“Do you have a trustworthy jeweler in India?” Linda Carroll asks me.
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“Do you have a trustworthy jeweler in India?” Linda Carroll asks me.
“What do you mean we cannot use the school?!” Lokendra Singh Rathore, cell phone to ear, paces the dusty road in front of the primary school in Nimbera Khurd, a village of 819 souls in Rajasthan, India.
Even in the best of times, Mr. Rathore does not speak softly. At our two previous clinics, held in adjacent villages, we were welcomed at the public primary schools.
It is election season in India and nothing is usual. Voting in this region was to be held the following week and there was fear that the clinic, which I support in conjunction with the Sarthi Foundation, a small local NGO, would be buying votes or creating a scheme to influence the election.
“Can you tell them,” I say, “that we have done this twice before. We have never asked anyone for a single rupee. Never done anything improper.”
“We will try.” And I get the Indian head wobble which, to me, means there is no place to hold our clinic.
We Americans may be exhausted by what feels like a perpetual election cycle. But here in the world’s largest democracy the election is intrusive in ways we can’t imagine. Voting in India goes from April 11 to May 19, in different geographic waves, affecting nearly every aspect
There are roadblocks and random checkpoints. Our car was stopped and searched once and photographed, with an old-school 35mm camera. If you are carrying a lot of money, you better have a good explanation. At the jewelry store, the merchant showed me many beautiful old pieces he had just received, “because of the election.” On two previous trips I had, with a local family, visited the Jodhpur leprosy society delivering tea, sugar, and basic foodstuffs to supplement the government allotment of lentils and oil. We were ordering supplies for our visit when informed it wouldn’t be safe. It could could be seen as a bribe and the local family risked retribution.
Our car is also a problem. As explained to me the government can simply requisition any commercial vehicle—a car with yellow plates—if it is needed for the election. So our car is kept locked garaged and locked for a couple of days, and then the driver makes sure to always have me and my travel arrangements on hand so it was clear the car is under hire. We also cancel a visit to a temple because of a huge political rally in the city.
Mostly, though, I worry about our little clinic. The doctors come tomorrow, where are we going to set up?
Turns out that Lali Davi who lives across the street from the school heard Mr. Rathore yelling in front of her home. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
He explained the problem.
“Our house is your house,” said Mrs. Lali, who remembered a long-ago kindness and instantly offers up her home.
Advertising is done with tuk-tuk—a baby taxi—and a megaphone. The family removed all their furniture and possessions, except one bed that the physical therapist uses as an exam table. The home isn’t as spacious as the school, but we put up tenting so patients have shade for waiting. Women sit on carpets to the left, men on carpets to the right. Registration, blood pressure and diabetes checks happen on the front porch. Preliminary eye checks in the bedroom on the left. PT clinic and medications in the center room and advanced eye appointments on the right. Since women here won’t remove their veil in front of men we have a female optometrist. While the other professionals are from Rajasthan, the optometrist is from Agra and doesn’t understand the local dialect. An assistant translates.
Mr. Rathore hauls a swamp cooler, fan, and chairs over in his tractor. The electricity is out most of the day, but my helpers thought to rent a generator, which gulps diesel. Three times a runner on motorbike zips out for more. Money goes so much farther here. I am able to get prescription glasses made for 300 rupees each, just over four dollars. The frames have been donated by Manhattan Beach Vision. The temperature is ten degrees cooler than usual, only 96. A tribal man in a turban lifts up his long shirt, called a kurta, to feel the cool air on his belly. We both smile as I take his picture and then he gestures for me to take another more dignified one with his clothes in place.
We serve over 400 people in one day. I put give the children stickers, watch the clinic hum, and am happy, for a few hours, to give not a thought to politics, either in on the Indian sub-continent or back home in the United States.
“How do you think I got this?” I pointed at the big scab on my chin.
Standing in front of a classroom of eight year-olds in India, they made outlandish and simple guesses, “an accident?”
“Yes, but what KIND of an accident?”
Of course I had to give them the answer because who is going to guess that I skinned my chin climbing up the trunk of an elephant?
While the clinics were a powerful and important experience they were surely not the entire focus of my third trip to India in a year. With my friend Joan there was certainly a lot of fun as well. We did a lot of the things you DO when you visit India. We went to the Taj Mahal. We ate spicy food, pause, with our fingers. We stopped by the side of the road to see some nomadic blacksmiths at work. We did some shopping, especially textiles. I had my favorite cotton Indian blouse copied in linen. It was so nice I asked them to make two more. We went to the Ranthambhore Tiger Reserve and we even saw tigers.
“Luck and chance,” is what we heard over and over again about whether you will see them. I know several people who haven’t. But what wasn’t luck and chance was our good fortune to get a cancellation of a private jeep, called a gypsy, which allows greater flexibility in following the cats.
Joan got the heebie-jeebies when Goldie, sitting in the left front seat, would turn around to talk with us. He wasn’t driving, though, as in India the driver sits on the right and cars drive on the left. “I knew I was getting used to it here,” said Joan, “when I stopped taking pictures of the cows every where.”
And of course we got to have our elephant encounter. We got to feed them, paint them, ride on them. There is a tall platform with stairs to get on top of the elephant, but once I saw the elephant rider climb up over the trunk I decided that would be a good a idea.
“Really? You want to do that?”
And so the call went out. “Crazy American lady over on aisle 7!” My Hindi isn’t so good, but I’m pretty sure that’s what they were saying, because an audience appeared seemingly out of nowhere.
How do you climb up the trunk of an elephant? You use the ears as handles, reach your foot up as high as you can in front, stepping on the trunk, using it as a springboard as you scamper/shimmy up over the head. That audience was also helpful as a couple of the men were pushing on my feet and trying to make sure I didn’t fall down. Up on the head of the, facing backwards I was having a huge laughing fit.
“Now turn around.”
You want to know what Pilates is really good for? When you are on an elephant and facing the wrong way, you are fifteen feet up in the air, THAT is when your Pilates workouts will pay off for you. Evan and Kaitlyn at OnPointe Pilates would be proud.
I even have a video of this, which I am incapable of loading here, but if you email me, I’ll send it to you. Guaranteed laughs. Somehow my chin kissed the elephant’s head in this process and I walked around with a big scab for 10 days.
And after me Joan decided she wanted to climb up the elephant trunk too. Totally graceful. No bodily injuries. Can’t bear to think how much Pilates she must be doing.
It will also require surgical and medical fees of about $2,700.