Back in the States...Again

I walked across the padded carpet to the passport control queue where a rude overweight woman with a name tag was impatiently instructing passengers. Facing out past the cleanly divided lines was a big-screen TV playing a live American Football game and overhead a giant red, white and blue flag hung vertically. The officer looked at my immigration card. In the space for countries visited was my long list of tiny words, “Norway, England, France, Spain, Morocco, Gibraltar, Switzerland, India, Thailand, Hong Kong.” “How long have you been gone?” he asked in American English. “Nine months” I said. “And you went to all these countries? Wow. Well welcome back.” I took my stamped passport, stepped across the line, and I was home.

A couple of hours later I stood on the side of a highway strumming a banjo. I had repaired flip-flops, Indian baggy pants, and a blue tank on. My hair was a matted mess and my eyes were bloodshot from the jet lag. On the drive from the airport my friend’s car had had a flat tire and now we were waiting for a random guy who had stopped to help to get back with a tire-iron. A vehicle slowed down to ask if we were ok but the two old ladies seemed hesitant to even roll down their window once they caught sight of me. I gave them an Indian head bob without thinking. The US is an odd place. It feels vacant, like just a few rich people have a whole giant country all to themselves. Nobody walks on the sidewalks, nobody sells anything on the streets, and apparently nobody drives on the highways. Two hours in and I already felt lonely and directionless. At least I have enough experience with reverse culture shock to identify its effects, though I still feel powerless to avoid them.

It helps me to read my journal entries from the last time I came back to the States after a year abroad. I found this poem that I had written on my flight to JFK after the World Race.

Confused and sweaty I exited the airliner
My hat was sinking over my eyes but my hands were too full to fix it
Where had I just been?
Maybe an easier question is where haven't I been?
I felt a cold trying to make its way down my esophagus
Like I needed a hot tea
Or ice cream
Or emergen-C
What does the word "denial" even mean?
Psychologically speaking that is
Can one deny the fact that he is in denial?
Why do I feel like that guy in Office Space,
Who made a million dollars
Because he got destroyed by oncoming traffic
My backpack was digging into my shoulders
So I took it off
I just slipped my arms out and laid it on the floor
I could walk away from it if I wanted
But my laptop is in there
And my earbuds
And my wallet
It's not that I don't want to be home
It's not that I don't want the trip to be over
I just don't understand who I have become
Not just yet
I muddled up my vision and put on boots one size too big
And now I don't have a choice but to run this way
To exit the airplane
To go through customs
Sure that I have something to declare
But not quite sure exactly what it is


Thank you everyone who supported me and read my blogs while I was in India! I do not have a definite plan for the next stage of life but will update everyone when it comes. The next couple weeks I plan to be in OH, TN, KS, Denver, and AZ so send me a message if you want to catch up.

-Brant

I Celebrate Life

Today I turn 28

It’s my birthday and I celebrate

But not the fact that I’ve survived to this date

For making my death day a little more late

And not the fact that I was born on this day

As if sun and moon and stars arrayed

Somehow created my life in some way

I celebrate life

I celebrate me

I celebrate this gift from God to be

The fortune to breathe and move and see

To follow opportunity

To cry and laugh, to doubt and believe

To give away and humbly receive

I celebrate life

My time on earth

My open identity that began with my birth

The possibilities for laughter and smiles and mirth

The relationships of unparalleled worth

I celebrate life

The opposite of death

The air that fills my lungs with breath

The sun, the dirt, my sense of touch

The smell of pancakes made for lunch

The way I feel after a run

Or when work’s done and I have come

With someone fun whose hair’s undone

To sit and watch the setting sun

Today I turn 28

Today’s it's life I celebrate

I smile forgetting pain, struggles, and strife

But in reality days like this are rife

For life is a celebration of life

Missionaries of Charity Volunteer FAQ

Thinking about volunteering with Mother Teresa's organization?  I have now been in Kolkata, India for 5 months volunteering with the Missionaries of Charity.  I remember when I was thinking about coming I tried to do some preliminary planning and research online but couldn’t find much information.  So here is a list of 20 questions I would have liked to ask someone who had been here before I came.  If you are thinking about coming and have any additional questions please feel free to leave a comment or send me an email at Brantliveson@gmail.com.

Q       How much money do you spend?

A        I’ve averaged around $7 a day not including flights.  See the illustration for more details.

Q       What kind of things do you do with the MC?

A        I take care of elderly, diseased, crippled, and dying people in Nirmal Hriday (Kalighat) and Prem Dan.  My duties included dishes, laundry, helping them use the toilet, bathing, feeding, transporting, shaving, massaging, and just sitting and listening to them.  There are many different houses though including orphanages and dispensaries.  You can also work with the MC brothers once a week helping street children and a leper colony.

Q       What has been your favorite part?

A        Getting to know the patients, MC sisters, and other volunteers.

Q       What has been your least favorite part?

A        Watery diarrhea.  And the heat is truly oppressive.

Q      What was the spiciest food you have eaten?

A        I've gotten used to the spice.  But eating a chili just straight; yeah, I've cried. 

Q       How much weight have you lost?

A        14 pounds.  And that’s after gaining back about 20 pounds already since I last got really sick/fasted. 

Q       How did you prepare for your trip?

A        I applied for a visa and bought my airline ticket 1 month in advance.  That’s pretty much it.  I basically figured everything out after arriving in Kolkata, which was truly the best way since hotels and transportation services in Kolkata are not online and do not accept reservations.

Q       Did you go alone?

A        No, I came with one other friend.  There are many volunteers from many different countries though, so it is easy to make friends after arriving. 

Q       Is there a language barrier?

A        Yes, always.  The poor people in Kolkata don’t speak much English.  Many of the MC sisters and workers don’t either. 

Q       Do you feel useful/wanted?

A        Every day of my 5 months. 

Q       What’s the craziest thing you’ve seen?

A        I think the effects of extreme poverty combined with such a non-western culture make me feel like I see the craziest thing of my life almost every day.  A few memories that really stick out are a people with a rotting, maggot-infested wounds; several dead bodies, one floating face-down in the Ganges; and a birth on a train platform.  

Q       Would you return?

A        Yes, I would love to. 

Q       What are your living conditions like?

A        Compared to my house in Arizona the Kolkata hotels are like dilapidated prison cells but compared to the Indian slums they are like heaven.  I had to get used to brick-hard beds, glassless windows, no A/C or hot water, shared bathrooms, roaches and bed-bugs and mosquitos, and lots of dirt.  In reality it isn’t a big deal though.

Q       Where do you live?

A        I lived in Hotel Maria and Afridi Guest House on Sudder street (the two cheapest places to stay) but eventually in an apartment in the Lansdown area of Kolkata.

Q       Did you ever get robbed?

A        I got pick-pocketed on a train in Delhi but other than that I always felt safe, even walking down sketchy alleys at night alone.

Q       Did you get sick?

A        A lot.  Heat rash, general cold, vomiting, diarrhea, fever, and worms. 

Q       How many volunteers are there?

A        During the monsoon season and cooler months (July – Feb) there are around 100 to 200 at a time, but during the rest of the year there are only about 15 to 40.  It varies every day of course.  Most volunteers stay for a couple weeks at the longest, but there are a few that have been here for years.

Q       Do you have to use public transportation?

A        Every day.  It is unavoidable but really not that bad unless you like being in control.  You can get pretty much anywhere in the city for 5 Rupees (0.08 USD).

Q       What did you bring?

A        A 30 pound pack (45 liters) with a water filter, sleeping bag, mosquito net, a few clothes, trekking boots, and Nook inside.  I didn’t bring a computer, and I didn’t use my sleeping bag or mosquito net.

Q       Are the MC houses beneficial and loving?

A        The houses are amazing.  The love and care is evident as soon as you step through the door.  The situations the beneficiaries come from are not even comparable.  Many people’s lives are transformed in a matter of just a few days.

Q       Did you travel to other parts of India?

A        Only Delhi, Agra (to see the Taj Mahal), and Darjeeling.  I recommend Darjeeling.

Q       Did you have to contact the MC before you arrived?

A        No, you can just show up at the Mother House any day except Thursday at 7 AM to start volunteering.  Every taxi and rickshaw in Kolkata knows where “Mother House” is. 

Q       Are you Catholic?

A        No, I am just “Christian” in general.  You don’t have to be Catholic or Christian to volunteer with the MC.  In fact, it is a great way to learn about Catholicism because it is represented in true form. 

Q       Is there internet available?  

A        Yes, but hardly any wi-fi anywhere.  You can find a few “cyber cafes” that charge around 50 cents an hour for the use of a computer with internet.

Q       What piece of advice would you give someone coming to volunteer with the Missionaries of Charity?

A        Don’t pay any more than 310 Rupees for a taxi to Sudder st from the airport.  Don’t expect to be irreplaceable.  Don’t worry about planning, money, safety, or any of that stuff; if you want to go then you should just go!

Q       What is a typical day like?

A        5:45 – wake up, shower, and walk to Mother House

A        7:00 – Eat breakfast of bananas and chai while meeting other volunteers

A        7:30 – Head out by bus to respective MC house with 2 to 15 other volunteers

A        8:00 – Arrive and begin washing laundry

A        9:00 – Serve snack and tend to individual needs of patients

A        11:00 – Serve lunch and wash dishes

A        12:00 – Go back home via bus, metro, or tuk-tuk

A        12:30 – Eat lunch at a local restaurant

A        13:00 – Nap/Play guitar/read/shower

A        14:30 – Head out to different MC house for afternoon serving session

A        17:00 – Head back home via bus or metro

A        17:30 – Dinner at a local restaurant, maybe shopping at the market or hanging out with friends

A        18:30 – Daily prayer service at Mother House

A        20:30 – Shower

A        21:30 – Bed time 

Pictures from Kolkata

The photogenic city of Kolkata has been my home now for 5 months.  It is a beautiful, impoverished, rich city.  I have grown to love it despite its shortcomings and propensity toward extremes.  Here are a few pictures from my home.  

This man in a slum is standing in front of a small Hindu temple dedicated to the God "Kali", the sovereign deity of Kolkata.  Kali means "Lord of Death".

Howrah Bridge - An icon of the city since the 1970s.  Over 1 million people cross this bridge every day.  You can see some of them if you look close.

A man begging on a sidewalk.  Judging by his clean clothes, trimmed beard, and opportunistic location in a highly traveled area he is no doubt doing much better than most beggars here.  He probably pays a healthy percentage of his income to the local mafia as well as the local police for this coveted spot. 

If you have ever been to Kolkata then there is no doubt this photo will bring back many memories.  Most of them are probably repressed for good reason.  These yellow Ambassadors make up the majority of vehicles in the city.

Our groundskeeper's kid.  He just finished a cookie.

Crows are probably the only sight more ubiquitous than yellow taxis in Kolkata.  The mountains of garbage lying on the streets keep them livelier than their human cohabitants.

Looking for a prospective buyer for his flowers.  Like many things in Kolkata, the flower market is a striking contrast of vibrant beauty in putrid mud.

Tuk-tuks lined up for action outside of Howrah Station - the largest and busiest rail station in all of India.  Notice the colorful city buses in the background - these will take you almost anywhere in the city for 5 rupees (8 cents).

A street child poses for a photo.  She is barefoot but she doesn't let that dampen her smile.

Young adults chatting and hanging out at the riverside walk along the Ganges while ferries navigate through dense humidity further upriver.

Bathing done, everyone takes a rest to contemplate life.  Paradoxically, Kolkata seems to rush at breakneck speed in order to get back and take it slow.

A barefoot man searches for empty plastic bottles along the train tracks.  He can expect to make 2 rupees per kilogram for his hard work (that bag is worth somewhere around 10 cents) 

Fresh veggies at the market down the street.  If there is one thing India takes pride in, it is its produce. 

I was riding in a rickshaw when I took this picture.  Kolkata is one of the last cities in the world to employ rickshaws - there are over 50,000 of them. 

Bailing out their fishing boats under the cover of the ferry walkway.  These boats sometimes serve as home, job, and trasport all in one.

Note:  Most of these pictures were taken by my trusty Panasonic Lumix waterproof camera; however, for a few of them I had the privilege to borrow a friend's Nikon P series.  As always, I did no editing of any kind because, well, I'm just not a photographer.

Brant Copen Loses His Temper

Today Brant Copen lost his temper.  Many of you who know Brant Copen will understand that this could potentially be the beginning of an interesting story.  After all, if he had a nickel for every time he was asked the question, “Do you even get mad?” he would have $1472.  He wouldn’t spend a penny of it on taxis. 

Our tale opens two and a half hours into Brant Copen’s day, but only two minutes into his work day.  He was walking quickly down a sidewalk and casually, without thinking, he let one rip.  His pace instantly slowed and a curious look began to form on his face.  As his gate stopped completely, he shook his hips just to be sure.  Yep, he had just pooped his pants. 

Fast forward six hours to two in the afternoon.  Brant Copen stands resolutely just inside the doorway to the orthopedic ward of a hospital.  He has spent most of his day rushing to get a patient there in time for an appointment which only ended as a chaotic disappointment.  His dripping hair is pasted to his forehead, every item of clothing issoaked completely through by the torrential Indian monsoon, he has yet to eat lunch, and despite a thorough public-bathroom-sink-rinse his shorts smell like chicken curry diarrhea.  From the safety of the archway he scans the road for taxis in order to return the patient back to his home.  One pulls up but refuses to take anything less than 250 INR. 

In order to fully appreciate the next chapter of the story, a short lesson in the history of Brant Copen’s relationship with Kolkata taxis will be necessary.  According to Indian law, all taxis must only use their meter.  The meter measures the distance traveled and produces a correlated price as deemed fair by the law.  The majority of drivers, however, will outright refuse to take a passenger to his requested destination unless they agree beforehand to a much higher price than what the meter would probably show.  Basically almost all taxi drivers cheat people because they can.  This is a never-ending source of frustration to Brant Copen, who is naturally endowed with an acute sense of justice.  Compounding this problem is the habit of drivers to make the assumption that a white person probably doesn’t know what a trip should cost and has an excessive amount of money anyway.  A white person with an ancient hospital patient standing in a downpour, now he should be willing to fork out some serious dough. 

Brant leaves his bag with the patient and runs out into the storm to search for a ride, but the next taxi doesn’t even slow down.  Finally, after a solid half hour a taxi pulls over and cracks its window.  “Kalighat ha?” Brant yells as he jumps in the back seat.  “Yes, no problem!” the driver returns in perfect English through a big white smile.  Brant directs him to where the patient is waiting but before he gets out to help him in, the driver starts his game, “400 rupees, Ok?”  400!  400!?  Brant is absolutely indignant.  He has made this exact trip plenty of times and never once has the meter read more than 40 rupees.  “No!  Forty!  Meter would be four-zero!”  “250!” shouts the driver.  Brant jumps out of the taxi and slams the door as he returns to his patient patient.  The taxi lingers.  Brant hates the thought of giving in but he is desperate.  “OK, fine, 100!” He yells over the pounding rain.  The driver nods and Brant helps the patient into the back seat.  It is slow going due to the age of the man and the fact that he is recovering from a broken hip, but they finally get settled in.  “150.” Says the driver.  Brant literally feels his eyes bulge as the blood rushes to his face.  Nearly at the top of his lungs he screams, “100 max!!  All you taxis try to do is cheat people and it pisses me off!!  You take advantage of an old man in a rain storm?!!  Totally heartless!!  He pounds his fists on the dash of the car and reads the lettering painted in neat white script, “PAY ONLY DISPLAYED FARE!! PAY ONLY DISPLAYED FARE!!”  “Ok, yes, 100 is fine” says the frightened driver.

This story is actually quite embarrassing. Why? Well, other than the more obvious reasons, 50 rupees is only 80 cents in USD. Yelling and screaming and pounding fists over 80 cents. Even if it had been $800 there is no justification for losing one’s temper. Anger is a natural emotion but it should never be allowed to be in control. Responding to perceived injustice with uncontrolled bursts of outrage and hurtful words only adds oppression to oppression,accomplishes nothing, and certainly fails to communicate the love of God. It is a continuation of small things like that that eventually make people question the goodness of life. Basically, it was a terrible representation of who Brant Copen actually is, even if he did have poopy pants. However, it does bring up an important point. Primarily, that it is dangerous but easy to let past abuses accumulate until their sum is unjustly attributed to a single unwary individual, and secondarily that one must always use grace because it is impossible to know where a person’s day has brought them.

Is Poverty Relative?

Ever since leaving the days of my pre-adolescence naivety I have strongly believed that the words “rich” and “poor” were relative.  You are always richer than someone and you are always poorer than someone.  However, my views may have been more accurate when I was a kid. 

I remember when I was young anyone with a two-story house or more than one functional vehicle was placed into the category of “well off” (aka rich) right along with Bill Gates and President Clinton.  Rich people could buy whatever they wanted, go wherever they wanted, and eat as many chips and snickers bars as they chose.  They had no worries in life; they were rich.  While us poor kids envied their Schwinn bicycles and weekly allowance, we also condemned the rich kids to lives of spoiled ingratitude and incapacitating weakness.  If I learned anything at all from the Boxcar Children, it was that poor kids always won the fistfights. 

As I grew older I found that a lot of those people with two-story houses and multiple cars described themselves as poor and placed the magical line of wealth that divided worry-free lives from suffering at some arbitrary level even higher.  I also became aware of a people group referred to as “the homeless” who lived in dumpsters and begged for food.  I corrected my naive world view and concluded that it was all relative.  Even an aerospace engineer had to worry about finances; compared to a CEO who just picked out whatever car he wanted according to his fancy, he could be considered poor.  The same way, even a homeless person begging outside of McDonald’s is rich compared to those impoverished pot-bellied orphans in Africa. 

The World Bank doesn't think like that though.  They place the international poverty level at exactly $1.25 a day.  There is a definite line and if you earn less than that you are poor.  As I began to travel a little bit I started to wonder if maybe it really was that black-and-white after all and I had only believed otherwise because I grew up in such a rich country.  I’d never met anyone who lived on less than $1.25 a day.  I’d never met a poor person in my life until I went to West Africa.  I’m not sure poor people actually exist within the States. Even the poorest homeless person lives on more than $450 a year.  Suddenly it seemed obvious though; there are a certain number of people in the world who are lacking the necessities of life, somebody out there is the poorest person in the world and somebody is the richest and that's where the scale ends.  

Though I was convinced from my travels that there is an actual black-and-white line between rich and poor, I still didn't necessarily agree that that line was $1.25 a day.  After all, $1.25 goes quite a bit further here in India than in the States, at least in some categories.  Recently I came across a definition of poor that came from an actual poor person (not sure why I never thought to ask one before).  “The difference between poor people and rich people is that poor people are hungry.  If you aren't hungry then you’re rich.”  He wasn't talking about being hungry between meals, he was talking about being hungry all the time, from sunrise to sunset, even during and after meals. 

Imagine removing all the unnecessary things from your life.  Your vehicle, your washing machine, your roof and walls, your clothes, your oven, your hose faucet, your health insurance, and your toilet paper.  Just bare survival.  Now imagine that even with all those expenses gone, living barefoot on the sidewalk, you still can’t afford to feed your family or even yourself.  I don’t mean you can’t buy yourself a happy-meal, I mean you can’t afford more than one meager portion of plain rice per day and a small pile of cow dung with which to cook it.  Now imagine you have lived that way for years.  Now you are poor. 

As far as whether it is ‘better’ to be poor or not or whether countries like the US who have far less poor people in them are ‘better’ I am not qualified to say.  I don’t have the ability to experience or even understand all the effects and implications of true poverty; the hopelessness, lack of education, disease, and everything else inferred by being poor.  I can, however, share a small glimpse I had into what it feels like to be hungry, not because I couldn't afford food though, it was only self-imposed. 

About two months ago I did a 5 day fast while, like the poor people around me, still working full time.  It was the longest 5 days of my life.  I became extremely lethargic, unable to focus or think straight, void of all motivation, distant from my surroundings, and by the last day even dangerously ill.  I remember sitting at the bottom of the stairs up to my hotel room trying to work up the will power to climb them, thinking that it surely will have been one of the biggest accomplishments of my life.  At least I had a comfy hotel room to look forward to.  My work isn't even as physically demanding as most of the poor people here in Kolkata, who carry giant loads of goods on their heads or strain against rickshaws all day.  Imagine every day exerting yourself to your physical limits but only eating a single bowl of plain rice; and for years on end!  For billions of people in the world that is just life.

That’s my limited understanding of poverty.  But don’t take my word for it, ask one of the 1,500,000,000 people in the world who experience it every day.  One thing I know they definitely won’t say: it’s all relative.  

First World Problems

Yesterday I spent most of my day sitting on a wooden stool reading a book about Captain Scott’s catastrophic 1910 expedition to Antarctica.  I sat down on the stool at around 9:30 AM and got up at about 2 PM with many breaks between spent talking to Josh, getting water, changing diapers, replacing the dressing on a wound, and serving lunch.  To other people.  Most of my thoughts not taken captive by icebergs, penguins, and impossible turn-of-the-century British phrases revolved around my stomach.  I could easily have eaten my weight in rice and dal from about 10:30 AM on.  I could have also given a fair fighting chance to a similar weight of Chipotle spicy steak burritos dipped in guacamole or Lola’s chicken and waffles smothered in real grade-B maple syrup and hot sauce.  Come to think of it, I probably could have eaten a pile of fingernail clippings and been happy.  Even the frozen seal blubber being fed to the dog teams on page 209 was making me hungry. 

The person sitting (actually it was more of a lying position) next to me was undoubtedly having different thoughts.  We were both in the Kolkata public hospital but for different reasons.  He was there because his femur had been snapped in two by a train and the two giant wounds on his posterior were deep and infected.  He was in constant agonizing pain as he had been for the last two weeks since the accident.  If his thoughts were rational despite his raging fever and emaciated body, he was probably hoping with any hope left in him that his wait for surgery wasn’t in vain.  As it was, the only audible sounds that came out of his mouth were faint, somewhat forced Muslim prayers.  I was there to feed him his lunch, change his diaper and catheter bag, replace the dressing on his wounds, and wait for the big moment when it would be announced whether he had been selected for surgery or not.  Mostly though I just read my book and dreamed about Mom’s sausage and egg breakfast braid.  She wraps it in those flaky Pillsbury croissants so the outside is crispy and buttery but soft and light at the same time.  Heavenly. 

Now to me, sitting on a stool reading a book all day interspersed with a few small tasks doesn’t feel even a little bit important.  It doesn’t feel like mission work and it certainly doesn’t feel like love.  To the young man referred to by me as “the new patient” though, it’s quite literally the difference between life and death.  Without family, friends, or an MC volunteer to fight for his admittance into the hospital, he would already have died on the street.  If he had somehow been admitted but didn’t have anyone to keep the diarrhea out of his wounds, refill his water bottle, and pay his miniscule hospital fees, he would have already died on his public hospital cot.  His short life would have had a lonely and desperate ending.  To him, the bearded white man sitting on the stool reading his digital book might as well be Jesus himself. 

I mostly write this blog to myself.  When you do this kind of thing every day you sometimes forget its significance.  When you spend a morning thinking only of your own stomach and forget to put yourself in the people’s shoes around you it can get a bit discouraging when you are processing your day later on.  Unless you remind yourself that the person you are sitting next to probably feels more loved than they have ever been in their entire life, regardless of how engrossed you are in the study of emperor penguins and how many piping hot, grease dripping, bacon-wrapped lil’ smokies go through your mind.