I have now been home for more than three weeks and have finally got used to the extortionate prices, the absence of roadside ablutions, the lack of visibly dangerous activities, undercrowding on the buses and blessed peace to my ears. I am also enjoying driving again, despite having already called out the AA, a mere 2 days after renwing my membership and an even narrower margin of one day after my car's MOT. However, I am enjoying the fact that people definitely stop at junctions, horn-use is restricted to sufferers of road rage and cow-slaloming skills are not required. I do miss that no-one cycles in a lunghi and the lorries are really boring with no decorations at all.
Since my return, I have reported back to one of the trustees of the charity which has funded the project about what has been going on for the last eight months. He was very pleased with everything and has asked me to come to the AGM in June to update the remainder of the trustees. I hope that we can discuss fund raising plans, specifically the idea of developing community to community funding for future projects, as well as the future of the pilot project. Also by then, I hope, we would have had the first report from RUHSA following their May evaluation, which will give us a good idea of how the project is progressing and whether they are managing to hold meetings when I am not around to bully them into coming!
My plan for the next few months is to find varied and interesting jobs incorporating clinical work and teaching, but still allow me time off for good behaviour; continue my search for a non-anorexic worm in this country to avoid putting on all the weight I left behind in India and capitalisng on my new found interest in socialising. Step three is coming along nicely, steps one and two need work.
As for the rest of it, you will have to await part two of this gripping tale, which will be coming to a computer near you in January 2008.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Going going gone
So here I am, once again sitting in an airport lounge awaiting a flight, this time to leave India and my fantastic sabbatical behind. There is something about airports which drains you of the ability to feel any emotion, which is a good thing, although I have been surprisingly calm about leaving, despite not looking forward to having to be a responsible adult with a job, once more. Obviously, I am keen to see my family, my dog, my friends and my house; equally obviously, I am sad to be leaving India which has provided me with such rich and unique experiences over the last 8 months.
Being totally knackered from driving all night in a rickshaw the above paragraph was all I managed to write at the airport. Now I am back in England, enjoying the bright, cool spring sunshine, showing off my tan to anyone who is interested (and quite a few who aren't) and wallowing for hours in a hot, fragrant bath. It is strange to be back for several reasons. Firstly, England and my parents' house, where I am staying for a while, is so familiar having been my home since I was 2 years old, that it barely seems as if I have been away at all. Secondly, flying is no way to join two destinations in a seamless fashion. Spending time in an airport and on a plane, creates a delineated separation, like a portal between two worlds where you are cleansed and reassembled before arriving at the next place. There is no ceremony in flying; it is the full stop and capital letter between locations. Obviously, unless I had wanted to spend two months on a ship travelling around the Cape of Good Hope or, perhaps to save a few weeks, through the Suez canal, flying is the only option, but it is a featureless, dry activity, that wrenches you from one place, shakes you around to disorientate you and drops you into another place without any warning.
Having said that, there was an observable transition during the trip. People became progressively greyer and more passing English language intruded into my consciousness as I left India, travelled through Dubai, got on a London bound plane and arrived in Gatwick. Eventually, the transformation was complete as everyone, with the exception of a Sikh Customs Official, looked pink and pale and their dull, quotidien, conversational snippets crashed through my consciousness like stones against a window. I don't want to know that Steve phoned yesterday and you wouldn't believe what he said. I don't want to hear that an Irishman is always behaving badly and not to, on this occasion, shame his wife at the Imigration counter. I especially don't then want to hear him showing her up, schmoozing the supremely uninterested Immigration Officer, who is wondering what he did in a former life which meant he had to work over the Easter Weekend. But, after months of blissful ignorance about the mindless chit chat people indulge in, on returning home it becomes claustrophobic. I must remember to change my "Bus-compressed-air-horn Ear Filter" for my "Drivel-people-talk-on-a -daily-basis Ear Filter".
You may think, reading the above that I am unhappy to be home and wish I were back in India. Well, that's not true. This trip came to a natural conclusion, and the law of diminishing returns was beginning to apply. It was time for the toddler of a project to take it's first independent steps and see whether, without my extreme bullying presence, it can develop further. Also, I have been away from clinical practice for a longtime and I was beginning to enjoy too much the freedom and lack of responsibility being thousands of miles away from your home confers. I really felt that staying longer would need justification to myself and any future employers. The best aspect of this trip is that it has not been a "once-in-a-lifetime" "never-to-be-repeated" opportunity, but the beginning of a professional and personal relationship which will enrich and inform my future practice and give me a perspective on issues to which I would have no access if I stayed all my working life in Cumbria. As someone said to me, it has become woven into my life and will be a continuous thread. That is why it doesn't feel strange enough being home. I now have the exciting task of figuring out how I am going to mould a professional life for myself which allows me to develop this new perspective and apply the learning experience I have had for the future.
Of course, at the moment, the thought of actually having a job, makes me nauseous.
Being totally knackered from driving all night in a rickshaw the above paragraph was all I managed to write at the airport. Now I am back in England, enjoying the bright, cool spring sunshine, showing off my tan to anyone who is interested (and quite a few who aren't) and wallowing for hours in a hot, fragrant bath. It is strange to be back for several reasons. Firstly, England and my parents' house, where I am staying for a while, is so familiar having been my home since I was 2 years old, that it barely seems as if I have been away at all. Secondly, flying is no way to join two destinations in a seamless fashion. Spending time in an airport and on a plane, creates a delineated separation, like a portal between two worlds where you are cleansed and reassembled before arriving at the next place. There is no ceremony in flying; it is the full stop and capital letter between locations. Obviously, unless I had wanted to spend two months on a ship travelling around the Cape of Good Hope or, perhaps to save a few weeks, through the Suez canal, flying is the only option, but it is a featureless, dry activity, that wrenches you from one place, shakes you around to disorientate you and drops you into another place without any warning.
Having said that, there was an observable transition during the trip. People became progressively greyer and more passing English language intruded into my consciousness as I left India, travelled through Dubai, got on a London bound plane and arrived in Gatwick. Eventually, the transformation was complete as everyone, with the exception of a Sikh Customs Official, looked pink and pale and their dull, quotidien, conversational snippets crashed through my consciousness like stones against a window. I don't want to know that Steve phoned yesterday and you wouldn't believe what he said. I don't want to hear that an Irishman is always behaving badly and not to, on this occasion, shame his wife at the Imigration counter. I especially don't then want to hear him showing her up, schmoozing the supremely uninterested Immigration Officer, who is wondering what he did in a former life which meant he had to work over the Easter Weekend. But, after months of blissful ignorance about the mindless chit chat people indulge in, on returning home it becomes claustrophobic. I must remember to change my "Bus-compressed-air-horn Ear Filter" for my "Drivel-people-talk-on-a -daily-basis Ear Filter".
You may think, reading the above that I am unhappy to be home and wish I were back in India. Well, that's not true. This trip came to a natural conclusion, and the law of diminishing returns was beginning to apply. It was time for the toddler of a project to take it's first independent steps and see whether, without my extreme bullying presence, it can develop further. Also, I have been away from clinical practice for a longtime and I was beginning to enjoy too much the freedom and lack of responsibility being thousands of miles away from your home confers. I really felt that staying longer would need justification to myself and any future employers. The best aspect of this trip is that it has not been a "once-in-a-lifetime" "never-to-be-repeated" opportunity, but the beginning of a professional and personal relationship which will enrich and inform my future practice and give me a perspective on issues to which I would have no access if I stayed all my working life in Cumbria. As someone said to me, it has become woven into my life and will be a continuous thread. That is why it doesn't feel strange enough being home. I now have the exciting task of figuring out how I am going to mould a professional life for myself which allows me to develop this new perspective and apply the learning experience I have had for the future.
Of course, at the moment, the thought of actually having a job, makes me nauseous.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Last Day
This is the last morning of my time at RUHSA and I have woken early, surrounded by too many, too heavy bags, for which I am sure Emirates will charge me a ridiculous amount. As has been the case every place I have stayed in for longer than a week, I have accumulated so many things that packing is an ordeal, a mathematical impossibility. I have no idea where the stuff comes from. It seems, especially here, that I have lived a Spartan existence. I have no bedspreads, no ornaments, no kitchen things to pack up. OK I have a couple of cushions but that is because the pillows provided are like bricks and smell of mushrooms. The main problem is books. I have lots. They are cheap to buy here and I have had no television for the last 8 months. Also, I have had a lot of salwar suits made, they are the only thing to wear and being such a hot climate, a new one is needed every day, so two or three is not enough as the dhobi (laundry man) takes 3-4 days to get the clothes back. I do occasionally wash them myself by hand in a bucket and then spend the next few days with swinging, dripping pants draped across my room, but as the dhobi only charges 11p per item for washing and ironing, it is churlish to refuse him the business, especially as my washing attempts are pathetically ineffective.
It seems amazing that finally this extraordinary experience is drawing to a close. Up until the last days I have been seeing and doing new things, meeting new people and it has not seemed as if I am leaving at all. Yesterday, we had our last team meeting with me present. It was a sombre affair. There are concerns about the future of the leadership at RUHSA, staff are unhappy, and I think they enjoyed my involvement because I was able to be a bridge between themselves and their erratically brilliant and compassionate, but very tricky head of Department, who is undergoing so much stress at present that the brilliant/erratic balance is tipping further towards the undesirable end. However, there are some good signs. The staff are proud of what has been achieved so far and are keen our efforts should not be wasted. Mathew and I have written a clear, simple and achievable timeplan for the next year, with specific dates for monitoring and evaluation and goals to be achieved at the end of the first year. The team members know what needs to be done and they know how to do it, so with luck, despite the difficulties, I will return in a year and see that it has been achieved. Although, I understand their concerns, I trust them to be able to carry this embryonic venture forward into maturity, for it is only with its successful expansion into the wider community that it will achieve what it intends, which is addressing the needs of all vulnerable people and providing a workable prototype to develop in other areas.
Knowing I’m coming back in January and that this is the start, I hope, of a long professional and personal relationship with everyone here makes leaving much easier. I haven’t felt sad, because I don’t feel anything is ending but that something is beginning. Pandian, my fiance, does not feel the same way. He is very sad. I thought he had got over the whole fiance thing, but yesterday he asked me to marry him again. I said no.
"When you coming back?"
"January"
"OK, I wait, then."
"No don’t wait, I’m not going to marry you at all."
"I wait. 9 months, 9 years. I wait"
I gave up. I thought perhaps it was the quirks in my character which attract him, but, call me cynical and callous, I fear the vast difference in our relative incomes has a bearing on his adoration.
As for saying goodbye to everyone at RUHSA, some are happy to see me go. I have been a thorn in their side and rocked their comfortable existence by being challenging and demanding, but some seem, on the face of it, to be sorry I am leaving. Being a delusional optimist, I like to think the latter group forms the majority.
I shall miss the ride to the village through the unruly headed coconut palms. The effort but release of cycling in the heat, concentrating on the ground when there is a slight incline, seeing only the spiky shadows of the leaves cast on the hot tarmac. I shall miss the transient company of the other cyclists as we pass each other: the old men in dhotis travelling at snail’s pace without wobbling or falling; the young men carrying mountains of pots or wide, drooping bundles of sugar cane; and the young girls, their hair still in plaits, tied with jasmine and bows, two or three to a bicycle, slyly looking and giggling as sweatily I pass them, usually singing loudly to Rigoletto on my MP3 player. I wonder if the ladies of the rope making village, who wave cheerily as I pedal and they weave, will notice that I no longer pass on occasional mornings.
I shall definitely be sad to say goodbye to the oldies in the village, whose names, I have only just managed to remember, Sukkupattu, Chinnathambi, Rajamani, Pushpa, Chandrammal and many others. Today, they are giving me lunch to say goodbye. I hope they will still be here in January. I shall enjoy our last morning together, all of us wobbling our heads, united in our mystification of the other’s language. My cheek muscles will be aching by the end of lunch from all the smiling, the only avenue of international communication open to us, but it will be worth it.
The rest of the day will be spent wrapping books in packages of less than 2kg to send back to UK at ¼ of the minimum potential cost of excess baggage; weighing my suitcases to see how much overweight they still are and traumatically chucking out salwar suits that I will never use in England but to which I have a sentimental attachment. I have bags containing old clothes and medicines for Rita, read books and pots for Jackie and Alex who are in Vellore for the year, stationery for Mathew and socks for Dr John. That still leaves three enormous suitcases. No presents this time, I have too much of my own stuff.
The funny thing is, the ants know I’m leaving and they have invaded my space already, scavenging for any hitherto unnoticed crumbs and dead insects. The ongoing Battle for Supremacy which has been raging for 8 months is in the balance. At present the ants are winning, but I have a secret plan up my sleeve. As soon as the suitcases are outside. I am going to sweep like a maniac and clear them, plus all their food out, so it will just be a bare concrete block again. Hah. I will win.
It seems amazing that finally this extraordinary experience is drawing to a close. Up until the last days I have been seeing and doing new things, meeting new people and it has not seemed as if I am leaving at all. Yesterday, we had our last team meeting with me present. It was a sombre affair. There are concerns about the future of the leadership at RUHSA, staff are unhappy, and I think they enjoyed my involvement because I was able to be a bridge between themselves and their erratically brilliant and compassionate, but very tricky head of Department, who is undergoing so much stress at present that the brilliant/erratic balance is tipping further towards the undesirable end. However, there are some good signs. The staff are proud of what has been achieved so far and are keen our efforts should not be wasted. Mathew and I have written a clear, simple and achievable timeplan for the next year, with specific dates for monitoring and evaluation and goals to be achieved at the end of the first year. The team members know what needs to be done and they know how to do it, so with luck, despite the difficulties, I will return in a year and see that it has been achieved. Although, I understand their concerns, I trust them to be able to carry this embryonic venture forward into maturity, for it is only with its successful expansion into the wider community that it will achieve what it intends, which is addressing the needs of all vulnerable people and providing a workable prototype to develop in other areas.
Knowing I’m coming back in January and that this is the start, I hope, of a long professional and personal relationship with everyone here makes leaving much easier. I haven’t felt sad, because I don’t feel anything is ending but that something is beginning. Pandian, my fiance, does not feel the same way. He is very sad. I thought he had got over the whole fiance thing, but yesterday he asked me to marry him again. I said no.
"When you coming back?"
"January"
"OK, I wait, then."
"No don’t wait, I’m not going to marry you at all."
"I wait. 9 months, 9 years. I wait"
I gave up. I thought perhaps it was the quirks in my character which attract him, but, call me cynical and callous, I fear the vast difference in our relative incomes has a bearing on his adoration.
As for saying goodbye to everyone at RUHSA, some are happy to see me go. I have been a thorn in their side and rocked their comfortable existence by being challenging and demanding, but some seem, on the face of it, to be sorry I am leaving. Being a delusional optimist, I like to think the latter group forms the majority.
I shall miss the ride to the village through the unruly headed coconut palms. The effort but release of cycling in the heat, concentrating on the ground when there is a slight incline, seeing only the spiky shadows of the leaves cast on the hot tarmac. I shall miss the transient company of the other cyclists as we pass each other: the old men in dhotis travelling at snail’s pace without wobbling or falling; the young men carrying mountains of pots or wide, drooping bundles of sugar cane; and the young girls, their hair still in plaits, tied with jasmine and bows, two or three to a bicycle, slyly looking and giggling as sweatily I pass them, usually singing loudly to Rigoletto on my MP3 player. I wonder if the ladies of the rope making village, who wave cheerily as I pedal and they weave, will notice that I no longer pass on occasional mornings.
I shall definitely be sad to say goodbye to the oldies in the village, whose names, I have only just managed to remember, Sukkupattu, Chinnathambi, Rajamani, Pushpa, Chandrammal and many others. Today, they are giving me lunch to say goodbye. I hope they will still be here in January. I shall enjoy our last morning together, all of us wobbling our heads, united in our mystification of the other’s language. My cheek muscles will be aching by the end of lunch from all the smiling, the only avenue of international communication open to us, but it will be worth it.
The rest of the day will be spent wrapping books in packages of less than 2kg to send back to UK at ¼ of the minimum potential cost of excess baggage; weighing my suitcases to see how much overweight they still are and traumatically chucking out salwar suits that I will never use in England but to which I have a sentimental attachment. I have bags containing old clothes and medicines for Rita, read books and pots for Jackie and Alex who are in Vellore for the year, stationery for Mathew and socks for Dr John. That still leaves three enormous suitcases. No presents this time, I have too much of my own stuff.
The funny thing is, the ants know I’m leaving and they have invaded my space already, scavenging for any hitherto unnoticed crumbs and dead insects. The ongoing Battle for Supremacy which has been raging for 8 months is in the balance. At present the ants are winning, but I have a secret plan up my sleeve. As soon as the suitcases are outside. I am going to sweep like a maniac and clear them, plus all their food out, so it will just be a bare concrete block again. Hah. I will win.
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