chocolate on flat, safe ground.   Would you like to join?

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!