Aliases and promises

When the children have left for school, Mr Khader, the Managing Director of Illam, returns and tells us he has organised a conference to bring together DHAN Foundation employees working in some of the outreach programmes in rural areas. The aim of all DHAN Foundation initiatives is to provide high quality education and healthcare at affordable prices for rural people, and today’s meeting is covering HIV/AIDs, anaemia, women’s health issues, back pain, alcoholism, and a number of other topics. When Mr Khader says he’d like us to participate, we’re glad that neither of us has a medical background, as Jenny (a physio) and Jasmine (an acupuncturist) have been roped into presenting a session each on back pain.

The conference is due to start at 10am, but when it’s still not underway at 10.40, Mr Khader just smiles and says, “Indian time” – obviously the Subcontinent’s answer to Pacifica “island time”. The room where the conference is set to take place is the room where the girls sleep, and it’s hard to believe they all fit in here, let alone that they sleep night after night on straw mats on the concrete floor. We sit cross-legged like the other conference delegates (around 30 women in colourful saris), but Mr Khader motions for us to come forward. Confused, we walk to the front and he shows us seats in the front row, facing the audience.

Suddenly it dawns on me that we’ve inadvertently found ourselves on the panel of this rural medical conference in Nilakottai, alongside the region’s Chief Civil Surgeon, Chief Medical Officer and a host of well-regarded medical professionals. I speak for both Pete and myself when I say we’re grossly under-qualified to be in this position, and we’re not overly comfortable about sitting with the key-note speakers. Heck, any second now, we could well be the key-note speakers.

Guests of honour at a rural medical conference

Before the conference kicks off, we’re introduced as “a lawyer and bank manager from New Zealand”. I’m not sure how “I work for a bank” equals “I am a bank manager”, but in India it does. Next, I’m asked to light a symbolic candle on a wreath, while Pete is asked to place a cloak around the shoulders of the chief civil surgeon. We all pose for a host of photographs holding the conference booklet and smiling broadly with the medical experts, as the delegates look on. When Mr Khader says one of the photos is going to be in the local paper, I have never felt more fraudulent in my life. Within the space of five minutes, I’ve gone from imposter bank manager to standing amongst the esteemed special guests. The conference delegates probably think I'm also a famed medical mastermind. If only my First Year Health Sci buddies were to see me now.

The conference is presented entirely in Tamil, but Mr Khader helpfully translates some of the content for me. The surgeon is discussing women’s nutrition, signs of anaemia, and how to avoid Delhi-belly. While the delegates earnestly take in what the experts have to say, I earnestly try not to laugh in awe at how we got ourselves into this situation. Supressing the hysterics is on par with seeing Harriet being mounted by the small Thai masseuse back on Koh Samui. If I look at Pete, I know I’ll crack for sure, and vice versa. Instead I concentrate my thoughts on how this came to pass, and conclude it’s a matter of miscommunication in its finest form: the age-old language barrier.

Over breakfast this morning, we’d been discussing our jobs with Mr Khader, and he’d told us that his role within the Foundation is a consulting one, due to his professional career as a banker of 30 years. With our tertiary qualifications and cushy office jobs back home, we too must be considered ‘consultants’ worthy of special guest-of-honour status.

It’s at the medical conference that I make Cultural Faux Pas #3 (CFP #2 was a girl cycling past me in Kodai who looked at my Nike running shorts and said in a loud and disapproving voice, “Tooooo shoooorrrrt!”). CFP #3 happens when I’m adjusting the scarf I have around my shoulders and chest to protect my modesty. One of the nurses at the conference comes over to help me pin it to my singlet straps, then steps back and frowns. “Do you not have a teeeee-shirrrrrt with sleeeeeeves?”, she enquires, eyeing me up and down. “Erm, no. Just arrived. Need to go shopping,” I plead, red-faced. I want to tell her my new friend Banu had said this outfit was fine.

Cultural Faux Pas #4 happens in quick succession. We remove ourselves from the stifling hot conference room when the power is cut and the fans stop fanning. We head over to say goodbye to Banu, who insists we come in and try some of the sambar she’s making for lunch. She also makes us more tea, and we chat about Indian cuisine. She asks if we’re vegetarian, and we say we’re not (she’s not, either) and she talks about cooking the hens that are running around outside her front door. When she asks what kind of meat we eat in New Zealand, Pete lists, “Chicken, lamb, pork…” and senselessly I chime in with, “And beef.” Banu looks at me as if to ask what on earth beef is, and Pete glares at me, amused. It’s then that I remember that cows are sacred in India. Oh, shit. I mentioned the B-word. “Errrrm, yeah, chicken and lamb mostly,” I follow up with, changing the subject as fast as I can.

Saying Ka Kite to Karunai Illam

We head back to the Illam to pack up, and Banu follows us over in her Sunday-best hot pink sari. Banu and Deva say they hate farewells, and both have tears in their eyes as I hug them goodbye and climb into the taxi – as a sister, auntie, bank manager, medical conference guest of honour, Rrrroopka, and cultural faux pas queen.

We leave a donation for the children and promise the staff we’ll come back to the Illam one day. At the same time, we promise ourselves we’ll spread the word of the work they do and continue to support the Trust in some way. As we drive away in yet another seatbeltless wonder, I think about all the promises I’ve made and the aliases I’ve taken on, hoping I can live up to at least some of them. But for now, I’ll stick with being Rebecca the intrepid traveller who promises to wear Indian-appropriate clothing and not make any more cultural faux pas at the next place we visit.