Swinging Boats and Fishing for Beer

I am sitting in a big blue plastic tent. It is called 'Munchies' and it is my favourite restaurant. Munchies is owned by a Nepali women called 'Rita' and ran by her Nepali staff who work the season in Bhagsu before traveling down to Goa next month. I keep meaning to write about the seasonal work of the Nepalis – half the year in the north and the other half in the south – when do they spend time in 'their' country? When do they see their families? Do they like India? Do they like tourists? Superficial questions you may think, but I think not. Anyway, I am sitting in a big blue plastic tent, in upper Bhagsu, unable to hear anything apart from the thud thud thud drippppp thud of the incessant rain. It has been raining in India for many months now. The monsoon in Kolkata officially started on the 16th of June, but the dates were staggered around the country. Here in Bhagsu/ Mcleod Ganj, the monsoon officially ended on the 9^th of September. The end of the summer rains were celebrated by an Indian fair.

For the week of the 9^th of September, the streets of Mcleod Ganj were taken over by tiny wooden stalls, filled up with plastic this and plastic thats: plastic plates, plastic cups, plastic trays, plastic bangles, plastic hair accessories, plastic toys. Between this wide array of plastics were interjections of cheap underwear for Him and for Her: Large pink thermal boxershorts (for him) and Calvin Klein high rise extra elasticated knickers (for her). There was (as there always is during any crowd gathering event, be it Tibetan or Indian) the Mute Ballon Woman, inflating the balloons with her heavy old pressurised tank of air which she pushes around the vicinity all day, everyday. There was also the Bindi Man, trying to tempt women of all ages and colours towards his pile of red dust by sticking out his finger and blessing your unblessed forehead. For the week of the 9^th of September, the original Tibetan stalls selling their pearls, corals, turquoise stones and woolly Free Tibet attire, seemed overran, hidden behind the wares of plastic and bright blessing dust and sweet sweet sweeeeeet Indian treats.

The narrow streets shrunk further still, so to reach anywhere in a hurry was meant arriving late. I also found my own source of enjoyment/ revenge. The congested streets and influx of domestic tourists meant that there were far too many young Indian men sauntering around, who in my opinion were spending, far too much time observing foreign tourists – most notably young women. After two consecutive times of feeling a grasping hand on my unsuspecting behind, I began to innocently stick out my closet foot, and ooops, “so sorry to trip you over but you really should watch where your going rather than grabbing my bum!”

In between all of these colours, plastics, shoppers and Gropers sat the Man in the Box. Head sticking out of his box, feet dangling, shoulders hunched, eyes diverted. If I were him, I think I would be a little peeved at having so many more uninvited people wandering around my concrete garden.

After a few days of observing the fair, I realised I had left half of it completely unobserved. What had looked like a building site (either in a state of repair of disrepair) had been transformed into a temporary Amusement Park. The road leading to the park was lined with Indian food stalls: Wooden tables filled with bowls, and each bowl filled with a pile of different brightly coloured food; sending out a combined warning sign to foreign tourists and tempting 'eat me' signs to domestic tourist. Customers lined up waiting to be given a plate, on top of which was piled a spoonful of colour from across the spread.

Set apart from the food stalls were stall after stall of 'India Games': A row of multicoloured mini balloons waiting to be shot and suspended swinging plastic dolls also waiting to be shot; and then to add to the confusion, there stood a stall blaring out Indian pop music, filled with young and witty Indian men and facing a eager clientle of robed monks. The stall was actually a fishing stall; the robed monks where fishing with a wooden stick for large Bottles of Beer. The young and witty Indian men were shouting out tips, and giving 'free trials' and then when everyone was ready and the 20 rupees had been exchanged, the fishing race would begin, and the first to hook a beer was the winner.

Amidst this jumble of assumptions, street children dashed around, looking for tourists to provide the necessary ten rupees, while their schooled, fed, parented counterparts screamed with delight and/or fear as they rode the local rides.

Indeed, from no where there was a small Big Wheel, a Swinging Ship and even a rotating Carousel of Horses. The mechanics of the amusement rides where as simple as they were baffling. The Big Wheel was spun by a group of (once again) young and witty Indian men, who caught a box of people and swung it over to the next waiting pair of hands, and somehow the small Big Wheel keep rising to the sky, and then falling again. Across the muddy lane, the Swinging Ship was reaching heights causing one chubby uniformed school boy to cry out in horror. When a certain height had been reached,(or maybe when the cries were deemed loud enough) a bored looking guy, seated under the boat peddled a peddle, which lifted a rubber tire, which touched the bottom of the Swinging Boat and slowed the waves of air which it appeared to be riding. As for the rotating Carousel of Horses: A worn and withered old man, topi on his head and cigarette dangling from his mouth, walked around and around and around and around, stepping over the wooden planks he had laid to solve the mud problem, and on his dizzy walk, he took with him the Carousel of Horses, on top of which sat young children, facings beaming, unaware of the toil exchanged for their smiles.

A Little Gentleman – who roams the streets, speaking perfect English, and looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth found us. He smiles and tells me that today he was bitten by a dog. We begin our usual exchange of silly conversation: “Did you bite the dog back?” I asked. “Yes, and then I ate him for lunch.” The Little Gentleman replied. “Ah so today you don't need food from me?” I say as I raise a doubting eyebrow. “No only ten rupees for the boat!” Between Bruno and I we find seven rupees. The bored looking boat peddle waves the Little Gentleman on anyway. He doesn't sit, but just stands at the back - next to the chubby crying boy. He smiles back at us, pointing to how high they are going. He couldn't look scared if he tried. The street hardened Little Gentleman.

Anyway, as I sit here listening to the rain splash against the blue plastic tent, and sip my hot glass of chai, I remember the point of recalling the crazy and colourful celebration of the end of the Monsoon. And the point is that somebody forgot to tell the Rains...

Little Girls

The children of the station are playing. They have new friends which the arrival of the monsoon has brought. They have a playground at the end of the platform. It has moving trains which if you hold on to will carry you along and slide you down the concrete towards the railway tracks. The sliding children are mainly little girls. Maybe five. Maybe six years young. With faces too old and bodies too small. They brothers are working, or sniffing, or running. They see a Magic Man but they don't know he is a Magic Man. They just see a white man with a bag of food. Play time is put on hold as they begin their work:“Uncle Uncle!” They cry. Hands reaching for his hands and for his arms. Little brown eyes hungry for biscuits and bananas. But there are too many of them. He knows that the biscuits and bananas inside his 'magic' bag are too few. In the anarchy of the station they would be fought for and he does not want to create war. A little sister totters along and tries to reach her hand inside the 'magic' bag. In her couple of years of life she has learned to try and take what won't be given. But Magic Man remains strong and he lifts the bag out of the little hungry hands reach. Magic Man wishes he had a hundred bananas and biscuits. But his Magic skills are limited to making little people laugh and not curing their hunger. He continues to walk but the little hands become more determined. The little hands are now firmly attached to his tightly closed palms, trying to pry them open. They will not be defeated. They do not want this walking pot of money and food to walk away. “Uncle Uncle!” They smile and giggle and run along. “Hotel Uncle?” They ask.

Station Kids, Street Kids, Magic Kids

Fishing for Wishes is how some of the more resourceful children- with the help of a small magnet and a piece of string - can afford to live; both of Kolkata's main train stations, are flanked by the Hooghly River, which is a tributary to the Holy Ganges, and many travelers will toss a coin into its waters to wish for a safe journey. Add into the equation, trains littered with left over food, rich travelers disembarking from Delhi, an extensive roof, paved platforms and even a public water tap and it soon becomes obvious why train stations double as unofficial institutions for the orphans, poor, mad, sick and homeless. And the number of children – of all ages and both sexes – who sleep on its floors, scour the trains and hang out in packs is astounding, and today I visited a Center full of thirty such boys.

Now please do not misunderstand me – there are far more than only thirty homeless boys; although there is no official census on the number of homeless children, I am sure that a hundred orphanages could be filled within the hour – easily. However, the Center has reached its capacity, and until one of its older boys is able to independently support himself, or the family of a younger child contacted and rehabilitated, no new boys will be coaxed to leave the station. (There are several boys at the Center who are not 'orphans' in a traditional, but many ran away from home after a young life of hard physical labour, or after being sent to work as 'servants'.) The orphanage was opened three years ago and is funded by a Spanish NGO and staffed by local workers and full of boys found at Howrah train station. The staff would visit the train station regularly and try to establish a relationship with the boys in order to build trust and dispel suspicion; not an easy task as considering that the station is a center for trafficking and children are at risk from sexual abuse and/or being sold. But this is also a reason why it is important that aid/ relief workers have a daily public presence as well as an ear to the proverbial concrete. Of course many boys who go to Center would have problems readjusting. Many children who live on the streets quickly adapt and may have been members of some of the more established child gangs, where they have much more authority, power and 'freedom' than children at the center and the routine of going to school every day. For the older boys (the oldest in the Center is thirteen) formal education may not even be viable as they are unable to join a class with the youngest boys of five or six, so the Center also offers a more practical a vocational training scheme which may offer more chances of employment. Drug addiction and rehabilitation is also very real problem. However, what I saw today is tiny boys the age of six years old, just having fun, playing and having free access to food and water and a safe non-violent environment.

Now the point of my visit to the Center was to assist a group of Spanish volunteers who wanted to perform some Magic. We began our mission to the orphanage by taking a collection of different buses, raising many eyebrows, and eventually crossing a muddy field to be seated in a colourful room in front of thirty staring faces. A ball was passed and one by one the boys introduced themselves – name and age. Then little arms were raised as the youngest boys were eager to recite a song or poem to us and the older boys told us they were becoming ready to be 'men'. Our turn, and the Spanish Army and Bex all introduced themselves and then the preparations of Magic began. Now obviously, good old Magic Man was the center of the show, while the rest of us painted faces and blew up balloons. What was interesting though was that the responses of the children was much 'older' than the ages which they had just recited. Accusations of 'cheat' 'cheat' were regularly shouted out, while fascination of the 'turning paper into money' trick brought a stand up audience. Without trying to bow down to stereotypes, very quickly it became obvious that these boys were wiser than their years.

After they had all been armed with blow up swords, and a orchestra of 'popping' began and finished, we tied a box full of sweets and balloons to the ceiling, and blind folded and armed with a cricket bat the children had to one by one try to hit the box open. After much effort, the box came crashing to the ground, and colours of gold and silver, and tiny balloons fell from the sky and burst all over the children. Within seconds the glittering sweets had all disappeared. The speed of picking up the sweets from the floor and depositing them in pockets was really extraordinary. Later at dinner I saw the same technique, with food collected but then stored in pockets for extra safe keeping. What was unexpected though, was after a mini war for far too many sweets, small boys would later come up to me and insist on sharing their loot. I think the best experiences of the day was watching when the smallest and undoubtedly cutest boy 'found' the small pile of sweets I had hidden in his pockets - in order to ensure his survival through the 'c/rush'. He felt the lumps in his pockets, dug his little hands inside and pulled out shiny parcels of toffee. His eyes gleamed with amazement, fingers explored, more packets of sweetness found and waves of smiles spread across his cheeks – Magic!

The rest of the afternoon was spent either in the fields playing football (with a real football, rather than the usual empty water bottle or ball of tape) or on the breezy roof. I spent nearly an hour with a boy who had found himself in possession of one of Magic Mans 'flying' wheeeeeeeeeeing balloons – after a lot of puff the piece of plastic extends into a magnificent oblong shape and if held up and released zooms around the room, bouncing of walls and squeaking all the way. Shouts of 'Mama Mia!' followed it around from below. The shouting smiling face was covered in scars, which ran down his arms and had taken one of his fingers. He was completely mesmorised, and never tired, puffing and zooming until POP!

The roof a beautiful place to spend the rest of the day – as small black kite made of sheets of plastic and string was sent up into the sky. Kites make me think of Freedom. They remind me of one of the forms of 'resistance' children in the Occupied Palestinian Territories would use, flying them from the refugee camps when they themselves weren't able to move. I sat on the roof watching while being tugged to play a board game which I was no good at, but another super happy boy was determined to teach me, and failing that, he was determined that at least I should win! The game involved flicking a circular counter into a pile of other counters and trying to get one of them into one of the four holes. I ended up with a very sore finger, and even though hardly any of my counters ended up in the correct holes...I won.

As the day wore on it really became obvious how independent the children were – there was very little need for the staff to become involved, and the boys just played. The exception was one boy who remained sad all day (apart from when he was asked to assist Magic Man) but according to the staff there was very little which seemed to make him smile. Before we left there was a Spanish Army, one Magic Man and Me all holding onto arms and turning, sending feet flying and ripples of laughing. Balancing tricks were also performed as boys climbed on top of legs and held arms after receiving some expert tuition of Halvero – their 26 year old Spainish Mentor who shares his time between the center and a mirror project in Brazil, and there would be endless possibilities for recreational projects, outdoor pursuits and camps with the children, which has left me day dreaming of possibilities.

As soon as the light left, candles were lit and we were escorted to the small road, leaving shouts of 'Goodbye Auntie! Good bye Uncle!' Amidst a trail of glittering sweet wrappers and burst balloons. We waited at the side of the road for a bus back to central Kolkata. The winds were really picking up and dusk was been blown into our eyes and then blowing us over. I could imagine the little kite flier manipulating his sheet of plastic, pulling the strings backwards and forwards, running across the concrete roof, feet jumping and landing. Running, jumping and landing. Jumping, flying. Far far away...

Broken Eyes

This afternoon I volunteered at Shishu Bhavan. It is a House specifically for young children who are orphans or at least might as well be as have been left by their families, sometimes, newly born and laying at the gate entrance. After my reactions to Kalighat I decided that perhaps working with young children might provide the sense of 'hope' which I needed in order to continue. Sure enough the nursery provided a dramatic contrast to the ward at Kaligaot. Loud children's music came booming out of every corner and colours and toys were everywhere. Inflatable animals hung from the ceiling, and the many rows of barred cots were decorated with stuffed animals of all sizes and descriptions. I negotiated my way between the racing toddlers and walked between the corridor of cots to the play station for disabled children. There were five female volunteers all sitting on the floor and with children draped over them. Many were severely disabled and unable to move without aid. Others were walking with the aid of leg braces. Again an apron was donned and I was told to play with “Gita”. I took the little hand which reached towards me and before long we were both jumping to the sounds of Happy Birthday or whatever else came out of the music system. I rubbing my face on my shoulder to remove the sweat, as both hands were firmly engaged by Gita. I was unable to persuade Gita to make one verbal sound all day - with the exception of laughing, which she did with such ease I wondered why all of us born with sound body and mind don't walk around laughing every second of every day? I also have no idea how old Gita is, only that she came up to my knees, and was incredibly easy to make smile. Each child has a folder with their details and conditions listed, but Gita felt that it was more important that we dance rather than let me spend time shifting through paper. I even made the stupid mistake of initially calling her a “strong little man” as the Italian volunteer who had introduced us confused her prefixes and called “her” a “he”. Besides, Gita's “condition” was visibly obvious, as her little eyes remained tightly closed.

We bounced along until I was presented with tiny tot Julie, who sat like a princess amid a regal carriage of a plastic bike, drawn by a plastic bear. Gita took control from Mr Bear and walked behind the princess pushing her along. It was a challenge to convince Gita to push as she had an inclination to rock from leg to leg while standing in the same place. Once again the role of 'carer' rather than 'facilitator' was difficult to avoid and I had to constantly stop myself from leading, as we meandered backwards and forwards, between the cots and “active” children; many of whom were vying for my attention by providing entertainment to Princess Julie and a unwelcome obstacle to Gita, who responded by leaning back against my legs. One little girl decided it really was her 'turn' to push the princess by frequently biting my hands. Hmmm. Eventually Gita and I managed to distract her with the help of a large plastic ball identical to one I used for abdominal crunches. After Gita and I walked the equivalent of a mini walkathon it was time to for Princess Julie to have her afternoon lemon water. I picked her out of her carriage as her stick legs dangled at awkward angels pulled down by her little orthopedic shoes. She was tiny, and could not have been more than 12 to 18 months old. I sat crossed legged on a cot and the first challenge of my afternoon began. Bottle in hand. She refused to drink. She cried. I distracted her with a plastic crocodile. The tears stopped, but the juice just poured out of her mouth and dibbled down her pretty white dress. An Indian Massi (carer) took control, and before long she was watered from the inside and not out. I then had the pleasure of meeting Jamie. A blind boy who seemed the only child able to speak or to understand a little English. Without a doubt he was an incredibly gifted little person (the only age marker I can share is that he came to just above my knees). He asked continuous questions and would not stop until he was satisfied with the answers.

“Auntie Auntie whats this?” He called to me. He took my hand and placed it on top of the carriage bear. Mr Bear was wearing a plastic hat, which once upon a time had worked as a button causing his eyes to blink and a plastic tongue to poke out from his empty plastic mouth. I told him it was a button. What for Auntie? What does it do? He insisted as he pushed the 'hat'. I took his hand and led it over Mr Bears frozen face. "It is to make the eyes move and the tongue come out of the lips" I explained. “Eyes Auntie? Where Auntie? Eyes Where?” I led his little hands to feel inside the empty holes of Mr Bear's empty eyes as he pushed the button again. “Its broken” I told him. Jamie was unimpressed and began to search for the 'electric guitar' and off he wandered, feeling his way through the maze of children, toys and cots.

A bell rang and the play station was cleared with lightening efficiency as toys were replaced by specially adapted baby chairs. Children were tied or strapped in, and dinner was served. I sat down next to one little girl, picked up her food and spoon and began to feed her. No go. No way. She cried. Then she screamed. I looked around. There was no reaction from the other volunteers or from the Massis, who proceeded to feed the children seated opposite them without even a whimper. I tried again. Food went flying. I tried again and again. But no. Eventually, a volunteer turned to me and said, “she's used to being held when she's fed, she hates the chair. Try one of those over there.” She motioned to pop stair Gita who was now in possession of Jamie's prized guitar and another little blind child. “Their easier” I was reassured. I let Gita enjoy her new found talent and gained the attention of the other child by tapping the tray in front of her. Soon he joined in and I felt a renewed sense of optimism. Spoon to mouth – mouth firmly clamped. Hmmm. I tried everything. Zoooooom. Bringing a smile in order to trick the spoon inside the laughing mouth, but nothing would work. “Impossible!” Another volunteer shouted over. “Impossible. He will never eat.

I moved chairs again and tapped a beat to Gita's automatic toy guitar. She loved the buttons and the tunes and refused to put it down, but as I wanted to feed her and not the instrument, eventually she agreed. Again nothing. No open mouth, no swallow. Just a firm resolution that today she would not be feed by Bex. Gradually the other children were washed and taken upstairs to the flat roof. Their outdoor playground. Gita and I remained. Cold food in hand, guitar on the floor. And then as if by magic a massi appeared, took the bowl under Gita's chin, tipped her head backwards, and gave her the fasted food I have ever seen. Within seconds the bowl was cleared and not even one wince of refusal from pop star Gita. Shocked, amazed, thankful and disheartened I took Gita to join the other children.

Jamie raced around the roof. He wanted the bike. “The small one Aunty.” He eventually found it with no help from me. Another child was riding it. A massive grin appeared on Jamie's face as he sped across the roof, pushing the bike with a child still on top of it. He is incredible. Gita and I rocked/walked around for a while trying to avoid the other children rushing around not looking where they are going. Unlike Jamie, Gita seemed completely reliant on me to keep her from being floored. I solved the problem by lifting her up. Wheeeeeeeeeeeee. Wheeeeeeeeeee. Gita howling with laughter, me with dizziness. She pulled my wrist closer to her as she pushed the tiny round beads on my wrist backwards and forwards. She was almost touching her ear to them as I realised she was listening to the tiny rattling sound she was making with her tiny fingers.

As I type a song by The Thievery Corporation comes on my play list. The track title flashes up on my laptop, “Heavan's gonna burn your eyes.” I want to stop my mind from thinking. I close my eyes, lift my wrist to my ear, and roll the beads. Raat-tat-tat. Raat-tat- tat.