I’ve had a lot of emails and texts over the last few weeks,  asking for more details of what I’ve been doing in Goa with the good folk from the charity Educators’ Trust India (ETI).  The short answer about their work can be found via this link to my freelance writing site at Collaborative Lines,  where I share some of the copy that I’ve written for the charity’s soon to be launched website.

And here’s the long answer … part one of my report on the wonderful work done by this tiny yet passionate charity.

If you’ve ever been to Goa,  or perhaps to any beach resort in Asia,  you will probably have been approached by beggars and/or beach sellers – usually women and children (I’ve blogged about it before).  They sell all manner of things (here’s a list which I made last year) and are extremely persistent in getting you to buy their jewellery, sarongs, peanuts and pedicures.  What had never ever occurred to me was where these people actually … lived. I knew that in many cases they travelled to Goa each autumn for the start of the tourist season in October and that they arrived there from other Indian states such as Karnataka. But where do they live when in Goa?

It was only when I met the ETI team and they invited me to join them on one of their regular visits to a slum settlement that I really started to give thought as to housing.  Take a look at my photo – it shows an idyllic rural scene, doesn’t it?  This field,  a currently dry rice paddy,  is located about 1.5 miles inland from the popular tourist resort of Calangute.  But,  as the camera pans back a bit,  you can see a woman doing laundry in a muddy stream.  Zoom back a bit more and you can see that the field is actually full of shacks made from blue plastic; basically, tents,  improvised with plastic and using tree trunks as supports. 

This field is home to around 100 adults and children ( a figure which will increase as the season progresses) from the eastern Indian state of Andhra Pradesh,  who travel by train (it takes three days) each October to work and beg in the Goan beach resorts.  I have visited urban slums before but have never seen anything like this; this field is where you live when you have nothing other than what you can carry or wear.   There’s no electricity.  No running water.  Certainly no sanitation.  No way of cooking other than in a pot over an open fire.

(Some of the Goans complain about this influx of economic migrants and say that,  well,  it serves them right that they live like this – perhaps they should stay put in their home states? To which my reply is – I think it’s safe to assume that they’re not leaving comfortable and luxurious home behind in order to travel across the sub-continent and then camp in this field;  this is an act of the impoverished and desperate …)

The first thing that hit me when we arrived at the field was the smell.  Without labouring the point, when the weather is 30-something Celsius and you’ve got humans, cows, dogs, chickens and pigs all using the great outdoors as their al-fresco bathroom … yeah.  The field does have a fresh water spring and the residents use that for drinking water and the muddy stream on the other side of the field for bathing, laundry and everything else.  However,  this obviously doesn’t work all the time and dirty water does get into the kids,  as we witnessed with the poor child who I visited in the hospital in Panjim a few weeks ago.  She is now suffering from severe kidney failure,  brought about by drinking unclean water.  ETI are paying for her treatment,  visiting her every day and giving her parents money for food so that they can stay with her in the hospital.

This next photo shows the rather clever use of sari fabric as improvised baby slings; each harness contains a six month old baby.  They are twins,  born to a 15 year old girl,  who leaves them in the care of the older women while she works on the beach,  undertaking manicures and pedicures (in reality,  a nail shape and paint,  for which she charges c. £2).  She told me all this in really excellent English,  which she has learned from tourists – and yet she can neither read nor write.

So,  what do the ETI team do to help these field dwellers?  Well,  firstly,  they set up an impromptu school a few times a week,  where the children sit down and have a very basic “lesson” with picture books,  crayons and paper.  They are taught to write their names in English and to count to 10,  to say please and thank you.   This is the most basic of educational approaches but,  for some children,  the simple discipline of learning to sit quietly,  to not fight or play but to listen,  is in itself a learning opportunity.  These are kids who would otherwise be working on a beach,  selling peanuts or doing a little dance to the beat of a drum and then asking for money,  so in some respects,  just having them available to sit down and mess about with paper and crayons feels like an achievement.  The ETI team also work hard to get the parents involved;  they arrived with a basic medical kit and will treat,  where possible,  small injuries – usually foot related,  like Jyoti from last month’s blog entry – but only with permission from the parents.  This photo shows Jacob,  one of ETI’s wonderful volunteers,  showing a few of the men how to write their names – the team really encourages participation and involvement from anyone,  not just the kids.

At the end of each hour long lesson, ETI hand out fresh fruit to the children;  I paid for this one week and for £7 we bought enough fruit for each child at the settlement to get an apple and a banana each.  Diego,  the charity’s Goan founder, insists that each child washes their hands prior to receiving the fruit and so we saw a line set up whereby the children queued up to wash their hands and then queued again to receive the fruit – all administered by the mums.

The gender divide is so marked at this settlement.  It’s really not overstating the case to suggest that the women work (on the beach,  at the camp – cooking,  washing, sweeping up,  taking care of the children) and the men drink and gamble.  The local Goan hooch is a spirit called feni, made from distilled cashew nuts,  and a 60 ml shot of it costs about 10p.  When we arrived at the camp at 9.30am,  there were men lying on the ground in a drunken stupor,  or lurching around, shouting and fighting with each other.  And they absolutely reeked of booze;  the smell oozed from every pore.  Diego told me that many of the men are addicted to feni and that any money earned by the women and children goes straight into the coffers of the local bars or is gambled away in complicated card games played between a group of the men in one corner of the field.

One of the charity’s key aims is to get the children out of the cycle of working,  not being educated, and thus marrying young (the average woman at the camp is aged 25 and usually has five children by this stage; I certainly observed that the amount of alcohol consumed by the men in no way seemed to either impede sexual performance or affect fertility …).  It seemed clear that the responsibility for bringing money into the family coffers lies very much with the women and children,  and that’s why getting the buy-in from the mums is so vital to the success of this project;  if we can persuade the women to allow their children to stop working and to instead attend one of the ETI’s two local schools,  then there is hope for the next generation,  who will be both educated and have ambitions for a life of more than selling peanuts and t-shirts on Baga beach.

Last week,  I had this conversation with Jyoti’s mum, Seevarna;  I asked her if she would allow Jyoti to go to one of the schools and she replied that she would love to,  but that because her husband was a brandy drinking alcoholic,  they needed income from both Seevarna and her two daughters in order to buy enough money to live – and so Jyoti could not be spared from her duties at the beach.

These women lead hard, hard lives; yes,  education is the answer in many cases,  but I do now see how tough it must be to decide that when your 11 year old daughter can perhaps earn £1 or so per day for the family coffers – and if that £1 makes the difference between being hungry (or getting a black eye from your husband when you return home with insufficient money for his brandy …) – that allowing her to stop work and go to school may not be an option.

In a future post,  I’ll write about the two schools run by Educators’ Trust India and how they benefit the children who have broken out of the child labour trap.

Please follow us on Twitter at  EducatorsTrust – and ask your friends to do the same – thank you!

One of the books I’ve read and particularly enjoyed (on my Kindle!) since arriving here in Goa has been Sanjeev Bhaskar’s account of his trip around India in 2007.  A second generation British born Indian,  Bhaskar had visited the country many times as a child on family holidays,  but decided to return (with a BBC film crew in tow) and see the modern India at around the time that the country was celebrating 60 years of independence.  He specifically wanted to see the area of the Punjab from where his family had fled at the time of Partition;  they were Hindus,  living in an Indian village which became,  overnight in August 1947,  part of the newly created Muslim state of Pakistan and so they left their homes and became part of the Hindu Diaspora migrating to India – passing on their way hundreds of thousands of Muslims making the same journey in reverse.

Other books (I particularly recommend Indian Summer: The Secret History of the End of an Empire by Alex von Tunzelman, which I blogged about here earlier this year) cover the politics and history of this turbulent and tragic period of Indian history in more detail and context,  but Bhaskar’s wonderful book provides a human story and brings it alive – he’s a fine writer.

“… those of us born as second generation Indians in England are the children of Partition – it’s odd to think that without that tumultuous moment of upheaval 60 years ago, my family might never made the journey that brought my sister and me into being as the modern Britons we are today.”

A favourite feature of the Kindle is the way in which you can clip and mark sections of your books as you read them,  and I did this a lot with Sanjeev Bhaskar’s India.  When he described India as:

“ … a country that breaks your heart in a new way every day … fractures you in ways you didn’t even realise you could be broken …”

… it very much resonated with me. I had my heart fractured the other day when I met Jyoti and her friend Anita on the beach.  It was about 4.30pm and I was just considering packing up and heading back for a shower,  when a shadow fell across my sun lounger.  I looked up to see a small girl holding a large basket filled with newspaper wrapped twists of peanuts and packets of crisps.  Just as the words “no, thank you” were forming on my lips,  she laid the basket down and asked,  very politely,  if she could please have some water?

(This happens a lot on the beach,  and I usually buy an extra bottle of water for the kids whenever I buy one for myself).

Of course,  I said and handed it over. To my surprise,  she didn’t drink the water,  but instead put the bottle down, and removed first a plastic bag and then several layers of grimy, bloodied newspaper from her right foot.  She then poured the water all over her foot,  and attempted to clean it up with fresh newspaper. When I asked what she had done to her foot,  she showed me a deep gash in her sole – a cut which looked dirty and inflamed;  a cut which would have any one of us at the doctor,  asking for stitches and antibiotics.  She had cut her foot on a piece of metal (“I think,  from a boat?”)  whilst walking on the beach and of course, was unable to keep it either clean or sterile.  All she could do was keep it covered with her improvised bandage and hope it healed.

Her name is Jyoti and she is 11 years old.  I felt very helpless,  but I helped her to first clean her foot with some of my baby wipes and to then dress it with Savlon from my capacious beach bag.  She then re-wrapped it with fresh newspaper and a different plastic bag; I bought her a sandwich and a Fanta,  which both disappeared in an instant.  Whilst all this was going on,  her friend Anita (12) appeared with her matching basket of goods and showed great concern as to the state of poor Jyoti’s foot.  At no point did either of them attempt to sell me anything or to ask me for money;  they just seemed grateful for the rest in the shade of my beach umbrella and for the food and drink.  I bought Anita a Coke and gave them my remaining fruit (scrupulously divided between them both by Anita) and a bottle of water each.

“Do you go to school?” I asked,  almost knowing the answer.

“Yes!” said Anita, proudly.  “School is good.  Better than beach. But in Karnataka,  not here.  When we are here,  we must work.”

Further questioning elicited the fact that they each travel with their families to Goa every October and work on the beach during the season – so until May.  They then return to Karnataka and attend school for almost 6 months,  before taking a 19 hour bus journey back to Goa,  back to the beach.

Jyoti was clearly in some pain at this time,  and she curled up on an adjacent sun bed and went to sleep.  Anita,  older,  more confident and chatty,  told me the somewhat amazing story that she is one of SEVEN sisters and one younger brother.  She,  her parents and sisters all travel to Goa to work,  but her brother remains at home with an aunt so that he can continue his education.

Further proof of the (lack of) esteem in which girls and their education are held in this huge, bewildering, heartbreaking country.  Here’s the last word from Sanjeev:

“India remains a dizzying edifice of extremes.  Goddesses are worshipped and women have occupied the most powerful positions in the land,  and yet it is a male-dominated society.  It is the largest democracy in the world and yet a significant proportion of the population are illiterate.  The wealth divide between the ‘haves’ and the ‘have nots’ is increasing dramatically as India becomes a global player.  The destitute number almost 500 million – and that’s a hell of a lot of ‘have nots’.”

In October 2006,  I attended the Women’s Forum for the Economy & Society in Deauville,  northern France – a three day conference attended by women from all over the world who come together annually to discuss how to further women’s participation in business and in life.  

One of the (many, many) lunchtime events featured a speaker from OLPC,  then a project in its relative infancy.  Her name was Mary Jo and she talked about the goals of the project – at its core, to create and then provide a basic laptop for under privileged children to use as an educational tool.

(Now further refined as  “… to create educational opportunities for the world’s poorest children via a “rugged low-cost, low-power laptop” – “)

As if it were yesterday,  I remember sitting in that conference room, eating rubber chicken (yes, even in France) and listening to Mary Jo tell us  how computer access could transform the lives and the educational prospects of children in developing countries, how the laptop model on which they were working would be super robust, have an extra long battery life, come pre-loaded with all types of educational and games based software;  how it would have a special anti-glare screen (on which this lady had herself been working, with Intel) so that it could be used outside and yet still be visible in bright sunshine, and how it would eventually be part of a giant hub of wireless enabled laptops so that the children could access the internet.

And the price of this bit of kit?

$100, in 2006.

I’ve kept an eye on the One Laptop website since then and watched their evolution,  but Sunday’s Observer article really brought home their three-plus years of progress. Follow the link and see for yourself what a difference it’s making to the children of Rwanda and how 1.4 million laptops (not quite yet at that magical $100 each price point, but they’re getting there) have already been rolled out to children in 35 countries which include Haiti, Afghanistan, Brazil and Uruguay.

One of the best days on my recent trip to Goa was when I took my own laptop out to Rainbow House with me.  One of the other volunteers had shared her photos of the school’s sports day, and I thought the children might like to see some of the pictures.  I set myself and the laptop up on the verandah,  booted up the photos – and within seconds I was completely covered in children,  swarming over me and the computer,  completely fascinated by the screen and the images.  They played with it until the battery died and absolutely loved looking at the photos and playing games – so I can completely see how it, as a piece of technology,  does serve so many purposes for children everywhere: it makes learning fun,  it’s a new gadget and it’s a unifying tool.  As the article suggests:

“…computers can enable children to learn how to learn for themselves through playful problem-solving and that this will lead to their becoming better-rounded human beings.”

Last Sunday’s Observer magazine had just such a piece, which featured a cover story on model Erin O’Connor visiting a home workers’ collective for women in Delhi and reporting on their ethical clothing workshops, described in the article as an “innovative and revolutionary ethical fashion experiment”.

By cutting out the middlemen, organising the skilled female home workers and dealing directly with UK and US-based retailers, to date the members of SEWA (aka the All India Federation of Self-Employed Women’s Associations) have (my use of bold):

“ … increased our home workers’ wages by nearly 100 per cent and enabled a lot of women to come out of their homes to a SEWA centre to collect their work and meet. Then they engage with other ideas, like microfinance or education for their children.”

So then I was reminded me of my trip to Bangalore last month, when, at the Confederation of Indian Industry’s workshop on mentoring, I found myself paired with a woman from M&S (my first question: “Are you wearing their clothes?” My second: “Can you get their food in India?” The answers were, respectively, YES and NO).

Her name was Jyotsna, which is a Sanskrit name meaning something like “By the light of the new moon” – isn’t that beautiful? She is in charge of supplier compliance for the south east Asia region and we had a fascinating chat about the challenges clothing manufacturers and retailers (she previously worked for GAP) face in countries such as India with regard to child labour – and the economic need for some communities to have all members of a family in paid employment. I’ve heard a bit about M&S’s Plan A campaign from friends who work for them, plus seen the branded marketing in the stores, but it was very real to hear about it from Jyotsna, particularly when we discussed the dilemmas she faces when she visits communities who actively want to have their children at work – a stance which is obviously in direct contravention to the M&S position on child labour.

There’s a quote from Erin O’Connor in the Observer piece which reminds us that when you -

“… see an embroidered top on the high street …. [it’s] … been made by a very determined pair of hands” –

- and the thought that, depending on the source of the garment, perhaps some of that very tiny, delicate embroidery might have been done by a child’s fingers is truly abhorrent.

The article’s reference to creating a greater need for children to be educated as part of generating an awareness of how to break a cycle of poverty and deprivation, also reminded me of this comment from Plan’s 2009 annual report, The State of the World’s Girls:

“Educated girls become educated mothers with increased livelihood prospects; they also have a greater propensity than similarly educated males to invest in children’s schooling.”

More on Plan’s work soon – oh, and my fundraising for their fantastic “Because I Am a Girl” campaign has now pushed past the £300 mark. Many thanks to everyone who’s donated to date and made such a difference. Some of the women mentioned in the Observer article now earn around £40 a month (compared to around a tenner, previously), just to put that £300 in context.

This is Savita, aged 6,  whom I met on Thursday afternoon when I was walking down a small side road with my camera. She saw me taking photos of a piglet I happened upon (as one does …) and dragged me into her yard to see the mother pig and the rest of the (flock? Herd? What IS the collective noun for piglets?).

And then she asked me to take her photo – so here she is.

She’s very proud of her school uniform, isn’t she?

• Cigarettes (about a fifth of the price they are in the UK);
• Chess sets;
• Carved wooden elephants;
• Copies of the Kama Sutra (“it transcends language, madam” – apparently …);
• Pastries and croissants;
• Newspapers.

We are still experiencing terrible rain storms here (see photo – look at that sky!),  with rumours circulating of a further cyclone. Several people in my hotel have gone home early and the local traders are very depressed at this appalling start to the tourist season. There’s also a local authority “issue” (and apparently talk of civic bribery and corruption …) which has meant that most of the beach shacks are not yet open, so all areas of the local economy are suffering; it’s something of a perfect storm of bad news for the locals.

 I’m visiting Rainbow House later today and having tea with the little girl I sponsor, Renuka.  She is 8 years old and lives at the home as her mother (who works as a maid) could not afford to support her after her alcoholic father left them last year. I’m also hoping to learn if the cyclone damage to the school has been repaired so that we can re-commence lessons; it’s all been so chaotic out here on a number of fronts and the news is mixed.

Watch this space …

However, whilst seeking sanctuary in this internet cafe (60 rupees, about 80p, for an hour) I have checked the BBC weather site and apparently all should be restored to “normal” by Friday. Let’s hope so.

Yesterday I had lunch at a beach shack with the rather cute name of “The Cheeky Chapatti” – chosen primarily because it had covered tables and a sort-of-roof thing going on. Whilst eating my “fishcurryrice”, I was visited by several children, all of school age, who all performed in front of me and the other tourists and then asked for money. Their performances consisted of acrobatics (cartwheels, handstands, etc), dancing and playing a small drum. It was usually a small girl doing the dancing, accompanied by a boy who then asked for the money – together with much pleading, gazing up with soulful eyes and saying things like: “Please give. I hungry”.

(There seem to be more children here than I remember from previous trips – I’m not sure why. Could be this stretch of beach, perhaps, a different time of year or perhaps something tied up with the local economy?)

The children’s charities out here strongly advise that tourists NOT give money to children, or to adults accompanied by school age children and so far I’ve only seen the Russians actually hand over a few rupees (are they more generous? Or possibly less aware?).

The whole situation makes me feel very sad and uncomfortable; the children obviously need the money and see tourists as a seasonal source of revenue (understandable, in a country where millions live on less than a few pounds per day) – but yet surely if they grow up with the mindset that they can earn a “living” out on the beach, they’re not ever going to go to school, get an education and break the cycle of poverty?

Many of the children work the beach with their parents, so it’s easy to see the continuing pattern. I also did a rough ratio check yesterday; the girls on the beach outnumber the boys by 3:1, whereas, when I walked past the local primary school the other day, coincidentally at “going home time”, the boys (in uniforms, with satchels) outnumber the girls in the same proportion.

I’ve also learned, on a more frivolous note, to not wear the necklace I bought here earlier this year at the big Anjuna market. In England, it’s just a slightly funky string of mixed semi-precious stones; here, it identifies me as the kind of easy “mark” who buys this kind of thing – and accordingly gets mobbed by every. single. seller in Goa with similar necklaces for sale.

“Please madam, lovely necklace, how much you pay?”

“300 rupees” [about four pounds]

“I show you other necklaces/bracelets/ankle chain [delete as appropriate], very good price …”

Etc.

In my previous life/role, we used “my mentor” in Australia, South Africa and India and saw some amazing results amongst our women – huge increases in promotion rates, confidence levels and general happiness and life satisfaction. So I was thrilled to note that the innovative Ms Frank has taken the MM concept to another level and launched a new product, designed to support women through their parental leave. Aimed at ladies who are either pregnant or hoping to be pregnant soon, the kit, described as a “self paced one stop shop parental leave program” is a stand-alone CD, DVD and workbook kit designed for women planning to take parental leave at work.

 Key content includes:

• Before, during and after parental leave: strategies you will need to consider at work and at home in order to balance everything on your plate;
• Key advice on what to plan for, what to expect, how to negotiate, and how to communicate issues concerning parental leave;
• Practical tips, checklists, budgets and templates for busy working women about to embark on one of the biggest challenges of their careers – having a baby.

The program is a self-guiding, advanced short course and can be done in a day, a weekend or over a few weeks. It takes a pragmatic and practical step by step approach and helps you face challenges, keeps you motivated and makes your parental leave journey a rewarding and successful one.

If you would like a chance to win a copy of emberin’s my mentor Parental Leave program, enter their competition between now and 29th November by sending an email (of 100 words or less) detailing why you feel you need guidance on taking parental leave.

Send your entry along with your name, address and email to magic@emberin.com

The winner will be notified by email and announced on the emberin website on Wednesday, 2nd December 2009.

Good luck!