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Published in the Livingston Enterprise May 6th, 2008.

Bike trip pauses battle with Indian traffic to smote rural poverty 

    Three gaudily decorated trucks careened down the road towards me.
Behind me, a cacophony of deafening horns indicated another convoy
fast approaching from the rear.  The road being barely wide enough to
accommodate two trucks, I had to jump my loaded bike off the pavement
and onto the rock and refuse-strewn shoulder.  The trucks roared past
me, not slowing a bit.  I regained the road, only to be forced off a
few moments later by more trucks.
       It took us little time to discover biking on India’s national highway
was no fun.  For a major road, the traffic is light, but passing cars
leave no room for bikes.  Luckily, India has a considerable network of
small roads that wind casually through the countryside.  On these, we
could take time to enjoy the fresh green rice paddies gliding all the
way to the horizon, the huge trees standing protectively by the
roadside, and the small villages clinging to high spots.
       Because it is impossible to legally bike through Myanmar, we
reluctantly boarded a plane in Bangkok, Thailand that took us across
the Indian Ocean to Kolkata, India  We intended to push as far west as
possible.  Although other routes to Europe from Thailand exist, they
would involve considerable time, and would have forced us to bike over
the Himalayas in late winter.
       Flying meant missing out on the gradual changes to which biking had
accustomed me.  While I missed easing into Indian culture, I wasted no
time appreciating it.  Kolkata, unlike most Chinese cities was never
razed to the ground and rebuilt.  Decaying stone buildings erected by
the British connect one with India’s past. Rebuilt fifties-style
automobiles serve as taxis, and streetcars, rickshaws, bikes, ancient
buses and motorcycles compete with pedestrians for street space.  Few
cities possess such energy as Kolkata’s bustling thoroughfares and
back alleys.
       The women of India wear the most striking fashions I’ve seen on the
trip.  Bright saris and shalwar kameezes in pastels and neon colors
set women apart from the drab clothes of their male counterparts.
However, it seemed the women were always on the move.  They rarely
paused in their march through the streets.  They never sipped chai
from the many stands around which men constantly gathered.
       In Southeast Asia, women were almost always the owners or proprietors
of restaurants and hotels.  However, in India, I rarely talked to any
women, because men exclusively worked in the shops and restaurants.
Women, it seemed, remained at home, and I only saw them on the street,
hurrying from one place to another.
       After acclimatizing to our new environment, we set out on our bikes
to visit a friend of mine doing development work north of Kolkata.
The organization with which he works, Street Survivors India, is run
by a woman named Shabnam Veraswamy.  This woman, with her perfect
English, staff of workers, and private car, seems out of place small
Indian village.
Her organization aims to increase quality of life in the countryside
by providing education and work opportunities.  They focus on women,
who not only usually take more responsibility for raising families,
but are more vulnerable to exploitation due to the patriarchy still
alive in parts of India.  By increasing their knowledge and
self-reliance, Shabnam hopes to help not only them, but to raise the
standard of living for the whole village.  She saw in our ability to
play music an opportunity to widen the horizons of village life.
Consequently, we found ourselves on a stage in front of the Street
Survivor’s compound, lit by lights powered by a generator thumping
away nearby.  Sound equipment amplified our voices and instruments so
the crowd of villagers could hear us over the generator.  Ironically,
despite our location in the middle of the undeveloped Indian
countryside, it was our biggest and most technically sophisticated
concert.  Between Shabnam’s spirited explanations of our mission and
the novelty of watching foreigners, we held everyone’s attention until
a storm threatened rain and everyone retreated to shelter.
Later, we visited the Jalgriti School, another Street Survivors
project, and one of the best hopes for empowering the girls and boys
in the village.  It was the first day of school.  Crowds of excited
children strolled about the grounds in their snappy brown uniforms.
Younger children wailed their anxiety.
The school had not yet hired a music teacher, so we filled in by
playing for the music classes.  We gave those children brave enough to
try brief lessons on how to play the instruments.  They impressed me
with their excitement and intelligence.  It occurred to me that many
young minds would go to waste were it not for the school.
Regretfully, we took our leave of Katna and headed back on the road.
Though we felt welcome and helpful in the village, we still had a long
way to go.  Our mission is not to fully understand one area, but
rather to better comprehend many areas, so we returned to do battle
with the horns and exhaust and baroquely bedecked trucks.  Now,
however, we had a much better appreciation for education’s role in
beating back rural poverty.

This entry was posted on Sunday, May 18th, 2008 at 4:33 am and is filed under Jim's Posts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.