As our stay here in India continues, we’ve grown more and more used to the practice of “eating local“. I did a recent calculation, and realized that, except for commercial products like biscuits, cheese, butter, and oil, a good 85% of our groceries come from within a 25 kilometer radius of our house. Another 5% perhaps originates from as far away as Punjab. Chickens are free-range birds from a ranch several kilometers away. Sheep and goats are also local; often a member of a flock passing along the road is destined for the butcher’s shed.
Some things, like milk, are much closer. The cow our milk comes from lives just down the hill, within perhaps 50 meters of the house. Our produce, for the most part, comes from local farms. Our bhi-bhi, Chinta, explained that most farmers hereabouts don’t like the idea of chemically enhancing their produce “with injection”, and that many people are suspicious of commercially-grown produce from Punjab. After all, she asked us, if you don’t know who grew your food, how do you know it’s not full of chemicals? And so we have learned to ask while shopping at the subji wallah where the produce was grown. In Mandi, it’s not uncommon for a subji wallah to retort that the vegetables in his baskets came from his land, “just up there,” while pointing to a nearby hillside.
While it’s true that eating locally has been much healthier for us, and has given us the chance to support local people, this year has been a hard lesson in the other side of the equation. When you’re eating this locally, your food supplier’s problems are your problems, too.
Monsoon is late this year. Very late. Instead of the cooling rainstorms that make the summer rice crops possible, northwest India has had incredible heat waves, and day after day of brushfires up in the hills. Without water, the rice paddies are dry, allowing mice to overrun the fields and eat the crops. The supply of rice is already in trouble. Without water, other crops grow badly, or not at all. Healthy, unwilted vegetables are less common and more pricey. Without water, milk cows dry up and suddenly milk, yogurt, and paneer are a lot more expensive.
Two days ago Rewalsar experienced water rationing for the first time. “Water rationing” in India is very similar to the “rolling blackouts” California went through nine years ago. During water rationing they cut off the water supply at the source, except for the public pumps. Once that happens, whatever water you have, or can carry, is what you have until the water is turned on again. Our landlord came over to tell me his family was down to two buckets of water, and asked me to check our water tank. I discovered it was only half full, and not refilling from the water line. For the next day or so, Rewalsar was full of folks carrying bottles, buckets and jugs to the public handpumps for filling.
The “trickle down” effect of drought doesn’t stop there. The rivers are the dryest they’ve been in years, and even the level of the holy lake of Tso Pema is much lower than usual. This also means that water-powered electrical generation is having problems, leading to power outages, in addition to the water shortages and brush fires already happening.
To imagine the effect of all these shortages, just go to your local grocery store. Put the stuff you usually buy in your cart. For every item, multiply the total price by two. If you buy any imported stuff from another country, multiply the price by three. If any items require constant refrigeration–which assumes you have access to stable electricity–multiply the price by four.
Shopping just got a lot more complicated, didn’t it?
For projects like our Emergency Medical Fund, this situation is making medical assistance a complicated task. Helping someone isn’t as clear-cut as it used to be. When you’re assisting a diabetic, which do you sponsor first–food for a better diet that will keep her sugar levels manageable, or medicines that she will need more of, because she’s not getting enough of the right foods? With someone elderly, do you just give vitamins, or do you also donate a bunch of mustard greens because he hasn’t had them in a while?
Theoretically monsoon may arrive by the first week of July. But the damage of the drought will have already been accomplished.
June 25th, 2009
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Ya know, happiness is a very subjective concept. For some folks it’s represented by piles of money, or gold, or food, or toys, or so on. For others happiness means simply having the time to do a couple things around the house. For one special person, it’s the ability to walk a few meters out an open door.
Behold:
When our readers first encountered Sonnam Yutron, she had been become bedridden by arthritis. She hadn’t seen the sun in four years. Her ability to see anything was dwindling, due to cataracts in both eyes. She could feel, and speak, and hear, and with those senses still functioning she could at least conduct her daily prayers.
So what happened?
Well, the Emergency Medical Fund happened, that’s what. The original idea, back in 2007, was simply to get Sonnam Yutron out in the sun again. (Eventually, we succeeded.) Joy originally posted the need for enough funds to provide this woman with a wheelchair, so she could at least get outdoors for the big teachings and celebrations. People responded. And responded. Soon we discovered that we had enough money to help not only Sonnam Yutron, but other people in Rewalsar who needed assistance getting proper health care.
After treatment for her arthritis began to show some results, the next project was to get Sonnam Yutron seeing again. She underwent cataract surgery in nearby Ner Chowk. Lena carefully set up medication instructions for Lobsang, Sonnam Yutron’s husband. He followed Lena’s notes, applying eyedrops and creams diligently to the eyes of the wife he loves.
For months I’d become used to visiting Sonnam Yutron as she sat in bed, praying over her malas, perhaps turning a prayer wheel or petting a cat. I’d also gotten used to the idea that she didn’t pay attention to much outside of perhaps a four foot radius, and that when I waved to her through the window, she was waving back at a friendly shape. One morning I was startled as she told me the flame under the chai pot was too high, and asked me to turn it down. Afterwards I gleefully called up to the house to give Lena the news.
By Losar this year, Sonnam Yutron put on her tchuba and apron like any other Tibetan housewife, and insisted on walking to the lama dances. The walk was one of only a few meters, but for those of us who knew her story, it was like watching that first step Armstrong took on the moon.
And now? Most days I see her putter around the house on a daily basis, or simply sit outside to greet friends and perhaps invite them in for a cup of tea, with a smile that’s literally priceless.
June 19th, 2009
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So word of our little Emergency Medical Fund has gotten around. A couple nights ago, Joy, slightly agog, called me over to her desk. A new wave of donations to the fund had come through, some from folks we knew well, and others from people we’d never heard of. Turned out that, among other things, wunnerful, wunnerful folks like Claudia and Stephanie had linked to Joy’s blog and helped spread word of the fund and the work Lena’s doing.
So I added up the new fund total, and got more than a little agog myself. Seriously, go look at it. No. Go right now and look. I’ll wait.
Yeah. The little fund that Joy originally set up to bankroll a $200 wheelchair has somehow grown like topsy, and now it’s doing all sorts of neat things–funding surgeries, supplying people with dental care and eyeglasses, providing medicines and treatments for folks who can’t afford them. And ya know, the lion’s share of that fund came from small donations. $5 here, and $10 there, and maybe $15 or $20 from somebody who decided to buy that skein of Koigu or STR later, so they could send us money now.
So here’s the thing. While adding up the fund totals, I also get a chance to read the comments people have sent along with their donation. A certain percentage of the comments are thank yous for making the medical stuff happen. There’s also a certain percentage of comments that are apologetic: “Sorry I couldn’t send more.” “It’s a small amount, but…” If you are one of these folks who feels guilty because you thought your donation wasn’t big enough, you can stop right now. Instead, pat yourself on the back for being somebody who actually got off their butt and made something happen. India’s economics are such that even a couple dollars makes and enormous difference in someone’s quality of life. Some examples:
US$5 allowed an old cave nun to purchase the proper steroid-based inhalers to control her asthma for an entire month. She’d previously been buying the cheapest inhalers from the chemist when she could afford to buy them at all. Lena first encountered this nun out on Tso Pema’s kora path, incredibly hypoxic from lack of oxygen and badly in need of a nebulizer treatment, still gamely trying to do her daily meditative walk around the lake.
Another US$5 allowed an old woman to see properly for the first time in years, by providing her with a pair of glasses.
US$10 will provide a man with type II diabetes to purchase the greens and other vegetables he needs for a proper diet, for an entire month. As folks living at the poverty level do world wide, he’s been filling in with starchy staples like rice and potatoes.
I could go on and on here, but you get the idea. Even two dollars can accomplish a lot, by purchasing ibuprofen, or vitamin supplements. Whoever you are, wherever you are, consider yourself hugged and blessed today for your contribution.
So no more guilt, mmmkay?
March 5th, 2007
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Fiber Arts, India, Emergency Medical Fund |
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In this case, most of the words are “Thank you,” repeated over and over.
This is Sonnam Yutron, out and about in her wheelchair, attending the Guru Rimpoche empowerment ceremony at the lake today. It’s not clear in this picture, but Lobsang was practically in tears at being out with his wife and being able to attend the teachings.
Y’all rock. Thank you.
February 26th, 2007
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India, Tibetan Buddhism, Emergency Medical Fund |
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Tso Pema has turned into something of a mob scene. In addition to the regular increase in population that comes with Losar celebrations, a huge influx of pilgrims arrived today to attend a special four-day teaching offered by a high-ranking rimpoche. Even at 6:30 in the morning, the kora path around the lake is packed with practitioners walking practically shoulder to shoulder. Losar visiting protocol has had us totally discombobulated. Apparently folks just walk right in if our gate isn’t actually locked. One morning at about 7:30 Lena got up to find five nuns and a goat who had followed them in in our veranda, wandering around curiously and wondering where we were! Well, the goat wasn’t really looking for anybody in particular. It happily found our bucket of vegetable leavings (to be fed to local cows) and was helping itself to some breakfast. But I digress.
Between the house move and the Losar visits, Joy, Lena, and I have barely been able to tell which day it is, let alone what’s happening in town. The huge temporary population means that every spare bed or bit of floor space that a sleeping bag can land on is occupied. Lena was actually chasing around town to find bedding for some guests due to arrive at our house. Meantime, I was spending time in phone shopping hell, seeking a replacement for Joy’s phone, which is still totally cooperative as a phone, but refuses to be a modem and create Internet connections. Both of us decided late in the afternoon that we had had enough errands for a little while, and stopped into Vijay’s Chopstic Restaurant for coffee. (Real coffee. made in a French press, no less.) It occurred to me to find out more about the teachings that were happening. Since everything in Rewalsar is literally a stone’s throw away, it was a real short walk over to the Drikung Kargyu Gonpa to find out the teaching schedule. As it happened, they’d run out of copies of the English translation of the schedule, so I hung out for a few minutes, getting a verbal rundown of the next four day’s events.
A large Black man entered the room. Now understand, India is just chock fulla dark-skinned people, some quite sizable. However, Westerners have a distinctive look to them, and this was the first African-American I’d seen in something like eight months. So you can imagine my shock when he turned to me, and said: “You’re Nyondo.”
“Yes,” I allowed cautiously, while wondering if any bits of my tawdry checkered past had caught up with me, half way around the planet.
“I’m Steve Daniels.”
This seemed like a safe statement to agree with, so I did so. “Okay,” I said just as cautiously.
“I read your blog!” he said cheerfully.
“You’re a blog reader?” I admit, that was a stupid thing to say. I was just in too much shock from actually encountering an actual reader of my blog who wasn’t Joy or Lena. I tried to fix things with a more prosaic, “Welcome to Tso Pema.”
After a bit of chat Steve confided in me that there was something he’d been meaning to do for a while, and was glad he’d run into me because he would have a chance to do it. Before the chills had a chance to run the full distance down my spine, he’d pulled out his wallet, and made an on-the-spot donation to the Medical Emergency Fund Joy had set up.
Behold the power of the Internets, y’all.
This fund, originally started to supply a crippled woman with a wheelchair, also supplies other medical necessities to folks in Rewalsar who are in need of medications or medical treatments, but can’t afford them. A lot of you have already met Sonnam Yutron, via Joy’s blog. Well, if you’ve ever wondered what some of the fund’s sponsors are actually like, meet Steve Daniels. I’m not sure I can adequately communicate how Joy and I are alternately awed and
ecstatic by people’s generosity in giving to this fund. So far, we’ve not only manifested Sonnam’s wheelchair, but supplied others with much needed medications, dental treatments and so on.
I forgot this part while Steve and I were in the same room, so excuse it please: Steve, you are cordially invited up to tea at the new, improved Casa de MommyWizards in Rewalsar. All you need to do is tell the bus driver or rickshaw wallah you need to get to Lena’s house, in Vikashnagar. (The yellow X.) There’ll be kapsas waiting for you!
February 11th, 2007
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All of the details are over on Joy’s blog. For those of you with short attention spans, here’s the instant replay.
- First, have your partner, who’s a doctor, take on a new pro bono patient who’s absolutely crippled and bedridden with rhematoid arthritis.
- Have her realize that her new patient hasn’t seen the sun in four years because the arthitis has moved into the spine as well as deformed both legs.
- Then watch call local doctors to price wheelchairs. Learn that in Himachal a wheelchair costs as low as INR3000 used (or about $75), while a new one runs about INR 8000 (or about $US200)
- Decide that the wheelchair’s certainly affordable, but maybe a few folks could help defray the costs a bit. Anything left over can go for stuff like antibiotics, pain meds and vitamins (the most common stuff Tibetan refugees often need but can’t afford.)
- Take your little problem to the fiber arts community.
- Watch in stupefaction, as an incredible number of not-wealthy people send in $5 here and $10 there for a total of over $700.
- Meantime, take many phonecalls from your partner the doctor as she shops for wheelchairs and argues taxi wallahs into transportation logistics.
- Watch your partner the doctor come home in triumph from dropping off the wheelchair and filling a camera full of pictures of a smiling patient who will be able to attend the big Losar celebration this year.
January 8th, 2007
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General, Emergency Medical Fund |
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