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 Dinner At The Real IndiaPosted 02.19.2008 by Charmingly Neurotic (47)
Aside from the fact that everywhere we went men wanted to ask us about ourselves or take pictures of us or with us, a life-changing event occurred in India -- one that made me understand what Angelina Jolie must feel like at times. And because this was Stef's idea, I tell her she owes me money for at least fifteen years of therapy.
We were on the beach when she told me about her trip to Indonesia, where there were people who'd take you to their homes and prepare an authentic meal and teach you how to cook it. After the cooking lesson you sat down with them and ate it. Sounds fun, right? So Stef got the brilliant idea that we could offer money to one of the poor women on the beach who hawked pens and did nails to invite us to her house and cook us a dinner. The plan seemed to work fine, as Stef got the girl who did our nails on the beach to agree to it. Her name was Kamla and she was twenty-four with four kids. She got married (arranged) at fifteen. The other women on the beach have similar stories, but Kamla says she likes her husband. The rest -- not so much. But there was much to orchestrate to make this happen. Kamla leaves the beach daily at six, taking a bus to Mapusa. On scooter, that's about thirty minutes. In the bus, it's an hour and a half. We nixed the bus idea right quick, offering to pay to have someone take her on scooter; we'd follow on our own. The sun began to set as we followed. And followed. And followed. Women in Goa sit side-saddle on the backs of bikes, saris flowing in the breeze. Even sitting properly and holding on for dear life, I thought I was going to die. Finally, we got there. But "there" was about to change my life. About twenty-five little kids ran out and surrounded us -- some scared, some fascinated, some wanting to touch us. They had never seen a white person. These were poor kids from Karnaktka who came with parents to Goa for the tourist season so the families could make money to bring home during the rainy season. We were taken into Kamla's "home" -- a 9x9 room with a dirt floor and stone walls, rigged with electricity to handle a small light and TV. No refrigerator, no running water. There was a small hot plate and just enough room for four people to squat on the floor. At night they slept, sans bed, all four huddled together on the floor. Bugs crawled about. Rice was left on the floor. Dirt, bugs, squalor... Christ! We could NOT eat here. Yet, we were. In India I overpaid for everything. On purpose. I figured that as a good deed and holiday charity, I'd give to the poor. So I had offered to pay Kamla her month's rent for the meal. She seemed pleased. My stomach did not. As we sat on the floor, tons of kids lined up at the door to get a glimpse. It was a bit overwhelming, but fascinating. There was mass chaos. Stef sat on her Blackberry texting a friend, trying to remove herself from the situation. I had no option but to engage, though, and so I sat teaching the mass of kids the ABC song and counting. They were really eager and smart. When they got too loud and buzzed around us like bees, I turned up the music and got them all to dance. I'd scream "Dance party!!" and show them and then everyone would start to wiggle. So fun! Meanwhile, Kamla was preparing the meal. Grinding vegetables into the dirty floor, putting rice that bugs had crawled on into the pot. I couldn't meet Stef's eyes. I could tell she was about to freak out. I was glad I chose to wear pants and a shirt, as opposed to a little summer dress. I knew they didn't look kindly upon women who exposed skin, and I was happy to be covered to avoid bites from malaria-ridden mosquitoes. Kamla served the chicken. "Chicken" is now a word Stef and I promise to NEVER say to each other again. It was jet black and floating in a red water. This was NOT chicken. It was fibrous and had white strings in it. It was less appetizing than eating rat. I could not put that in my mouth. Stef started chewing hers, and all eyes were on her; but when no one was looking, she spit it out into her bread. Not a very good plan overall. I, on the other hand, decided to appear selfless and feed the meat to the small boy who never gets it because the "chicken" is too expensive. He appreciated it and so did I. Not a morsel touched my lips. I did eat the rice. I couldn't avoid eating the sauce. Kamla made lentils with vegetables which tasted good, but knowing where it all had been freaked me out. She made a salad, too, but we declined, trying to explain that raw veggies were not good for Westerners. Considering they had no running water and that even the best running water in India was toxic, we also declined when we were handed warm water. It was not from a bottle. The biggest trauma of the night came after the dinner: I asked to use the bathroom. My stomach was rumbling and it was all I could do to not throw up in their scant square. What was I thinking? I was brought out in the pitch black to a gate. Out in the open was a square area, mud and shit (HUMAN!) on the ground, no hole. Tons of little kids peeked out, watching me. There was no toilet paper nor even a bucket of water. Basically, I'd have to squat amidst other people's shit in order to relieve myself. Why had I worn pants again? I might have considered letting the dogs out had I been wearing a skirt. Better to shit on my own feet than to attempt a move of pulling down long pants and underwear and squatting in the dark, trying to avoid flies, bugs, and others' shit. Kamla stood there with me watching. WTF? Finally, I told her I couldn't do it. The big problem was that I had to go so badly -- and the thought of going on the scooter for a long, bumpy journey was horrifying. Still, we hightailed it out of there, very much worse for wear, and tried to figure out how to get back to Candolim. It was only then that we discovered our ghetto scooter pretty much had no headlight. So there we were, stomachs churning, my bladder about to burst, cows crossing the paths in the dark, lost, far from anything even remotely touristy, and now with no light. (Fuel wasn't a problem. The gas I had could easily have powered that scooter clear to Mumbai.) At one point I think Stef and I were about ready to stop and just cry. But we made it back, only an hour later. I finally got to shit in an American-type toilet. And then I showered like ten times and pretty much Purelled my whole body. We couldn't laugh about it yet. It was too new. Comedy = tragedy plus time. We needed TIME. It was a few nights before we could tell anyone of our experience. I still can't say the word "chicken" without getting nauseous. Stef owes me BIG TIME! But then again, I also owe Kamla and those kids for giving me a heartwarming experience that I will never forget. The joy these kids had in their faces -- having so little else -- reminds me that each day is a gift. Although, the chicken, well, that is another story. Post new comment
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