You've got to follow your balloon

The stars of SECMOL

cheek mountain

My darling Tsomo with a sideshow

The Ladakhi Paul Weller

SECMOL

Mere days will draw the curtain on the two months I’ve spent here.  Whilst I eagerly anticipate the events to come, I can’t help but feel more than melancholy about my departure.

I will almost certainly pine for the serenity and magnitude of my current milieu although not nearly as profoundly as my daily exchanges with the students.  

SECMOL is something of a mixed bag, but no matter what frustrations I’ve encountered, they were and will always be trumped by the interactions and relationships with the students.  At the end of the day, SECMOL offers much to the students especially in the way of developing self-confidence and social interaction.  Many of the students have described this year as “luxury” and they have yet to utter a disparaging word about the program.

SECMOL is non-government course of education which is mainly offered to students who are taking a year off from their regular studies.  A majority of these students have failed their exams and are attending the program in the hopes of strengthening their knowledge, skills and English in order the pass the exams to progress to the next successive class.  There are no reported numbers in regards to how many of the SECMOL class end up advancing to the next year although the national statistics note that only 25% of children pass their exams. It isoutrageous that the exams are conducted in English when the teachers give their lessons in (depending on the region) Urdu, Hindi, or Ladakhi.  This alone appears set the stage for failure. There is no doubt that this is a wider failing of the educational system in India.

SECMOL attempts to fill in these gaps and the effort and intention is a worthy one.  There is no doubt that it is a program that is of benefit to those who undertake it.  However, there are elements of the organization that were initially quite exasperating especially as I entered this experience blindly.

Perhaps coming from a Western country, I hold expectations or ideals that just aren’t supported amidst this institutional nightmare.  I refer to a broader system outside of SECMOL where teachers are allowed (and at most times expected) to utilize corporal punishment with the students should they make a mistake (heaven forbid).  As a result, students have become adept at memorization without cognition.  However, if the objective for staff and volunteers is to prepare the students for their exams then certainly it would be helpful to know what it is they are meant to understand, what they have already been taught, etc.  

I was taken aback in regards to areas that lacked structure combined with having the responsibilities of several classes shifted onto volunteers.  This wouldn’t be problematic if there were a syllabus or curriculum to follow or if long term volunteers were running classes throughout the year.  However, there are no records of previous lessons nor could anyone provide me with an indication of what level or subject matter to address in a concrete manner.  All in all, little guidance and no monitoring were provided in this respect.  Again, I tried to go with the flow, and feel I managed pretty well considering my expectations, but SECMOL was not aware of what I was teaching or how I was teaching it.  For all they knew, I could have been wildly inappropriate and incompetent (I wasn’t).

My main point is that some tightening up and organization could possibly produce more positive learning outcomes.  I detest unnecessary bureaucracy especially as I was knee deep in that nonsense in my previous work environment, but something as simple as learning objectives for the school yearor an outline of what topics need to be addressed and what has already been covered wouldn’t go missed. On that note, I have mentioned all of the above to the staff here.  It has generally been met with nods of agreement but in a way that a parent might absently agree with their young child who tellsh im or her that it’s better for the environment to buy only recycled products.  Putting something into practice is a whole ‘notha show.

In any case, SECMOL was an edifying introduction to India and my English teaching experience.  I have been informed that many other schools months will generally offer similar practices so I’ll have to make the most of it.  As stated, my feelings about the structure will always be secondary to those of my overall experience and my memories of the students here.

I’ve had a moan and grumble about rats in the night, lack of a nutritious diet, and a permanent staff member who appears to work hard at avoiding work, but I would do it all over again if I could.  Perhaps now that it is the end of the road and I have a good bill of health, I feel that I could spend more time here but 2 months was a psychologically and physically manageable period.   However, I was almost convinced that M, who volunteered here for half a year, was going to set fire to Ladakh before she exited.  It can be a bittersweet experience so one needs to assess their limits and expectations, but unless you don’t have a heart; it will certainly be broken upon departure.

she's so hot she's making me sexist

It’s my second to last visit with the dentist in Leh and I am basking in auditory bliss.  On my way into town, a man who I gave directions to not 30 minutes earlier picks me up in his plush Honda. "Hotel Califorinia" is followed by "The Tracks of My Tears" (God bless you Mr. Robinson) and it's the first time that I’ve heard Western music in a vehicle here, a welcome change from the Ladakhi music which I lack the patience to describe.  

 “You’re very beautiful”

Great.  I politely smile and calculate how many kilometers we have have left.  Silence between us is golden.  Rappers Delight teases my aptitude for nostalgia and after further broken dialogue about Ladakh and my role in SECMOL, he awkwardly makes a play to hold my hand.  When this fails he inquires if I have a boyfriend.  The answer to this question is always affirmative and if there is any further probing I plan on dispensing that he is insanely jealous, weighing in at 300 pounds of pure muscle.  I make an annoyed exit but am aware that I’ve left the situation unscathed.

I grab a bus on the way back to campus.  A middle aged man stands up and insists that I take a seat.  How very generous.  The thought immediately dissolves with the realization that the cost of this act is having his groin pressed against my shoulder.  Before I am able to attach any innocence to this he makes a feeble attempt to stroke my back.  I start applauding myself for tactfully manoeuvring myself at the edge of my seat when the woman next to me vacates her spot leaving the space open for this "gentleman" to sit next to me.  He places his bony fingers on my leg and asks if I am going to Spituk, where I am to change buses.  With this, I twist his arm behind his back and swiftly kick him out of the open door as we pick up speed.  The other passengers erupt in song and cheer on the demise of yet another chauvinist bastard.  Actually, what happens is that he swiftly departs before I can blink, and moments later I also make my way of the bus in search of a pool of holy water.

Feeling wholly violated, I start entertaining the idea of walking the remaining distance to campus, and were the sun still shining in it's full glory, I may have given this more consideration.  It's not long after I start walking that a soldier on the side of the road attempts to make conversation with me. Where are you going, where are you from, etc and relatively harmless.  Of course this is then followed by an all too hormonal, 

"There's a cafe at the military base down there. Can you see it?  I will take good care of you. Do you have a boyfriend?  Do you have a husband?"

It takes little time for my imaginary boyfriend to be upgraded to an imaginary husband.  After further beverage insistence and declination he leaves me in front of an army post telling me that he will be back in 10 minutes and that the army will protect me. Fantastic, but whose protecting me from the army?

The second he turns his back I pick up my pace down the road.  A car stops and inside are two men who are going to the bridge where I often make the serene 5.5k walk back to campus.  The driver has a kind face and tells me that he can drop me off closer to the campus as he and his companion are on the way to the monastery next to SECMOL. Sigh of relief follows as I enter this leg of my journey free of harassment.

 I’ve always remarked that Ladakh would cradle me into my India experience.  Various resources cite Leh as being “little Tibet” and the culture here certainly appears to be more representative of a Tibetan environment as opposed to an Indian one. So, I’ve taken baby steps into this country, bracing myself for the beauty and chaos to come in the next couple of months.  However aside from institutional disorganization, pungent odours, and alleyways lined with waste, I'm told that there will be more of this behavior in "real India".  Jodi and Emiko tell me that they have never been groped more anywhere else in their lives, and Western women are automatically viewed as whores.  It doesn't matter that my body is clothed from head to toe, the color of my skin indicates, in already sexist surroundings, that I deserve the treatment that I get.  Of course this is not the prevailing attitude but one held by those living in ignorance, and when you have a country with 1 billion plus, there is bound to be several who spoil the reputation of a place.  A staff member tells me that I had a bad day and that this generally doesn't happen in Ladakh.  I am inclined to take this at face value given that it was my first experience in the two months that I've spent here; however, I know that India (especially Delhi) will be a different kettle of fish. I anticipate many a scoundrel to fly out of moving buses, but we'll see.

with Jodi and Medea- dressed like complete hookers

Drowning in Saspol

It’s past 6 AM and Max (a new volunteer) and I are dragging what is left of our sorry corpses to the neighbouring home where we were previously greeted with chai and children in metal bathing tubs.  Ladakhi weddings are a force to be reckoned with especially if you find yourself under the wings of groomsmen.

The previous day, Chosang, a SECMOL staff member, had extended an invitation to the volunteers to witness the marriage of a friend of a friend (of a friend?)  Details were sparse but nonetheless my interest was stirred.   Becky warned me against the affair, recalling boredom and the social mores where women make dull conversation and men indulge in gaiety, superior meals, and a spot of chhaang (the homemade brew made from barley).  However, I wished to see the event for myself and was also resigned to partake in all male friendly activities. 

The bus ride to the village of Saspol was decent and no more than two hours.  However the last 5 minutes were cut short as a rogue military wagon flirted precariously with the edge of the cliff which resulted in a Ladakhi traffic jam and those gawking with their own ideas of entertainment.  Fortunately a slow moving crane was called to rescue the situation, but we didn’t have the time nor the patience to observe the scenario played out to completion.  

Our journey on foot was short and pleasant and Saspol offered more of what is expected in a small village.  With several hours to kill, I make my way up to the caves carved inside the nearby mountains.  Enticed by the prospect of seeing my first cave adorned with 11^th century paintings, I tried to race the setting sun for this (possibly) once in a lifetime moment.  I am relieved by my solitude, not only because I bask in it, but because my impatience had led me to forge my own path, which although scenic, is somewhat of a fools route.  After stumbling through thorns, backyards, conduits of garbage, and a wide stream that was not made for leisurely crossing, I find myself in a breathtakingly enigmatic space.  Wary of taking on my inappropriate trail in the dark, I cut my thrills short in the name of sensibility.

When I returned, I was ushered to another house where they others had already started sipping chhaang and grazing on fried barley.  Chosang was dressed in his traditional costume and had taken on an air of austerity.

Chosang’s role in the lead up to the ceremony was an important one.  It appeared that he led the procession to collect the bride to be in the late hours of the night.The bride was a 2 hour drive from the village, but it is the tradition that she stays at her home with the bridal party.  When the procession arrives at her house they must bribe her with the bridal accessories and a large cash sum to come accompany the party back to the village.  If there are any items missing from the bridal booty then the procession will be charged for each missing piece.  The groom’s family pay for all these wedding expenses.  This takes place late at night (after midnight) and during this time, after a rousing game of smack the balloon with small children, we (Max and myself) are invited to join the groomsmen in the adjoining room where they have clearly made bedfellows with a cocktail of rum, beer, and of course chhaang.  They warble on about community and the glories and pitfalls of Ladakh, but the outstanding feeling is one of friendliness and joviality.  

Whilst the procession is driving back we are offered heavy blankets and most people assume a sleeping position on the floor.  My all things wedding weariness is cut short a couple hours later to the loud blasting of Ladakhi music.  My blanket is swiftly ripped off me and the same woman who demands that I try to sleep is now ordering me (pleasantly) to get up and dance.  Dance we do to an odd combination of traditional Ladakhi music, Bob Marley, and poor hip hip.  Shortly afterward everyone gathers outside in anticipation of the bride’s arrival.  By this time it is 4 AM and it is quite cold outside.  Many women and children bring jugs of chhaang to be offered to the procession as it is tradition that they must be paid by the groom’s uncle and father for these offerings.

It seems that years pass when the bride finally arrives, but there is a long period in which there is no sign of her.  I’m told that her aunt is refusing to get out of the car until she is paid a hefty sum (7,000 rupees to be exact).  I still struggle to see why the aunt is able to call the shots.  I love my aunts, but doubt that they would consider themselves to have a financial interest in my matrimonial proceedings.  With a hearty shout, Chosang eventually leads the party to the entrance where the bride and groom bow their heads and receive a blessing.  I am further informed that the bride and her family need to appear to be upset about this whole charade as the family are meant to be losing a daughter.  A whirlwind minute later, the crowd is shouting joyously and money is being thrown in the air.  While everyone is scavenging the ground for financial prosperity, a man thrusts a 10 rupee note into my hand and smiles gleefully.

As everyone is seated inside, the bride and groom sit in a period of meditation whilst everyone watches.  Personally, I would find the whole thing very uncomfortable and I’m told that this bride actually feels quite shy about the whole thing.

Another meal and bout of dancing later, my body is completely spent although in high spirits.  I’m asked if I would ever attend another Ladakhi wedding.  Why not, but preferably with a little more sleep.

Playground Love

"Did you know that your country avoided another terrorist attack by the Taliban?  You guys were lucky.  The Pentagon was targeted again."

I somehow manage to express my surprise whilst my wide open mouth houses some menacing (but sterile) looking utenstils.

"Spit."

Beside me is a trash can which contains what I can only assume is a sea of saliva and dental discards; this concludes yet another follow up visit after my Ladakhi root canal.  Although further work is required in Delhi, I believe the worst to be over at the exorbitant cost of approximately £0.40.  Throughout the process, Dr. Palden exercised great patience and was sympathetic enough to make small talk and dental commentary throughout the procedure.  After my previously detailed moment of brief despair, I came to look forward to my treatments.  I generally hate going to the dentist (which may account for why I've had to undergo a root canal in a third world country....not ideal) but I looked forward to my visits with Dr. Palden, not least because he acts as my immediate news source (his account somehow sounded more dire).  It should be noted that at SECMOL we only get the local newspaper every few days and the focus tends to be on murder, vehicular catastrophes, and government corruption.  People back at home knew about the earthquakes in India before I did.

Aside from oral sterilization accompanied with a mustachioed grin and second hand information, my time in the city has been fruitful.  Every other day I have marinated in the freedom of my solo ventures, visiting the local library (essentially a large room where one can read books- they don't leave the premises), visiting the markets, and eating food that is both nutritious ad easy on the palate.  However, I take the greatest pleasure in solo hitch hiking and hanging out of the local buses.  The only drawback of the crowded bus rides has been avoiding the soldiers whose body weight just happens to press against yours with every bump.  I quickly learned how to position myself so that my uniformed friends would be received with sharper limbs should they continue to entertain thoughts of "affection".

The tokens of physical affection that are welcome come from the students.  I don't consider myself to expend such gestures lightly, although I naturally do not mind being on the receiving end.  However, I am left with little room for distance as the young Ladakhis tend to drape themselves over each other and the volunteers.  Very seldom can I carry out a conversation with without my hand being grasped in theirs. The boys, although affectionate with one another, tend to maintain physical boundaries with the females although a good wrestle or play fight is not lost on them.  These rascals have now wormed their way into my consciousness to a point where they easily become my topics of conversation both in and out of the campus. I only have 3 weeks left with this wily bunch before I make my way to Nepal and I can foresee how difficult it will be to tear myself away.