handicapped

When asked what I was going to “do” in India, the answer I settled on was: “I don’t know.” And that was nearly the truth, though completely insufficient and irresponsible for most American ears. For just reason, I suppose; imagine asking the first settlers what they were going to do in the New World, if they replied, “Oh, I dunno, guess we’ll see when we get there.” Though I’m fairly certain starving to death and introducing smallpox wasn’t on the agenda.

Truth is, I had some idea of what I might do, but I had no concrete goals. Last time I came to India, I only wanted a great cup of chai, and that I accomplished exceptionally well. I’ve had some time to mull it over, however...and so, my current ‘to do’ list for India is, in no particular order,

1. Ride an elephant

2. Drive a scooter

3. Visit an orphanage for handicapped children

The first is cliché, I know, but I would argue that everyone should live a good cliché, now and again. It’s good for digestion. The second seems doable (according to Mikey Man, who claims to drive routinely one-handed on the scooter, I can only assume, because he's been here so long, driving in India now bores him). The third just seems the sort of humanitarian thing you do in India. And I am happy to say, I accomplished it this past weekend.

I met a nice couple at Dinha’s who knew of an orphanage for handicapped children, which incidentally, is also when I decided it would be my third goal to visit such a place. So Friday last, friend Cameron and I set off for Chorao Island. Yes, the orphans live on an island which, I suggested to Cameron, could be to keep them from escaping. I saw Annie, ok.

The drive took about an hour, or maybe two; I’m not certain because I was in the process of acquiring a heat stroke on the back of the scooter. We stopped for a $6 tank of gas, then onto the highway at 40mph, Cameron wearing a required helmet as the driver, me wearing nothing because it’s not a problem if the passenger falls off the back and gets run over by 30 motorbikes from behind. In India, you stop asking why.

We stopped in the capital city of Panjim, rumored to be the location of a fancy bookstore. After asking 20 people along the road for directions(allow for authorial exaggeration), and walking several blocks [it was just like the Amazing Race...before editing; wonderful, glorious editing], we found it. Cameron was a kid in a candy store as soon as we entered; it’s too bad there’s not much allowance for baggage on a scooter.

New books in tow, we were off to the orphans, who mostly turned out not to be orphans at all, but boys who just needed another place to live. And though several had minor cognitive handicaps, they were not without ability (even exceptional artistic skill). None seemed particularly in need of inspiration, and I’ll admit, I was a little disappointed no one was missing arms or legs.

Meanwhile, I was having trouble remembering my name, and spent most of the afternoon on the couch, inhaling water and wondering if I might faint. Busy drawing freehand cartoon replications and decorating hand-shaped construction paper greeting cards, they had little time for interest in my small appendage. Once in a while, I caught a shy smile, and a glance of what I’m sure was pity, cast in the direction of the invalid foreigner in their living room.

We were treated to a wonderful meal of curry and homegrown rice, and to the company of big-hearted people in a home full of hospitality. And thankfully, after some reviving coffee, I was able to get back on the scooter without assistance.

The drive home was darker and cooler and I contemplated inviting some orphans to come visit me next time.

OneArmGirl

the players

Note: within the first few days of my arrival in India, two people talked to me about Nick Vujicic and how inspirational he is...two people...in India. You can't see, but I'm shaking my fist in the general direction of Australia. At least I think it might be the direction of Australia. Hey, odds are 1 to 4. I love you, Nick.

One of the Vujcic fans was Little Gen's landlord, who asked what had happened to my arm, then responded, "You were born that way! Praise God!!" Perhaps my work here is done. But he seemed in the habit of praising God after nearly every sentence. Not a bad idea, especially here in India where one has much to be thankful for...the fan is working, praise God, the electricity is on, praise God, there's water in the toilet, praise God. With expectations plummeting, gratitude sky-rockets.

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A proper play is proceeded by a list of players, and since we've recently begun a new drama, I think an introduction of some characters (pun intended) is in order. Disclaimer: this is by no means a comprehensive list, and if you are reading this as one of said characters currently in play, please do not be offended if you find yourself absent...I just put names in a hat.

Tony is nearly the first person I met in India. Dubbed Tony Tony to differentiate from another citizen of the same name, he later "hired" me at Dinha's, thus accidentally writing much of my own role in the Benaulim dramedy. I'm not really sure what it is exactly that Tony does, or what he doesn't do, rather. He's a self-proclaimed Jack-of-All-Trades, by times driving a taxi, when he's not busy shuffling people to and fro from the hospital for various medical procedures. It is not uncommon to attempt booking an early morning swim with Tony in the sea, only for him to agree, then excuse himself with, "Oh no, I can't man, I haff ta take my cousin for an eye surr-jry," in a charming British accent acquired from years spent in the UK. 'Father Theresa' frequently shows up early mornings at Dinha's with someone's baby in tow. That is, when the leper colony can spare him.


On average, I spend most of my time with Joe [center]. This happens accidentally because, aside from Pascal, he is the longest-standing faithful employee at Dinha's. Unless it's the Wednesday after Tuesday night at Pedro's, when he's been known not to show up at work at all. He can't, of course, because he needs the sleep. I love India. I think Joe also took most of the photos in this post since he was 'volunteered' to be my personal photographer.

After my second day on the job this season, Joe fired me. So I took the rest of the day off as usual and returned the next. Turns out, it's legally very difficult to fire an unpaid employee. So now, every other day or so, one of us tries to fire the other, and I think Pascal is just grateful there's ever any one there to serve at all. When I allude to his job as the manager of this monkey train, he says, "I am not the boss. I don't tell anyone what to do." I may have found the only existing successful establishment without management. Where is Neitzsche now?

Mikey Man [lower right above], previously mentioned elsewhere in this blog, belongs entirely to Goa scenes in my story, though he's actually some strange mutation of Los Angeles and Maine. But you know how I feel about mutations, and Mikey is one of the best. He's one of the few foreigners with an actual job, restoring and coloring film, architecture, and my life (sorry, Mikey, had to do it). When we're feeling lost and alone and just in the mood for a good burger, we Americans cling together. Mikey may also be the only person of non-British origin I've met who rivals the command of wit found in that isle. Wordplay is his martial art, sentences bending unwittingly to his will; without my coffee, I haven't a fighting chance. Yet, a kinder person is hard to find, and a wit with heart, an endangered species.


You might expect a character only appearing in several scenes excepted from this list, but Laughing Jean is of such exceptional note, she is here included. Only in Benaulim for a short holiday, she did not fail to make an impression with her late night appearances at Pedro's beach shack. On the dance floor, she was Grandma Dancing Queen; carnival lighted glasses on, she was un-bested at the shake, the twist, and several moves of which I'm not sure of the origin, but bear a striking resemblance to cossack choreography. And then there's the laugh, oh the laugh...suddenly sitting straight-backed, she "bah, ha ha ha haas" like a sitcom laugh-track machine gun.


Helmut is a man of few words. If I were really German and not merely wannabe, I imagine he and wife Annalee would be my grandparents. Influential in the beginnings of Dinha's, they arrive without fail in the wee morning hours for fruit salad and black coffee, two. Then it's Egg Day or Cheese Day, depending on...what, I'm not sure...but if they were to show up one morning and order a Spanish omelette, I'd expect The End of Days just around the corner. Though he's rarely eating alone at any of the three meals he has at Dinha's, I never fail to catch his observant eye, shamelessly interested in what's happening outside the circular table. One minute behind the eyes would be worth at least 50,000 rupees, I'm sure. When I asked to take their picture, Annalee declined, but Helmut said, "Take a picture? Yes, why not?" in a gruff, yet startling playfulness. I nearly dropped my camera.

Marcelle and Michael, my favorite local hippies and long-time visiting Goa ex-pats, create the bohemian Swiss and German triad with me on the third floor at Savio's Guesthouse. Though, actually, in their company, I hardly qualify on any of those points. Sometimes I imagine what happened in their lives before this, and other times, we just have a smoke and watch what comes and goes from the balcony.


Roxy, most permanent resident at Dinha's, takes the rays.

OneArmGirl

dinha's difference

In the southwest of India is a place called Goa, and on the coast is a town called Benaulim, and close to the intersection of two main streets is a restaurant called Dinha’s. If my world in India were the earth, Dinha’s would be the sun. 

Two years ago, when I first taxied into town, Dinha’s was the first place we stopped, even before we’d unpacked. A week or so later, I was having coffee on a busy morning when Tony handed me a bill to deliver. Thus began my volunteer waiting career in India.

People come to India for many reasons: to seek spiritual enlightenment, to bathe in the Ganges, to put off inevitable job-seeking after college, backpack across Asia, and the like. Fewer, I would imagine, find fulfillment in restaurant food service. But since I’d come with only the goal of having a good cup of chai, I had some spare dream space, and I had, coincidentally, always wanted to be a waitress. I’d never tried because I had nightmares of one-arm incompetence, dropping trays of dishes, and pouring drinks indiscriminately into guests’ laps.

When Pascal [pictured in previous post] called me in the States to ask when I was coming back, I asked if he would give me a job. He reminds me of this yesterday morning, somewhere near the middle of breakfast rush when I can’t remember if the eggs were to be scrambled or fried, and I forgot to tell someone there’s no toast because the power is out again.

On a sign outside, nearly covered by tree leaves, is written “Dinha’s Restaurant with a Difference.” And it is. There’s no other restaurant in the village or on the beach like Dinha’s. With limited seating, patrons are “encouraged” to sit together, creating a cross exchange of cultures from nearly every continent. The menu has normal Indian curries and rice, but is also speckled with delicacies like banana fritters with rum and prawn coconut soup served in half a coconut shell.

And I’m pretty sure there’s not another restaurant in town with a one-armed western girl working without pay. There’s always an adjustment period when people look up in surprise as I appear at their table, asking in amused incredulity, “Oh, are you working here now?,” in an Irish or German or French accent. Sometimes takes a minute for them to realize I’m not a street urchin. Favorite moment: when a westerner tried to give me his order in broken Hindi. I think I may have ruined his cross-cultural experience.

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Though I’ve been to India twice, I haven’t seen much of it. I already found what I didn’t know I was looking for, and I’m amazingly content to sit put. Two years ago, we took a glorious open-air train ride to Humpi, a favorite for spiritually seeking westerners; but somewhere around the elephant that gave out trunk blessings for two rupees outside the temple, I found myself wondering what was happening back at Dinha’s.


And I missed Pascal. Slender and quiet, he is the best restauranteer I’ve witnessed, but if you tell him that, he says, “I don’t know,” and tries to change the subject. But it was his smile that I noticed first. It’s big and toothy, but like the rest of him, quiet, like he’s more amused by his own secret thoughts.

Pascal is fast and proficient in the dining room, easily handling all eight tables alone. And he's always calm, never apparently rushed, setting a tea cup down without a tinkle or a slosh. If engaged, he’ll stop to chat as if he’s got nowhere to be, turning one sandaled foot out, empty tray casually held in the opposite hand; but otherwise he’ll come and go, your food seeming to appear on its own.

The structure is shabby, the sound system broken, the kitchen enough to make a health inspector cry, and the two colors of salt and pepper shakers not indicative of their contents. One must shake them and say a prayer for the desired seasoning.

But there is something intangible, a magic that keeps you for hours, swaddled in contentment. If you don't pull yourself away, you'll spend the whole day.

And this is why, I believe, people keep coming back. That, or the only fresh pressed coffee in town.

At your service,

OneArmGirl

happy new year

"I don't know how they'll take you in India," said Little Gen to me two years ago.

Since last week's post, I've traveled fifteen hours by plane, five hours by car, several minutes by bus, and a couple seconds on a pogo stick. I'm writing now from a place so different, I feel almost normal. I boarded a plane one year and deplaned in the next. I'm not actually sure what time zone I was in when the clock ticked past twelve, so for all I know, I may still be in 2010.

Just kidding about the pogo stick.

It's Wednesday, I know that much. I'm hoping to post this communiqué by Friday morning, allowing for my American readership to see it by early Thursday evening. So, my compatriots, I write to you from the future. But striving for the impossible is just par for the course here.

Still, Little Gen's reservations about India taking me in with open arms were not unfounded. An as yet unmentioned fact about Little Gen is that she's spent much of her adult life in India, where she's had sufficient opportunity to observe that disability takes on a different nuance. At best, it's a thing to be pitied; at worst, the sign of a curse. The handicapped of this country generally have one career option: begging. And it's a career sometimes forced on its victims by enslavement and intentional mutilation.

In India, there is no up side.

Until now...[cue triumphal superhero theme music]...Yes, folks, you're on the cutting edge, the ground floor, the grass roots, if you will, of the latest research in disability dynamics. Consider me your fearless leader, your secret undercover agent on a mission of mobilization...[Wait, what's happening]...without modus operandi...[Had to Google that]...winging it into unchartered territory...[Now I don't even remember what this post is about].

Oh, yes, India. Though I was intimidated by the prospect of standing out in all my freakish glory, India took permanent hold of me. And I'm rather fond of it as well. Two years after my introduction, I find I'm still in love.

So, welcome to my new frontier. If you're still confused and bewildered about finding OneArmGirl Headquarters moved half way round the globe, wondering if you accidentally looked up the wrong blog, Fodor's Guide to India or Eat, Pray, Love with One Arm...Please be at ease, it's still just me, the OneArmGirl....in India.

As you may have noted, I've not really written much in this post about India at all. But this is mostly because when I start to think about translating the sights, smells, and feelings of being here, I'm stricken with a serious case of inadequacy, and I want to quit writing altogether and drive a tuk tuk instead. Actually, I just want to drive a tuk tuk regardless.

Much, much more to come...

OneArmGirl

christmas is back

Little Gen asked five-year-old Eli what kind of tree his Christmas tree was, to which, after some pause, he replied, “A pathetic one.”

Before you jump to the conclusion that Eli is a prematurely disillusioned, overly melancholic, Charlie Brownish type, you should know that he was merely expressing an aforementioned adult pronouncement on a tree that was not holding its ornaments in proper perkiness.

But that’s kind of how I feel about Christmas since becoming an adult. In comparison to waking up Christmas morn in anticipation only a child’s imagination can create, the practicality of adult celebration lacks the magic I used to enjoy. It's kind of pathetic. Once my very favorite holiday merely for the feel, hard as I try to muster genuine appreciation, Christmas seems lacking in its former luster.

And then this happened.

I came home to find this little knitted number along with two other sets hanging on the door nob. At first confusion ensued as we tried to identify our secret santa. Mom was confused that one set only had one mitt until she remembered that one of her daughters only has one hand. But unbound excitement followed with the discovery of a matching miniature, custom designed for a tiny hand. Tucked inside was a post-it note designating it to Finneas. I was so delighted, I almost forgot I was a grownup.

So, kudos to my cousin Danielle, who knitted my first ever custom fit mittens, without even taking measurements. Thanks to her consideration, Finneas is much warmer, and I am filled with genuine glee.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

OneArmGirl

a small following

I’ve said that sometimes I scare babies. I make them cry. I send them running away from me, calling for their mommies.

But I don’t scare all babies.

There is a magical age somewhere after awareness and beyond fear, when curiosity wins out, and children become magnetically drawn to me; they can’t help themselves. And I’ve gained a small following; that is, the under-three-foot crowd.

I visited one such small fan yesterday at my childhood friend Nichole's home. The last time I saw this little darling, she was a little muppet barely able to walk. She’s closing in on three now, but not much taller than my knee.

After she finishes hiding behind the window curtains of shyness, she notices one of my arms is not ordinary.

“She loves anything tiny,” her dad explains. And she does. At first she just stares from a distance. Then she comes closer. Then closer. Until she works up the courage to reach out and shake my little hand. And it's all over. She touches it, she kisses it, she wants to hold it. I suddenly feel that the rest of my body is sorely inconvenient to her.

At the lunch table, she sits next to me in her booster seat. She hands me a lime.

“No, it’s for her,” she indicates, pointing to my smaller appendage. Even this two-year-old understands that my arm has its own personality.

“This is Finneas,” I hear myself saying. “Finneas!?,” she squeals, incredulous and delighted.

Children often want to know why my arm is smaller than the average. But this little one never asks. A person with a tiny hand came to her house today; and she’s simply in love.

“Isn’t it cool,” I say. She nods, eyes twinkling. This is the age when belief comes easily, untarnished by judgement.

“What if we all had one little hand?,” I pursue, "Wouldn't that be cool?". She nods enthusiastically. And her big brother, entering the outer edge of the magical age at six, is now drawn in. He pulls one arm into his sleeve to test the hypothetical. We discuss how tables might be higher, or forks much longer, if this were the case.

As the afternoon progresses, my small follower is distracted with play and various craft projects. But periodically she looks up, catches a glimpse of Finneas beneath my sleeve, runs over, and reaches up to grab hold of him. When I’m standing, she has to stretch her arm to its full extension.

I confess to waving my little arm at her from time to time, bribing her interest, luring her close enough to scoop her tiny body up in my arms. I miss the days when she needed me to carry her.

Sitting next to me, she leans over, pulls Finneas gently to her, and plants a soft kiss on his skin. I feel undeserving, part of a moment nothing short of holy.

This little girl isn’t the first; I remember another two-year-old from long ago. Danielle was Nichole’s foster sister when we, too, were children.

She came to live with Nichole and her parents when she needed a safe place to be; but as far as we were concerned, she was our sister. She called me ‘Tawkie,' a reinvention of my name in toddler speak. She, too, had stars in her eyes when she saw my little arm.

One day, hands joined around the table, Danielle says, “I sure I tan have a little hand, too"; an impossible wish, but the sincerest form of flattery.

I expect I’ll continue to draw fans. And as long as they follow me, I’ll continue to welcome their attention, treasure their admiration, and affirm their innocent openness.

What if we all had one little hand?

OneArmGirl

coffee, slippers, and amputee cookies

I'm home for another 'last' Christmas with my immediate family. In fact, we've had so many 'last' Christmases without anyone joining or leaving the family, I don't think anyone is even calling it that this year. It would be more accurately called Mom-and-Dad-are-paying-for-us-to-fly-home Christmas, so here we are. And truthfully, I'm enjoying feeling like a kid again.

I expected it to be cold, and I've not been disappointed, but low 30s for a high is pushing it. I don’t understand how people live in a place where it gets so cold it becomes physically painful to go outside. I’m convinced going from the house to the car, ice begins to form on my femurs. If I had to be here year-round, I’d seriously look into hibernation or migration. For the time being, I go to the mall for pink moccasins; and I won’t leave my bedroom without them. I am currently calculating how I might avoid leaving the house for the remainder of my stay.

I’m looking forward to the arrival of my sisters just for the extra body heat. I am curious, though, to see how all five of us will fit into the living Christmas museum that is my mom’s house. It is beautiful, really; wood floors and glowing lights, old ticking clocks through the night, antique furniture, all spotless and dreamy…aside from the periodic smokeout in the kitchen from my various attempts to make bacon, unsuccessfully. I was hoping to prove to my parents that I'm truly an adult now and I've set off the fire alarm at least three times.

And that’s only the pinnacle of a tower of grievances including my unruly bedroom piling of clothes and notebooks, wrongful use of kitchen implements, forgetting to turn the heat off, on, or some in-between setting which I am clearly unqualified to operate. I feel like the bull just entered the china closet, wreaking havoc everywhere I go, with my mother following close behind suggesting and directing the cleanup detail.

I understand why this is happening. My mom wants the house lovely and welcoming for each girl that arrives, but our staggered appearing is creating somewhat of a logistical dilemma. On the phone last night, I’d ignorantly sat down on the couch facing away from the small self-lit plastic Christmas tree, when Mom approached, signing urgently in what I can only assume is not an ASL-approved dialect. I finally ascertained that she wanted me to move to the other couch so that I would have a better view of the tree.

I have a feeling this is the dress rehearsal, and I still don’t know my blocking.

But primary on my list of logistical dilemmas is locating and acquiring good coffee. On the phone with my mom a few days before leaving, I ask, “Do you have coffee at the house?”

“Yeah, I think there's some left from the last time you were here," she says from the supermarket aisle.

I feel a little panicky. "No, that's too old. Can you get something else?"

"What kind of coffee do you want?”

“Anything is fine, just nothing cheap…and preferably a medium roast.”

“This one says ‘Classic Roast’…is that what you want?”

Turns out the ‘Classic Roast’ tastes something like a fair trade organic Folgers and I’ve been begging stops at various coffee establishments since I arrived. At Borders the other night, I choose a gingerbread latte.

“We’re out of whipped cream, but I’ll put extra foam and a gingerbread man on top,” the barista says.

“Sweet,” I agree, not having expected whipped cream in the first place and impressed with her seasonal artistic ability. But when I get my coffee, there’s more of a chalk drawing the shape of a gingerbread man around a darkish spot on top of the foam. Apparently, this is where an actual gingerbread cookie had been, before he dove suicidally down into the cup. He was now residing somewhere in the murky darkness of my latte.

“Yeah, you’re gonna want to get that out of there or you’ll just be drinking out pieces," warns a guy sitting next to us.

Aided by stirring sticks, Mom fishes the cookie’s disintegrating corpse up from the deep. Unfortunately, we are too late, and upon reaching the surface, his appendages loosen, and we lose an arm.

But I’ve put that traumatic episode behind me, and I woke up today with new resolve to venture out once more for coffee. This time, I took no chances, and had Mom drop me off directly at the local coffee joint for Starbucks boycotters down the road. And here I am. I’ve just finished the most amazing whole milk pumpkin latte and I plan to get a good breakfast blend to go for the morning.

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During my layover in the Denver airport, I spotted something interesting. It was a very small long-haired white dog with a service vest on. I can’t let this opportunity pass, and I make friends. ‘Fluffy’ is as friendly as he is cute, putting his miniature paws up to my palm.

“What is his service?,” I ask.

“He’s an alert dog,” his equally friendly wheelchair-sitting owner tells me. I assume this means the little dog can smell a heart attack or seizure coming on, but later she explains how alert she is to intruders or strange noises in the house. I refrain from saying I think that's called a guard dog; and I might add, most people choose guard dogs that don't tempt an intruder to punt kick them into the next yard. I don't want to hurt Fluffy's feelings.

Fluffy and owner are on their way to Detroit from Los Angeles. Considering the wheelchair, I hope Fluffy is also a sled dog.

I think I’ll get a service dog; his service will be locating the closest Starbucks.

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May all your gingerbread men remain intact.

Cheers,

OneArmGirl