The Golden Temple in Punjab, described in an earlier post.

Rolling out the Roti

Finally learned how to make roti (chapatti) today!! These small, flat breads, like whole wheat tortillas are served with every meal. I’ve been yearning to learn how to cook some Indian food, but whenever I’m in the kitchen and offer to help out, the efficient women who are rolling out roti, throwing them onto the skillet and then turning them over the fire, brush me out of the way. Months ago, when I was first allowed to roll out a roti, it looked more like an oddly-shaped continent than a disc, so the rolling pin was quickly taken away from me. The two women who have cooked in the GRAVIS kitchen while I’ve been here, Ringku Ji and Lila Ji, have made so many thousands of rotis in their lives that there’s no time to teach a clumsy newcomer when there are hungry staff to be fed. But Ringku Ji has been working upstairs and Lila Ji has gone home for a couple weeks, so the kitchen’s been left to a couple of the men and me. The men do most of the cooking, and Prem Ji, a GRAVIS driver makes subzi (fried vegetable dish) so good that I can’t tell it apart from his wife’s.

This Sunday, after spending a relaxing morning talking with Emily and Joey on the phone and planning lovely adventures, I headed to the kitchen around noon and found Prem Ji just starting to cut up okra. (I’ve never liked okra before, always found it such a slimy, scaly vegetable, but I’ve found that when it’s cooked right it’s actually pretty tasty). So, seeing Prem just starting to prepare lunch, I fell into crushing garlic, cutting tomatoes and doing other prep work so that he could combine it all over the stove in what seemed like bucket-fulls of sizzling ghee (Indian butter).

Then it was time for the roti. Sifting the whole wheat flour, Prem threw in some water and started kneading. He punched and worked the dough. When it was sufficiently combined, he took a handful of dough, rolled it into a ball, covered it in flour, rolled it out into a nice disc, spread a couple drops of ghee on top, folded the disc in half and then half again so that the disc now the quarter of a circle, rolled it out again into an equilateral triangle, tossed it on to the skillet, lathered it with ghee, waited until it was brown, flipped it and voila! Done! Rotis are usually always round, so when he got to the stage of rolling it into a triangle, I asked in my few words of Hindi, “Yeh kya he? (What is this?)”. He just laughed and I could tell that he was just having fun making unusual roti, even though it added a few extra steps. It was like when I was a little kid and helping my mom make pancakes into the shape of Mickey Mouse.

Seeing that Prem didn’t mind making roti that differed from the perfectly round kind, I boldly grabbed a handful of dough myself. The first triangle was obtuse and the edges were squiggly, but after that I learned how to roll evenly and get the dough going in the right direction. I could even make discs with no problem! I would pat out the dough and roll it out, Prem would fry them, and we turned out a stack of buttery, toasting hot triangles.

When I get back home I can’t wait to try it out. The ingredients are simple: whole wheat flour and water, a little salt and ghee (or butter) if you want and that’s it! The most challenging part will be finding a thin cast iron skillet for the purpose, but maybe I’ll be able to find one for tortilla making.
Mom- next time we cook a big Indian feast together, I’ll make the roti.

(Correction: After excitedly telling my co-worker, Anurag Ji, this story later in the day, he informed me that we had actually been making parantha, not roti. Parantha are fried with ghee while roti are cooked dry. All the parantha I have seen, however, have been round as roti. Sometimes they are stuffed with mashed potatoes and spices; mint adds an especially good flavor. Often they are left plain like the ones we made.)

Yogurt’s also not that difficult. While I haven’t actually made it myself yet, I’ve seen it being made. Here’s how: Take some whole milk, boil it, let it cool until it’s luke warm, add a spoonful of already made yogurt (it contains the live cultures / bacteria that will multiply in the milk, changing the consistency and taste until it turns into yogurt), cover the bowl, keep it over night in a warm but not hot place, and in the morning you’ve got yogurt. My friend Ruchi says she used to put the bowl of milk in a tea cozy and let it sit in the turned off oven over night, because it was slightly warmer there. Here the desert there’s no need to make the milk any warmer, so leaving it out is best. Basically you just want a comfortable temperature for growing this good kind of bacteria. What I’m wondering is: who made that first yogurt that has given life to all the rest of it, since you always need a starter culture.

Namate folks!
Sorry its been several weeks since I posted!
Here are three separate blogs full of stories for your perusal!
Experiences have been full over here in India.
I've been here for a quarter of a year and in a few days it will be 2 months until I return. I am looking forward to one more amazing month with GRAVIS and then a month travelling with my cousin Kirstin and Coloradian friend Emily. Don't worry, three tough girls travelling together will be a strong team to be reckoned with. Family: safety will be our number one concern, and we'll be smart, plan well, and let you know all of our plans in this regard soon, so PLEASE don't worry.

Modernity Shock

The most developed looking infrastructure in the Thar are the gas stations. Indian Oil and other gas companies have been rapidly involved in the construction of bright new stations up and down the rural roads to serve the growing demand of motorcyclists and Tata trucks. These stations are so modern they may as well be on any American corner, besides the fact that they’re surrounded by thatched huts, sand and camel carts. Seriously. As soon as you step off of their smooth cement you’re back in the sand and a thatched hut is not more than 20 feet away to which women spend hours of the day bringing water. I’ve even seen one gas station in the desert that had a plot in front for a patch of grass like most American gas stations. We’re in the Thar Desert for crying out loud! You’d think the building plans for a gas station for a national oil company might change with locality, but no, of course not. We only get 200 mm of rain per year here on average, but that’s not going to convince a company that a patch of lawn is a little unnecessary. I was happy to see goats coming to munch it up.

Last week I saw a mirage on the desert: in the far distance the trees seemed to be reflected on a huge body of water. Everything was in mirror vision along the horizon, but of course it was simply due to the heat on the land, not any oasis or lake. I’ve seen mirages, black camels, and brilliant peacocks in the desert, but none of these sights were as strange as what I saw last week. Just coming from a field visit to a pastureland, we pulled the jeep off the main road to a Hotel boasting an “All Veg Restaurant” and “Guest House” in English. Tourism has been growing in the Thar, but awareness of this fact had not prepared me to see a gigantic white tourist bus gurgitating out a pack of tourists in shorts and tank tops into the Rajasthani heat. Although this is exactly what I would wear in the States, I found myself instantly offended by these middle-aged women’s exposure of leg and their teenage daughter’s exposure of cleavage. The daughters stood around looking bored in their fashionably large sunglasses while their fathers in baseball caps and sports jerseys excitedly videotaped the camels. This is exactly the kind of tourist I DON’T want to be, traveling around isolated and air conditioned, I thought to myself, and I wondered how people here in the villages regard ME. While I’m trying to be culturally aware and modest, there’s no doubt that I’m probably offending people right and left. If it’s only taken me a couple months to be shocked by this amount of exposure of skin and whiteness, what must people who have lived their entire lives in the sand and scrub be thinking? This image momentarily shocked my system.

Pasturelands and Community

A new project that I’ve been working on concerns common property resources, specifically community pasturelands. Understanding how rural communities manage their shared resources to avoid overgrazing and benefit the entire village has been fascinating. The practices that they’re adopting mesh alongside with what I’ve learned in theory, studying Environmental Science and the concept of Tragedy of the Commons (Garret Hardin), so it’s very exciting to see it in practice. And then the community has found ways to address their particular circumstances, which goes beyond anything I have learned in theory!

Going to the desert twice in the last week, I’ve visited pasturelands and met with villagers to discuss the issues that are facing them and their land. I’m particularly interested in the relationship of villagers to resource management and the benefits the pastureland has given them, such as: more fodder for their livestock meaning less pressure for villagers to migrate during drought years. A whole slew of indirect benefits have been realized, including: groundwater recharge, erosion control, halting of desertification, more education for children who don’t need to graze livestock , less time spent by women gathering water, etc.

Last week, Shashi Ji, the GRAVIS Secretary and I, drove around dunes and dunes with a few other GRAIS staff to reach the pastureland at Narayanpura village. The pasture was only developed a few years ago with the help of GRAVIS, and they harvested their first fodder grass this year, which is proudly stacked next to the guard’s hut. We pulled up and found that the Head of the Pastureland Committee was actually just stopping by at the same time! Serendipity! So we pulled a mat over the sand and sat in the pasture sipping chai with the guard, the head of the committee and other village elders who had been passing by and discussed the pastureland as the sun set over the dune. Shashi Ji translated, and we came away feeling as though we had had a productive discussion and listened to what the villagers had said, and encouraged the village to continue talking about management practices of the land. It was very rewarding.

On Monday, I visited another pastureland and held a discussion with Village Development Committee members under the newly constructed Hutch mobile provider tower in the center of the village. It seemed kind of strange to be sitting under this giant steel tower, surrounded by barbed wire fence out in the desert. But then I realized that the tower represents Development for the community and that there was also a lightbulb located outside, so when it got too dark, we could turn on the light and continue our community resource mapping project in the sand. Using some of the colored powders left over from the Holi festival, we drew the village boundaries, major roads, water sources, pastureland, etc, with the colors on the sand.

On a different note, Shashi Ji and I came up with an awesome idea that Joey and I have been exploring in more depth and will let you know as soon as things become more concrete. We think it’s pretty darn sweet concept.

I’ve also continued work on my curriculum for desert school children for personal hygiene and sanitation. Developing some new games and activities for the curriculum which will be implemented next year, it’s currently being translated into Hindi.

Given the assignment to design a cover for GRAVIS’s newest publication, “The Story of GRAVIS” by a past volunteer Hayden Kantor, I sat down learned how to use Adobe Photoshop all in one day. I had no idea how to work the program, but after going through the tutorial lessons, I became fairly literate in the program and designed some cool covers. One of them has gone to the printing press now!

Punjab

Two weeks ago, or so, my fellow volunteer, Ruchi, finished up her work with GRAVIS and was going to head to Punjab do visit her Aunt(Mamiji) and Uncle (Mamaji) before she left the country. So, jumping on the opportunity to see a new State in India, I went too. We caught a 12 hour train ride north from our city of Jodhpur, Rajasthan to Kokapura, Punjab. Overnight trains really make the time go by more quickly, so it wasn’t too bad. Our compartment mates were a zealous family just coming from a week long retreat at their religious group’s center near Mt. Abu. They were bursting with ideas of reincarnation, the chosen ones, salvation, the importance of meditation, and Brahmatma / the universal soul / God / whatever you want to call It. Since I know more Hindi/Sanskrit words that relate to spirituality than any other subject, I was able to understand pretty well and ask some probing questions. Ruchi was the stalwart translator as ever, for several hours as we were lovingly proselytized at by these Brahma Kumaris.

Awaking in the morning from my top bunk (definitely the way to go if you don’t want to be disturbed in your sleep), I looked out the train window as we rambled through a bountifully lush countryside. There were wheat fields everywhere! And so much greenery! Even the Sikhs riding by on their motorcycles bursted with bounty. There strong build and big bellies were evidence to the fertility of their land. I have become so used to the deserts and malnutrition of Rajasthan, that I was quite surprised to see that just in the next state over things were so different. While Rajasthan is one of the least developed states in India, Punjab has very high literacy rates and is the bread basket of the country. We trundled through acres and acres of wheat fields. Unfortunately just over that weekend a freak storm hit and flattened one tenth of the wheat crop with grape-sized hail. It will need to be threshed by hand rather than by machine, which will be very time consuming and costly.

Once off the train and driving to Mamaji and Mamiji’s house, I tried to observe everything new about the place. Sikh men ride by on motorcycles with bushy beards, big turbans that come to a peak in front, while rocking their aviator sunglasses! Sweet. For sale on long the sides of the roads in town are athletic pants with Adidas stripes down the side and mimic Asics or Nike tennis shoes. Sikhs love their athletic clothes. Little boys don’t wear the big turbans, only sporting the topknot wrapped in some thin fabric. Sikhs don’t cut their hair, so men must find some way to keep it all contained, hence the large turbans and even beard nets. Yes, like hair nets, except for your beard, this way all your hair gets pulled up into the turban if you don’t want to go for the bushy look. A sense of liveliness and robust joy pervades Punjab. The bouncing Bangra music encourages shoulder shimmies, hip thrusting, and hand motions like “raising the roof”. Punjabis love it.

Meeting Mamaji and Mamiji, I got my first hugs here in India, other than from a few Americans I’ve met. Although men walk hand in hand, or arm over the other’s shoulder (it’s just what buddies do), people don’t really hug. Maybe sometimes if you’re family. Affection is displayed in other ways, but I miss the physical hug. So it was wonderful to get one from Ruchi’s Aunt and Uncle, I’ll attribute it to the Punjabi culture and the fact that I was with Ruchi. Her cousin, Shveta has two adorable daughters, Parisha and Ruhani, who were lots of fun to play with and swing around. Parisha’s hit the climax of the terrible-twos stage and couldn’t understand our reasoning for not hitting her baby sister. Oh well, we just kept reassuring the mother, Shveta, that the phase would pass.

In the morning we headed out for Amritsar. Ruchi’s Uncle lent us his driver and car for the day, which was much faster than the bus and we were able to see everything we wanted to. We enter Amritsar and make our way to the center of town. First Stop: the Golden Temple. We’re not sure exactly where it is, so pulling up to a man sitting high on a cart next to the road, our driver starts to roll down the window but before he has even cracked it an inch or asked the way, the man says to some effect with a tired hand wave, “Temple straight ahead.” He’d been asked the question a hundred times and seeing a foreigner and a nice car, he already knew the question before being asked. Ruchi and I rolled back in laughter.

The Golden Temple is the most holy site among Sikhs and is a couple hundred years old. Hindu and Islamic architecture merge, as in the religion. The temple rises up in the center of a large blue pool called the Pool of Nectar (Amrit Sarovar, which gives the town its name). People bathe in the pool and prostrate themselves on the walkways. Walking clockwise around the pool we come to the entrance of the bridge out to the temple. Squeezed between Sikhs (silent for once), the line moves slowly towards the inner sanctum. My head is covered with my scarf out of respect and requirement and I bend down to touch the doorstep as the pilgrims in front of me have done before they stepped on to the bridge. When we finally reach the gold, my line is whisked around the side and we enter through a side door. I’m surprised to see that the chanting I’ve been hearing on loudspeakers is being broadcasted by four priests inside the temple, keeping up a continuous chant with the tabla. It’s beautiful and soothing, but as soon as we enter the sanctum we’re churned out by more pilgrims coming from behind. We snap a few photos once we’re back on the walkway and head to the next destination.

Stop 2: Just a few blocks away is Jallianwala Bagh, the open lot where 2000 Indians were killed or wounded when the British Geneneral Dyer ordered open fire without warning on the people who were gathered there in 1919. People gathered in the lot, surrounded by high walls, to protest the Rowlatt Act which gave British authorities the right to imprison any Indian suspected of sedition without trial. If you have seen the Gandhi movie, you were probably stunned by this holocaust-like scene. The lot has been transformed into a memorial park, but Ruchi and I felt that the beauty of the park diminished the gravity of the event, and we would have been more moved if it had been left empty. We touched bullet holes left in the sides of brick buildings and gazed into The Martyrs’ Well, where dozens jumped to avoid the bullets. Only a few people were able to climb the walls and escape the massacre.

Stop 3: After the sense of reverence at the Golden Temple and soberness of Jallianwala Bagh, we were ready for some fun. So we head to the border between India and Pakistan. Although it may seem illogical to go to the border between two nations who are nearly at each other’s necks most of the time, its only because you haven’t heard of the sunset ceremony of the border patrol. The Hindustani (Indian) army guards on one side and the Pakistani guards on the other put on a spectacular show of bravado and mock anger every evening for the delight of roaring patriots on either side. A stadium full of colorful Indians wave flags and dance to the blaring Bangra music that tries to outdo the blaring Pakistani tunes coming from the other side. The Pakistanis are dressed in more subdued tones, mostly whites and greys, and their stadium is not nearly as full. Ridiculously, I pridefully note to Ruchi that “We (meaning the Indians) seem to have a better representation.” Although I may gripe about the strictness of Indian culture or the annoyance of goggling Indian teenagers, as soon as I’m on the side of the winning team I immediately count myself in and practically consider myself a national! Oh double standards, you get me every time!

Anyways, the Hindustan patrol in khaki, green and red, with high white boots and flamboyant turbans march at a frightening pace towards the border, perform a series of leg kicks and stomps that I’m surprised don’t pull a muscle, and grimace at the other side. The Pakistani patrol go through similar displays and then both flags are lowered ceremoniously together, for the closing of the day. The flags must be lowered at exactly the same rate, and the blaring music must stop at exactly the same time. It’s all a very organized affair between the two sides, even the fans must abide by a few select slogans including: Long live Hindustan and Long live Pakistan. But all this doesn’t prevent the Punjabis from coming down from the stands and dancing in the road. One mob for boys and one mob for girls. When a favorite song comes on, two girls, probably sisters, perform an entire synchronized dance on the spot, probably learned from a Bollywood film, for hundreds of cheering Indians. When song starts to wind down, a whole group of girls comes and circles the dancers, sweeping them back into the party.

After a few wonderful days in Punjab, I said farewell to Ruchi and headed back to Rajasthan on my own to continue my work. I’ll miss this good friend, and wish her all the best in her travels to Africa for the next couple weeks.