Writing a Portfolio

I am currently finishing up my semester with Global College/ Friends World Program of Long Island University. This week I have a lot of writing to do, a lot of editing, and a lot of piecing it all together. Forgive me if I do not do too much blogging this week.
More stories will come soon! I promise!
Also, I have started a spanish language blog for the work I have written in my spanish class. If you are lingually inclined, check it out:
http://vagabundagringa.blogspot.com

Safe Journeys and Happy reading,
Mira

End of Semester Presentation

I made a short video for a presentation for the end of my semester at Global College in Latin America. It is kind of a synopsis of my projects, classes, and what I learned.
Enjoy!

Girls Underwear and Shady Hotels in Panama City

Embarrassing Unmentionables

Latin Americans, because of certain Catholic cultural values, are forced to make love in coveted, mysterious ways. They cannot bring their lovers home to show off to their families, so the common custom is to rent a room in a “love” motel. These unsavory places are also the frequent haunts of prostitutes looking for customers. These hotels are present all over the Latin world. They offer rates by the hour, and usually have the cheapest price in town. Sad to say, I have often stayed in these hotels out of sheer economics. Often there is no other affordable option for the traveler in more expensive cities.

Such a place is Panama City. Because of the vast historical heritage, the quaint restored colonial avenues of Casco Viejo, the lore of the largest canal in the world, and the rich culture of the land, Panama City has a large tourism infrastructure. There are hundreds of beautiful sky high resort type hotels in swanky, clean parts of the city. These huge white monstrosities, however, are far out of y price range. The youth hostels ran an average price of $10 per night. I thought this was also expensive for a bed without a lock open to robbery, sleeping in a room full of dirty, smelly hippie kids and sticky, fungus-floored communal bathrooms. Like the other tourist hotels, the hostels were on the outskirts of the center city, in nice quiet residential and business districts that utterly stank of America money. These places provided the comfort of ambiguity as to any indication of the region of the world, void of all cultural or uncomfortable aspects of the country. These blank places seem to comfort the rich tourist while on vacation. Yet then again what person with money to spend would want to stay in the loud, exhaust-filled, wild center of Panama City when they could sleep in silence?

I and my purse, however, were in for the center city. A few stops in seedy hotels, and I finally found a private room with a bathroom in a quaint hotel for a fraction of the price of a hostel dorm bed.

From my window I looked down upon the main drag where I had a clear view of all the action of the city; the wildly painted pimped buses, the street vendors selling cigarettes and gum from huge baskets and the Cuna women walking passed in their beaded and stitched garbs. The surging multitude was like watching a parade, complete with the honking of cars and blaring reggaeton, Latin and Caribbean rhythms. It was located amongst a wide range of local restaurants and bars, within a minute’s walk of the busy street markets on one side and a tranquil, lazy park on the other. This was far more exciting than being stuck up in the dead banking district.

It was, although, of the unsavory category of a love motel. The sidewalk in front was heavily shaded by thick bushes to obscure the view of entry through the front door. The paper thin walls in the interior did nothing to hide the nature of the hotel either.

Entering the afternoon of my check-in, I heard panting through the hallways. Stopping to wait for the elevator, I determined that the sounds were coming from the adjacent room from a couple obviously in the act of after lunch coitus. After hearing all too much of the shrill pleasure moaning and the bed-posts thumping against the walls, I scampered away up the stairs, too discomfited to wait longer for the elevator while forced to eavesdrop on the mating pair.

That night, unlike the activities of the other guests, I washed my clothes. I hung them over the windowsill in hope that they would dry in the cool night breeze before morning.

During the night I was roused by a strong wind blowing in my 4^th story window, banging the shutters against the brick exterior. Half asleep, and forgetting about my wet clothes, I shut the windows, bolting them against the harsh wind. The next morning I awoke to a wind-blown room with every item that could catch the wind strewn about the floor. My two clean shirts were tightly locked in the window, but shockingly my underwear was gone. The torrential gusts the night before must have blown them away.

They were not in the room, nor in my pile of luggage. I flung open the shutters and searched the street. I saw nothing. I dressed and went out to search the street. I ran, a little ashamed, around the surrounding blocks, but found not even the slightest sign of my panties. Gone. Disappeared. They were nowhere to be found. I let go of the notion of ever discovering them again and bid farewell.

The worst part is this underwear was not just any normal, ordinary pair. They were the well-hidden, unappealing period panties. Even uglier than the average granny panty, these are the ones only used when there is absolutely no likelihood whatsoever of being seen. They are a most clandestine secret of women, never to be revealed to the eyes of men. (For the reader’s sake I dare not go into further gruesome description as to the appearance of the well-worn garment.) My unmentionable secret had flown like a kite out of the window and was now on the loose in Panama City, exposed to the world.

My dirty secret was out there, but it did not match the dirty secrets of the other hotel guests. Because of the risqué location they had probably been identified and wrongly accused as those of a woman of the night. My mind ran through possible scenarios of what may have happened to my underwear. Had they been taken by someone? Were they now covering someone else’s nether regions? Was there a panty-sniffer on the loose? Would this panty-snatcher search me out? What kind of sick person would touch someone else’s period panties anyway? Would I ever find out the answers to this strange mystery?

I somehow forgot about the uncomforting experience, and moved on for the period panty is an utmost forgettable piece of one’s wardrobe. It is not an article of clothing that women often fret over in daily life. It is only donned once a month and with more contempt than delight. While traveling, a female does not often contemplate such matters with too much worry for the majority of weeks.

Thirty days later I was reminded of the incident, to my dissatisfaction and discomfort. In my absent-mindedness I have not gotten around to purchasing another adequate undergarment for the occasion. There are now four countries between me and my lost panties. I am left with frilly, stringy, lacy pieces that hardly cover anything worth mentioning. In my forgetfulness I have reduced myself to wearing my bathing suit, the only adequate piece of cloth to cover myself. This will have to do until a lingerie store in rural Honduras can be found.

Turrialba, Costa Rica

El 28 de enero

Hoy yo descubrí la belleza y la hospitalidad de Costa Rica de Nuevo. El Wade (mi novio quien está conmigo) no le gustó Costa Rica cuando estuvo aquí la última vez. El solamente visitó San José y Cartago y tuvo una experiencia mala.Ahora yo quiero mostrarle el otro lado de Costa Rica, como la gente amigable, la cultura divertida, la naturaleza bella, y todo lo que yo he conocido de este país.

Ayer salimos de Heredia y fuimos a Turriabla. Yo no conocía Turriabla, pero El Wade quería ir a las montañas y nuestro libro de guía se dice que allá las hay. Cuando llegamos, no vimos montañas ni senderos ni parques ni nada. Eso no estaba por las nubes tampoco. Yo le pregunté a la dueña del hotel y ella me miró como una loquita.

“Pues… se puede caminar hasta Santa Rosa, pero es muy lejos, como cuatro kilometros.”

Entonces Wade y yo salimos caminando por la calle a Santa Rosa y en pocos minutos empezó a llover. Nosotros regresamos al hotel después de mojarnos mucho. Estabamos tristes y desalentados.

Pero, por la mañana hoy no amanecimos con ganas de un buen viajecito. Salimos caminando otra vez. De Nuevo no vimos senderos por las montañas ni parques ni nada. Hasta casi una hora después , vi un campesino con una pala. Yo le pregunté si el conocía este lugar. Con una sonrisa muy grande el me dijo, “sí” y me llevó a su quinta. Lo seguí por cafetales y fincas y corrientes. Hablamos del ambiente y su vida y mi vida. El señor era muy amigable y nos mostró muchos senderos en las fincas privadas por las montañas. Vimos aves y mariposas e insectos. Wade y yo aprendimos como cultivar café, bananas y caña de azúcar.

Lo sentí muyrefrescante porque la gente de otros países no es tan hospitalaria y amigable. Los ticos del campo siempre rien y tienen tiempo para ser amigos.

(Yo con plantas de cafe, a photo of me with coffee plants)

Playa Gorgona, Panama

Getting There

Sometimes the best and worst part of any journey is getting to where you are going. I needed to get out of Panama City. The noise, the traffic, the smog, everything about big cities rubs me the wrong way after a few days. I picked a random beach on a big map of Panama and hoped for the best. All buses leave from the Albrook bus terminal, a cluster of honking beasts driving every which way. I asked around for a bus to Playa Gorgona, not entirely sure how to pronounce the word. I kept repeating it as gorgonzola (as in the cheese), but after a couple of tries a woman finally understood me and directed me to the Chame window. I bought a ticket and was aimed towards an exit. I left the building to find a mini-bus with Chame written in gangster letters across the windshield. I entered, weary that there was no driver to ask about the destination of the bus while the other passengers were throwing me unaccommodating hairy eyeballs.

As soon as I arranged myself for the trip my traveling companion got antsy. We were due back in Costa Rica in a couple of days and needed to buy tickets in advance. He kept mumbling something about this in an inaudible level, complaining, but not fully enunciating his concerns. After a few minutes of passive aggressive prodding and annoyed looks I gave up and agreed about buying the tickets in advance. We jumped off the bus and headed towards the turnstiles. The driver’s assistant from our bus cut us off, looking very worried. “Where are you going? What happened?”

I tried explaining in my rushed, broken Spanish, but he did not seem to understand. Time was burning short, so I broke through the barrier leaving him looking confused.

(Staring at the Sea in Panama)

I made it to the ticket window, huffing and puffing. Although I appeared obviously rushed, the ticket vendor took her dear old time in the transaction. Nothing goes fast in the tropics. After what seemed like an inordinate amount of time spent typing I decided to run back to our Chame bus to stall the driver while my companion waits for the ticket vendor to examine our passports and do some more typing. Breathless I returned to the bus just as our rotund driver was hobbling out of the station. Once again I attempted to explicate my situation to no avail. I am faced with more confused looks from both assistant and driver. I told them to wait, and the rotund driver shook a couple of chins and plopped into his seat.

Finally my companion jogged back, and we stepped into the crowded bus. I threw open a jumpseat and plunked down. I am suddenly aware that I am sweating profusely and am all too conscious of the ripe smell of my damp body. The chica next to me smiled shyly and aimed the air conditioner vent towards me. Is this for my sake or hers?

The ride is only about 60 kilometers from Panama City but within 10 minutes I am unbearably uncomfortable. I am smooshed between two people, my legs halfway cramped into the front seat and halfway over the center console. The bar is in the seat back is digging into my spine. Most treacherous of all, the bus is looping around precariously sharp bends at very high velocities. I have absolutely nothing to hold onto for balance and risk falling out of my seat at every curve. As we buck left my seat threatens to fold up with me still inside, and when we veer right it takes all my strength not to topple into the driver’s lap.

My pain is finally relieved as our driver drops us on the side of highway, pointing down a dirt road. Lately I have had a bought of rough journeys to the beach, and this is turning out to be no exception. Wade and I buy a couple of oranges and ask the Chinese shop owner how to get to the beach. Through her accent I understand that the playa is “cercita,” very close. I began walking around midday as the hot tropical sun beat on me as if I were roadkill on the pavement. The extreme humidity allowed no reprieve to profusely sweating. On foot, almost an hour later we arrived at another convenient store. I stumbled in to again ask the cashier for directions. I received the same reply as before, “cercita.” I am starting not to trust this “ita” business. It sounds like an excuse to say yes to everything.

(WAlking Man sign, I was in for a walk)

Another half hour of staggering in the sweltering heat and somehow we arrived at the beach. The black volcanic sand sparkled like diamonds strewn on the ground and the green waves calmly rolled over the unpopulated shoreline. I stripped to my bathing suit and plunged into the water. Nothing could feel better than the cool Pacific Ocean after such a sweaty adventure. Secluded beaches are empty for a reason: access is difficult.

Happiness and Globalization

(This little Bribri indigenous girl wants to learn English instead of her native language of Bribri. I think she looks happy living in her community.)

The article Gross National Happiness in Bhutan offers a very interesting view on country development. The king of Bhutan Jigme Siongye Wangchuck has developed a new theory called Gross National Happiness. Instead of only pushing for growth in economic sectors, industry and monetary means, he is implementing a social plan of happiness. This includes a push for better education, health care, environmental conservation, and governmental soundness. Most importantly he is stressing the pertinence of community and cultural preservation.

To me, this is most unusual because often economic growth details a complete destruction of cultural traditions. I think this is a very idealistic model. If it should work it may be a solution to many of the detrimental affects of globalization.


This theory could be helpful in many developing countries. For example, in the technology hub of Bangalore, India, only economic growth is being promoted. Because of the vast seas of call centers, the cultural heritage of India is being viewed as ignorant, hackneyed, backwards, and not as “good” as Western culture. As a result, it is being rejected by a majority of the youth, as they adopt Western attitudes, media, ways of dressing, etc. Yet correlating to this, it seems that there is also a growth in social problems, depression, and loss of community, even though people may now have a greater income. Definitely plans like Gross National Happiness could aid developing countries facing such realities.


I feel that this concept, however, cannot be universally applied. Already developed countries, especially in the West, may be too far gone into “money making” mode to return to find happiness in the same sources as the Bhutanese. For instance, the consumer culture and separation of church and state in the USA is so great that culture often seems hard to find. The country is so obsessed with dollar signs that it would be a difficult habit to break. The secularism in state affairs would not allow for the promotion of cultural preservation, or such healthy growth of social programs.


All in all, I would like to see the future outcomes of Gross National Happiness in Bhutan. As a student of anthropology who has seen the traumatic devastation of globalization on culture, it is thrilling to see an implementation of preservation. All too often economic growth is valued over culture, thus destroying tradition. This plan aims to embrace both in a sustainable manner for a holistic vision for improvement in Bhutan.





This was a paper written for my Junior research class on Concpets and Research.

Baby Boomers Smoke Up

February 6, 2008

Baby boomers are now reaching the ripe ages between 40-60 when the risk of cardiovascular disease drastically jumps. This article suggests that these former hippies are in greater danger of heart attacks if they are marijuana users. Research for this study included interviews with almost 4,000 individuals aged 20 to 92 who recently suffered myocardial infarctions. The average marijuana smoker in this sampling was around 44 years old.

The independent variable is the use of marijuana and the dependent variable is the related heart attack. The external validity of this study is addressed by including many other possible independent variables that need to be examined before this study is proved conclusive. For example, the author proposes that the marijuana users were mostly men, obese and also smoke cigarettes. These three variables are all known causes of heart attacks as well. As marijuana consumption is not isolated as the only variable in a patient’s life that was able to cause a heart attack, it is difficult to conclude that it was the marijuana alone which triggered the attack.

Also, only 124 of the patients had smoked marijuana in the year before the heart attack, while only 9 of these had smoked within an hour of the attack. This sampling is rather small for any conclusive, diehard evidence to be drawn. Just because of the small numbers, the study needs more participants and research before it can be convincing.

This study will be difficult to research because of the vast number of variables that can influence a heart attack. The external validity due to the sheer number of possible independent variables is so extensive that isolation of marijuana smoking alone is nearly impossible. Clinical studies that inspect the exact effects of smoking marijuana in a controlled situation may be a more effective way to study its impact on heart attacks, rather than conducting interviews.



This is another paper written for my Junior Research class. The assignment was entitled making a stament and providing evidence. The information for this assignment was about Baby boomers smoking pot.

Derby Suave Costa Rican Cigarettes

January 31, 2008

Driving along the highway from San Jose to Heredia I noticed a huge billboard advertisement for Derby brand cigarettes. There was an image of a very attractive young woman dancing in what appeared to be a nightclub, party, or other situation that young people would typically enjoy. Behind her was a young man admiring the girl with a “wow” expression plastered across his face. Neither of these people was smoking and the only indication of an ad for cigarettes was the oversized, red and blue labeled package of Derby cigarettes in the bottom corner. What struck me as most unusual about the ad was the words of caution neatly printed along the bottom of the billboard; “Smoking is bad for you health.”

On a whole, the company was using a very simple advertising scheme, with roots as deep as our species; physical attraction. Males will look at the sign because it pictures a pretty girl. Females will look at it because it has a boy admiring a pretty girl, and most females want to feel “sexy” and be admired likewise by the opposite sex. Using intuitive knowledge and common sense, an average onlooker would come to the conclusion, “If it works for these two people portrayed in the advertisement it should work for me.” Can it really be so simple that one will have more fun and become more sexually desirable if they smoke Derby brand cigarettes?

I will state my opinion as no, placing distrust in the advertisers. The company is trying to sell their product, but at the same time is denouncing it for its potential health risks. These are obvious contradictory statements. Why would I trust a company that does not even trust itself? Why would I buy a product from a company that so observably is aware that it is physically harming its consumers?

Through some sort of traditional knowledge, i.e. cultural ideals, the media, and peer pressure, we are led to believe that smoking is “cool.” James Dean, Elizabeth Taylor, Danny from Grease, and countless other teenage American heartthrobs and role models of cool have asserted that smoking is attractive. Through advertising, this still appears to be the most weighted gravitational pull to entice smokers.

On the other hand, the “Smoking is bad for your health” statement is an authoritative projection of the experts. Through scientific research these experts have come to the conclusion that this knowledge is truth. Empirical evidence, systematic research, and quantitative data have proven that cigarette smoking is dangerous to the health of humans.

However, a century ago medical experts believed just the contrary. Cigarettes were widely thought to have beneficial health effects. Tobacco cigarettes were even prescribed as treatment for many pulmonary problems such as asthma and used by athletes to “open the lungs.”

Clearly, this advertisement for Derby cigarettes portrays an important aspect of information intake. It plainly illustrates that not all sources are trustworthy. Information should be scrutinized and sorted, rather than directly accepted as truth.


This is an essay written for my research class. The assignment was titled ¨What is research?¨ and asked the student to critically look into the information being presented in popular advertisements.

Indigenous Sentiments

Essay written for Contemporary Indigenous Peoples of Latin America

February 4, 2008

I was raised with Native American spirituality. Both of my parents followed and studied it, from my mom building a sweat lodge in our backyard and holding ceremonies, to my father becoming a sort of mystic medicine man, communing with nature, and going on vision quests. Neither of my parents have a drop of native blood (that we know about), but they both had a calling towards this way of life.

As such, I was instilled with “indigenous” ideals and values in my upbringing. My beliefs lie in a native cosmovision. This faith was of those who are the ancient inhabitants of Turtle Island. I was born on Turtle Island as well. I was brought up to believe I am a child of this planet. The Earth is a mother to us all, and, fortunately, I was born on the North American continent, also known as Turtle Island. The sky is my father. All living creatures, from the largest leviathan to the smallest protozoa, are my brothers and sisters to be treated equal. Each has a special value, story, and spirit. The four directions are places of great spirits and my ancestors. In ceremony we pray to our ancestors.

Does this make this religion mine, too? Am I indigenous? Can these beliefs be my own? I have many questions like this because of my indigenous sentiments, but I am still a “white man.”

This creates a major incongruities in my distinct cosmovision. My ancestors were not the indigenous peoples of my homeland, but, on the contrary, the people who conquered the natives. My ancestors were the invaders who brought diseases. My ancestors were the pioneers who slaughtered all of the buffalo. My ancestors were the militias who massacred the Indians to steal their land. My ancestors were the promoters of hundreds of years of mistreatment, broken treaties, and prejudices.

For me, approaching the study of indigenous peoples harbors mixed feelings and emotions. It is a topic I am passionate about, and I find it very interesting. On the other hand, I hold a sort of guilt associated in the issue. I feel imperialistic myself, as if I am imposing my ideals of indigenousness onto actual people.

Anthropology, in the past, has been a wave that crashed on many indigenous peoples throughout the world. They were studied as subjects rather than as real living people. They were put on display in museums and circuses, thought of as exotic, and distinguished as “them” through what was called scientific research.

Anthropologists who actually assimilated themselves within cultures, and treated indigenous as they would any group of people, were often criticized for their research methods. A prime example of this is Kevin Duffy in his studies of the Mbuti pygmy people in Children of the Forest. Duffy viewed the Mbuti as people, friends, family, making personal connections and relationships with his subjects. Duffy threw himself into the midst of tribal life through total participatory action, even going so far as to have sexual relations with the females. Yet, today, his works are regarded as some of the best and most interesting ethnographic studies by contemporary anthropologists. His methods were revolutionary and paved the way for anthropologists to gain a greater understanding of their subjects. I admire his methods, his honesty, and his view on anthropology as a sort of integration, rather than simply a study.

So where is my place in indigenous studies? Am I able to objectively study indigenous cultures without making them objects? Will I be able to take off my imperial glasses and not place my own values and beliefs on those of others? I feel that this will be a great challenge for me. I do not want to assert my own ideals upon other cultures.

Indigenous peoples are considered marginalized, but the tribal peoples of the Brazilian Amazon do not have money because they do not use it in their societies. Because they do not have money, they may be considered “poor,” but they themselves do not consider themselves as poor. They may be considered “savage” because they are nomadic and live in “huts” and in Western society people live in houses, totally removed from nature. There is a great rift in the beliefs of my society and those of many indigenous peoples.

All over the world I have been studying indigenous or tribal peoples. I am drawn to these unique minority cultures that appear so different from my own. This broad view of a myriad of peoples throughout the globe has shown me just how vastly diverse our planet is. I can see the complications of defining “indigenous” as a result.

I road camels with the tribal Bhils of Rajasthan, once known as fierce and noble warriors, but now are nomads and gypsies lost in the vast sands of the Thar desert. I met with an empowerment organization working with the Koragas, a scheduled tribe so low in the caste system that they are forced to do unmentionable deeds just to feed themselves. I briefly studied the Hui people scattered across China. They are descendents of Muslim lineage of the merchants who came along the Silk Road and have long since established themselves in Chinese society while keeping a distinct culture from the rest of the Han Chinese. I have had countless encounters with indigenous organizations, native rights groups and politicians in Latin America. Every culture was so diverse and varied that I myself would not be able to pin down a common definition of indigenous people to cover them all.

I look forward to my further studies with indigenous peoples. In studying this field I am also looking through a window into myself, my own culture, values, and beliefs, while discovering how I fit into the whole, greater unity of our species.

El 25 de Enero

Es muy extraño para mi que estoy en Costa Rica otra vez. Cuando yo estuve aquí hace casi dos años era una persona muy diferente, más joven, más loca, y más ingénua. Ahora yo he tenido muchas experiencias y he visto el mundo, y he aprendido mucho de la vida. Estoy más tranquila y estudiosa.
Muchas cosas en Heredia hancambiado y muchas cosas todavía son las mismas. Esta semana yo fuí a todos mis partes favoritos de Heredia. Fuí a las cataratas en Monte de la Cruz y mi restaurante favorite de hamburgesas con cebollas y bares de mis amigos conocidos y el campus de la UNA. En la finca de las cataratas ahora hay vacas en vez de caballos. El restaurante ahora tiene dos partes y es más pequeño. En los bares todavía hay mis amigos Buenos y en la UNA todavía hay cartels de conciertos y marchas politicas.
Mis amigos les alegra mucho de verme de nueva. Ellos tienen brazos abiertos y corazones sinceros. Todavía ellos bromean mucho, bailan bien, y toman como siempre. Me gustan mucho la passion, el amor, y la amistad de los Ticos. Estoy muy felíz de estar en Costa Rica.

Hair, Nails, or Any Other Inedible or Obnoxious Substance

The issue of the caste system and human rights, despite regulatory measures against exploitation and discrimination, still continues to be a major problem in India. The most afflicted groups are the dalits, otherwise known as “outcastes” or “untouchables.” These people are often so chastised that even they themselves feel a lack of self-worth.

With a dwindling population of 17,000 residing in two districts of Karnataka, the Koragas, a scheduled tribe of the coastline, are recognized as people in need of help to overcome exploitation. The Koragas are subjected to many bizarre and inhumane practices due to their social status. These humiliating acts are called Ajalu, and considered religious rituals.

The status of untouchability encroaches basic human rights. Their social standings are so low that even being crossed by a Koraga’s shadow is thought to bring bad luck. The women are not allowed to collect water at town water tanks or wells for fear of contamination. In addition, they are not permitted to own land. Instead, the town allots a small plot where the Koragas communally are made to do plantation work.

These tribals play significant roles during festivals in villages of the Udupi district. In the Mari festival for the mother goddess Paravati, the Koragas are expected to walk through the town before anyone else, acting as a human shield to absorb and dissipate evil from the community. They are also made to run in front of the buffalo races called Kambalas.

The most disturbing aspects of the Ajalu practice involve food customs. During festivals, the Koragas make a circuit from house to house begging for food. The upper caste people offer their table scraps on banana leaves as gifts. If a person is afflicted by illness, toenail clippings or hair clippings are added to the plate. Supposedly, this will cure the person, passing the illness to the Koraga when they eat it.

Although the government passed the Karnataka Koragas (Prohibition of Ajalu Practice) Act of 2000, in many cases the practices and prejudices persist. Overcoming these practices and feelings has been a difficult process, especially in the older generation. The Ajalu practices were a way of life as well as a venue for livelihood.

As prejudices continue, it is often hard for the Koragas to find livelihood elsewhere. Because of the Koragas’ extreme poverty, they often have no other choice than to participate in these customs for the nominal wages they are rewarded. Also, the Koragas are so poverty stricken that they are unable to buy food, and because they own no land, they cannot grow food. The communities keep them in a marginalized situation which perpetuates these caste related rituals and prejudices.

The surrounding communities still view them as untouchables and are unwilling to alter their biases. Furthermore, the Koragas’ situations have beaten them to have such inferiority complexes that they sometimes believe they deserve such ill-treatment.
In 1988, the NGO Samagrah Grameema Ashram started a community development program with the Koragas. Seventy groups of about 10 individuals each came together to form the Koraga Federation to promote self-awareness, self-esteem, and solidarity. Through self-help groups the Koragas are attempting social change for the betterment of their conditions. The NGO stresses four major areas that need focused attention: 1. the right to food and livelihood; 2. the right to dignity; 3. the right to education; 4. the right to healthcare.

The women, in particular, have been extremely successful in their efforts towards empowerment and liberation. Through a micro-financing cooperative, the women have started businesses to branch out of poverty. Before receiving a loan, a woman must go through an essential process to become a solid member of the group, and show her capabilities as a positive asset. First, there is a six month training period in which she learns about micro-financing. During which, the woman is expected to deposit 5-10 rupees (approximately $0.10-$0.20 USD) per week into a savings account. After this period, and successfully demonstrating her aptitude and qualifications, the woman is eligible for a government subsidized loan of 5,000 rupees (approximately $100 USD). Usually these loans are used to start projects in basket production, rope production, or jasmine cultivation. Most companies become self-reliant within three years of receiving the loans.

Indeed there is still a long way to go before full equality is recognized for the Koraga communities. Yet, strides are being made, both in the government and on a grass-roots level. The Koragas have already gained a better economic stance in just 20 years of development projects. There is hope that which each new generation, positive social change, and amelioration of the Koragas situation will come.

Waking Up to the Sunset After a 6 Hour Afternoon Nap: November

Typing makes the hands sound like beetles. This wakes me up, like insects crawling and munching in a mechanical wave. Heads and faces are huge bunches of nerves all stuck together in the same place. It’s easy to get over stimulated with the senses. My bunch is overwhelmed. I’m tired of India, but only because India is just another place and I didn’t know that. I, instead, naively expected India to be some place. The world is the world anywhere I go.
Wade’s face strikes me as odd as I wipe the crusty sleep from my eyes and shake my bleary head into consciousness. I can hardly uncross my eyes. Something looks awry like the hair is in the wrong place or the ear looks like an eye or that’s what a mind creates when it looks at a face to distinguish a face from a non-face. The curvature of the cheek bone could almost be a nose.
I have started reading again and the authors are getting stuck in my thought process again. Henry Miller did wonders for me that summer way back when there never had been anything but cynicism. Now, maybe a return to cynicism is warranted. At least when I read I can sleep at night. I remove my head from my guts and shoulders and take on something outside of myself. Distraction.
My eyes are red and a little doughy and droopy. Illness, pollution, tears, stress, among other environmental factors have wiped away the glint that I inherited from my father.