Cut You

At la Marshall, where considerably loud music is always played.

Tony:  Joshua, you must be careful when you go wait for your bus stop tonight.

Joshua:  Why, Tony?

T:  I was attacked yesterday.

J:  WHAT?

T:  I was attacked last night.

J:  Good god.  What happened?
T:  I was just waiting for the bus outside, when two or three men came to me.  They were locals; I've seen them around before, but I always knew they were up to no good.  But one comes towards me and goes to grab my bag...

[music grows louder]

J:  Oh...  What they take?

T [can't hear over the music]: HUH?
J:  WHAT DID THEY TAKE?

[music grows louder]

T:  They didn't take anything.  I just fwap [blocks his chest with a knife hand block] like it was instinct.  And then I pivot-

J [can't hear over the music]: -You WHAT?

T:  I pivot.  Like Agosto teaches us to do for ochos.  I pivot, then I ran.  Luckily a bus was coming, so I ran in front of the bus and kept going down the street.  While the men were waiting for the bus to pass, I was already three blocks away.

J:  Oh.  Wow.  Tango saved your life.

T:  Yes, Agosto would get a kick out of that.  And this happened at 10 o'clock at night.  You would think it would happen much later, when less people are around.

[music grows louder]

J:  This was after tango last night?
T [can't hear over music]:  This was WHAT?
J:  AFTER TANGO LAST NIGHT?
T:  Yes, after our class.  What time did you catch the bus?
J:  Maybe 2 in the morning, like usual.

T:  Good thing you weren't attacked like I was.

J:  Yeah, but only because the police were driving up and down the alley every five minutes.

T:  Lucky for you.

[music grows louder]

J:  Yeah...  But trust me, I do get paranoid.  Sometimes a group of people would pass and I debate on whether or not I should get my knife out.

T [can't hear over music]:  You debate WHAT?

J: I DEBATE ON-

T:  WHAT?!?!
J [yelling]:  I DEBATE ON WHETHER OR NOT I SHOULD-

[music abruptly stops]

J [yelling]:  -GET MY KNIFE OUT.

[Tango dancers and people at tables turn to stare at the yelling American.]

J:  How many people do you think speak English here?
T:  Oh, all of them.

J:  Oh, good.

[Knife Wielder?]

Like Making Love

Betty [preparing to leave the apartment]:  Ah Joshua, how are your tango classes?

Me [looking up from jar of dulce de leche]:  It's... okay.
B [concerned]:  How do you mean?
M:  It's already been three weeks, and I still can't lead.
B:  But you are just eh beginner.
M:  I know, but when I lead, most people who dance with me get frustrated and tell me that I need more force from the body, esfuerza del cuerpo.  But when I try doing that, I feel like I'm just ramming my chest into theirs.
B:  Ah but ees not just eh force.  Eets ah...  ahn energy.  Eets eh feeling.  Eet has to come from here [clutches her abdomen] and that's when you connect with another person.  When you hear tango, don't you feel eet here?

-| As seen at La Viruta |-

M [nodding slowly with raised eyebrows]: Si...
B [raising her eyebrows]:  Are you sure?
M:  No...
B:  When I hear tango, I...  [she shivers] Eet ees like when you make love.  You must, I forget how you say...
[Silence in which Betty looks off into the distance.]
M:  You can say it in castellano.
B:  Entregarse.  Without that, eets just eh dance.  And tango ees not just eh dance.  Without entregarse, there ees no connection, eets just moving.  Without-
M [finding the translation on GoogleTranslate]: -To surrender.  Entregarse is to surrender.
B:  Si.  Without surrendering, you are just moving.  Without that, eet ees just sex.  But with eet, eets making love.
M:  So I have to surrender to my partner?
B:  Si.  For me, you have to have that feeling, or you won't understand eet.  For me, tango and making love are the same.  That's why I like doing both. [Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she turns to leave the apartment.]  Eets okay.  You'll get eet soon.




[ Learning to Make Love?  Every Night? ]

Next of Kin

NOTE:  As per usual, a long story.  The case in point may be found at the very bottom of the post.

| email 1 |

Joshua,

Can you send me your address there [in Australia]?  I [happen to] have some friends/relatives there.  They might be able to meet you if you're close to where you're staying.

Love,

Dad

| internal monologue 1 |

NO WAY.

| email 2 |

Joshua,

Your Auntie Nora lives 15.62 km|9.71 m from you.  About 25 mins. by car according to Google maps.

Love,

Dad

| internal monologue 2 |

NO WAY.  What were the chances?  Additionally, how many random relatives will my dad keep a secret until the most opportune moment?

| phone call part 1 |

Joshua:  Auntie! - Auntie? - Nora!  We finally got in touch!

Nora:  Yes, Joshua!  ...So, how are we related?

| online chat 1 |

Cass:  I didn't know you had family in Australia.

J:  Me neither.

C:  Magno, you have to meet this woman.

J:  I know, it'd be good to meet some family members I've never met before.

C:  How is she related to you?

J:  No idea.  I guess I'll find out when I meet her.

C:  Mmm.  And your dad's not sure?

J:  I don't think so.

C:  Wow.

J:  It didn't really sound like my dad spoke with her a lot.

C:  What if there was a kind of family schism?  Drama?  One half didn't talk to the other?

J:  I don't think we're that kind of family.

C:  You never know.  Who knows how many secrets the Magno family harbors?

J:  Like I said, we're not that kind of family.

| phone call part 2 |

J:  And you?  What are you doing here in Adelaide?

N:  Well, I used to be a full time bartender at the Hilton Hotel in Victoria Square.  Now, I'm a full time lecturer at Adelaide Hospitality & Tourism School.  I teach 40 students 5 days a week on how to mix drinks and deal with rude customers.  Oh, and I just won a three year scholarship to live and study to be a hotel manager for the Australian equivalent of a very fancy Swiss Hotel.

J:  Jeez.

N:  Yep.  I guess winning awards runs in the family.  You can tell your father that.

J:  Will do.

N:  Oh,  and I have three sons you have to meet.  One is 16, one is 10, and the other is 9.  I guess that makes you their cousin.  Or is it uncle?  I don't know.  Oh, how's the economy in the US by the way?

| meeting |

N:  Ah!  So I finally figured it out!  How we're related...  Your father is my cousin, I think, because his mother and my mother are cousins.

J:  So we're not even sure if we're actually blood related?

N:  No, but I'll ask my mom again.

David [Nora's partner]:  So we're not even sure if you're his aunt.

N:  No, Sweetheart.  We Filipinos call even the most distant relatives our Auntie or Uncle or Niece or Nephew.

D:  I'm not sure that's how it works.

J:  So how'd you do it?  You know, move to Australia, get into the bar tending scene, then all of a sudden go up into hotel management?

N:  Through hard work.  You must know that already.  But it's doable.  Not easy, but doable.  Why?  Are you thinking of moving here?  How's the economy in the US?

J:  The economy...  Well, if I were to have stayed at home, all I would be doing right now is being sad and jobless.  So yes, it makes sense to come here.

D:  You know, Josh, Australia is the only country in the world where you can be unemployed, and you'll still have a home, be able to send your kids to school, and put food on the table.

J:  How?
D:  The government funds all of it.

J:  You're sure?
D:  I would hope so.  I work for it.

N:  Joshua, it's easy to come here.  Especially if you want to study.

J:  Even dance?  I'm almost considering going to a TAFE school here, maybe even getting a bachelor's in dance performance.  You know, getting official dance training.

N:  Yeah!  You could do that, IF YOU WANT.  Here, a TAFE education costs about a quarter of the price of going to a university, but you're actually getting an applied education, not just one in theory.

J:  ... I don't know.  It just sounds like it'll be more expensive because I'm a foreign student...

N:  So move here!  It's easy, especially since you're an American citizen.  Your points will be higher.  All you need to do is apply for a job here - David and I can even help you with that, if you ever want to bar tend or maybe even work for the government - so you have a working visa [I think you need to be contracted here for a two year job], but once you arrive, you can apply for permanent residency.  Then you'll get all the Australian government privileges, especially the ones under the TAFE schools.  Oh, you won't be able to vote, but who cares about that?

J:  Wow.  You make it seem so...

N:  Easy?  That's because it is.  Australian life is better, Joshua.  The cost of living is cheaper, and the government can help you in so many ways.  There are jobs just waiting to be had, but if you really wanted it, I can help get you a job or David can.  That's what family's for.  And since these jobs pay enough so that you can easily support yourself, you'll be able to apply and attend for ACArts like you want.  

J:  Like I want.

N:  Really, that's just the point of it all, and it's exactly what I did.  You just have to set a date for yourself - let's say two weeks after you go back home to the US - and just decide on what you want to do.  Then do it.  But for now, finish your year.  Do what you had set out to do on this scholarship.  It might change by that time.

| internal monologue 3 |

NO.  WAY.

| Case in Point |

It was at this very moment He realized that it was more than just coincidence that the third|senior and second|junior year dance show at ACArts was presented one week after he had arrived, and that his father just happened to have family in Adelaide.  Seeing it all was enough to convince him that this was something he wanted, and if she spoke the truth, He was determined to work for it.  After all, moving to Australia didn't sound like such a terrible plan after this year, did it?

[ Nora's Mother's Cousin's Son's Son ]

Now Listen Here

Setting:  Caritas, Uganda, about 200 meters from the CTC.  At eleven o'clock a.m., the day is surprisingly cloudy and windy.  Our Hero has returned from a trip to Lacor, and has decided to take up Beatrice [local shopkeeper] on her offer for Acholi lessons.

Note:  All Acholi words are written phonetically.  Feel free to learn as well.

Joshua [walking up to Beatrice]:  A-foy-oh, Beatrice.  Do you remember me?

Beatrice [35 year old woman]:  Yes, yes, Joshua!

J:  I've come to learn Acholi, if it's still okay with you.

B [pulling a plastic chair from inside her shop]:  Yes, yes, okay, okay.  Nom ca-beh-roh: Please sit.

J:  I hope you don't mind, some men from the other shops followed...

[Enter seven men, ages ranging from 25 to 60]

B [going inside to get more chairs]:  Oh, no problem.

Joseph Adunga [60 year old man]:  Now, listen here young man.  What is your mission here in Gulu?

J [addressing Beatrice]:  He's asked me this already.  [Looking to Joseph Adunga]:  I'm studying dance, sir.

JA:  Eh?  Now, listen here, young man.  I am black.  You are white.  But in Uganda, the blood [points to his arm] is both red, the same.  The brain [clutching his skull] is the same.  The muscles are the same.  We are all one body, one mind.  In America, the blood is both red, the same.  The brain is the same.  The muscles are the same.  We are all one body, one mind.

Kenneth [40 year old man]:  Don't mind him, he's been drinking.  You want to speak Acholi?

J:  Yes, Kenneth.  I want to speak Acholi so I don't get cheated by the bodas or the market vendors.

B:  What would you like to say?

J:  Anything, really.  Whatever will help to make me seem like [in Father Joe's words] "a child of Uganda."

B:  Okay, okay.  To say, "Welcome," you would say, a-foy-oh bee-yoh-no.

J [slowly writing the words]: a-foy-oh bee-yoh-no.

[The other men laugh]

K:  Yes, yes.  Joshua, where do you live?

J:  Nearby.  Catechists Training Center.

JA:  You're a Catechist?

J:  No, I'm just living there.

K:  Ah, so I am a carpenter, and I build things.  If I don't have the proper tools to build, how can I get them?

JA:  So what is your mission?

J:  Um.  Can't you get tools from a shop?

JA:  Now, listen here, young man.  I am black.  You are white.  But in Uganda, the blood is both red, the same.  The brain is the same.  The muscles are the same.  We are all one body, one mind.  In America, the blood is both red, the same.  The brain is the same.  The muscles are the same.  We are all one body, one mind.

B:  Eh, leave him alone.  Joshua, to say -

K:  - Joshua, my brother - will you allow me to call you that? - to say "my brother," you say oh-meh-rah.

J [writing again]: Oh-meh-rah.  My brother.

[The other men laugh]

JA:  Now, listen here, young man.  Uganda's language is from the British.  I understand what you are saying, you understand what I am saying.  We are all body, one mind.  I am black.  You are white.  But in Uganda -

K:  - Ah, don't listen to him, Joshua.  He's been drinking.

JA:  Now, listen here, young man.  I have so much money [pulling a roll of bills from his shirt pocket], and I can do with it what I please.  Like this [hands one to Beatrice, who rolls her eyes and goes into her shop].

K:  Joshua, do you have a lot of money?  Can I ask you for 1,000 shillings|36 cents for the information you are writing?

J:  Me?  Oh, no, I don't have much money.  I have little, and I have to divide it for my travels...

B [returning with what looks like an IV bag, and hands it to Joseph Adunga]:  Eh, leave him alone.  Joshua, if you want to say - 

JA [ripping open plastic bag with his teeth, and doesn't notice the clear liquid spilling onto his pants]:  - Now, listen here, young man.  Where are you from?

J:  Chicago, sir.  United States.  Um, is that water?

JA:  No.  It is drink [holds up the bag to Joshua].

J [leaning forward, reading the front of the bag]:  Drink Dance?  40% by volume?  Is this... gin? [turns to Beatrice]
B [nods, pulls down the side of her shirt closest to Joshua, and begins breast feeding an infant who has materialized from seemingly nowhere]:  Yes, gin.  Do you take alcohol?
J [suddenly paying attention to something in the horizon]:  Oh.  Yes, I take.

K:  He's been drinking since the morning.  If you want to say "Where do you come from?" you say, In a kee kweh-neh?  And to answer "I come from..." you say, Ahm kee...

J:  So I would say, Ahm kee Chicago?

[The other men laugh]

B [nodding, still with baby on breast]:  Yes, yes!  See?  Acholi is easy.

JA:  Now, listen here, young man.  If you are not a Catechist, what is your purpose?

J [addressing Beatrice's forehead]:  He keeps asking that.  Am I not answering it correctly?

B:  No, he is just drinking too much.

JA:  Now, listen here, young man.  Do you want a drink?  Have a drink.

J:  Oh, no no no no no.  It's not even lunch yet...  And I'm going to dance this afternoon.

JA:  Eh?  Dance?  Why is a Catechist learning to dance?  What is your purpose?

K:  Eh, sorry, brother.  He drinks too much.  So if I want 1,000 shillings -

B [jerking, dislodging the baby]:  - Eh!  Leave him alone!

JA:  Now, listen here, young man.  I don't know your mission, and I don't care.  I just care about your money.  Don't let any of these strangers walk you home.  There are many people who drink here, young persons who drink and steal.  Don't trust them.  You heed my word, and you will make it through Uganda.  If you refuse my word, the windows to your room will be broken, and all of your money and belongings will be stolen.  I must leave now [walks to the bar, dropping behind his empty gin bag].

B [addressing Joshua]:  Don't listen to him.  He's trying to scare you.

K:  My brother, can I have 1,000 shillings?

J [leaning over, putting the notebook and pen back into his bag]:  I think I have to go now...  It's getting close to lunch time...

B [turning so that both baby and breast are inches from Joshua's face]:  Will you be back tomorrow?

[Young Man]

Announcing

-| two and a half months ago |-

Auntie [clutching her heart, as if experiencing an attack]:  Aye, my god.  Are you sure?

Joshua:  Of course, Auntie.

A:  Is it not sape dere?

J:  I'm pretty sure I will be.

A:  Aren't dere gahngs?  Or drahgs?  Or biolehnce?  Or robbery?

J:  Auntie, there are gangs, drugs, violence, and robberies in America.  Don't worry, I'll be fine.

A:  Aye, my god.  Where are you going pirst?

J:  First, I'm going to India.

A:  And teerd?

J:  Well, I might stay in Africa for a while...
A:  Aye, my god.
J [continuing]:  ... I was supposed to go to Egypt as my third country (but as you know, many bad things are happening there), but I think I might go to South Africa or Australia instead.  Then France, London, and Argentina.

A [picking up her Yorkshire Terrier and holding him close to her chest]:  Aye, just go straight to Prance.  It's nicer dere, no?  People are nicer dere?

J:  Auntie, I'm pretty sure France has a lot of gangs, drugs, violence, and robberies too.

A:  Aye, my god.  What ip you get mahgged?

J:  Then I'll dance for money, Auntie [proceeds to bend over and seductively roll up his jeans.]  

A:  Joshua, I'm not keeding.

J:  I'm not bringing that much with me, auntie.  I'll have a place to stay, where I can keep most of my stuff safe.

A [squeezing the Yorkie, then swallowing some sleeping pills with coffee]:  Aye my god.  You're skehring me.  Imagine what you're mom is apraid op.  Den multeeply dat times ten.  Dat's how I peel.

J:  ... Are you sure about that?.

A:  Ob course!  Can't you change your plans?

J:  Yes, auntie, but I don't want to.

A:  Aye, why not?  Why do you hab to go dere?

J:  It's just something I want to do.  Something I have to do.  Don't worry Auntie, Uganda is going to be great.

-| August 25, 2011 |-

Hello Joshua,

Thanks for traveling with Orbitz.  This email confirms the ticket number(s) issued for the "Entebbe 10/2/11" trip.

Sunday, October 2, 2011:  Bangalore Hindustan to Dubai.
Monday, October 3, 2011:  Dubai to Addis Ababa Bole.

Monday, October 3, 2011:  Addis Ababa Bole to Entebbe.

Watch out, Uganda.

[J:]

You See, For Me

It is often common sense to follow one rule when you find yourself in the middle of a wedding, or in the middle of a public speech, or in the middle of a crowd of strangers, or in the middle of a dissociative identity disorder attack:

Never say anything bad about the people around you.  You never know who's listening.

That is, of course, if you mention names.  With names come identity, with identity comes blame, and with blame comes unfortunate publicity.  Regardless, I strongly believe that [however little] readers of this blog learn something from my entries, I will attempt to hold back no details from the [mélange of] stories, anecdotes, and transcribed dialogue involving one. other. person.
Except the name, of course.  For simplicity's sake, I'll refer to him as "Tomas."  Enjoy.
.

-| one |-

I met Tomas under what most people would consider "normal circumstances": another volunteer at Samarthanam, Tomas arrived about month ago to study with the blind sports manager in hopes of managing his own blind sports bar [which, as I recall, sounded suspiciously like a normal sports bar but with headphones so the visually impaired could also enjoy the radios and televisions].  Someone who has ever fallen madly in love, then out of it, however, knows that there are no such things as "normal circumstances."  Interestingly enough, Tomas is also blind, so one would assume that his motivations for coming to India were incredibly high, and the fact that he had spent the previous seven months in Kerala would imply that his tolerance for Indian culture was somewhere between "This is India, get used to it" and "I might as well have been born here."

Speaking with him, I quickly learned that he loved talking about his home country - who didn't? - and that he loved talking about how friends/family/strangers said that his inspirational story should be turned into a movie.  In short, he wrote about the world in first-person.  Nothing out of the ordinary.

-| two |-

Everyone in the house had been stricken with one illness or another; after all, August was monsoon season.  But the blind sports manager and other volunteers should have known something was wrong when Tomas' flu lasted more than four weeks, six trips to six different doctors, and a drastic reduction in the "foreign food" he was eating [at one point, all he ate was store-bought white bread, cheese squares, and 7-up, which he called juice].  On several occasions, I offered to bring him food from the nearby children's home, which always made me feel better, and each offer produced the same response.

"You see, for me, spicy food isn't good for getting over a sickness."

A month had passed, and the farthest Tomas had traveled from his host's house was across the street [with company] to the convenience store to replenish his food store.  Again, I offered to bring back food from the children's home to add some variety in his diet.

"No."  He said flatly, "I don't like it."  I didn't offer again.

-| three |-

Josh [entering the office room]:  Friends!  What's up?

Tomas:  Josh, I was telling Alessio here about my thoughts about marathons.

Josh:  Oh?

Tomas:  I don't like the definition.

Josh:  ... I'm not sure I follow.  Isn't the definition of a marathon so-many-odd number of miles/kilometers, and it's named after the Greek guy Marathon who ran back to his home village after his kingdom won some war?  [History has never been a strong point.  For more on the topic: Marathon]

Tomas:  You see, for me, that's a nice story.  But I don't believe it.

Josh:  What?  The definition of marathon 42.195 kilometers, or 26 miles and 385 yards.  At least, that's what it says on Wikipedia.

Tomas:  I don't trust it.

Josh:  So how would you want to define it?

Tomas:  You see, for me, I would define it as "a long distance run by a person."

Josh:  But a long distance could be different for anyone.  The reason a definition exists is so that you can set a certain bar for everyone, not just so anyone can give their own meaning to it.

Tomas:  So what would you call a race that you ran that's 43 kilometers?  Or 44?  Or 100?

Josh:  A long f*cking distance I would never decide to run.

[Tomas laughs.]

Josh:  Isn't that what an ultra-marathon is called?  Alessio, you're a runner, right?

Alessio [hesitant to enter the debate]:  ... Yes.

Josh:  How long is a marathon?

Alessio:  It's about 42 kilometers.

Tomas:  I don't like it.

Josh:  How can you deny the definition that's given by a [mostly] accurate website and a runner?

Tomas:  I just don't think it's true.

Josh:  But that's like denying the definition of the speed of light.  You can't just generalize it as "very fast."

-| four |-

As an act of friendship and an offering of peace, I regularly lead Tomas to a nearby supermarket.  Everyone has to eat something, after all.  Today, instead of buying water ["I don't trust the bottled water in the house, or the boiled water at the school."], crackers ["I have to be ready for when no one feeds me."], apples ["I need to strengthen my immune system."], and several packs of mentos [no explanation], Tomas wanted toiletries.  I brought him over to the lotion aisle.

"How much is it?"  He asked, and I explained that it depended on the size and brand of the bottle.  We proceeded to spend the next ten minutes opening bottles and smelling the contents inside.  He then asked to go to the mouthwashes.

"How much is it?"  He asked again, and I repeated that the size and brand of the bottle determined the price.  Each of the bottles were sealed in a plastic wrapper, so no smelling was allowed.  At his request, I began to read the brand names and description of each kind.  After choosing a bottle of red "spicy and herbal" mouthwash, he asked to go to the spray deodorants.

"How much is it?"  He asked a third time, and I dug my nails into my palm as I mentioned that size and brand were important factors in a manufacturer's choice in assigning a price to their product.  I noticed and mentioned the "No Testing" label underneath the row of aluminum cans.  Tomas asked which brands were available [about 10 or so], what were the colors of the cans [from red to gold], and what were the names of each smell [anything from 'Suave' to 'Street Sexy' to 'Pirates of the Caribbean'].  After choosing one, he opened the canister and sprayed a bit on his arm.

"No Testing." A store cashier materialized from behind the shampoos, and walked away.  Tomas chose another canister, and sprayed again on his arm.  I mentioned the cashier's warning, and Tomas turned to me and defended his case.

"You see, for me," he began, as usual, "I'm blind.  And I want to know what I'm buying.  So I will spray."  I imagined myself explaining that even visually-abled people couldn't smell the spray through the aluminum.  I decided against it.

-| five |-

Josh [entering the children home's office with an adult]:  Tomas, how long have you been waiting here?
Tomas:  For forty or fifty minutes.  Are you eating dinner now?
Josh:  Um, the children's home started already.  A while ago.  You could've started without me, you should've just asked one of the grown ups here to walk you to the kitchen.
[The adult points at Tomas' feet.]
Josh:  Oh, Tomas, they want you to take off your shoes before you enter the school.
Tomas:  You see, for me, I think I'm coming down with a cold.
Josh [wanting to desperately call Tomas a hypochondriac]:  Oh?
Tomas:  And you see, for me, you get a cold from walking on cold floors.  You absorb the cold.
Josh:  I'm not sure that's how it works...  But no one here wears shoes indoors.  Sorry dude.
Tomas [vocalizing frustration]:  AAAAAARGGGGGHHHH.  They are making it SO HARD to live here.
Josh [mumbling to himself]:  I'm not sure it's them who's making it hard...
[The adult points at Tomas' feet again.]
Josh:  I think they still want you to take off your shoes, Tomas.
Tomas:  But I don't want to.
Josh:  Why not?
Tomas:  My shoes will get stolen.
Josh:  By who?  I leave my shoes at the door all the time.  The other volunteers do too.  And the teachers.  Everyone.
Tomas:  But they're MY shoes.  I don't want them stolen.
Josh:  They won't get stolen, Tomas.  No one's shoes have gotten stolen.  Besides, they're just shoes.
Tomas:  JUST shoes?
Josh:  Yeah, man.
Tomas:  And what happens if my shoes get stolen.
Josh:  Buy some more?  India's kind of the giving tree when it comes to things like shoes...  I don't think they'd cost too much.
Tomas:  But they're MY shoes.
Josh:  I guess you're going to have to choose between not eating and not getting a cold, then.
Tomas releases another grumble of anguish, and removes his shoes.

-| six |-

Tomas had asked a friend of mine to lock the door of the office in which we were sitting.  This would be a problem, since other volunteers were constantly walking in and out of the office.  We pointed out this problem, but Tomas persisted.

"You see, for me, as a blind person, I don't know who will walk into the room and steal my things." Tomas was on the defense again.  We assured him that wouldn't happen, since there would be at least one other intern in the room with him at all times.  Again, he said to lock the door.  We made the mistake of asking why.

"I DON'T TRUST INDIANS."  He said, flatly.

Wrong country to travel to, buddy.

-| seven |-

I should have prefaced this entry with a warning:  I have no intentions on painting the disabled in a negative light.  Contrary to the vignettes listed above, I've actually met several visually-handicapped, hearing-impaired, and club-footed men and women.  Regardless of these hardships, however, they've shown me how they take on the world and challenge the people who question their abilities to accomplish even the most mundane of tasks.  In short, these people are an absolute delight and inspiration to anyone who has the patience to hear their story.  Although I'd love to take the time to write down each and every story I've heard from these men and women [who knows - maybe one day I will], I thought Tomas' was particularly interesting.  I present to you a man who wishes to change how the world - or, at least, his home country - sees the blind, and has the fantastic opportunity learn how to do so in a country that is MILES away from home.  And yet, he refuses to look past his own excuses, insecurities, fears, and prejudices of this land of plenty, resulting in getting himself stuck between a rock and a very dark place.  From what I've learned so far, India will teach you amazing things; some in topics that you hoped for, but mostly in ones you never even considered.  If you merely opened your eyes to it [seriously, no pun], allow it all to become a learning experience, you'll find happiness and wisdom in the most frustrating of deodorant-spray-lined aisles of a supermarket.

In the fourth chapter of the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna explains to Arjuna about the importance of "The Path of Wisdom."  I thought this particular excerpt was a good way to finish my entry on Tomas:

But the ignorant man, and he who has no faith, and the skeptic are lost.  

Neither in this world nor elsewhere is there any happiness in store for him who always doubts.

Ah, symbolism.

[Mags]

A Video?

On the bus ride back from Sunadha's performance at Alliance University's One Year celebration - a professor danced on a brass plate, I'm just saying - Nilmara, one of Samarthanam's social workers/teachers/adult figures decides to learn more about what I'm doing.

Nilmara:  So what is it that you hope to study here?
Josh [oversimplifying for clarity]:  I want to study dance in different cultures and volunteer programs.
N:  So you are a dancer?
J:  Yeah, I guess you can-
N:  -And what type of dance do you study?
J: Oh, I don't think I have one sty-
N:  -Did you enjoy the dance program tonight?
J:  Yes!  It was very entertai-
N:  -And you saw our girls perform?
J:  Yes.  I actually videota-
N:  -Did you videotape it?
J:  Umm, yes I did vi-
N:  -And you watched the university students and professors perform as well?
J:  Yeah, I videotaped them als-
N:  -Did you get a video of the fatty?
J:  The what?
N:  The fatty.  The fatty.  You know, the girl dancing with the boy.
J:  Oh, the one dancing hip hop and bollywood?
N:  Yes, the fatty.
J:  Now, well, I wouldn't call her fat, real-
N:  -Yes, she needs to stop eating all those sweets.  She was kind of slow, no?
J:  I thought she kept up with the boy very-
N:  No.  Too slow.  Fatty.
J:  Oh, okay.

[ Awkard lull in the conversation.  Josh stares out the window. ]

N:  So what style of dance do you practice?
J:  More than one style, I guess it's a lot of karate, contemporary, hip hop-
N:  -So you can teach the children at Samarthanam?
J:  I guess I coul-
N:  -Western dance?
J:  What do you mean, Western dance?
N:  Anything!  Western!
J:  I guess I could teach the Macarena.
N:  The what?
J [Lying, pretending it's still the 90s]:  The Macarena.  Very popular back in America.
N:  Okay.  You teach the children.
J:  Yeah, sure.  It won't be too hard-
N:  -Not too hard!  I will also learn.  And I'm a little fatty too, no?

[ Second awkward lull in the conversation.  Josh stares at the floor. ]

N:  How old are you?

J:  I'm twenty two.

N:  Ah, see, I am twenty three.  We are compatible, no?

[ Premature third lull.  Josh fidgets.  ]

Ah, India.  The Promised Land of impatience, desserts, and honesty.

[J]