You’ll give me $5,000 and a Good Friday sermon, isn’t it?

Frank, abrupt and sometimes bizarre requests have all become part of my daily life. Strangers ask me to take pictures with them, teachers inform me that I’m leading a class 10 minutes before it starts and friends come to my door around midnight for mandolin lessons. Two of the most interesting requests of this year occurred in the month of March, and, as a matter of fact, they make a pretty nice framework to tell you the story of my March. Here it is, presented in two parts:

Part 2: … and a Good Friday sermon, isn’t it?

Dedicated newsletter readers will remember the would-be seminarians from the Bishop Mani Theological Institute (BMTI). Those characters have been entertaining me for months now. My job, to prepare them for an exam in English, is now completed and they are on their way to seminaries far flung from the green fields of Kerala. As a final hurrah the guys offered to organize a “tour program” for me. Vague, as usual, but how could I deny this offer?

Easter Wednesday: My “program” began with a visit to a village so remote, I’m not even quite sure it had a name. I took a bus North from Kottayam, got off at a non-descript intersection and there was James to greet me on his motorbike. We beetled through craggy streets surrounded on all sides by rubber trees. By the time we arrived at the parsonage, I was not the least bit opposed to dismounting our metal stead (apologies for the mixed metaphor.)

I knew James was a church worker at a rural parish. I knew he lived in a parsonage in the woods. I didn’t know that the parsonage was four walls of exposed cinder blocks and a well. By the time we arrived it was completely dark, James stepped inside and lit a candle, “I’m sorry, it’s not a very fancy room,” James innocently apologized.

The first drops of wax had hardly melted from the candles before a train of saree-clad women stepped through the open door, carrying steaming pots of food. “Ah, there’s supper,” James informed me. The ladies unveiled the pots of food, it’s fish curry and kappa (see You Are What you Eat ) and yes, this is something of a treat. They’ve been expecting me. The eldest lady presented me with a heaping plate of food, and all watched as I took the first bite, anxious for my reaction. It was absolutely perfect. The kappa was perfectly cooked and the fish was firm and spicy. This was a dream meal. Just to double check one of the women inquired, “mutta ano?” Is it nice? I assured her that it was great, “enikkae meen curry ishtamana.”

At bed time James made sure that I took the mattress. He would sleep on a plastic mat spread over the bare concrete floor. Then he turned off the rooms single bulb and we slept like babies.

Maundy Thursday: 5:30 a.m. - time to get rolling. James made himself a bowl of kanji (see You are What You Eat ) and handed me a loaf of bread and a jar of jelly. Actually, I had my eye on the kanji, it’s so warm and hearty. James sensed my hesitation, “You are not happy?” he said sensitively. “Oh, you don’t have to give me anything special. I can just eat kanji.” James looked a bit disappointed, “I bought this for you. I thought this is what you eat.” I was shocked by the sincerity of his statement. He had really labored to accommodate me here. I told him that I loved bread and jam, and thanked him for being culturally sensitive. He smiled.

From the parsonage we visited two very small churches in nearby villages. I was amazed at how these meager churches were bursting at the seams with early worshippers. I mean, it’s only Maudy Thursday, it’s not Easter… but to these people an early hour and a remote church is no excuse to miss a church holiday. Rural pastors split their time between many parishes. On this day only one of the parishes had a pastor. For the other one James substituted and, even without a day in seminary, did a marvelous job. In the afternoon I took a bus back to Kottayam and pondered life.

Good Friday: Bright and early I embarked via bus to visit Joby chiyan, the senior most student at BMTI. As the ranking man he has been placed at a much larger church than James for his year as a volunteer church worker. I arrived just a few minutes before the service, Joby chiyan perked me up on black coffee and then popped the question, “You will be giving the Good Friday sermon, isn’t it?” I nearly sprayed hot black coffee all over his perfectly white cassock. “You want me to give the whole sermon?” Joby looked confused, “Well, you and seven other people will be speaking today, but you can have as long as you’d like.” I told Joby that I was prepared to offer a short message, but it most certainly wouldn’t reach the epic lengths that most Keralite pastors achieve.

The bell tolled, it was time for places. I was led through the sanctuary packed with people tighter than an Iron Maiden concert and placed at the very first seat on the very first pew. It’d been saved for me. Outside, rows and rows of chairs have been set up and were already filled; the first hymn begins. After we waded through the liturgy (about an hour into the service) the first speaker came up. He took his sweet time and 40 minutes later stepped down. Ah, he must have been the main speaker. Another man took the pulpit and spoke his share for another 40 minutes. I became suspicious. This continued on through seven speakers. Though I was awake my mind went through dream-like adventures as the waves of Malayalam soothed me into a stolid stupor.

“Something something something, Robert Martin.” Hey, that’s me. Joby chiyan gave me that look and I knew; … it was my turn. I gave a message about Jesus’ silence during the last hours of his life. I compared his spoken ministry on Thursday with his final message on Friday; a silent march to Cavalry. I made the point that we must also know when to put words aside and act. Too many times this year I’ve seen brilliant ideas die because of mass inaction. It’s a message that I felt should be spoken. Joby chiyan translated. After about seven minutes I exhausted my exegesis and concluded. Joby chiyan finished translating the last line and looked at me confusedly, “Is that it?” I nodded, and walked back to my seat as all eyes followed me.

After the five-hour service concluded, a man who must have been over 100 years old served us kanji and piyar on banana leaves. Porridge on a slick leaf sounds tricky, and it is, but it was also very delicious. Joby chiyan thanked me for my message, even if it was a bit short, and dropped me off at the bus station to catch a ride home. Again I pondered life, the other seven speakers were all leaders in the church. Joby chiyan offered me, a guest, the same honor as these men and women who have dedicated themselves to this congregation - truly an incredibly honor.

Holy Saturday: Still recovering from the Good Friday service.

Easter Sunday: After an early morning service Joby chiyan and I take the bike to his ancestral home, in the picturesque foothills of the Ghat mountains, due east of Kottayam. Joby chiyan’s home sits alongside a heavily wooded hill. His mother and brother are currently the residents and they greeted us with an assortment of fruits and delicacies from their hillside bower. The afternoon passed in this dreamy peace and that night I played volleyball with the neighbors. Horror of horrors, I ripped a hole in my jeans. Oh, no big deal, maybe they’re even more fashionable now. Joby chiyan and the other BMTI guys who have arrived now, are not so thrilled. “What are you going to do now?” they scolded. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to wear ripped jeans for the next couple of days.” They guys glanced at each other with disapproval, “That may be fine for you, but we have to be seen with you.” It looked like we had come to an impasse, when Shalu remembered that he has an extra pair of jeans that didn’t fit him anymore back at his parsonage. Whew, problem solved.

Monday: The five of us spent the night at Shalu’s parsonage, it’s actually even smaller than James’ parsonage, but we managed to squeeze all of us onto mats on the floor. At about 5:30 we awoke to cups of black coffee being thrust into our hands. I stepped out of the door to see the place that we arrived at in utter darkness. It was really quite beautiful in the morning light. Mists sat along the green hills, and a swift river flowed just below us. “Rrrrobe! Are you ready for bathing?” Funny, I didn’t remember seeing a shower in the tiny parsonage, yet all of the guys had their soap and towels ready to go. “We’re going down to the river.” So, I grabbed my things and jumped in with them. It was amazingly warm; it was also amazingly difficult to stay standing. The rocks were covered with slick moss and the river was flowing swiftly over said rocks. Somehow I managed to get lathered up. Joby chiyan helped me rinse off by giving me a nice little shove and I went plunging headlong into the water. My towel almost floated away, but I’ve been in this situation before and managed to hang on with unyielding force.

We next headed to a wildlife sanctuary. This was actually the “point” of the whole tour, but all the stuff leading up to it was really the best part. After our visit to the tiger sanctuary we spent the night again with Shalu, took one more early morning river bath and then went our separate ways. Those guys are now all away at their respective seminaries, and it is unlikely that I’ll get a chance to see all of them before I leave. But the memories of their incredible kindness; their absolutely sincere desire to share their lives with me and their service within their own communities remains an inspiration to me. They have lived out the command to love one’s neighbor, and they have brought me lovingly into a global community.

You’ll give me $5,000 and a Good Friday sermon, isn’t it?

Frank, abrupt and sometimes bizarre requests have all become part of my daily life. Strangers ask me to take pictures with them, teachers inform me that I’m leading a class 10 minutes before it starts and friends come to my door around midnight for mandolin lessons. Two of the most interesting requests of this year occurred in the month of March, and, as a matter of fact, they make a pretty nice framework to tell you the story of my March. Here it is, presented in two parts:

Part 1: You’ll give me $5,000...

Months ago I attended an event hosted by the BPDC (Backward People’s Development Corporation). Yes, I realize that the name is a bit harsh on the western ear. At that event I met a man who ran an NGO focusing on health education in poor and remote areas of Kerala. He asked me if I would like to attend one of his functions, and of course I said yes.

The date for my visit came in the early days of March and I set off via government bus from Kottayam completely unawares of what lay in wait for me. This was the happiest moment of my day.

My host met me at the bus station and took me to his house, tucked into acres and acres of rubber trees. Planted in the middle of this estate was his beautiful, new, two-story house. That may not sound like much but, generally speaking, the only people who live in new, two-story houses are people with a large chunk of cash. This was clue number one that something was amiss.

Inside the house I met his wife, children, brothers, in-laws and mother. I was promptly ushered to the “guest chair,” a photo album was thrust into one hand, and a cup of tea into the other (none of this is unusual). The eldest brother-in-law sat next to me, he had a pencil thin mustache, and a bit of a hunchback. Later, when we stood up, I was shocked to realize that he was only about four and a half feet tall.

As I continued to hurriedly work my way through the volumes of indistinguishably similar photos my short friend narrated the history of the organization’s financial woes. It’s hard to imagine a startup non-profit without its share of woes, but I listened politely. This was clue number two. One of the phlegmatic brothers sitting across from me whimpers, “Do you know how we can raise more money?” I admitted that I was not exactly an expert in that area. I even struggled to raise the funds to embark on this program. This question should have been clue number three.

I seemed to recall being invited to an event; I brought it up in hopes that we wouldn’t have to wait too much longer to attend. The brothers fired off a few terse words in Malayalam, and we headed out the door. We wound through the narrow dirt roads of the village; most of the hutments were tiny. The women were all outside doing the domestic work and not a man in sight, they were off earning the day’s wages. We arrived at a small, concrete office room with the foundation for a classroom adjoining it. Hey, there’s no event here! Shorty, sensing my confusion quickly moved in. He explained that they didn’t have funds to finish building. Clue number four.

Suddenly, the mystery broke wide open, “You will give us 2 lakhs rupees to finish the construction, isn’t’ it?” The question came so matter-of-factly, I was taken off guard. I quickly calculated … 200,000 rupees, divide by 40 … that’s $5,000! How long at 3% interest would my savings have to sit in the bank before it reached $5,000? How many scratch lottery tickets would I have to win to reach that amount? How many aluminum cans would I have to pilfer from the neighbors recycling in order to collect 2 lakhs rupees? I was out of ideas. This request was simply preposterous.

I explained to them that I’m actually a volunteer and that, since I’ve only known them for about one hour, I didn’t exactly feel ready to hand over several times more than all the money I possessed in the world. “Yes,” my host responded, “but when I met you, I had a vision that you would fix all of our problems.” “I think the glare from my pale skin must have blinded you,” went my inner monologue. “If you can’t give the full amount, give half and you will inspire your organizations at home to provide the rest,” he continued to calmly reason. I suggested that they look for support from within their own community. They lamented that while everyone supported their program in theory, no one was willing to shell out the cold, hard rupees. Perhaps their sales pitch lacked a little finesse.

Realizing that I was hijacked in a strange village I suggested that I should be on my way home. My host took me to the nearest paved road and told me to wait for a bus. As I stood waiting for the bus I reflected on what I’d learned – in this state of India some people, even social workers, will not be able to see past my homeland or my skin color. Though it is entirely possible that their social program was well intentioned and good, their attempts to fund-raise have left me feeling commoditized and them not a paise richer.

It is a strange coincidence that only a couple of weeks later I would experience the most compassionate act of cultural inclusion of the entire year. I experienced living in a global community in its finest sense.

You Are What You Eat ::Issue 3::

This week I bring you the exciting world of Christian marraige.

Above: As opposed to the Hindu wedding feast, the Christian wedding feast is famous for one thing - meat, meat and more meat. The first course is a pancake like thing called "appam" and a couple of curries.
Below: The main course also has meat with it, but here several vegetarian "kutans" or side-dishes are introduced. As guests stuff their faces, waiters come around to refill any item which is getting low. To stop this constant flow of food requires drastic intervention on the part of the guest.

Luck o' the Irish

I’ve had it in my mind to write a post on the subject of “vocation” for almost six months now. I even created a blank text document to house the future entry. On St. Patrick’s Day I ran into a couple from Ireland, and after our conversation I knew that it was time to sit down and write my thoughts.

One of the explicit goals of this yearlong program is to give the volunteer a sense of vocation. Something about living in a foreign land for a year is supposed to guide us towards our life’s calling. Definitely some sort of progress in that general direction might be possibly happening this year, but more than anything, I’m feeling some mixed emotions about the whole “considering my vocation” thing in this country.

Kerala isn’t exactly the poorest state in the country. Actually, the standard of living in Kerala is one of the highest nationwide. However, that fact doesn’t exactly translate into lots of job opportunities for the young people of the state. Many of my friends from C.M.S. College have expressed anxiety over finding a job post-graduation. Their anxiety is not the kind we English majors face when we look at our B.A. Theirs is a crisis that involves making tough decisions about where to find any work at all. Do they have to leave their home state, their mother tongue, or even their family and country to find work? Many students consider work abroad, in the Gulf states, Europe, Australia and in the U.S. Others assume that a bachelor’s degree is barely worth the paper it’s printed on and opt to go straight for graduate studies, but even the graduate students do not emerge from their studies with an optimistic vigor.

I just so happen to live with a bunch of graduate students. They are earning their Master’s degrees in Math, Chemistry, Sociology, Physics and Biotechnology. The chances of them finding a job suitable to their field and worthy of their expertise upon graduation is almost nil. Most of these guys go on to lower-level supervisor positions. In the U.S. you can get a job like this with a High School diploma and the pay scale for these scholars about adds up to as much.

This brings me to my struggle with vocation. When these students are struggling to find a job, any job, when those with jobs send home most of their earnings to support their families, when it looks like the only way to earn a decent salary is to leave your home, what do I have to complain about? How can I even take the time to consider my ultimate “calling,” my “dream job,” when everyone around me is trying to find something at all? To be frank, I experienced a personal, philosophical crisis about considering my own vocation under these circumstances.

Enter the Irish couple on St. Patrick’s Day. I was enjoying a late supper at one of my local haunts when in walk two white people. I was shocked. I’ve been coming to this place for almost seven months, and I’ve never seen a white person in here before, except me. Well, of course, one of the manager’s ushers them right over to where I’m sitting. We must be related, after all. At first I resent their presence, but they are looking at me so sweetly I’m forced to acknowledge them, “You guys aren’t from around here, are you?” I say. “No, we’re from Dublin.” At this point I’m hoping that we’ll just quietly go about our meals and I can make a hasty retreat, but no, they continue. “Do you have any recommendations?” “Well, as a matter of fact, I do have a few favorites,” so I shared my personal choices with them. “You know, today is St. Patrick’s Day,” the man casually stated to me. At that point, my guard dropped, I acknowledge this coincidence as a sign, and we began to chat candidly.

I tell them that I’m a journalist turned social worker (actually both of those titles are a bit of an exaggeration, but it’s the simplest iteration of my life story). Turns out that Caroline is a social worker turned journalist. She runs a public radio stations in Dublin. I’m interested. I tell them that I used to be half of a musical duo that covered a lot of songs by The Dubliners. I thought they might roll their eyes, and brush the comment aside like I do when I hear for the one-millionenth time, “Is your favorite band Backstreet Boys?” But, no, they also love The Dubliners. Furthermore, they can’t believe I’ve ever heard of them. We sang a bit of “Raglan Road,” “Black Velvet Band,” and “Seven Drunken Night’s” and had ourselves a real belly laugh. But finally, inevitably, they ask the question. “So, what are you plans when you get back to the U.S.” I admit that my conscience bother’s me whenever I approach the word “vocation.” But here is where they talked some real sense at me.

As a foreigner, I’m trying to learn from this culture from the inside, rather than interpreting things from an American viewpoint. I also try not to enforce my own cultural norms and expectations on the people here. So finally Caroline asked me, if I’m so worried about not imposing on the culture of Kerala, why am I so quick to deny my own culture? Now there’s a sensible question.

I cannot erase my happy childhood, a two-car garage and a liberal arts college education. These are all facts of my existence, and of course they are going to have an effect on the person I have become. Likewise, I can’t ignore my American citizenship, or the opportunities that are available, should I choose to take them, in America. I do come from a place where I am encouraged to find the right profession, and then pursue it passionately. Yes, it is right to sympathize with my friends struggling here, but my struggles cannot be the same as theirs. It’s hard to erase the guilt of privilege, but feeling guilty without using these special opportunities does no good to anyone. I cannot give anyone here my life’s experience. I can’t give anyone here my passport or citizenship. I can give them my time, my presence, my sympathy, my thoughts and my love, but not my culture.

I imagine this all sounds perfectly obvious because, well, it is. But this lesson took a very long time for me to learn. It took seven months in India and a chance meeting on St. Patrick’s Day, but the universe conspired that I might more fully understand this illusive notion of vocation. Now, if the universe would just conspire to plainly present my vocation to me I would be thrilled.

Holy Flaming Elephants

The title of this post about sums up Pagal Pooram, the Hindu festival that just concluded Saturday night here in Kottayam. As a non-Hindu, I was not allowed inside the temple premises, but that didn’t prevent me from observing the action. Let me give you a brief account of the things I witnessed during these past few days.

On the first day of Pagal Pooram tents were set up all around the outside walls of the temple. These shops specialized in shiny things that you would only ever buy at the circus, Disney World, or some other equivalently frenzied occasion. On the stage inside the temple, musicians played some classical carnatic music for hours and hours, on into the night. Loudspeakers cleverly situated all throughout the city insure that you never miss a moment of the action.

A couple days later Kathakali made it’s way to the temple. This classical dance takes it’s name from two Malayalam words “story and “play.” So… basically they are acting out, through dance and specialized gestures, accounts from the Hindu epics. This also continued long into the night, but without being allowed entrance into the temple, I couldn’t get close enough to make staying all night worth my while.

Saturday was the big blowout. Fireworks began at 6:30 p.m. and continued on until 8:00. They were fired from the top of a local jewelry shop in the center of the city. Walking in the town was actually a lot like walking through a really colorful war zone - people everywhere, general chaos, loud noises, missiles flying through the air, close encounters with explosions, vehicles and animals and no certainty of what the next moment may bring. Inside the temple, 22 elephants were behemoth sentinels, 11 on each side, facing each other. They were highly ornamented and each one came with its own rider. Meanwhile the ganamela music (drums of different pitches, cymbals, some clarinet-type instruments) set the soundtrack. The temple, which is a huge outdoor area, was absolutely packed with people. A got up on top of the gate which surrounds the temple and was able to have a pretty decent view of the proceedings. Around each of the elephants was a flaming ring of fire. In front of the elephants were hundreds of dancing, drumming devotees, and behind the elephants were the relentless fireworks. Frankly, I don’t know how those animals managed to keep their cool, but they stood stoically throughout the whole affair.

Then the rain came. Luckily, I had the sense to bring my umbrella with me. I made my way back to the hostel amongst the horde of people leaving the celebrations. The masses walked right down the middle of the road and the vehicles, for once, were forced to yield to the pedestrians.

You Are What You Eat ::Issue 2::

This week I bring you the exciting world of supper.








Above is pictured the Deepika canteen. Deepika is a local Malayalam language newspaper, and their offices are very near the college campus. This canteen, attached to the main office building, offers three meals a day for Deepika employees, but outsiders can also come in and enjoy a hot, subsidized meal.

















And this is Kanji, a.k.a. rice gruel (their words, not mine). It is the same old double-boiled rice you eat for lunch, but this time it comes served with the water it's boiled in. It may not look like much, but I assure you, it is very satisfying. Normally we eat around 8 o'clock, and so this meal offers the perfectly soothing, easy on the stomach, before sleep meal. At only 10 rupees, you can't beat this price either. Kanji for supper is very common among Keralite homes today, and it is a very traditional food as well. Even a nearby village carries the heritage of this food in its name, Kanjikurzhy, which literally means "Kanji Pit." It refers to the days when kanji would be served to the low caste people by the high caste people in a hole in the ground. The name reminds us of the humble history of this wonderful food.

You Are What You Eat

You Are What You Eat is a series of posts that will give you an inside scoop on what I eat and where I eat it. Food is one big and obvious way in which this culture is unique. I've had to learn how to effectively utilize my right hand (I'm a southpaw) and deal with eating rice and its byproducts three times a day. Believe it or not, I'm loving every minute of it.

This week's post is devoted to breakfast.

This is the C.M.S. College Canteen. Truly, an institution. I come here almost every day for breakfast and sometimes for afternoon tea. I try my best to avoid the lunch, though. It's a bit watery.

And this is breakfast nearly every weekday. I love it and, I have to say, it's made me a breakfast person. I usually eat six idli, but for aesthetic purposes I limited it to three in this photo.

Mother Theresa and the Ruined Birthday Party

Every time I meet with Christopher Achen I hear an amazing story or two about the rich history of Kerala - the student movements, the communist party, the great split between the C.S.I. and Mar Thomas churches, and so on. But when I met with Christopher Achen last week he gave me a true pearl.

Our story begins when Christopher Achen was still in seminary. A required part of the course is to spend some months in a mission field. This is no youth group mission trip though; this is living and working in the absolute poorest locations in India. Achen was placed in a leper colony.

It just so happened that at his particular placement, Mother Theresa was also living and working there at the time. Achen was amazed at the selfless love this woman showed towards community members. The work involved cleaning and dressings wounds, helping to distribute meals and, not too infrequently, preparing the bodies of the dead. According to Achen, Mother Theresa saved the most despicable jobs for herself.

One-day word leaked that it was Mother Theresa’s birthday. Secretly, arrangements were made and payasam (a really tasty dessert that is only made on very special occasions) was purchased. When everything was prepared, Mother Theresa was called in, everyone began singing “Happy Birthday” and someone offered her the payasam. She did not smile. Tears of joy did not begin to gather in her eyes, and her mouth made no attempt to curl into a smile. Rather, she flew into a rage. “How dare you waste your money on this?” she scolded. “We can barely afford to feed the patients here and you squander these rupees on payasam?” So she demanded that the payasam be given to the patients, and that was the end of her birthday party.

This is the story as Christopher Achen told it to me. The quotes may not be exact, but I believe the spirit of the event is intact.

Underwear and Film

This is just a quick post to follow up on a couple events I mentioned earlier.

1. Though I have not recovered my stolen undergarments, the number of replacements gifted through international mail has been incredible. A very sincere thanks to everyone for giving me support.
2. The Malayalam film that I appear in, Of the People, has been (amazingly) released. It has received a lot of media attention and achieved moderate box office success. I also finally learned how my role fits into the movie. I play an American businessman who is opening a store in India, “World Mart USA.” As my business partners and I inaugurate the store by lighting the ceremonial lamp the scene cuts away to a farmer standing alone in his field. He is in a deep state of distress. Flash back to World Mart, we are laughing and celebrating. I open a bottle of champagne and we toast to our joint venture. Meanwhile, the farmer finds a small bottle in the cupboard, mixes it with some water, and takes a sip before passing it to his wife and two children. World Mart, we continue the celebrations. The farmer’s house, the entire family lies lifeless on the bed. That’s correct, I play an American businessman who indirectly causes a farmer to kill himself and his entire family. I’ll let you interpret that. I’m just hoping that not too many people recognize me as “that saip from the movie.”

My Motorcycle Diaries

What has a roaring motorcycle, refuses to wear a helmet and always sports a fashionable ‘stache? If you guessed “most young Keralites,” you’re correct. The motorbike is much cheaper to run than a car and it’s also easier to maneuver around the perilous potholes that pock the streets of Kerala.

For me, November was a time of travel to this place and that and most of these travels happened on the back of a bike. Here is an account of some of the trips.

The first side trip came on one of those unexpected holidays, a strike day. A professor (they call them lecturers here) gave me a call and asked if I would like to take a motorcycle tour of nearby temples. Since I had not been inside even one temple yet, I quickly agreed.

He picked me up on his aged, but sturdy, Yamaha and away we went. There are several temples in Kerala that are open to the public and tend to be tourist hotspots; we did not go to one of these. Cyril sir took us off the between path to the hidden gems.

The first one we entered was a beautiful and secluded temple dating back about 900 years. The wood and stone carvings of the inner temple were all part of the original construction. We took a tour around the perimeter of the inner temple to see some of these scenes carved into the rocks. The “dirty” scenes had been covered with black paint. This act of censorship Cyril attributes to the influence of Christian missionaries.

When it came time to enter the inner-sanctuary itself we were approached by one of the temple caretakers. He granted us permission to enter for a nominal donation to the temple. This nominal fee was to the tune of 250 rupees (which the is wages for one day of labor) but Cyril quickly paid it, as “knowledge of temples is necessary knowledge for a visitor.” Not only did they want our cash, they even wanted the shirts off our backs. Actually, that’s part of the custom, so we lost the shirts and headed into the inner sanctuary.

This temple’s principle deity was contained in a circular structure with a roof of earthy red tiles that spiraled up to a brazen point, tipped with gold leaf. Around the circumference were ancient wooden carvings depicting stories from the Hindu epics. The detail was really incredible and, for the age, I could hardly believe their superb condition. Some sort of oil is applied frequently to help preserve the images and, I must say, it’s working.

Over the course of the day we visited two more temples, none quite as impressive as the first, a couple of churches accessible only by boat, and the beautiful Allapuzha beach. I should note that none of the other temple caretakers charged us “admission.” But one of them did give us a first class tour of the temple’s features.

The second motorcycle trip occurred with Renju, one of the Mar Thoma youth I met on a retreat more than two months ago. Out of the blue I received a call from him. It was a call unlike any I have ever received. It went something like this:

Me: Hello.
Renju: Hello?
Me: Hello.
Renju: Hello?
Rob: …
Renju: Do you want to meet a baby elephant?
Rob: Desperately, but who is this?

Ten minutes later he picked me up and away we went. Away we went straight into the last great rain storm Kerala has seen this season. We were absolutely soaked to the bone, but we did make it safely to the baby elephant. Renju’s friend runs an elephant training facility where they train elephants for use in the many Hindu festivals in temples around the region. In addition to meeting the baby elephant I also saw most of the festival costume for the elephant and some illicit elephant by-products that I cannot specifically name in this blog.

Next, I traveled with Anish to the hilly regions of Pathanamthitta. He is one of the lay people at the theological institute I talked about in the newsletter. Well, I was invited to visit his ancestral home on a small rubber farm. His father, retired from the military, now operates the family farm. This was truly a beautiful retreat (you have to see the pictures). In Kerala, where a majority of the population is involved in agricultural work, it’s always a pleasure to get an inside look at the places and the processes involved.

Though I did get a little sun burnt on the ride to his home (sorry Coolibar) the pain was quickly forgotten in the midst of the incredible natural beauty that surrounded us. Rolling green hills, expansive rubber plantations, rivers, and the most beautiful sight of them all, the site I awoke to after our first night at home.

I got up with the sun around 6 and was handed a yummy cup of black coffee to start the day. Then I stepped outside to see the light just peeking over the misty hills of the family farm. The light’s individual rays could be seen weaving in between the rubber trees and spotlighted the work of Anish’s father who was doing the morning tapping (of the rubber trees.) With a few precise knocks along the spiral channel for the rubber water to flow the tap was complete and he could move on the next tree. He worked with such ease, skill, and calmness that I almost became envious of the job. The rest of our time was very low key - mostly sitting around a cup of tea and sharing stories about life.

That’s a handful of the adventures from this past month. I have pictures from each of these great adventures available on my web album.

A (Jesus) Fish Story

Fishing has become a very romantic notion in my mind. I haven’t fished for years, but when I was just a little guy my grandpa would take me fishing every summer. I had absolutely no skill. Grandpa set up the rod and reel, put the worm on the hook, cast the line and then handed me the pole. If something bit he talked me through the proper way to reel in the catch. And no matter what I brought in, grandpa always made me feel as if I had achieved something heroic. So, when I heard the call story of Simon, Andrew James and John (fishermen) from the Gospel of Mark (1:16-20) it didn’t seem like that big of a deal to me. Jesus was calling a couple of guys away from a leisurely day of fishing (that’s how fishing was done in my mind) to follow him. In my mind, this event had roughly the same flavor as mom calling into the living room “Come for dinner” on any given school night. Why shouldn’t they follow?

This month I’ve had to seriously rethink my childhood interpretation of the story. I’ve mentioned that I spend a couple of nights a week with lay people at the Bishop Mani Theological Institute. These guys are studying for the entrance exams into seminary. Each time we meet we begin by singing a few songs, sharing a Bible study and then discussing some topic, normally related to the Bible study. The topic this time was discipleship and one of the guys brought up a point that the call story of the fishermen in Mark had a profound impact on his congregation, many who are fisher people. In my ignorance I asked him to elaborate.

Most fisher people are paid daily based on the size of their catch. They are essentially living from hand to mouth. There is no such thing as PTO and if the catch is bad then the laborers must simply absorb the hit. With this information in mind, the story takes on a completely new magnitude. The call of Jesus to the would-be disciples is absolutely nothing like “come for dinner” and much more like “come away from your dinner.” These men had never read the Bible, obviously, and Jesus did not have quite the same reputation has he has now. So for this wild-eyed fellow to just show up and demand that they leave their livelihood to follow him – that’s a pretty radical call. I can understand why that passage has particular resonance with the fish workers. If the disciples are wrong about Jesus, then they will starve. That sets the stakes pretty high.

While the purpose of these Bible studies and discussions is essentially English language training, I’m finding that most of the discussions end up having a profound effect on me, the activity facilitator. It’s embarrassing now to think about how naïve my interpretation of this call story was. The stakes are so incredibly high, and that the disciples respond to the call “immediately” is a wonder in itself. My official duty at Bishop Mani may be “teacher” but the exchange rate of what I teach to what I learn is highly unequal.

The visual journey continues

Here are the links to everything not in my newsletter or on the blog.

Pictures

• Web Photo Album

Click the link to see the full sized album, or scroll down for a preview version.

Videos clips

• "Country Roads" as sung by C.M.S College students, directed by Rob Martin.
• The Victory March after the SFI party sweeps the student government elections.
• Kerala Day and all of the pomp that followed.
• The Trivandrum fish auction.
• This jammin' priest gets just a little funky during an Orthodox wedding.
• Steve busts a move in celebration of Christmas - unbelievably endearing.
• The hilarious slow race during the C.M.S. College Sports Day.
• Slower than watching paint dry. Watch my beard grow.
• PG Hostelers Music Video feat. Saip Martin.
• Balamangalam Summer Camp musical highlights.
  

Open letter to an underwear thief

When I was a freshman in college I rarely wore clean clothes because I rarely washed my clothing. This made my mother very disappointed. Slowly, over the course of four years, I learned to sort, wash, and eventually even fold my own laundry. This made my mother very proud. This year, I have reached a new pinnacle. Once or twice every week I wash my own laundry by hand in a bucket in my bathroom, and then hang it on a line outside my room to dry. As this is a new process, I’ve had to relearn the methodology I’ve worked so hard to perfect. One problem is that every night it rains, and every night I forget my laundry outside. As a result, the laundry is as wet or wetter the next morning as it was when I first put it out to dry.

One day last week you solved my problem of forgetting my laundry outside - permanently. As I returned home to the hostel just after sunset, I thought it prudent to take in my laundry before I forgot. But as I approached the clothesline I noticed something strange - there was nothing there at all. Sure that the clothing must have fallen into the tall grass surrounding the line I fetched a lantern to begin the search. Nothing. You stole my laundry. But this wasn’t just any laundry - this was an underwear load. Eight pair of my oldest, most comfortable, worn in cotton boxers were missing! Why would you possibly want to steal my old underwear?

Some of these pairs I’ve been wearing since my High School days, if you can imagine that. They have holes along the seams, worn out elastic, and threadbare bottoms. Most disappointingly, it is not possible to purchase boxer in this country because, as you know, everyone wears bright colored bikini briefs. This fact leads me to my question, why do you want my old shabby underwear? Perhaps you thought they could be stitched together to make a nice curtain, or a summer-weight baby blanket? Some of the PG students offered to help me conduct an investigation on campus; a public strip search of the student body will begin immediately. Oh well, guess I’ll just have to increase the frequency of my underwear washing, but from now on I’m hanging them inside to dry.

With confusion,
Rob “Size Medium” Martin

Embark on a visual journey

My first photo album is up and ready for viewing. You can preview it here, or click the link to see a larger version with captions.

Welcome to The Malayala Martin!

The Malayala Martin is overflow parking for all of the juicy stories that don't fit into my monthly newsletter. And let me tell you, nothing produces juicy stories like a year in India. Check out this one from the Malayala Manorama (click to enlarge).