Today our wonderful volunteer from London left after 1 month of helping us immensely, with our reading project, writing, and just letting the kids learn how to understand a person from London's English!

She was very kind and decided to pay for the children to visit the Nehru Science Museum to watch an IMAX-like film about wildlife in the Serengeti, as her last-day present.

So, we piled all the kids into taxis and headed to the science museum. When we walked into the building, the children clanked their shoes onto the polished tile floor with great gusto, and oooh-ed when we all quietly entered the theatre - a small theatre with a screen that covered both the wall in front of us, on the sides of us, AND above us.

When the lights went out, the kids were all excited..... then the beginning of the film came. The introductory scenes were way bigger than life, and the sounds boomed through the theater. That would have likely gone over smoothly, except that the images confronting the children were dizzying views of wildebeast migrations and lions and vultures eating dead carcasses - within about 30 seconds, about a third of the kids were crying and whimpering!!!

I sat two girls on my lap and whispered "It's just a movie, it's okay!" We pointed at the animals and they said whatever came to mind... they were settling down. Then I looked behind me and saw little Khushi - a delicate, lovely girl whose smarts will carry her far. She looked like she was ready to puke, so I put the other two girls down and went up to have Khushi sit on my lap. She immediately calmed down, and asked me "Didi, what is this?" I told her the same thing, that it's just a movie, and to look at all the animals. (Screen showing pouncing lions, wandering zebras, big-teethed crocodiles).

The rest of the hour-long show went about the same, with the kids pointing out the animals and unsure of what to do when a lion ate something. Everyone smiled for one boy when a cheetah came on-screen --- every single time he is asked about animals in class, he proudly states that CHEETAH! is his favourite animal. He pronounced it when the animal came on the screen too.

As a lion was feasting victoriously on one unfortunate baby deer, Khushi said softly in my ear, "Didi, lion eats children?". "No, no, his favourite food is deer and wildebeast - he doesn't like children to eat!"

So, in the end, we discussed with the children this:

"Did all the animals you saw have babies?"

Kids: "Yes!"

"Did all the animals eat food?"

Kids: "Yes!"  "Didi LION!!"

"Yes, so what is the lion's favourite food?"

Kids: "Deer!" "Buffalo!"

"That's right - a lion also needs to eat because it gets hungry - so, it takes a small animal to eat. Is that okay?"

Kids: "Yes, okay".

"Did you like the movie?"

Kids: "Yes!"

Meanwhile, Khushi's face is twisted and she is pointing her thumb down: "Didi, I don't like lion!"

Well, I don't think they'll forget their "London Didi"'s gift!

Standing in front of my first-graders on Friday, I ask them what the rules of taking tests are.

As usual, many of them raise their hands. One little girl states that we should "not look at friend's paper". Someone else reminds us that we do "not talking".

Then one bright, innocent boy raises his hand, and I call on him. He states, very animatedly and with actions, that
we should not drop our pencil or eraser on the ground, (he demonstrates), then stand up to get it and meanwhile, glance
at our friend's paper (demonstration again).

I look at my co-teacher who is sitting in the back of the room grading papers, and neither of us can contain our laughter
as this seemingly simple technique had never crossed our minds!

These little kids are getting smarter by the day!

As I finished up my cardio work-out at the gym the other day, I was approached by a tall, lanky elderly man. He commented on the color of my skin and then asked me where I was from. I told him, and apparently he had spent the last 40 years in L.A., where he raised a family. Now, he has recently moved back to Mumbai where he was born, to live out his days in a retirement community. He beamed at the convenience of his new housekeepers, maids and cooks - which he did not enjoy the luxury of having in the USA.

As I mentioned that I was indeed the only white-skinned person at the gym, he answered that no, he had also spoken to a tall gentleman recently who was also from the States. I said that that is my husband, and confirmed we were talking about the same man by pointing out his beard.

At that, the elderly man said the following:

"Well, you know, that beard isn't fully grown out, and he's lucky. If it was any longer, I'd think he was a Muslim!"

I laughed awkwardly, we said our "nice talking to you"'s, and I walked away with a grin - man, that guy must be pretty uncomfortable walking around this city then, what with such a large proportion of Muslims! I almost felt sorry for him.

Got my hair cut this week too. 

Sitting in the barber's chair in a hip salon near my house, the guy cutting my hair asked where I was from - 

"America" I said. 

"Ahhhh, Obama! That's great." he replied. 

I smiled and sighed.

Much better than the Bush years. That conversation usually went like this:

Random person: "Where are you from?"

Me: "America"

Random person: "Ah"

pause.

Random person: "This Mr. Bush likes too much war."

Me: "Yes. I know."

awkward chuckles and a sigh.

Of course, we'll see what people say about Obama in the years to come. Will may be right - he may just get a free 4-year pass due to his popularity. 

---------------

Anyway, the haircut was good, although minus the thorough hair washing and head and neck massage with accompanying warm cloth over my eyes, like I got used to in Japan. Now those were salons - for a decent price, too. 

There's something different also about walking out of the salon, feeling great with a new 'do, and passing by an old haggard, soot-covered woman begging on the street. No pretty haircut for her. :-(  What a different world. But then I'd bet she'd enjoy it just as much as I do if she could have one.

What a week in the first grade universe.

- A little boy lied about it being his birthday, and we didn't know he was lying until his mother dropped off his uniform an hour AFTER the class had sung Happy Birthday to him. Why did he lie? It's a mystery hidden in his look of shame upon being questioned. 

- Three struggling kids got their first full marks on the weekly spelling test. I just about fell over. 

- The usual, and not so usual, bathroom emergencies occurred. I won't go into detail. 

- One girl came down with the measles. Not a pretty sight! 

- A certain animated yet shy boy spotted a mosquito on his chair during class and let out a perfectly-pronounced announcement while leaping out of his chair: "MO-SKEE-TOW!!!!!" I wish he'd pay that much attention to lessons.

- Our helper quit. I don't know why - something about false rumours or not working a lot. Anyway, she's gone, and we're lucky to get a sweeping after the day is over now - I'm getting better at the natural-grass broom. I agree with my dad's wife - highly superior over plastic ones. 

- A local radio station came to record the kids for a Valentine's Day show. They didn't really seem like they knew what they were doing, but the kids definitely had a blast, dancing, shouting and singing. 

We have rats in our school building. Who doesn't?

I always assumed they got into the classroom by squeezing through a slightly open window at night, or under the door from the dank hallway. Their droppings scatter the window sill in the mornings more than occasionally.

But yesterday as I stood in the classroom after school, observing a group of animated, chattering mothers watching over their children finishing incomplete homework, a small piece of light brown trash flew in through the window, landing haphazardly on the floor near the women.

No one seemed to pay any attention, but I had a funny feeling.

As my eyes fell upon the trash fluttering on the floor, it became clear that what had flown in the window was not a piece of trash, but a medium-sized rat.

As it gathered itself from its landing, slowly, then more quickly, it scurried silently across the room and out into the hallway.

I had underestimated our urban companions.

After a very long time with a red, itchy right eye, I finally dragged myself to the private hospital today (Will found it was just around the corner last month) to get it checked out and get rid of it. I had assumed it would take care of itself, but apparently not!

I walked to the shiny, still-under-construction hospital, and found the main desk, along with some 15 - 20 other people. After filling out a new registration form, I handed it to a lady at the counter, and a few minutes later, she looked at me and said:

"375".

I was confused. I said "375 what? Room 375?"

"No, you pay rupees 375".

Oh. I've never paid for a doctor's visit BEFORE I saw the doctor, but ok! I paid the equivalant of $US 7.50, and headed to the second-floor ophthalmology department.

After a 20-minute wait in the clean, shiny, comfortable waiting area, I was shown to the doctor's office. I spent almost half an hour with the doctor, as he performed all sorts of tests on my eyes, with very expensive equipment. I wouldn't have expected any less back home. After a number of sophisticated tests, the doctor gave me a detailed analysis of the cause of my eye irritation - mostly allergies to the smog and a scratch - prescribed medicated eye drops and a cleaning regiment, plus a light glasses prescription for the computer, "just in case I decided to use them".

And off I went. No pulling out the checkbook. No going over services rendered. No big eyes bulging at the triple-digit $ amount.

Oh, U. S. of A., when will you take care of me like India and Japan do?

Today our class visited a home for disabled persons to perform a skit the kids have been working on for almost 2 months, and to visit and learn to communicate and make friends with different people.

The home was an all-tiled, open building, likely not less than 70 - 80 years old. It looked like it was from the old British era. The building was lined with open hallways around the outside. When we entered the front foyer (?), it was sunny and there was a large open space, with the nurse's desk on one wall, and couch/mattresses on the other walls. On three sides, long rooms spread back, where the residents lay on their beds in rows, just as in an old hospital (the kind I have only, until now, seen in the movies).

The kids arrived in 4 batches (4 different taxis), and we were the first 2. So, we all went around and said "Namaste" to the people who were awake. One very large man came slowly out to greet us. He walked on his hands, as his legs were missing from the very top. The children stopped at first, and I think a few whispered to me "Didi! Look!" So, I had the children walk right up to him with me and we all said "Namaste, Bhaiya" (Hello, brother), and then the kids were excited to shake his hands and chat with him.

Many residents were physically handicapped in some way. Many had lost, or been born without, both legs, some without arms. One woman's full body was severely burned. One old woman was physically fit, but did nothing but giggle and have a grand old time at anything that happened - it was wonderful!

When the rest of the kids arrived, everyone got into position in the foyer to perform their skit, and the residents were ushered out to sit and enjoy the show. There were about 20 residents or so that came out to watch. The kids performed very well - it was a skit about a little girl who never shares, but then she realizes that to have friends, she can have fun sharing toys with them.

After the skit, the class sang some of their favorite Hindi songs for the residents. A few got up and sang solo, to the great delight of the audience. Then, with the persistence of friends egging on friends, a handful of residents shared their own talents with us. One very old man, with no teeth and very large glasses, sang a song for the children. We had to hush their giggles, as the man was slightly off-key!

One young man told a few jokes, and two other men sang for us, the last one being absolutely mesmerizing. It's incredible the magic that lies beneath people's skin, just waiting for the chance to be seen or heard!

Then it was time for the kids to draw and color with their new friends. We set the kids up with colors and paper, paired them with the residents, and spent about 30 minutes with everyone just chatting away. At the very end, the residents kept the drawings they had made with the kids, and the kids handed out traditional sweets, then said hearty goodbyes.

It was a wonderful way for the children to learn about community service, connecting with people, and learning from people who are different from them. I must say, I learned just as much!

This week in our class:

Little Miss S. says: "Didi, I don't understand English. All here words, I no understand, what is this?? (pointing elaborately to our word wall) I fever 15 days, I don't know this English!" Apparently English speaking is not a problem though!

Little Mr. Sur: Holds up his banana as if it is covered in mud. "Didi..." he says. The look on his face betrays pure disgust. The one bite of the banana is the object of that disgust. I'd say he's officially not a fan of bananas. We found a taker to finish it for him.

Little Mr. Sh: Runs to grab the soccer ball during play-time in the auditorium. As he leans down to grab it, the corroded cement wall meets with his forehead. I call his name. He slowly stands up, turns around, and stares at me while his left hand catches the pool of blood gushing from his head. Not a tear, not a complaint, just 2 stitches and a few scared children. What a strong boy!

Little Miss S. Sheikh: Upon asked to spell the word "six", announces it is s-i-s. Turns out the pronunciation of 'x' is near impossible for this glittery-eyed, missing-front-tooth, beaming 7-year-old girl. Oh how I love her so!

How Serenity celebrated Eid:

On the morning of Eid (the end of the Muslim holy month of Ramadan), and consequently Mahatma Gandhi's birthday anniversary, my NGO held a special "Walk" - I was in a group of about 8, and we split up into groups of 4 or so, and walked from one train station through some neighborhoods, to another train station. There were about 300 people total who participated. The aim was to walk, as opposed to drive, take a train, etc., and to take a little time to say hello to fellow citizens, and to celebrate Gandhi's birthday, as he did the same thing throughout his life, walking and connecting with "the masses", as he put it.

As my Hindi is still pretty poor, I didn't talk to many people, but I did observe two women who brought along their 11-12 year old daughters. Their daughters handed out biscuit-packs (crackers) to very poor people we met, and also stopped to talk with some middle-class families walking along, and we all talked about Gandhi and made sure the kids knew who he was and what he did.

All in all, it was a nice way to spend a morning. But, afterwards, the real fun started -

I met at our school (which was closed for the day) with Purvi, our two jr. kindergarten teachers, and our social worker, and we all walked over to the slum community where a lot of our students live, to wish them "Happy Eid". Ramadan lasts for one month, when devout Muslims fast each day while the sun is up, and only eat or drink water when the sun is down. Ramadan, as I understand it, is the ninth month of the Islamic calendar, and when the Qu'ran was revealed through God (Allah) to Mohammed. Muslims fast in order to practice patience and sacrifice. Most of our students and two of our teachers are Muslim.

Everyone was so dressed up all over the city - men in bright white pajamas, some with gold stitching, women in brightly colored outfits, jewelled bangles around their wrists, and hair and make-up done up. Small boys were dressed in flashy suits, and girls in countless jewels.

So, we walked through the community - a twisting, turning maze of alleyways and two-story dwellings, where sometimes only a quite thin person with narrow shoulders could get through. As we visited one house of a jr. kg child, their parents came out, and insisted we come sit in their home for a small bowl of sheer kurma - a warm, milk-based sweet soup - a typical food offered to guests, friends, and relatives on Eid.

Then, the number of children and adults around us grew and grew until after about 30 minutes we were parading down the alleys with children, teenagers and adults, holding hands, all visiting so-and-so's house, then running into so-and-so, and all the while, full alleys of families would emerge until the whole place seemed packed full of people smiling, wishing "Happy Eid" or Eid Mubarak to each other, and insisting we sit for a cup of sheer kurma. We had to do a lot of sweet refusals!

The highlight for me was seeing my students in their own homes with family and friends - no school uniforms, no expectations, just to see them as their free kid-selves, running with their friends, excited and slightly perplexed at seeing their teacher at their home. One girl, Sabina, was dressed in an all-white, jeweled salwaar kameez (pants suit), with her hair braided and pulled back into a bun, and black kohl around her eyes - she looked like an absolute angel, I made her give her didi (me) a big hug, I just wanted to steal her and bring her home with me!!!

So, the joy of teaching the children continues...!

And to top it all off, Will and I are enjoying a bottle of red wine we found downtown, cooking spaghetti, and enjoying the Mumbai life!

Spent the day in the city - a cloudy, muggy day. As soon as we emerged from the underground walkway onto the street, Will spotted three boys from the center he volunteers at. They were licking ice cream cones and generally hanging around. They were happy to see Will, so we all decided to walk together for awhile - us two with not much of a plan (except for my mission to a particular store to buy pants), and the three boys, quizzing us and stopping to munch on street food every few blocks.

After about an hour, the boys left to head back to their side of town for soccer tryouts, and we headed towards the coastline, browsing through all the glittering jewelry, sunglasses (of which Will purchased), and stopped for lunch at a new falafel chain restaurant. Mmmmmm.... falafel.

As we leaned against a concrete wall, looking out over the bay, a 'clunck' caught our attention to our left -- down in the water, a fresh plastic bag of garbage floated on the surface of the mucky water. A large, dark woman in an old but colorful sari turned around from the wall to go back to the curb where she sat selling something or other.

Well, that was that for the lovely bay scene, so we headed back to the main station, passing through markets and making a long stopover to pick up some cotton pants and shirts. Will had drank the ever-present sugarcane juice with the boys while I had been shopping, so he bought me a glass and we stood on the corner and shared it - what a delicious, delicious thing!

Sugar cane juice is made directly on the street all throughout Mumbai. At small wheeled stalls, men stand shoving full stalks of sugar cane into a machine which crushes and strips them, extracting the sweet juice in the process. The machine is either hand-cranked or... diesel-powered. I much prefer passing by the hand-cranked type. The diesel-powered ones are extremely loud, and often spew a nasty emission.

So, because we had ran into the boys from the slum community Will works with, I drank sugar cane juice and ate vada pav (deep-fried potato in a bun) from the street. And I didn't get sick! A new step into Indian society.

As the annual Ganesh Chaturthi festival commences, the streets here in Vashi are lined with colorful lights, and on every other corner stands an oversized, temporary shelter for the statues of Ganesh that will later be carried in processions to bodies of water throughout the city.

Last night I sat on our small porch looking out over the main square of our satellite city, and looked on as the first procession made its way down the street, carrying the idol of Ganesh, and beating away on rhythmic drums.

Clothes so comfortable they make you.. ??

Today we get to listen to very loud stereo speakers being blasted from all around us on the streets today, as people celebrate a festival called dahi handi.

It's the birthday of Lord Krishna, and people all around India celebrate by re-enacting a mythological story about Krishna as a small boy stealing yogurt (dahi) from a clay pot.People gather in large numbers as a team, and hoist each other up into a very tall pyramid - the aim is for the top-most person on the pyramid to reach a suspended clay pot which is filled with dyed yogurt. The boy then breaks the pot with his head, showering himself with dyed yogurt. There are also cash prizes sometimes, and in our neighborhood, the local politicians took the opportunity to sponsor some events in exchange for a platform for quick speeches and lots of oversized poster board space.

Looked like a lot of fun though! In between pyramid-building, the crowds just danced and danced to the booming stereo, and were occasionally sprayed with water from a water truck.

Greeting my students as they walked into our first grade classroom
last week, one boy showed me a bandaged finger. I asked him what had
happened. He told me in Hindi a few times, and finally said to me, in
English, "Didi, rat bite".

I didn't know whether to be thrilled because he was able to relay the
information to me in English, or horrified at the fact that he was
bitten by a rat, likely in his sleep.

Every morning, one of my students, 'Sania' and her mother are the first to arrive at school, half an hour before school starts. They arrive with another woman and her kindergarten boy, and I let them run around the classroom and say things in English to impress me while their mothers look on and we adults attempt to chat in Hindi / English - although neither of us know the others' language well enough.

Last week, 'Sania' popped into the classroom with her bright, ever-present smile, and stuck out her hands, with a 'DIDI!'. Her hands and arms were stained with the dark brown paint called mendi, an intricate painting traditionally applied for festivals and special events, but today applied as a pastime and decoration.

I 'ooh' ed and 'aah' ed at her arms in genuine appreciation, and her mother asked me if I had ever had mendi applied to my hands. I replied that no I hadn't, but would love to, and she invited me to her home to paint my arms and hands. She explained (through translation from a co-teacher), that as I was only here for 2 years, and I was doing such a good job of teaching her daughter (opinion only!), she would like to do something for me.

I gladly accepted, and yesterday after school, I walked to her house with her and a co-teacher who came along to chat and help me converse in Hindi / English.

We walked about 15 minutes away from the school, onto a wide, busy road. On the way, we cut through a narrow alleyway lined with small open shop fronts and dwellings to our right, and a row of tied up goats munching on weeds. I gathered it was a Muslim community, as Hindus don't normally eat meat, and mostly chicken if they do.

As we emerged onto the large, busy road, and turned left, walking against heavy oversized traffic, across the street, on our right, were piles of broken bricks, next to which large, orange and blue painted supply trucks were parked in a long line. Behind the decorative bells and paint of the trucks, the remnants of a demolished, illegal slum community stretched as far as we could see.

To our left, our escort (my students' mother) pointed to a small hole in the wall (literally), covered by a pinned-up sheet, and said the name of another of my students. Apparently he lived in that hole, and his mother peeked out and said hello, with a slight look of surprise, as we passed.

Suddenly, we turned left into an extremely narrow passage, where very little sunlight passed through from the two-stories of tiny hovels, the blue paint of the walls casting a dreary glow. Plenty of rain water dripped heavily from the rooftops, leaving little dry room to squeeze through the passage. We walked through muddy puddles, past naked children, women scrubbing laundry on rocks and blaring television sets, and stopped at a narrow, vertical steel staircase leading above us. One by one, we closed our umbrellas and climbed the narrow stairs, (just big enough to squeeze through) to a platform at the top, about 1 foot by 2 feet long. I slipped off my shoes on this platform, and slid into Sania's home.

The dwelling was approximately 6 feet wide by 10 feet deep. At the back right corner stood a small, shiny television, atop which sat dried flowers and a brass container.

Just below the television laid a thin plastic mat, folded so as to fit two people sitting. At the back of the room and to the left of the television, one high shelf ran along two walls, stacked full with metal cups, bowls and pots. Two oversized metal buckets with lids stood at the back of the far shelf, where our host kept clothes and other possessions.

As I sat down on the mat below the television, I turned back towards the entrance. To the right of the door was a waist-high counter, just big enough to hold a large metal pot of water, covered with a lid and a cup resting on its top. One long fluorescent bulb lit the room.

As the three of us sat down - our host, myself, and my co-teacher, two little boys from the dwelling directly next to us came in - one was a kindergarten student at our school. We recognized each other and said warm "hello" 's. Our host handed a small wad of rupees to an older child and told him to fetch a cold drink for her guests. In about 5 minutes, the boy returned with a small bottle of Miranda (orange soda) and a plate of dry packaged biscuits and partly stale potato chips.

Two glasses arrived, and orange soda was poured for us which we happily sipped.

Then, a woman appeared at the doorway, who was introduced as our host's sister. She would apply the mendi to my arms. She was a little younger than our host, and something about her composure and mannerisms suggested, rightly so, that she had obtained some amount of education as a child. In fact, she told us, she had completed the 8th standard in an Urdu-medium school.

As she began to apply to mendi, we all talked, I through my co-teacher's translations. We learned that my 6-year-old student, 'Sania', comes home from school at 4pm, and sits doing her homework until about 5 or 5:30. From 6 - 9, she then attends a local madrassa, where she studies the Qu'ran (which is taught in its original language, Arabic). At 9pm, Sania returns home to sleep. Dinner is not served. In fact, we learned, her only meals each day are the meals we have requested her mother to send with her to school - a small snack and a lunch, eaten at 10:30 and 1pm respectively.

We also learned that the home in which we were sitting had only recently been rented out by this family, as they had formerly lived in the demolished slums across the large busy street. As the slums had been illegally built, the city government had demolished them the month before, planning to plant trees and greenery in a larger project of 'beautifying' Mumbai.

As the dark brown streaks of paint on my right arm turned into wonderfully intricate floral and tribal designs, us women sat and enjoyed each other's company in the small, closet-sized (by western standards) room.



When the artist finished her work, we all stood up, took a photo together, and then I and my co-worker made our way back down the narrow stairs, and out into the stormy, rainy Indian monsoon. Our host walked with us to the train station, and I thanked her politely for her hospitality.

Now, I plan to return her hospitality with some type of gift, but of what, I'm not sure. I've had the problem of buying a gift for someone who has everything, but I have never faced the opposite dilemma.

I thoroughly enjoyed myself on this first true visit to one of Mumbai's countless poverty-ridden communities. While the poverty is very real, I see that life continues as it does in the rest of the world, minus the ability to provide for a family's comfort, and often even basic needs. The ever-present smile on Sania's face is testament that yes, life IS lived, despite the difficulties. Yet her growling stomach, stunted height, and bags under her eyes reveal the sentence of poverty she has been born into and may last her entire lifetime.

On two days' notice, we piled all the first graders into 3 taxis and
a car to go to the Bombay International School kindergarten - 3rd
grade exhibition.

Our organization does a lot of work with that school, which donates
space and resources to conduct after-school classes for teenagers.
So, we set out to let our first graders see what other first graders
were doing in school - first graders at a private, English medium
school. A long way, in distance, culture, and quality of living from
our little school in the slums.

As the 3 taxis filled with kids and accompanying teachers, I got into
our principal's car - 5 little 6-year-olds in the back seat, and one
on my lap in the passenger seat. As the car started and pushed
forward, the kids all giggled and screamed with glee - when I asked
them if they had ever been in a car before, all but one said 'no', it
was their first time.

Bumps on the road caused laughter, the ascent up a windy bridge
caused jumps of joy. Each time the car stopped in traffic, the kids
shouted 'stop!!'. We all smiled and sang and pointed the whole way
across Bombay.

When we got to the school exhibit, the kids behaved incredibly well -
likely in a slight state of shock at the beautiful flowers growing on
the school premises, and the glowing newness of their child
counterparts' displays.

While the kindergarten displays were full of animals made of paper
plates, neatly colored animal faces on paper cutouts, and whole wall-
sized diagrams of crafted trees, our students were just learning to
scribble and color.

While the first graders performed a song and dance routine and
displayed portfolios about all the food, nutrition, and food cycles
they had learned in the last month, our students were learning how to
pronounce the alphabet.

But, what absolutely struck me the very most was this -- the 6-year-
olds at this other school were not only wealthier, plumper, better
dressed, standing straighter, and lighter skinned ---- they were also
6 - 12 inches taller then our group of children from the city slums.

My, what malnutrition can do to a child who otherwise appears to be a
perfectly happy, playful child.

In comparison to the wealthier children, our kids have rotten teeth,
dull skin, uniforms that are likely washed once a week, sniffles and
coughs, and are extremely short in height and lacking in weight.

But I will say, these kids from the slums have bigger smiles than any
other children I have ever seen. There is a richness in their smiles.

Opened the double door to my classroom this morning, the first one into the bottom floor of the dank government building, as usual.

Turned the lights on, and - funny - there were scattered flash cards just beneath the supply cupboard. Set my things down, and noticed the two dustbins near the door had fallen over.

I was the last person in the room on Friday afternoon. Now, Monday morning, and I'd say someone else had been there. Went to the supply cupboard, and as I opened the doors, bottles of glue, more flash cards, paper and a stapler fell to my feet.

A scurry led my eyes to the top left corner. Little eyes peered out at me. I grimaced and stepped back in a flash. My fear had finally come true. I had been greeted by a rat. I stood around and thought about how to get it out. My first thought was "No way am I dealing with that thing - I'll have to wait for someone else to show up". Then I thought "Well, I DID take this job, knowing it would not be in clean areas with adequate sanitation. Heck, I can handle a rat."

So, just as I was looking for some sort of stick to poke at the cupboard with, our social worker showed up, (a young woman the same age as me), and started dealing with the rat too (in the same hesitant manner as I, thank you very much).

Finally, we found a short broom (much too short if you ask me), and I jabbed the top left corner of the cabinet. Without a second to flinch, the rat, dark brown and hefty, scurried down out of the cabinet and onto the floor. Then there we were, the social worker, the rat and I all running in circles trying to avoid each other. Finally we got out of the room, and a child's mother came walking in, and in amusement, went around the room to check for the rat. Apparently it had escaped through an open window. We found a gnawed corn cob on the floor as its gift to us.

Oh, I hope I have the room to myself tomorrow morning!!

While eating lunch the other day, we watched this man pull up with
carts of eggs on his bicycle, selling them to the restaurant.

Quite different from the truck delivery system back home!

Well, it started raining again last night after about 2 weeks of wondering where the monsoon was. The city recorded 6 inches of rainfall in only 4 hours --- wow! Here's a story about it.

So, I never got to work this morning. In fact, only 1 person got to our school, and the rest of us all got stuck in various ways. I was able to get on a train, but once I crossed the bay and got into the city, the train had a hard time getting between stations, and finally, 1 1/2 hours later, pulled into a station a few before mine, and I got off to try and find my way back home. 

I watched as people waded through knee-deep water on the roads in some spots - luckily I avoided that! I met up with another girl I work with who happened to be on the same train, and we caught a train heading back out of the city. Meanwhile, the other railway lines had closed completely because of flooding! 

So - hope we get to open our school tomorrow!