Poodles and Hammocks

The art school I’m staying at is called Vijnana Kala Vedi and it’s near Thiruvananthapuram.

But I just call it “my art school”.

It was founded in the 70’s by a French woman called Louba Schiel and it caters to foreigners who want to “learn the culture” of India without actually having to meet the distinctly grubby majority of Indians. That means that, despite that it insists on the “authenticity” of its simulation of Indian life, it still gives you four meals a day, including high tea, a wat load of staff enquiring as to whether you want your room cleaned, want fresh towels, etc. , and your rooms are easily twice the size of an Indian household of seven people. And that’s not including your balcony.

Alas, the majority of Indians don’t have the luxury of experiencing this “Indian culture”, which I think is more accurately called “rich-western-tourist” culture.

Not that I’m complaining.

Far from it, actually.

In fact, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in India, it’s this: if I were a dog, I would be a poodle.

A miniature poodle to be exact.

Confused? Good. But I’m sorry to break that fragile state and make it all very clear to you.

Some of the many reasons that a poodle would be my totem animal, is that they’re hyper, energetic, rather clumsy and awkward, and they’re allegedly smart.

The main reason, however, is that they like their creature comforts..

Now, I used to think that in that aspect I wasn’t very poodly. I fancied myself a non-materialist (or, at least less materialistic than the other people I knew) and that I would one day grow up to help the helpless in countries of need and despair. That I would become a doctor in Africa, helping the sick for free and living off others’ hospitality.

Not. Gonna. Happen.

Don’t get me wrong, I feel for these people. I walk down the street and I see half of the men, stick thin with caves under their ribs and my chest hitches just a little. I see a family of seven packed into a shack smaller than my room, and I quickly look away so that I don’t cry. Then a little child walks up to me with helpless eyes and his hand going to and from his mouth, miming “Food?” and I run to my hotel, lock the door behind me and say,

“I want to go home. I want malls and libraries. I want chips and pizzas. I wan normal toilets that don’t smell and plug up if you use toilet paper. I want hobos who I can say no to because I know there is help out there for them and they’re just gonna use the money for drugs and booze. I want to be in a place where if I ask somebody “So what do you do in your spare time?”, they understand what “spare time” means.”

And I feel horribly guilty for it, for this selfish reaction to other people’s plights. But I can’t do anything for them .There’s too many of them. It would be like trying to dig out the sand from the under the water with one shovel, your back aching, your neck burning, and your throat parches, and putting it to dry on the beach behind you, only to find it being washed away by the tide.

(By the by, if you’re struggling with the metaphor, the ocean is the crushing weight of poverty, the grains of sand are people, and the edge of the ocean is the poverty line. . . OK, so it's a terrible metaphor, but you get the point.)

So, because I see the hopelessness of the situation and I’m aching all over, I’m going back to my hammock, swinging in the shade of the palm trees and I’m going to pull out a paperback novel, enjoy myself, and occasionally glance over at the few people struggling with the sand and admire them for their tenacity and idealism. I may even call out a few words of encouragement, and, once I’ve finished smarting and am starting to feel a little restless, go out and join them again for an hour or two.

But only for an hour or two.

Because it’s scorching out there, and the dead fish smell, and the novelty of it all is quickly overwhelmed by sore muscles and burnt skin.

And can any of you really blame me for it? Because aren’t we all just sitting in our hammocks, shouting out words of encouragement to those scarce few, battling the vast ocean with a shovel?

. . .

. . .

. . .

Whoa. That was far too deep for a blog. . . Anyhoo, the gist of the story is:

I still want to become a doctor, but only because it’s challenging for my mind, I can go anywhere in the world with it, I like the respect that comes with the title, it’s a romantic job in my eyes, and it pays well, so I won’t ever have to see poverty and dirt again if I don’t want to. Every five years or so I might (might) go with Medicins Sans Frontieres somewhere for half a year or something, but I’m not gonna live in a poor country. I need my creature comforts and that’s that.

Miss y’all tons and tons,

But miss malls and bookstores more,

Zee-O,

The Girl Who Pines After a Good Wasteful Feast of Consumerism

PS – I swear I’ll make the next blog a little less angsty and a lot more bubbly. ;)