"Lizzie" and the Latex Factory

As you pass through the forested areas of Kerala, you may notice hundreds of tall, thin trees with small semi-circular taps. These are rubber trees, and their sap is one of Kerala’s biggest natural resources. Where does all this rubber go? In the years of Indira Ghandi, there was a concerted effort in India to curb the population. One of those initiatives was the production of male contraceptives – i.e. condoms. In 1966, the Hindustan Latex Factory was constructed in Trivandrum, and became the largest producer of condoms for India. In 2007, it was the largest producer of condoms in the world! Having found this information (and its aesthetics) more than interesting, my classmate Julia had the wonderful idea to film the inner workings of the factory.

Our auto rickshaw pulled up to the front of the factory compound, fortified by tall fences and guarded by government security. We were skeptical about getting inside, as we had not informed anyone of our visit. The guard gave us two official looking badges and told us to go to HR. The air conditioning overwhelmed me as I stepped inside. It’s interesting how offices can be so cushy while working areas are so -- well, not. We continued to the HR office where a young woman tried to convince us that it is only possible to see the factory with written consent from our universities and the factory manager. Julia wasn’t having it, so finally they let us meet with the manager. After waiting around for him to get out of a “very important meeting,” the young woman escorted us up to his even more air-conditioned office. It was bigger than my apartment.

“What is it exactly you want to do?” He asked, condescendingly.

“We just wanted to see your factory, and maybe get some video of the aesthetics of the machines. The factory name would not be mentioned.” Julia assured him.

“Can I see a business card?”

“We don’t have any with us.”

“Well, we need to see a card. You should have one if you are a professional.”

“I have my student card. That’s all I brought with me,” her voice edging toward annoyance.

He proceeded to write down our school information and Student ID numbers. What was he going to do with those anyway?

“Video is out of the question, because information might leak to our competitors.”

Competitors??

“But you can have a tour. Usually you have to have a written request from your University, so I am doing you a favor.”

After they confiscated our phones and video equipment the wonderful tour of the condom factory began! We felt like we had entered Willy Wonka’s. First: the production of the condom. The smell of melting latex in giant vats filled our nostrils. Two long conveyer belts of condom-shaped metal molds were dipped into various-colored liquid latex, cooled, and dipped again. Finally, a solution was added and the condom shot down into a cylindrical revolving drying chamber. As the young woman engineer showed us all the stages with utmost seriousness, Julia and I tried desperately not to laugh.

After production, the condoms are tested for strength, durability and shelf life. Our next tour guide gave us some great looking blue hairnets and led us into the testing facility. Lined up along the wall were what looked like hotel ice machines with water-filled condoms hanging in rows. A man stood in front of them squeezing each one, testing for holes or defects. On the machine was a sign that read, “Two testing methods: Pull and squeeze or twist and squeeze.” Julia and I looked at each other, baffled by the surreal situation. In the next room we saw a man with earplugs on. A loud pop caught us off guard. Several plexi-glass compartments about 3 square feet in area stood against the wall. Inside each one, a condom was being blown up like a balloon. “Once they reach full capacity they explode. Our condoms can withstand more than double what our competitors can,” the tour guide proudly informed us as another popped. The transparent compartments were covered with the colorful remnants of debilitated condoms.

The last portion of our tour was the packaging department. Here, the sounds of industrial India were at their finest. Men and women factory workers supervised precisely engineered machines that rolled, separated, and packed the condoms. “This is where any extra flavors and the lubricant is added,” the young man in charge of the floor told us with a straight face. He also told us that the condoms produced for export to other countries were longer in length than those produced for the Indian government. Luckily, Julia realized that her sound recording device was still in her purse, and she got most of this audio on tape.

The most surreal aspect of our tour was that this factory of sexual products exists in possibly one of the most conservative states in India. In a society that doesn’t teach sex education, carefully censors sex in media, and considers going outside in a sleeveless top indecent exposure, this factory is a bit of a conundrum to me. I guess contradictions exist everywhere, and I am happy to say in this case, it was an amusing one.

Malayalam Words

Maram = Tree

Thozhil saala = Factory

Baranakoodam= Government

Anuvadikkuka = to permit, allow

Thozhilaali = Worker

An Adventure in Catholicism

Last week we had our Mid-Semester break; a five-day vacation in which the AIIS students could go wherever we like. After considering Bombay, I decided I would take the shorter and more relaxing trip to nearby Ft. Kochi with one of my classmates, Julia. She directed a short documentary last summer about the fishermen at the Chinese nets there and wanted to show them the finished product. She also wanted to get some footage for her research, and I was happy to refresh my video skills and assist her.

The focus for her Ph.D. is on the Catholic Charismatic movement in Kerala, and one of her sites of research is Ft. Kochi and a nearby Catholic retreat center. Needless to say, it was an adventure in itself just to get to the place. Julia’s enormous equipment pack in-tow, complete with tripod jutting out the side, we hopped on a bus from Ft. Kochi to Ernakulam, then overpaid an auto to take us to the state bus stand, then got another bus to this gigantic retreat center in the middle of nowhere. We came to the front desk of the Malayalam center, only to be directed across the busy highway to the “English/Hindi Camp.” Of courseit was raining and we had only one umbrella. I tried my best to keep the equipment pack underneath it, leaving Julia and I in the dampness.

The camp was enormous. As we walked into the entrance, there was 3-story high statue of Mary holding the lifeless Jesus next to a mural of Christ speaking to the crowds. At night, the statue is lit up in magical greens and blues. Little bunny rabbits and kangaroos were holding trashcans that read, “Use Me.” Julia and I later commented on how it seemed like an amusement park. Then I heard a voice speaking in English, “All you have to do is give your sins up to the Lord.” As I continued listening, I had a difficult time wrapping my brain around what was going on. It was almost like a Pentecostal service. It seemed such an oxymoron: Charismatic Catholicism. I looked around and wondered why people would be drawn to such a place. I suppose they are looking for answers just like everyone else in the world. Anyway, I will wait for Julia’s documentary to come out and see what she discovers.

By the time we left it was 9 pm and I was a little worried we wouldn’t be able to catch a bus. I haven’t really stayed out past then, because again, women don’t usually go out after dark without their husband/father/son. We also hadn’t eaten since lunch, so we were both a bit tired, damp, and hungry. We were able to catch a bus to Aluva, a place I know well, and a nice woman from Munnar helped us get a bus to Ernakulam. From there our adventure came to an end, back in our little homestay in Ft. Kochi. And because no restaurants were open, we finished the day off backpacker style with a package of banana chips and fried jackfruit.

Malayalam Words:

Vinodayatra – Pleasure trip

Mukkuvanmar – Fishermen

Kuda – Umbrella

Mazha – Rain

Yeshu – Jesus

Enne Upayogikkuu – “Use me (please)”

Pazham – Banana

Chakka - Jackfruit

Tourist or what?

Last Friday we finally had our “make-up day” for the class field trip, which was cancelled because of a state-wide strike. After waiting around 45 minutes for the driver to show up and shuttle us to our destination, we navigated through the tiny backroads of Trivandrum and landed in the most “touristy” portion of the city: Kovalam Beach. As I wrenched myself from the sticky car seat out onto the sandy parking lot, I spotted the first one. It was a pasty woman about the age of fifty wearing a tank top and capri pants, being cajoled by two Indian men selling extremely overpriced “Persian rugs.” After my initial “There’s another white person!” state of shock wore off, I didn’t know if I should feel pity for her unwittingly spending way too much on these rugs, or feel satisfied that this woman, who obviously knows little about this culture (and prices), is being ripped off.

We made our way down the boardwalk lined with restaurants called, “The Belgian Inn,” “German Bakery,” and other such Aryan names meant to entice foreigners. There was a group of three girls wearing hippy clothing and toting Sadhu bags looking at the menu posted outside, while the owner eagerly waited beside them pointing out the Western cuisine. Were they on a spiritual quest in India? Would they find it in Kovalam? No; they would find Chicken Tikka Masala.

These are perhaps the two groups of foreigners that I judge. Maybe it isn’t right of me to do so, but I find myself getting worked up every time I see them. There are the tourists, who do no research about the culture before coming, wear shorts and tank tops, and could care less about the language. One man in the train station (though I loved his use of the word “Tuk-Tuk” for an auto rickshaw) asked my classmate and I what we were doing in Kerala. Aaron replied, “We are studying Malayalam.” And the man said, “Is that a language?”

The other group is the hippies who come to places like Varkala Beach and Daramasala, looking for a “spiritual experience,” but don’t realize they are coming to the most tourist-altered areas of the country. If I can find granola in India, it isn’t India anymore. These people generally don’t come to see the real India, but embrace it in their own romanticized fantasies of the country and its religions.

Then what am I? That’s a good question, and one I am still working out. I certainly romanticize India sometimes, especially when I am in the United States. But I also lived here for one year, I am learning an Indian language, and I am not blind to the negative aspects of the culture, society and religions. Visiting a foreign country means walking the line of cultural sensitivity and self-comfort. In places with so little exposure to foreigners, we represent ourselves, our countries, and our attitudes toward other countries. So please, please, please, before you travel around the world, at least research what to wear.

Malayalam Words:

Videsi – foreigner

Swadesi – native

Yathra – journey

Kadal – sea

Gaveshanam – research

Samuuham – society

Samskaram - culture

A Strike and some Laundry

It was no big surprise that our “class outing” to Kovalam Beach was cancelled on Saturday. Due to politics, of course; we are in Kerala. The central government had decided to hike up the price of petrol, and so all of the state agreed on what is called a “Hartal” or an act of rebellion in which everything in the city shuts down. This means no public transportation, no food, and certainly no beach outing. However, it was a chance for me to get my laundry done.

One thing I learned while living in India is how to wash clothes by hand. Filling up buckets and scrubbing the clothes on a giant cement slab in the heat of an Indian summer doesn’t really seem enjoyable. However, it is one of those menial tasks that can also be cathartic. The washing stone of our apartment is on the rooftop, and having the time alone listening to the environment below puts me in a meditative state. I also somehow feel connected to my grandmother and all the work that had to be done before washing machines were invented. I begin to appreciate the labor we take for granted.

I also remember one of my fellow volunteers talking about the communal aspect of laundry. Somehow as you are hanging up your clothes on the line, you begin to think of all the other people in the world that are doing the same. Everyone has dirty clothes, right? And as I look out from my rooftop and see dozens of other clotheslines garnished with kurtas, lungis, and meters and meters of saree fabric, I can’t help but think of how we are all connected, in time and space, by laundry.

Malayalam Words (with some Hindi mixed in):

thuni = clothing

alakkuka = to wash (clothing)

vellam = water

kallu = stone

saree = women’s clothing made of 9 meters of fabric draped around the body

kurta = a long shirt both women and men wear

lungi = a long piece of rectangular fabric men wrap around the waist (something like a long skirt)

A ride on the "Fire Vehicle"

I started off last Saturday at around noon for the railway station, just as I have many times before. The monsoon rain was relentless, making my two giant suitcases extremely difficult to transport down the platform. It also made me all the more conspicuous (like being a white blonde girl isn’t enough!). I was also coming down with something: a fever and coughing. With all these variables in mind, I decided I was going to suck it up and pay for a 3-tier A/C ticket.

Right away, a man singled me out as a rich white girl who needed a coolie. Perhaps this is common in the North, but I felt like a real idiot imperialist having someone carry my bags for me. He was so insistent that I finally relented. Anyway, I could only hope he was going to use that money to feed his family.

The trip went relatively well, and I thought myself very safe in this extremely private compartmentalized car. Until the guy selling samosas decided to sit down in the compartment across from mine. I tried to ignore his obvious staring, but after realizing it wasn’t going to stop any time soon, I closed the curtain to my compartment. A feeling of peace washed over me, and I laid down for some sleep.

I woke up to a lot of noise coming from the compartment across from mine where that man was sitting before. I looked to my feet, and I thought it was odd that the curtain was drawn about a quarter of the way open. A few seconds later I saw a face peeking through the opening and staring at me! Even after the young man made eye contact with me, I couldn’t believe his audacity to keep staring! I got up quickly, shouted at him to go away, and closed the curtain. I looked through the little opening and there was now a huge group of coolies sitting in the next compartment gambling and playing cards. (Note to self: NEVER get the compartment next to the dining car).

I huddled back into my compartment seething with anger. “Should I move?” I had two gigantic suitcases under my seat, and that would not be an easy task. I couldn’t just leave them there, what if they got stolen? “Plus, why should I have to move? It’s my right to be sitting here, I paid for this seat!” I thought to myself. I decided to stay where I was.

As I sat there, I thought about all the harassment that women have to go through every day all over the world. I thought about the stories I had heard about busses and trains, movie theaters—every day women have to be prepared for something to happen. This is not the first or the worst thing that has happened to me. But it sucks having to live your life prepared for harassment. I wasn’t about to stop taking trains, but it makes the trip that much more difficult.

Malayalam Words:

Train = Thivandi (literally "fire vehicle")

Sleep = Oranguka

Women = Streekal

Think= chinthikkuka

Anger = Deshyam

Priya means....

A few months ago a Malayalee friend sent me a message on Orkut (the Indian equivalent of facebook); something about one of our friends and an "incident." I didn't think much of it at the time and I didn't want to get in the middle of any gossip, so I brushed over it.

Tuesday morning, Achen, Kochamma and I were sitting at breakfast, and Achen mentioned that a girl from the college where I volunteered was in a motorcycle accident last fall. He wasn't sure if I had known her, but she had come to his house a few times with my good friend, Bina. I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly who Achen was talking about, so I asked if he remembered her name. After some time, Betty Kochamma said, "Priya." She was on her way back home after receiving her marks from the college and attending a friend's marriage. She was on the back of a motorbike -- the boy driving survived, but she suffered a head injury and passed away.

It is a terrible feeling to find out that someone you know has died suddenly. It's tragic when that person is only 21 years old. Priya and I spent many mornings playing badminton and tennis together in my year here. A great teacher, she patiently helped me translate an entire comic into English from Malayalam. She was very shy speaking English with me, but she was one of those people who expresses love by being with you, by being present. She wrote me a long note when I left, and stuck it in my bag. She told me not to read it until later:

"We haven't talked much because of our language, but always remember that I really loved you and I'm gonna miss you. And I'm regretting the days that I didn't take opportunities to be with you. . . .Always I had the feeling to talk to you, but I couldn't. But you were one way or another with me. . . with Love and Prayers, Priya."


Malayalam words:

Priya = beloved, dear one
kuttukkari/kuttukkaran = friend
apakadam = accident
peddena = suddenly
maranam = death
dukham = sadness
orkkuka = to remember

Namaskaram Kerala!

The first thing that hits you when you get off the plane in Kerala: the air. Now well into Monsoon season, a warm mist hangs over the lush green landscape. It's 3 AM and I can still feel the heat of the day, but as the taxi starts to drive away, a cool breeze hits my face through the open window. The over-sized billboards cue my memory. This route is familiar; one I took for the first time three years ago.

The volunteer program coordinator for my year in Kerala (2007-08), Thomas John Achen, and his wife, Betty Kochamma, graciously welcomed me to their home after being rudely awakened by a bell at 4:30 AM. They have become second parents to many volunteers throughout their 12 years working with the program. Betty Kochamma's food still cannot be beat. Our volunteer group would joke about how she should start a business for homemade jams, cakes and ice creams. She would no doubt make a world-wide killing.

Almost all of the students from my volunteering stint have graduated and moved on. A few remain nearby, in Kochi or Ernakulam, working for IT companies. Most of them have married, and at least two are now mothers. The ladies I sang with in church are all still here, still singing every Sunday. In retrospect, one of the things that made my year-long stay worthwhile was the people I came to know. I look back and think about how many more people I could have met, if I had been a bit more determined. But hindsight is...well, you know.

On a lighter note....no one has said "You have become fat." Well, Achen and Betty Kochamma have probably heard so many complaints from Americans about this less-than-discrete insight that they refrain from saying anything whatsoever in reference to weight, but I take it as a good sign that there has been no mention of it from anyone else. But we'll see what happens after the Kerala food takes hold.

Malayalam Lesson:
Namaskaram = greeting, salutation
Sukam anno? = how are you?
Sukam = fine
Hello = Hello
Good Morning = Good Morning
Good Night = Good Night
Ta,Ta = Good Bye