Breakthrough

Where do I begin? It is absolutely sensory overload here. Good thing Sandra told me not to bail in the first week.

The most frustrating thing so far has been spotty internet access. When I do find an internet cafe, it's dial up service on an old computer with sticky keys that give you extra letters when you type, or the keyboard is missing letters. How frustrating it is then when I make my way to the end of a post only to lose it because of a power outage, apparently a common thing in India. Other times, the internet is simply down, or I get timed out from my e-mail account because it's taken me so long to copy-edit an e-mail.

I had been to the internet cafe of one computer in Dholpur so often that the owner and I have a relationship. I had decided not to bring makeup on the march. But now that I am so much darker, I feel I look faded without makeup. With hand gestures and English words, I communicated to the internet cafe owner I sought eyeliner - black, eyes, women. He pointed me to the purchase of some and I wore it when I met him again in the evening. He pointed at his eyes to indicate he noticed my makeup. We are now buddies. While Lisa and Shannon used the computer, he invited me into his home to meet his wife and children.

So behind the crumbling storefront of the one-computer internet cafe, I walked through rubbles and mud to the back of the shop where a rectangular structure stood. Before me was a spanking new Hindu temple with a marble floor. The three icons of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva in glittering costume were encased behind a glass wall, taking up half of the temple.

Trekking through ditches and cow dung, I went through an old door way to a court yard. He pointed at various rooms to indicate where members of his household lived. Then he took me through a dark passage of sewage and falling walls. At the end was a brand new marble staircase. We went up that to see a large, newly renovated apartment of marble flooring and oak cabinets. I saw a large, flat-screen TV and a couch. And were those a washer and dryer? I don't know.

I am in Agra now, the 11th day of the march. Lisa, Shannon and I joined the march on its 6th day in Dholpur. That first afternoon, we walked for two hours and met up with Jill and her husband at the end. Rajagopal, Jill's husband, is a much-loved social activist here. The marchers walk by him, bow with folded hands and say "Namaste" (hello), and they touch his feet, a gesture of the greatest honour.

He is an articulate, charismatic man. It's obvious that the marchers and village heads hold him in highest esteem. Through out the march, people meet us with water, food, and garlands of marigold. Some areas have built stages for Raja and Jill, where they receive honours and make speeches.

They give all the foreign guests on the march translators and drivers. The translators are adorable young men between 17 and 20. They are in college in Delhi and through a screening process were selected for the job.

At any one time, there are about 50 foreign guests who take part in the march for a few days. Most of them are from Germany and France, whose organizations support Ekta Parishad, the people that organized the march. There were seven Canadians marching. We are independent marchers, all here because we know Jill. Three Canadians left yesterday to resume their tour of India.

I have enjoyed meeting the French very much. They are easy-going and fun. Andre, a retired sales manager, introduced me to bidi last night. That's a rolled up leaf you smoke, supposedly not as harmful as real cigarettes, but I think it's a tobacco leaf.

At night, the marchers camp on the ground. Theirs is like a refugee camp. But foreigners are driven to hotels, such as they are. We stay at the hotel for three to four nights and each morning, we are driven to where we stopped the night before to rejoin the march in progress. The marchers are usually happy to see us and thank us for marching, though a few did point out the inequity of them sleeping on the ground. The hotels are basic, with bugs, smells, cracked walls everywhere. If they were apartments in Toronto, they would be condemned. But Lisa and Shannon, who have travelled much in developing countries, tell me they are very good hotels.

Through our translator, I have talked with some of the marchers. I would like to talk to them more, but I need to be in the mood and have a translator by me at the same time. It's hard not to be discouraged and feel foul when I hear the marchers' stories, yet they are the ones living out their stories.

Last night, there was a large meeting at the camp. They were expecting the Minister of Urban Development to confirm his support for the marchers. But he cancelled in the afternoon. Apparently, the marchers are getting discouraged. It's cold out in the field at night and the minister was a no-show. So far, 100 people have left the march of 25,000. Today, they sent 300 back to Delhi to participate in a sit-in and to wait for the arrival of the marchers. They are also trying to buy 25,000 blankets for the marchers to keep them warmer at night.

This march is highly organized. I can't imagine a gathering of 25,000 for 30 days in Toronto and not have chaos and violence erupt. The most impressive thing is, there are men, women and children marching. These are India's poor and landless. They recognize that this long march is just one of many steps towards better livelihood, and that at the end of the march, they could walk away with nothing. Still, they have organized themselves.

They ask for water, forest, and land (jamin, jungal, jal) so they can improve their likelihood of having independent, self-sustaining lives using nature's resources. Many of them are indentured labourers, with no right to property ownership. They don't want to move to the city. If they do, they become beggars living in garbage slums for sure.

I will try to relay some of the marchers stories in later posts.

Uh oh. I think I'm beginning to like Indian music, that grating and prolonged shrill and whine of the female voice.