The Hidden Utopia Between India and China

Summary: My recent trip trekking to the Annapurna Base Camp in Nepal was not without surprises or setbacks, but it was the perfect vacation at the perfect time. Pictures are available here.

The word Nepal conjures up fond memories of breathtaking mountains, stunning scenery, beautiful and friendly locals, numerous and fun tourists, and good food.




Things that mercifully escape the forefront of my memory include:

1. Unrelenting cloudy skies peppered with rain, wind, and cold.
2. Leeches, leeches, and more leeches.
3. Steep stone steps. Lots of them.
4. An unnecessarily heavy pack (~10 kg), especially when compared with that of my guide.
5. Having diarrhea the first 6-7 days of the 12-day trek, resulting in too many meals of daal soup and rice.
6. The day we walked 5.5 hours just to end up 2.5 hours from where we started, due to relentless rain, which created swollen and dangerous river-waterfalls. The next morning, we put on our cold, wet clothes and trekked 7.5 hours in suboptimal (cold, windy, and wet) weather to make up for lost time.
7. A 7-hour bus ride from Pokhara to Kathmandu which ended up taking 14 hours due to a landslide.
8. A “postponed” (i.e. cancelled) flight back home discovered at the last minute, and the resulting panic. Don’t worry, I ultimately got an extra day in Kathmandu (hotel and relevant food eaten at the hotel paid for).
9. Potholes on the runway, causing flight delays and slight, amusing fear of missing my overnight train back home from Delhi to Lucknow.

In spite of all this, my three-week trip to Nepal turned out to be the perfect vacation, a well-timed and much-needed break from Lucknow. (See pictures from the trip here.)

To give you a sense of how much I’d lost it by the time I left, I found myself standing in the perfume section in Delhi airport’s duty-free shop, bursting out in uncontrollable laughter. (How long it had been since I smelled such “fresh,” wonderful smells!) This almost maniacal laugher resurfaced when I looked out the window of the plane and saw the lush, seemingly endless green hills of Kathmandu Valley.

Though this purely joyful first impression largely remains with me, it has since been deepened by a greater understanding of the cultural complexities of Nepal. True to its geographical position, Nepal feels like something that’s four parts Indian and one part Chinese: underdeveloped, divided, hierarchical, and poor, but rich in history, culture, joy, and love.

In my 12-day trek to and from the Annapurna Base Camp, I was consistently struck by the stunning natural beauty juxtaposed with tremendous poverty. On the trails, I was frequently passed by locals carrying unbelievable loads, sometimes barefoot. One afternoon, while relaxing at the lodge, I witnessed three men make three separate trips up and down the mountain in the course of an hour, each time carrying what must’ve been 50+ pounds of wet sand on their foreheads.


Such sights conjured up a mix of often incongruous feelings, including embarrassment, gratefulness, awe, sadness, helplessness, admiration, destiny, injustice, privilege, guilt, weakness, and strength.

However, one feeling that never surfaced was pity. In the place of pity stood admiration and respect: admiration of their persistence in the face of seemingly insurmountable life obstacles and their ability to find joy amidst everyday hardships, and respect for their pride and strength.

These people might not be able to teach me about the Pythagorean Theorem or the String Theory, but I’m sure they can teach me a thing or two about what’s important in life.

The Doctor is: IN

Summary: “Fiddle dee dee, that will require a tetanus shot.” (Homer J. Simpson)

In terms of efficiency, India seems to be binary: speed of light or slower than a slug.

Upon reaching a locked gate one evening, Anna decides to ceremoniously climb over as one of her last hoorahs, and Elizabeth and I follow. It’s an easy climb, with footholds and handholds in all the right places. Swinging my foot over the top, my foot grazed the sharp tip and I felt a slight, but sharp, pain. Ignoring it, I hopped down.

Glancing over at the wall, we see a spot of red. “Looks like blood,” I comment. “Nah, it’s probably just paint,” one of the girls reply. Lo’ and behold, turns out it was blood. My blood.

I’m sure the wound will heal and forget about it, but the word “tetanus” kept coming up in conversation. I can’t recall when I had my last tetanus shot, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t that long ago. After all, I had had a series of vaccinations before my previous India trip two years ago. One friend convinces me that if I can’t remember, it ‘s been too long. Sure enough, records say it was just over a decade ago.

In my mind, I weigh the pros and cons of getting a tetanus shot (a) before I leave for Nepal in a few days, (b) when I get back from Nepal, and (c) when I get back to the States. For everyone’s peace of mind, I go with option (a).

Apparently tetanus is very common here, as are tetanus shots. I walk into the office of one of many doctors in the neighborhood, and instantly feel claustrophobic. (The entire office, partitioned into a waiting area, the doctor’s desk, and the assistant’s station, is smaller than my room in SF.) Our conversation, as I experienced it, was as follows:

"Hello. I want to get a tetanus shot."
[Confused.]
"Te-ta-nus shot chahie." ["Te-ta-nus shot I want."]
"Kaun se?" ["Which?"]
"Vaccine. Shot." [Imitate a drug addict shooting up.]
"Sit." [Still confused.]
"Tetanus. Rusted nails. Shot."
"Tetanus shot!" [Spoken by the assistant in the “back.”]
"Ji!" ["Yes!"]
[Assistant opens package containing syringe, takes out a vial, prepares shot. Doctor wipes syringe with a piece of a cotton ball pre-soaked in alcohol, wipes an area on my arm, and shoots some liquid from the syringe.]
[Getting nervous.] "Tetanus, right? T-e-t-a-n-u-s."
"Tetanus." [Head bobble.]
"Can I read the package? The box?" [Hand gestures to indicate reading.]
"Haa...." [Hands over vial. Vial reads: “Tetanus toxoid....”]
[Still uncomfortable.] "Tikh hai."
[Gives shot. Leans back, pauses, looks at me.] "Okay?"
"Okay."
"50 rupees."
"Tikh hai. Thank you." [Pay. Point at blood still oozing out. Ask for something to stop the bleeding, receive another cotton piece. Exit.]

I was in and out within five minutes (half of which was waiting time).

As I walked back across the street, the ridiculousness of my experience struck me and I burst into uncontrollable laugher. In my mind, I was imagining a parallel universe in the U.S., where a Band-Aid and even a lollipop wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary.

Staying Alive, Staying Alive…

Summary: Elizabeth recently contracted scabies from some village kids, and was gracious enough to share her new friends with both me and Anna.

When you visit villages, holding babies, playing with kids, touching things and drinking the water, you’re bound to catch something sooner or later. A coworker contracted jaundice earlier this year, and typhoid and lice found their way to Anna last year.

These past 6 months, stomach and hair problems (and potential malnourishment) notwithstanding, we’ve all managed to be relatively healthy. (Relatively is, after all, a relative word.) A few weeks ago, however, Elizabeth had developed a rash on the webbed part of her hands. Conducting a thorough self-diagnosis (with the help of WebMD), she concluded that she contracted scabies, courtesy of some kids in the village she recently visited.

One evening, when Anna was away, Elizabeth and I sat in her bed, watching a movie. After the movie ended, my attention drifted to an itch on my leg. Examining it closer, I found a trail of small, red bumps. I spent the next hour online, fervently reading everything I could about scabies, learning about what it is (mites that dig under your skin and lay eggs), how it is contracted (direct or indirect contact with someone who has it), what the symptoms are (incessant itching, a characteristic S-shaped trail of small red bumps), how to treat it (Permethrin, 5%), and potential side effects of the treatment options (minimal).

Check, check, and check. I had scabies, now what can I do to put my mind at ease? I read on some sites that one should wash everything that came in contact the body (e.g., sheets, clothing) in boiling hot water to kill the mites. So I figured, why couldn’t that work on the body itself?

Project Scalding was underway. Elizabeth and I boiled some water and started methodically burning the skin that had scabies. (When Anna found out the next day, she vowed to never leave us alone again.) A few days later, we finally got a hold of Permethrin, coated our entire bodies with it, and left it on overnight. The next morning, we congratulated ourselves, and proclaimed ourselves scabies free.

Another bullet dodged. What’s next?

Teacher Training

Summary: All in all, the 3-day teacher training program recently held for new DSH teachers (mainly government school teachers in the Chinhat study) was a success. Teachers were present, and the program went smoothly. The real test is whether the teachers will take the message and lessons from the training to their practice.

Last week, DSH hosted a three-day teacher training, marking the official start of the Chinhat Study. The Chinhat Study is a 2-year study funded by the University of Washington to evaluate the impact of the DSH program in 11 government schools. Both Class 3 English and Class 5 Math are being evaluated at each school, one being the control and the other being the experimental group.

The training was conducted in Hindi and covered topics such as introduction to DSH, characteristics of effective teaching, sensitization to gender issues, and subject-specific teaching.

Attendance was high (~90%), which was a great sign. Less promising, however, was the “Prerna Mentorship” session, where teachers sat in and observed live classes held at Prerna, a high-caliber school for neighborhood slum girls.

After 15 minutes of shuffling around, teachers were finally settled into the respective rooms. Less than 5 minutes later, the teachers excused themselves and marched back into the other side of the school, where training had been held. Seeing us on the balcony, they gestured, “We’ve had enough and are heading back.”

I’m glad we cut the originally planned week-long Prerna Mentorship Program to just 30 minutes, but apparently even that proved to be too much for this lot. They had the guts to walk out of a session and the arrogance to think they could call the shots.

I find the sense of entitlement that comes with job stability and 20,000 Rupees per month very upsetting.

Total Eclipse of the….

Summary: While we didn’t trek to Varanasi to see the century’s longest eclipse in totality, we did wake up at the crack of dawn to experience it from our roof, in Lucknow.

The longest eclipse of the century occurred on July 22, 2009, and the path of totality crossed over parts of India and China. Varanasi, a recommended destination for this anticipated event, was only a train ride away.

Unfortunately, work beckoned, and July 22 fell smack in the middle of our teacher training. In fact, we had to reschedule our training to accommodate the superstitious teachers, who, among other things, refused to leave the house the morning of the eclipse.

Naturally, the night before the eclipse, some friends and I found ourselves scrambling to figure out plans. Would it be worth waking up at the crack of dawn? Do we spend the night sleeping on the floor of a friend’s apartment in order to get a 9th-story view of early morning the eclipse? Do we get an autorickshaw to pick us up at 4:30 am to head over to their place then? Or, do we enjoy the view from the roof of Anna / Elizabeth’s apartment? Would the sun even be high enough during the eclipse to be viewable from the apartment?

We settle for the last option (viewing from our own roof), and woke ourselves up at 5 am to catch the sunrise (and beginning of the eclipse) at 5:30, and the 96% totality view from Lucknow at ~6:30.

Reading about the eclipse, I had learned that looking directly at the eclipse (even with sunglasses) can cause permanent damage to the eye. One simple alternative is to view a projection of the eclipse; hence, I found myself trying to recreate my 7th grade pinhole camera setup. I took a small piece of cardboard, used earrings to poke a hole through it, and used a paper bag as the screen. Nothing. Repeated, with a slightly bigger hole. Still nothing.

Of course, this repeatedly failed endeavor resulted in endless laughter and disbelief at my stubbornness and nerdiness. At around 6:15, I finally reaped the results of my efforts – a miniature projection of the eclipse, measuring about 1 cm in diameter. Turns out it had been working the whole time, but I mistook the image I saw as one of the pinhole and its shadow, rather than the eclipse.

At about 6:30, the sky was noticeably darker, and at about 7 am, we realized that it was once again brighter and the highlight of the eclipse had passed us by.

Underwhelming and anticlimactic, to say the least. But that was because (a) we weren’t prepared with appropriate viewing equipment, and (b) we weren’t in the path of totality. Had we been in Varanasi, we would, according to a friend, have seen a line separating the day and the night, with blue sky on one side and stars on the other. And that would’ve been something.

But we were in Lucknow, on our roof, one of the few crazies who were out during the eclipse. Glad I woke up? Sure. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have seen the surya grahan (solar eclipse) cause duniya kattam (the end of the world).

I’m glad my Hindi is gradually improving with useless vocabulary.

Starting Off on the Left Wrong Foot

The 2009-2010 year for government schools officially started on July 1, 2009. However, this being India, no date is official unless it’s a holiday; hence, many schools generally aren’t operational until August.

To try to understand the problem, I’ve found that the issue can be traced to both “the top” and “the bottom.”

“The Top” (The Government): Governments everywhere are known for dragging their feet, but this is ridiculous.

The state (UP Board) curriculum hasn’t changed much from year to year (for better or for worse), and textbooks are usually updated only with incremental changes. This year, however, the curriculum has been completely revamped; for example, English has been incorporated into the curriculum earlier (Class 1 vs. Class 3). It’s almost a month into the school year and many of the new textbooks have yet to be released. Such circumstances can demoralize even the well-intentioned teachers, and provide little more than excuses for the less well-intentioned ones.

“The Bottom” (The Students): Student attendance is abhorrently low in this first month. In the weeks leading up to the new school year, teachers are expected to visit the villages to (1) remind families that school will be starting up again soon, and (2) recruit new students. Even with these efforts (if they are indeed undertaken), teachers have to either spend the first few weeks of the new year corralling students and bringing them to school, or wait out the storm.

Regular attendance will finally pick up in August, but at that point festivals and holidays will force schools to close. Of the first 15 days in August, the school will be open for only about half of them, once again causing the recurring low student attendance.

Without government support, the educational system in India will continue to be muddled with such basic problems. The intent to overhaul and “beef up” the paltry curriculum is a good start, but the delays are costing both students and teachers valuable school time. The outrageous number of government-mandated holidays also undermine efforts to provide students with a consistent education, and sends mixed messages about the importance of education.

To borrow a quote from Derek Zoolander, “How can we be expected to teach children to learn how to read if they can't even fit inside the building?”

Meet Elizabeth

Up until now, the image of Elizabeth you’ve created in your minds has been bounded by my words. I now give you the opportunity to meet her as she is, for she has been maintaining a blog of her experiences in Lucknow as she has experienced it. Her dramatic speaking style and dynamic storytelling shines through in her writing, which is supported by her astute observation skills and ability to understand and assess the situation around her.

Check her out at evbeff.blogspot.com (linked also on the right). Her first post upon reaching India is here.

Rage Against Time

Summary: One phone call from my landlord has once again put me in my place, or so they think. But I won’t surrender my freedom to come home at 9:32 pm that easily!

It is 9:40 pm, and I have just entered the front gate of my house when I get a phone call from my landlord:

“Hello?”
“I think you are not coming tonight.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I think you are not coming home tonight.”
“I’m downstairs just now.”
“These past two nights, you have not come before 10:30, isn’t it?”
“No, sir. My friends and I watched a movie last night and I didn’t realize it was so long.”
“I think you need to come home by 9:30.”
“Sir…”
“Please lock the gate.”
“Okay, I will do it just now. Good night.”

Conversations like this might be one reason I’m losing all my hair. In my defense, these past two nights have been unique situations: one was a July 4th dinner with friends, and the second was a freakishly long Bollywood movie that started at 7:30.

Part of my “rage” against this phone call is such:

(1) I make a point to not disturb my landlords when I come home late. This is because (a) I believe the other tenant is more understanding, and (b) the landlords have stairs and further distance to travel to open the gate.
(2) For the most part, I’ve made an effort to be home by ~9:30 or 10 pm. I think it would mortify them to learn that, left to my own accord, I would probably regularly come home at 10:30 or 11 pm.
(3) I’m being chastised for not doing anything “wrong” in my book. He spoke to me like I was a bad person for coming home late; like he assumed I was wreaking havoc in Lucknow.
(4) This now-official curfew has little to do with concerns about my well-being. There was one day when everyone had to go out of town, and they requested that I come home right after work that day, not for my own safety, but to guard the house. (This was blatantly expressed.)
(5) I suspect other self-interested motives and sexism at play. I think he may also be concerned about what the neighbors think about a female coming back to his house by herself “so late” at night.
(6) He spoke to me in a pedantic manner, as if he had all the facts and needed to inform me of the error in my ways. There was absolutely no respect, care, or inquiry in his voice.
(7) I don’t feel that they have a right to tack a curfew onto me the way they would their own child. Simply (and harshly) said, I do not see him as an authority figure.

I’ve successfully reached my mid-twenties without a rebellious teenage phase, but it very well might come now, in India. Then again, maybe I’ll be able to convince them to be more lax until August, because I’ll pretty much be under house arrest after that for lack of places to go and friends to hang out with.

Getting Back to Basics

Summary: To date, DSH has focused its efforts on making schools function better, and on making the DSH model “work.” While this is, or course, the reason of the organization’s being, the tradeoff is that DSH has not expended much focused energy on the basics (e.g., marketing and fundraising).

True to the character of the co-founders, DSH has, to date, been operationally-focused. As a start-up nonprofit, DSH has been a very action-oriented organization, channeling its energy and limited resources into making sure we see impact in the schools we operate in.

DSH is a no-frills, get-your-hands-dirty, do-whatever-it-takes type of organization. On the one hand, this means we’re not afraid of experimenting with new initiatives if we think it’ll make a difference. We throw everything we have into making sure we’re helping students receive a better education. We sit on patio furniture so we can support one more school. We focus on the students, and we focus on making things work.

On the other hand, this also means that we haven’t invested time and energy into what some consider “the basics.” We focus so much on our target “client” population that we forget about “funders” and “supporters.” As an organization, one of our biggest weaknesses is lack of marketing and fundraising efforts. We have no logo, no tagline, no mission statement, no PR, and no one dedicated to outreach and/or fundraising. To the organization, such “frills” are seen as unwanted distractions.

As an outsider coming in, I think the basics are long overdue. Sure, they might be distractions, but they’re necessary evils. In many ways, it’s a catch-22. You need funders and outreach in order to achieve impact, but you need demonstrated impact before outreach efforts can be successful.

Of course, there are small “wins” here and there. Take, for example, the 2008 Tech Awards in Silicon Valley, or the recent article published in the Stanford Social Innovation Review. Though I was pleasantly surprised to discover these items, I’m also aware that they represent a largely ad hoc publicity “campaign.”

Though I’m trying to gradually introduce some basic elements of marketing into DSH, I find myself becoming acutely aware of the difficulties in developing a program that challenges the fiber of an up-and-running organization, especially if you yourself lack the skills and know-how to run it.

In other news, if you or anyone you know has experience with logo design and are willing to adopt DSH as a pro bono project, please let me know, as we sure could use some help!