the canals of my city

"Don't cry.  I am here with you and I am going to make sure that you don't have any pain.  Don't worry, you are not alone."

His words instantly defeated my feeble attempt at keeping the hot sting of my eyes at bay.  While I self-consciously wiped the tears from my face I was grossly aware that he had struck a nerve for the second time that morning.

* * *

Two days ago, during the jeep ride back towards Leh, I was overcome with mortification when part of my molar decided to fall off. (I was just sitting there...minding my own business...) Hours later another small piece of the same tooth decided to jump ship.  Admittedly, this was initially quite terrifying especially as less than one week ago I had a conversation with J about my negative views of having dental treatment whilst in India.  On return to SECMOL the anxiety became but a distant memory with others promising their contacts in Delhi and the assurance that I'll just need superficial treatment.  The ultimate blanket of security transpired when a few of the students told me I would resemble their grandmothers with the onset of missing teeth.  Interesting how the feeling of alarm desists when others are taking the Mickey...

Under the instruction of those with dental wisdom, I eventually made my way to Leh Hospital to meet with the on-call dentist.  He or she would tell me what needed to be done and I would make arrangements for all to be taken care of in Delhi.   That was the plan in any case.  After some prodding, the kindly man informed me that I may require a root canal, but that an X-Ray would determine the next course of action.  This would be simple enough if the X-Ray mechanism was in working order, but I was advised that I should come back in a couple of days by which time it should be fixed.  As feelings of distress mounted, I found myself sitting in a dazed state in the dentist's room.  Root canal???  I was only half cognizant of what this entailed and what knowledge I did hold wasn't at all pretty.

My thoughts spiraled out of control with visions of pain, mounting costs, and of course an awareness that I wasn't within my Western comfort zone.  It was at this point that Dr. Palden interrupted my panicked inner monologue with his words of reassurance.  Despite my ocular reaction, I was greatly comforted by his patience and sympathy.  However, I was surprised that in a moment of uncertainty I almost immediately was transported to a place where I craved the comfort of my mother and a tokenistic "you're going to be fine".  For a fleeting second, I felt alone for the first time and he aptly highlighted this insecurity.  Following an adequate X-Ray, we will see what takes place, but I am adamant that this has all occurred for a reason other than my penchant for sweets.  Perhaps I just needed someone to hit a sore spot.

be.here.now

Adventures in the Nubra Valley.  Pseudo waterfalls, scaling up mountains in the name of gompas, camel rides and visiting the recently opened and untouched lands of Turtuk. Beauty.

 

 

Huckabee

Such a relatively short period of time has passed since my departure from London, but my insides (both figurative and literal) have gone through something of an uncomfortable process.

Before going further, this is not me on the mountaintop… equilibrium has yet to be exposed and I feel light years away from enlightenment of any sort.  I am however, suffering from a case of internal crisis, somewhere between identity and existential.

Social worker cum English teacher, and somewhere in the next year I want to study holistic medicine or massage therapy, but not as a career calling- just something extra on the side.  Profession? Life ambitions?  I was hoping to resemble something of a vagabond until I found my utopia, my niche.

My accent constantly betrays me.  I find myself fumbling for words when questioned about my origins. Hastily I add that I’ve spent the last 6 years in London and have actually just received my British citizenship.  Did I mention that I’m half Peruvian?  Trying to paint a composite portrait of myself in two sentences, when the truth of the matter is that I don’t fully identify with any of these nationalities even in fractions, but it’s a matter of endeavoring to explain who I clearly feel I am not.

I’m not a tourist nor am I a native.  There is no desire to live here beyond the time period of a couple of visas, but when fantasies blanket my thoughts I am not returning to either of the places I once called home.

London captured my heart eight years ago and it saw me undergo a metamorphosis which involved a transition into adulthood as I know it.  I ran with the freedom it offered and lived life to the fullest as best as I knew how.  The big city allowed all to just be without judgement; but time slipped through my fingers like grains of sand and the daily distractions were too much to feel that I was satisfying a deeper sense of self. 

On the other end of the spectrum lies Holland, Michigan.  No one can fault the beauty of the town with its lakeside offerings and seasonal treats (sledding down Van Raalte Hill, the hues of leaves in autumn).  Many who occupy my heartstrings still reside amongst landmarks of my earliest memories.  For this reason my birthplace remains wrapped in cotton wool but it still manages to suffocate me nonetheless.  Inasmuch as I attempt to focus on all of its assets, my vision is infiltrated by a culture of narrow mindedness that I find unavoidable.  One has to reside there to appreciate the paradox or get swept away by rigid codes of shoulds and shouldn’ts, rights and wrongs.  This is not in a moral sense but in the inability to shake an archaic system of values.   Broadly speaking, differences in culture or lifestyle are not celebrated with earnestness and there is an undertone of being threatened by such things.  It wasn’t until I went to university that I felt the influence of my environment lesson its grip on me.  Further to that, the first time I stepped foot London was the first time I felt truly liberated. 

I digress.  The point is that I am finding it unnerving to see aspects of my identity melt away in front of my very eyes.  I am neither here nor there.  I don’t know where to call home when this over.  I am unsure what profession I will follow/take up.  This isn’t forever but the next chapter remains but a mere seed and the fruits it will bear are likely to depend on the unknown events of the next months.  Perhaps this will be viewed as exciting, but it’s highly disconcerting at this juncture.   My appearance now pales to the lengths I would previously go to make myself presentable.  It’s of no consequence that I wander the streets without a lick of war paint (not even eye liner, ladies) and my clothes and body are constantly in need of a good wash.  Social events, weekend behavior, musical discoveries, favorite threads, my love for Gob Bluth, etc don’t amount to a thing.  When children are defecating on the side of the road my dislike for Jennifer Aniston and all the other trivial opinions I hold completely disintegrate.  It doesn’t mean that I’ll give “The Bounty Hunter” a chance (in hell), but it just doesn’t matter.  Lessons of humility and simplicity have slapped me across the face and at feels as though the layers of my being have been ripped off to mere values, ideals, and nerve endings.

 

At least there’s that.

Firsts

Aside from previously mentioned domestic tasks, my 12 days in Ladakh have provided me with the opportunities for many other firsts.  My first polo match, hitch hiking experience(s)*, donkey sanctuary, and my first trip to a foreign hospital to name a few.

So maybe a little hiccup in paradise…

Going back a few days, I’ve had an ongoing upset stomach at the campus which made it impossible for me to arouse an appetite during this time.  At the risk of sounding completely ethnocentric,   the food leaves little to be desired.  It is essentially the same meal everyday which is “skew”, a stew made from overcooked vegetables and spices, and from the onset of my feeling less than regular, it’s been difficult for me to manage the smell wafting into my room - a few doors down from the kitchen.  Following a meal of crackers and peanut butter, M and I made a plan to go into the city for a few days break to stabilize our sanity (will get to that) and systems while the kids were out on a regional survey.  We met up with another volunteer, J, and indulged our taste buds and feelings of freedom.  However, with the setting sun my private party was explosively interrupted, but being one to always look for the silver lining, I arrived at the following conclusions of gratitude: Grateful to not have chosen the guesthouse with the ensuite bathroom as there would have been a great risk of traumatizing my new mates, grateful that our accommodation had a “western toilet” (with water in it and everything), and grateful that my hour(s) of reckoning came at a time when I wasn’t rafting down the Indus river.  It also has to be said that I would rather experience the “Bombay Blast” while in Ladakh than contributing to the daily grind in a full bill of health.  

The next morning, my surrogate mommies insisted on dragging my reluctant corpse to the hospital. To be honest, it was roughly what I expected it to be; I longed for the NHS for the first time in my life, but I also appreciated that it could have been a lot worse.  The nurses appeared to respect a first come first serve queuing system which doesn’t appear to be the case for any other establishment here.  The turnover of patients was dealt with at a reasonable pace, and although the instruments used appeared to be dated by the standards I’m accustomed to, it got the job done and I felt that the doctor knew exactly what she was doing.  The cost of my medication and consultation came out to about £0.43 so I don’t think my insurance will be hearing from me about that one…

sign in hospital waiting area

In relation to the shared frustrations at the campus, there appears to be much less organization than what I was expecting for the teaching curriculum and programme for the students.  Especially when the students are involved with other visiting organizations, the volunteers are the last to be informed about the agenda and what classes are required on that day.  It is early days, but the lack of structure for both staff and students isn’t boding well with me at the moment.  The other volunteers and permanent staff members who have been there for much longer are at breaking point which reaffirms my perceptions.  There is a lot more to be said about the subject, but am wary about going off on one before I attempt to give it my level best.  However, the absence of organization is one of many issues that weigh on my conscience about this particular project.
  

On a positive note, one of the local volunteers is sitting a sociology exam in October.  Thanks to Mr. Zwiers it’s a subject that I almost majored in (until my university professor told me that I could look forward to doing his job) so I’ve started giving one-to one tuition to him in the evenings.  I’ve thoroughly enjoyed revisiting the subject and hope to impart the same excitement that it still produces in me. 

on the back of a truck with Dorjay, the dog who followed us

*Note: Hitch hiking is pretty normal here.  As a woman I was advised not to hail military vehicles, but most people are very accommodating and they usually do not accept if you try to offer them money.  So far, I’ve always gone in groups and I consider myself to be sensible so any worries can be shelved.