When Mr and Mrs Harrison set out in 2003 from the quiet, international avenues of Geneva to the bustling, beeping streets of Kodaikanal in southern India, they did not anticipate that, 20 years after their humanitarian trip, students would still be following in their footsteps. During their time in the sprawling mountain town, they established the community-driven connections and supportive basis for future work – especially with regard to helping the crèches.
It was under this legacy of yearly action – unbroken, save for the Covid years – that we, the latest cohort, began preparations for our own passage to India in January of this year.
A staple of the school’s service learning schemes, the trip would involve numerous projects: firstly the raising of money to fund renovations and support in all of the crèches, and the property purchase and paying of salaries in Peach Tree crèche, which receives all of its support from Ecolint; secondly, the actual nit, grit (and fun) of helping in the crèches and playing with the kids; and finally, the related cookstoves and tribal village projects on which I will elaborate later.
Fundraising
The first order of business was fundraising, a rather necessary affair for a charity trip, and something that we started comparatively late due to the trip’s sudden approval; coupled with this belated beginning was an expectation of record fundraising to make up for the years lost in the pandemic – a task that seemed, at the time, quite daunting.
Nevertheless, with the help of teachers and a few CAS students (special thanks to Ms. Bora and Louis Brittain), we powered through what seemed like unending bake sales, an Indian-themed staff lunch (at this point we could probably win Master Chef), and a good deal of sponsorship collecting for a charity walk. Additionally, we hosted a disco for the Year 7 and 8s, which involved a lot of running, dancing, selling, and Mr. Fyfe’s surprisingly epic DJ skills.
In total, we managed to raise an impressive CHF 30,000.
Into a Brave New World…
Before long, we found ourselves assembled in the airport, bidding an impatient farewell to our emotional relatives, the weeks of fundraising, vaccines, shopping and packing finally over. Giddy with excitement, our suitcases nearly bursting with donations, clothes, and bags of medicine (Margot, the resident nurse, made sure we had a pharmacy’s worth), we trundled our way across Geneva and Frankfurt airport, and sat through the 9.5 hour flight from Frankfurt to Chennai.
Outside Chennai airport, the heat and humidity was like entering a sauna, even at such a late hour of night. We were quickly spirited onto a bus, wreathed in garlands of fragrant flowers, taken into a nice clean hotel, and off to bed; most of us were too dazed to appreciate the dramatic change in setting or the smothering blanket of pollution that would stifle our unacclimatized lungs the next day. We had made it to India.
The following day was spent in Chennai – for most of us, our first taste of India (both literally and figuratively). Formerly known as Madras before its relabelling during a period of reversion from anglicised names, Chennai is India’s sixth largest city and the economic hub of southern India. Looking out the window of the tour bus, I was expecting to be greeted with hectic urban sprawl, a paradigm of India’s rapid development, and was not disappointed; but equally, I was positively surprised by the patchwork presence of vegetation; little gardens and tropical trees interspersed mismatched shops and apartment blocks, and the occasional unofficial park like a bastion of wilderness, well suited to the madness.
As a ramshackle public bus, plastered with fading text and psychedelic paint peeling at the edges, missing windows and a wing mirror, chock full of ordinary people in colourful clothes, slogged past us, I suddenly felt very out of place in my plain shirt and my comfortable seat. It was like being in a whole new world – the same people, a different planet. This sense of novelty, challenging and uncomfortable, was only exacerbated by the staring in the streets, the haggling in the shops, the begging outside; and the fragrance of spice mingled with acrid fumes in the sultry air; the chirping of an indecipherable language and the incessant honking that punctuated the whirring of tuk-tuks and the rumble of lorries.
For lunch, we settled down in a restaurant for our first authentic meal in India. We ate dosas – a south Indian delicacy that I can only describe as being a savoury crêpe – along with a selection of sauces including chutney and mildly spicy sambar. The food was rich and flavoursome, and really quite delicious. Before leaving we went to wash our hands again, and many of us found ourselves surprised by the unfortunate state of the toilets, even in a proper establishment.
Stepping out of our shoes, the light gloriously projected from the setting sun, casting shadows of intrigue in the stone crevices, we made our way into Kapaleeshwarar Temple. The gateway tower, although relatively new (having been built during the time of British occupation), emanated a powerful beauty and wisdom; its bright, colourful vivacity contrasted curiously with the truly ancient, sandy stone remnants of the Pallavas’ temple complex. We were taught of the various Indian deities – the temple was dedicated to Lord Shiva the destroyer and his consort Parvati – and the rich history and continued usage of the site, being careful not to be overly intrusive to the temple goers and monks. This was unlike any other holy site, let alone building, I had seen in my life; rather than ornate spires and dark cavernous halls, it was a jungle of architecture: sounds and smells completely out of the ordinary.
Afterwards, we hopped back on the coach for supper, but quickly found ourselves distracted by the allure of visiting the beach. It was not what we expected. Before arriving, we passed a building which could only be described as a somewhat compacted White House, which turned out to be the police headquarters. This was not the only surprise: when we stepped out the bus and onto the beachfront we were suddenly, rapidly inundated by the pungent stench of fish – alive, dead and rotting. This odour, unpleasant to say the least, permeated the air as we waded across the sand for a picture on the crowded shore, mounted police in the background.
Heading back, picking our way across the pavement in fruitless attempts to avoid fish carcasses, we took notice of a series of rectangular apartments on the beach, some of them decorated with eye-catching ocean murals. Mrs. Shippey, the trip coordinator for La Chât and handy geographer, enlightened us on the tsunami-proofing techniques used in reconstruction after the Indian Ocean tsunami of 2004 that decimated fishing communities; it was a clear testament to the resilience and practicality that life demands of these people.
The rest of the evening was marked by a brisk, but delicious supper of assorted Indian dishes, and then a bus ride to the train station. We were leaving Chennai already.
On the Kodai Road
Shuffling our bags onto the train, we took notice of the stark contrast between the different classes of carriage: the lower classes having prison-esque bars for windows and metal grating for beds; while the upper classes, which we were in, positively surprised us with their relative comfort and cushioning. A night of on-and-off sleeping ensued, defined by the monotonous clacking of rails dating back to British times and sudden jolts as the train came to a stop; a journey not without incident – I particularly remember hearing a scream as someone unceremoniously came to discover on their way to the toilet that the exterior door was wide open, even while the train was moving.
When we got off at Kodai Road, it was the crack of dawn, the sun had still not risen, and we made our way onto the next set of buses, sweating profusely. We spent a couple of hours driving through sprawling plantations, the silhouette of mountains inviting us ahead, saved from the oppressive heat by the constant buzz of air conditioning, distracted from fatigue by the motley music being played by a few of us (unfortunately not Mr. Fyfe this time). By the time we reached the twisting mountain roads, we were almost too busy with this bizarre lapse of karaoke madness to notice the bonnet macaques dotting the roadsides like misplaced pedestrians or leaping acrobatically between the tropical trees. This encounter, quite unprecedented, was almost as remarkable as the views of the valley below with its verdant forests and glistening dammed reservoir.
Kodaikanal we found to be of a much more tolerable temperature and humidity. Thoroughly sleep deprived, we shuffled like zombies into our pretty hilltop guesthouse to deposit our bags before being shuttled to each of the crèches. It was heartwarming to see how excited and glad they were to have us, and their little welcoming performances given in turn were very charming!
Life in Kodaikanal
The following week and a half was packed with action. We started by assigning ourselves to each of the crèches, with a small group working independently on a large cookstove construction and installation project for a nearby school (many buildings don’t have the proper cookstove infrastructure which causes a build up of smoke indoors, carrying obvious health risks).
It didn’t take long for a routine to be established: mornings involved walking to Stony Croft guest house for breakfast, then taking the buses (which followed the unspoken rule of leaving their doors open), exhausting ourselves with thrilled three-to-four year olds, eating ravenously the flavoursome meals prepared by the crèche cook, working on crèche projects during their nap times, and returning back to Sri Vignesh guesthouse for a cold water-bucket shower and bed. The days began to pass by in a blur of fun and fascination.
Some evenings, we would visit the Kodaikanal high street and the various tourist shops. Kodaikanal is a hub for domestic tourism, and a town of duality: rich and poor, villas and shanty settlements, markets and department stores, rubbish and beauty, pollution and nature; everything seemed to contradict itself in such an outlandish way that you were almost forced to accept it.
It hardly took a day for half the team to be adorned in all kinds of accoutrements, or exhibiting wild and stylish ‘elephant pants’ (flowy linen trousers, often with elephant patterns). Although we were strictly barred from eating anything fresh or unpackaged, we gorged ourselves on spicy Indian snacks in all kinds of weird and wonderful flavours, and the occasional Cadbury’s chocolate of labels impossible to find in England. I remember one day we treated ourselves to a lunch of cinnamon rolls from the favourite Pastry Corner, fresh coconuts to drink from, citrusy mangoes, and a locally grown fruit – the chikoo – that tasted rather like a pear and was quite delicious when sprinkled with lemon juice. All the flavours we were experiencing were delightfully refreshing, aromatic, curiously spiced and richly flavoursome.
Another strange surprise was the sheer quantity of animals roaming around. How do farmers keep track of whose is whose? I remember moments of seeing horses, cows, or goats in the middle of nowhere just wandering around the sides of the road – this is simply unheard of in Europe.
Helping Around (mostly)
At the crèches, we spent the majority of our time with the children. It was a challenge stepping out of our comfort zone to dance and sing with them, to perform in front of them, and to overcome the language barrier that divided our nonexistent Tamil from their broken English.
Little Lillies
In Little Lillies, a crèche nestled halfway down a picturesque valley of rice paddies and fruit orchards, renovation was underway for the old building, and so we found ourselves squished in a tight concrete hut with somewhere between 20-25 miniature children. Nevertheless, we endeavoured to help with teaching English – many an abc or body-parts recital – and found other ways to contribute such as working for a couple of hours on the building site moving bricks with Mr. Edwards, and making posters to decorate the walls. We also took a liking to a very cute puppy, of course without an owner, that slept in the shade under the overhangs of the crèche roof.
One day, I distinctly remember a group of us taking a stroll to the nearby village, passing the governor’s villa, while the children were napping. All of a sudden, we were bombarded with waves of deafening Indian music from speakers scattered haphazardly on lamp posts and walls; apparently this was to do with a wedding or hindu festival.
Peach Tree
Similarly, Peach Tree crèche could have no work done as it was scheduled to change buildings. As such, students at Peach Tree helped with day-to-day life in the crèche. Being the school’s crèche – all costs, including staff salaries and amenities, are covered by the money from Ecolint – Peach Tree received special attention from Mrs. Shippey and Ms. Ryan (the LGB trip coordinator) as they scoured the nearby area for an ideal plot of land on which to build the new building. Thankfully, Peach Tree’s future has been secured for future generations of children as a location has been decided upon and the purchase is underway; consequently, with the construction of Peach Tree and the completion of Little Lillies upcoming, there is plenty of work awaiting the future India Trips.
Easter with the Crèches
For Easter, all three crèches ran an egg hunt, with Peach Tree and Little Lillies banding together for theirs. Initially this seemed like a strange idea to us considering the apparent worship of Hinduism, but we soon came to understand that Christian influence spread here after its founding as a ‘hill station’ by British Christians in an attempt to escape the heat and diseases of the plains, and now many of the residents are devout Christians.
The children were crammed onto the bus along with us, sitting on laps or jammed into rows with their teachers, the doors still open. Squealing and running about, they entertained themselves in the park with a few of us managing the swings, and afterwards we all sat down for an ice cream (our teachers got some lathered on their faces by the crèche teachers), played some games, and ate lunch. When it came time for the egg hunt, we indiscreetly scattered some chocolate eggs and surprise eggs (with toys inside) around the green. Uncertainly, the children tottered around in their bright red Betsy Elizabeth Trust uniforms, searching for the sweet treasures in the mounds of grass. It was such a pleasure to see the delight on their faces, the beaming smiles, as we showed them how to open the casing and reveal the treasures inside: little toys and teddies. We did not, however, anticipate their lack of finesse with the chocolate eggs; many of them were eating them with the wrapper still on, screwing up their faces with distaste.
Equally shocking was the sheer enthusiasm of the teachers, ironically surpassing that of the children; they asked for an egg hunt themselves, which we musingly accepted, not expecting anything in particular. But we soon found out just how playful these women were.
When we were done laying the eggs, the teachers launched themselves – a whirlwind of sky blue and sea green saris – screaming in delight, fighting fervently for their claim, demanding that more be hidden. At one point we were practically showering them with eggs – utter madness.
Later, we found ourselves playing a game with the teachers which bore a curious semblance to tug-of-war; two teams would line up facing each other and recite a chant, then one member of each team would stand in the centre and pull at each other’s arms, trying to force the other into joining their team. This game quickly grew competitive, and soon random members of the public were joining in on either side.
Rumbling along on the bus during one of the crèche days, we suddenly found ourselves clogged in a massive traffic jam. This was different to the traffic we had experienced all week from the influx of tourists escaping to the cool mountains; people were exiting their cars and looking expectantly at the end of the road. We turned our heads, and soon we could hear it: more music. A sort of ecstatic, lively beat underlied by the murmurous tones of chanting and humming made its way up the hill to our ears. Then, the first swathes of people emerged from over the ridge. Followed by a jeep mounted with a speaker, they were dressed in colourful uniforms; the men wore white shirts, mustard ribbons and sun yellow skirts, and the women were in brightly decorated saris. Just at their tail, a shirtless man with a spear impaled horizontally through his lip, adorned with flower garlands, danced rhythmically. He led the way for a marching band, and behind them crowds of women carrying on their shoulders yellow and orange arch-like structures fitted with emerald peacock feathers. Finally, a troop of elaborately dressed individuals emerged from the religious mob. They were like living statues, ponderously carrying caricatures of thrones or magnificent hats – emblems of the gods. Seeing a Hindu celebration like that was truly phenomenal.
Grace Kids Centre
Grace Kids Centre was the site of most of our work; it was the largest of the crèches and was in a permanently established location. Construction of a proper stage began only a few days after arriving, with local builders being employed and concrete mixing taking place. For the artists among us, an empty room with industrial white walls provided the perfect canvas for creativity. The teachers made a few requests as to the content of the images, and then the students were left to their own devices. They did not disappoint. Soon, a charming sunset horizon of hazy mauve and shining vermillion was spread across one façade. On another, a flourishing rainforest bloomed in leafy greens and chocolate browns; and beside it, a tiger pouncing playfully at the light switch. Finally, a simple flowery meadow and a rainbow was drawn and painted. All of these images were overlaid with alphabets, numbers, days of the week, and various other pedagogical pictures – the room had metamorphosed into a sanctuary of learning.
The ‘Tribal Village’ Visits
One day we were offered the opportunity to visit a pair of ‘tribal villages’. Roughly half of us (the others visiting the second one later in the week) descended on precarious, bumpy roads into the remote stretches of the valley where we would find the village. It was uncomfortably hot; the sun was beating down upon us and searing our exposed skin. We carried in rice donations from the van that had followed us down, lumbering the heavy bags up a small hill. In the village, people had gathered in a small crowd, murmuring to each other, the children in their t-shirts and shorts shuffling uncomfortably. Like in a strange imitation of Christmas, we spread out to transfer the rice and small potted fruit tree saplings into expectant hands. It was a strange feeling receiving so much praise and awe – we ourselves had done very little.
Following a brief lunch hunched inside the bare concrete shed of a school, we followed Mr. Paramadas, the charity worker and our guide, around the village. Occasionally, we would stop in front of a tumbledown house and help with the planting of a tree; a symbolic action, really, as they were perfectly capable themselves, and we just ended up getting in the way. Some of the children had followed us, and watched nervously as we made our way across the dry dirt tracks. We tried speaking to them, but found the language barrier impenetrable; however, a few were able to imitate our words with flawless pronunciation – an impressive feat considering most Brits can hardly say ‘bonjour’ properly (myself included).
Finally, we paid a visit to the villagers’ most prized location – the women’s empowerment centre. Another concrete hall, this building was crowded with women beautifully dressed in saris. They approached us, tentative at first, then excitedly and with great enthusiasm, displaying a number of handmade garments and other paraphernalia; this was part of Mr. Paramadras’ work – providing a means of income for the women of this isolated community.
Although I did not visit it myself, the second village was, as I am told, destitute. Stricken by a 2018 cyclone, the village had lost nearly all of its animals and was still using tarpaulin that was donated by the last India trip. Nevertheless, the people persevered, despite gruelling conditions and terrible underemployment.
Cookstove Installation
As I mentioned, Kodaikanal, and perhaps India as a whole, is a place of great variance. When it came to my turn to participate in a cook stove installation, I was shuttled along with another student to a little village on the flanks of Kodaikanal. It was separated not only by the road that passed through its centre, but also by the distinct wealth gap: one side was lined neatly with rows of villas, disconnected and unconcerned with the world around them; while the other was a haphazard sprawl of houses, constructed with a strange combination of concrete, plastic, metal and wood assembled in varying shapes and sizes.
To enter the house where we would be installing the cookstove, we were forced to crouch down and shuffle through the semblance of a porch, but made of wooden posts and tarpaulin, and packed with goats. We were instructed on the method of spreading the concrete to create a seamless, flat surface on which to place the ceramic chimney. Masked, gloved and bent double, we took turns scattering rocks and lathering oozing concrete. The room was hot, musty and claustrophobic. At times we had to take breaks outside, and the lady who owned the house brought us all sweet tea. All the while, we chatted with the two workers, who explained that this was well over their one thousandth installation and asked us whether Israel was the same as Italy. We spent a lot of time explaining.
On the way back, we stopped at the Kodaikanal museum. It was probably one of the strangest experiences I’ve had in such a place. Having been constructed by Jesuits, the establishment had its fair share of religious items, an array of international coins dating back to the 18th and 19th centuries, and some local ancient artefacts including burial urns. Sharing the shelves with these items, however, was a line of jars with human foetuses in various stages of development and a domestic pig skeleton that was considerably larger than the nearby taxidermy bison (native to the area).
The Big Day
The days were beginning to count down until the end of our stay in India. Everyone was apprehensive to leave and anxious to get home. We celebrated our last days in the crèches with the children’s graduation ceremonies – an event of dance, cheer and a strange sense of solemnity. In Peach Tree’s ceremony, the headmaster of the local primary school came to give what I am told is his yearly speech (in Tamil) to the parents about family planning and managing provisions for the children’s education. After the children performed, a few of the girls took to the stage in saris given by the crèche teachers to dance, and Ms. Ryan was begrudgingly forced on at one point as well.
For all of us, the graduation ceremonies were some of the most memorable moments. It was a rare joy to see the parents so proud and emotional, and the children so unwittingly happy.
Tourists Again…
Gutted to be leaving all of the hard work and fun memories behind, we made our ways onto the coach and down into the stifling plains. We stopped only twice; once, to eat lunch in a hotel, and then at Brihadisvara temple in Thanjavur.
It was already dusk when we entered the intricate stone complex. We followed our guide, barefoot, listening intently, as he elucidated the mysteries of ancient hieroglyphic Tamil writing – scripture which even he could not read. He spoke of the architectural ingenuity that was the main temple, how the great Chola had to use several elephants to pull a giant monolithic boulder up a ramp kilometres long to create the dome. It’s hard to imagine such staggering wealth and power. We always credit the Greeks, the Egyptians and the Romans; but, ancient India has its fair share of engineering marvels.
We were also treated to visiting two more temples the next day in Mahabalipuram. These were different to the Thanjavur temple: less grandiose, novel in setting – shore temples. Soughing softly in the background, the subtle susurrations of the sea set a pensive undertone to the visit, as if the temple were whispering its secrets. The Bay of Bengal stretched endlessly into the horizon, a shimmering, shifting sheet of blues and whites. Pagodas dotted the fields, proud and beautiful, surrounded by a legion of lion monoliths. Quite stunning, really.
To conclude our time in Tamil Nadu, we went to Mamallapuram to see Krishna’s Butterball. A true geological mystery, the ‘Butterball’ is in fact a giant, freestanding, monolithic boulder. Despite the persistent efforts of the Cholas and their elephants, and the constant battering and weathering of monsoon weather, the Butterball has remained immobile and largely unchanged for hundreds, if not thousands of years. Before leaving the site, we treated ourselves to some fresh coconuts – a parting gift.
Now that our brief interlude of tourism was over, we were back to packing ourselves in and out of buses and hotels. It was night again, but this time instead of a temple we found ourselves in the airport. We hardly felt like we’d spent two weeks in India – we craved for more just as much as we yearned to return home to our families. Yet, there we were, filing into the aisles, finding our seats, preparing for the journey ahead.
When at last we made it through the arrivals gate in Geneva airport, smiling, though exhausted, we were greeted with open arms and beaming faces by rows upon rows of parents. We had made it.
A Special Thanks
I can’t thank enough all those who worked tirelessly to make this experience possible for us: Mrs. Shippey and Mrs. Ryan who coordinated the trip, got everyone involved and powered through paperwork galore; the other teachers Mr. Fyfe, Mr. Edwards, Margot, and Ms. Bora who managed to supervise rabble and helped us navigate through unfamiliar situations; our parents for their loving (and financial) support; all those in India who facilitated our arrival, travel, accommodation and activities; the CAS students who helped with fundraising; and the school administration, including Mrs. Sayed-Hassen, for their cooperation in organising and approving the trip despite difficulties.