Remembering Michael Blakey

Introduction

Michael Blakey led an extraordinary life as a humanitarian development worker for the nonprofit Tong-Len. As one of the organization’s co-founders, he dedicated his time in northern India to empowering a poor slum community, located in a valley beneath the Himalayan foothills. At only 23 years of age, his passion for international development had already carried him across the globe to Uganda, Nepal, and India; far from his friends and family back in England, of whom he spoke dearly. Ironically, he wasn’t particularly fond of traveling, yet Michael seemed to gravitate towards the people with the greatest need. He found them in the slum of Charan, where he worked tirelessly to provide the people with the tools to improve their quality of life.

I knew Michael as a friend and colleague for only a short seven months while volunteering for Tong-Len as a maths and English teacher. During that brief time I observed his extraordinary impact on those around him. The people of Charan loved him as a member of their own family. Everyone relished his wonderfully dry sense of humor, which never seemed to falter even under the most challenging circumstances. His devotion to work was seemingly endless. Anyone who worked alongside him learned volumes from his profound understanding of effective development methods. “Michael was an inspiration to as all” (Anna Owen, Tong-Len Charity Director and fellow board member).

In December of 2006, Michael’s life was taken outside St. John’s Church in Dharamsala, India. Countless lives suffer in his absence; perhaps even millions will never experience the services he would have offered to the poor. To this day, his presence remains strong in the memory of those who knew him. But in Michael’s own words, “To think what could have been is a dangerous thing; it helps no one.” While it is impossible to find any sense in such a pointless, heartbreaking loss, the example Michael set during his brief yet powerful time on this Earth can continue in his absence.

The entry below documents just a few accounts of my experiences working alongside Michael, with contributions from some of his friends. At some point I would like to compile a more complete record of his work and his ideologies, but for now, I hope this brief snapshot of his time in India can serve as a small tribute to our dear friend and colleague.

Anecdotes

If asked about the circumstances surrounding his untimely passing, Michael Blakey would likely describe them as "completely nutters." He was (among many other things) a master of witty British colloquialisms, a quality that will always live on amongst his friends. He taught us a great deal about British vernacular, from duff (rubbish, useless) to ice lollies (popsicle), along with a few racy phrases that he taught us solely out of the concern that we might embarrass ourselves by unknowingly uttering them at an inappropriate time.

Michael always looked out for the well being of his friends and colleagues. More than a few times in India, I came down with particularly nasty cases of fever and diarrhea. Without fail, he always stopped by my disease-ridden room to check if I needed anything. He was deeply compassionate, though not very sentimental. If you needed medicine he’d hike down the mountain to find it for you, but if you wanted a hug it was best to look elsewhere. He had a very matter-of-fact approach to his work. It wasn’t his nature to cry over sick children living in poverty, or mourn a dying goat (more on that later), but he did do everything he could to help them with near-superhuman dedication.

In a typical week, Michael made daily visits down to a slum village in a valley of the Himalayan foothills, where he met with community leaders, assisted with the medical clinic, conducted research and vaccinated wild dogs for scabies. The commute entailed an hour jeep ride down winding mountain roads that emptied all but the heartiest stomachs. He regularly met with Indian government officials to provide voting rights and clean running water for the poor. On weekends he traveled across the hills and plains of northern India, riding on the back of a motorbike with a Tibetan monk, to visit slum communities and assess their needs. During what little spare time remained, he analyzed research on his laptop from the relative comfort of his chilly room in a monastery.

Somehow after all this, Michael still had time to kick back with his pals, catch the latest Bollywood film, share a meal of chipatis and vegetable korma and deliver rehydration salts to his colleague with recurring diarrhea. He was a reliable friend to all of us at Tong-Len.

If you found yourself in a conversation with Michael, or happened to be listening in on one, it was sure to be an enlightening – and entertaining – experience. He had opinions on just about everything, plenty of knowledge to back up his belief, and a dry sense of humor that seasoned his delivery with just the right amount of sarcasm. He didn’t see eye to eye with everybody all the time, and thank God for that - a disagreement with Michael surely followed with a lively (and always amiable) debate, chock full of educational tidbits. And most folks usually admit that if you thought Michael was wrong, you almost certainly discovered, sooner or later, that he was actually right. He was always easy going and good-natured about it, too, he never came across as arrogant or a know-it-all; though some would argue that he did, literally, “know it all.”

Personally, I never debated with Michael on much of anything, except on the really important topics – say, for example, which film adaptations of comic books best capture the essence of the hero/heroine. Instead, I threw questions and ideas at him, then listened (I wish I remembered more of those conversation – I learned so much from them). He taught me a great deal about sustainable development, and how he felt it should apply to our work in the slum. The term “sustainable development” has multiple uses, but we referred to the process of creating projects that “sustain” themselves independently, in other words, the project can run on its own with a minimal dependency on continual investment of resources (funding, human resources, and/or natural resources).

Michael and I were usually on the same page. We both admitted – perhaps with a hint of pride - to being “geeks,” as evidenced by our lengthy conversations about statistical methods and research (in our free time, no less). We discussed the merits of Amartya Sen, the Nobel Prize winning economist, versus Paul Farmer, the medical anthropologist (if you want to know more about what Michael stood for, read Amartya Sen. Michael respected Paul Farmer’s passion for helping the poor, but didn’t always agree with his methods), and we generally agreed on which actors best portrayed James Bond, Batman, and Doctor Who. We shared stories from our experiences in Uganda, where – coincidentally - we both volunteered (I helped build a brick house, while he did research for the King of Uganda and presented his findings on national television). Although I didn’t share his passion for Indian cinema to quite the same degree, I – along with the rest of the Tong-Len crew – fell in love with the musical antics of Bollywood superstars Shah Rukh Kahn and Preity Zinta. Nary a day went by when someone didn’t belt out one of the many memorable jingles from Kal Hoo Na Ho (Tomorrow may Never Come). On the evening of Diwali, the Festival of Lights, Michael, our friend Runa, and I sang some true-to-life renditions of hit Bollywood songs, accompanied by their guitars and the boom-crackle of fireworks overhead.

The children from Charan claimed Michael looked like Krrish, the Bollywood superhero. Michael expressed his bewilderment by this – “How could they think a skinny Englishman with glasses looks anything like a six foot, two hundred pound Indian superhero? It must be the long face and curly hair, I just don’t get it…” He admitted to being a bit flattered by the comparison. It's likely the kids saw him as a superhero, sans cape, mask and muscles. He did, after all, have the super powers of speaking Hindi; providing clean water, medicine, and education. Meanwhile, he and his colleagues all agreed he looked more like David Tennant, the actor who plays Doctor Who the actor who plays Doctor Who - the wily scientist who travels through time in a phone booth. But just as fact is always more fascinating than fiction, Michael had an even more unusual method of transportation.

I never saw Michael and Jamyang on the motorcycle together, driving cross-country to research other impoverished communities where Tong-Len could be of aid, but I hear they were quite an unusual sight. A monk on a motorcycle, red robes whipping in the wind, would be one thing; Michael’s tall frame hanging off the back seat is quite another. “I can’t imagine what these people must be thinking,” he mused, “when they see a Tibetan monk and lanky Brit drive up to their village on a motorcycle to talk to them.”

Tong-Len’s first founder, a Tibetan monk who relinquished monastic duty for service to the Indian poor, had tremendous respect for Michael and his hard work. Michael in turn held Jamyang in the highest regard, and always spoke fondly of his Tibetan counterpart. They worked together in Charan almost daily, on projects ranging from providing clean water and ration cards to better medical care and voting rights (families in Charan were denied suffrage as they came from outside states, notably Rajastan and Maharastra). Much of their work took them to various government officials, who responded with varying degrees of respect, compliance, or rejection. But despite the gravity of their work, they never took themselves too seriously, and took every opportunity to make fun of each other, or trick new volunteers with absurd stories. Amy recalled the time Jamyang yawned during a meeting, to which Michael teased, “So, Jamyang, late night last night with the ladies?” The first times I met them, they fooled me with some yarn about meeting the Indian Prime Minister. After a few moments of amazement and disbelief, Jamyang queued me in, “…Ha ha, just joking,” to which Michael added, “Watch out for that Jamyang! He’s full of stories.”

Michael’s sense of humor, unlike India during the monsoon, was dry, funny, and very British. He kept everyone around him laughing, even during the bleakest scenarios. Amy recalled their time working together in the medical clinic: While she was bandaging wounds, Michael would lean over to the patient and quietly say in Hindi, “Looks like we’re going to have to cut off that limb…” For just a moment, the patient’s face would sink into a grim expression, only to erupt into laughter the moment they noticed Michael smiling. He poked fun of all of us without ever belittling anyone, and we returned the same. I repeatedly tried to mimic his accent, but I never did get it quite right; he always informed me that my attempts resemble the wrong region of England. I think our most heated discussion was over whether or not a certain document should be organized in a chart or paragraphs; he adamantly defended the “organized, British way of keeping things neat and organized in little boxes,” versus my “barbaric American methods.” Of course, he was right. The boxes won, and the Tong-Len curriculum remains neatly organized to this day. This was the first of many lessons I would learn about development work.

Namaste, namaste, namaste from Charan

Today was my last day in Charan. Was a pretty challenging morning, walking down to the camp knowing that this would be the last time I see the kids. I arrived early so I sat up on the road looking down on those black tents, pondering everything that's happened around this little community and how it has impacted me. Part of me wanted to turn around and go back so I wouldn't have to say so many stupid good byes. I hate good byes.

Three army trucks rumbled past, filled with soldiers wearing camoflage and turbans. They stopped at the tail end of what looked to be a traffic jam at least a kilometer long. At the source of the congestion, two trucks faced each other head on, locked in a standstill in the middle of a single lane bridge (the other lane under construction). Behind each of the stubborn vehicles, an endless line of drivers waited patiently with blank expressions on their faces, as if this was a regular occurance. The absurdity of the situation cheered me up enough to walk to the school tent and get things rolling.

Ritu, one of my more advanced students, taught a simple lesson to the younger children. "Excellent," she praised her peers for answering a question correctly. I chuckled with pride; I taught her to say that. Ritu completed her lesson to applause from the other students (they are incredibly supportive of each other). Most of the day I had the older children take on teaching roles while I gave cueues from the sidelines. Foreign volunteers don't stick around forever, but a local community Pradhan (chief) can work wonders. I know some of the students will become teachers and leaders in Charan. Others may even take larger leadership roles within the government, if their low caste status doesn't hold them down.

After class we played a game - they made sure I won. I attempted to say some words of inspiration, thanked them for being such great students, then began my long, sad walk out of the camp. It's hard not to feel a bit choked up with three kids hanging on to my shins asking me not to leave, with another hanging onto my arm (quite good exercise, lifting kids), and a fifth trying to lift me off the ground. I should point out that the children are extremely well behaved (well, most of the time) during class; such shenanigans are not permitted until after learning time stops. I've had to do my share of scolding, too, but right then and there I felt far to warm and fuzzy to do anything but smile and laugh. Blasted kids... Leave it to them to make a softy out of me!

Along the way a gaggle of 12 year old girls (also my charming students) surrounded me and wouldn't let me leave unless I gave them my phone number in the US, even though none of them have phones and if they did they couldn't afford the long distance fees. I wish women my age fought so fiercely to get my number. Just kidding.

Kashmiri Lal, one of the community leaders, came along to say goodbye. He held his baby son in the crook of his elbow while he shook my hand with both of his. "Tell your family we wish them namaste, namaste, namaste, very much."

My boggled mind can hardly comprehend how wonderful some of the people are. They have nothing and yet they are so happy, so sincere, and so giving of themselves. Little Ajay, who shines shoes for ten cents a day, offers me his crackers; meanwhile his neighbors, who collect rubbish for less than ten cents a day, want to make me chai and cook me dinner. Half of the little ones have one parent (or none), work all day, but still show up for school with big smiles, bubbling energy and impeccable (well, most of the time) manners. To be fair, there are some unfortunate cases of alcholism, domestic abuse, and, well... Obviously there's a lot of room for improvement, but there's no harm in focusing on the positives once in a while.

I will miss Charan. Almost everything about it.

A typical day...

This is where I eat breakfast.

This is where I buy ammo.

...and this is where I go to the gym. That's me on the left, as you can see I've put on some muscle (bonus points if you can find the secret dog).

Worth remembering.

"Developing countries have done the least to contribute to climate change and will be the first to face it."
-United Nations Framework on Climate Change document

Blue Sikh

By now you must be "Sikh" of reading about my trip to Amritsar. Har har...

But seriously, I felt a lot of sincere generosity there. Usually when strangers approach me in India they want to sell me something or ask for food/money/photo, but in Amritsar folks said 'hello' solely for the sake of friendly conversation (mind, this is not to say there aren't plenty of sincere & generous folks elsewhere in India). And all that tasty food at the Golden Temple, just given away for free! I didn't even have to wash my own dish!

Speaking of generosity, I would have left India some time ago if not for the hospitality of the folks from the Charan slum (I hate calling it a "slum." What an awful word - "slum" sounds like something that gets gummed up in a drainpipe. The term accurately describes the difficult living conditions, but does no justice to the quality of the inhabitants). Times have been a bit rough as of late (more on that later), but it's those cheeky kids and their surprisingly cheerful families that keep me around.

So shiny!

Golden temple, Amritsar, at midday. Each day tens of thousands of Sikhs travel to and around its shiny splendor. The temple itself houses the Sikh holy book, a massive tome, from which passages are sung (quite beautifully, accompanied by drums) over speakers. I spent may a day walking around the perimeter, enjoying the soothing tunes and upbeat beats echoing across the holy water.

Hospitality of the Sikhs

Finally skipped town for a much needed change of scenery. Visiting the Golden Temple in Amritsar, Punjab, near the Pakistan border. This is the most holy place for Sikhs, where tens of thousands of pilgrims travel daily.

Sikhs are known for their colorful turbans, impressive beards, and the occasional saber - long swords are sheathed at the side, shorter daggers are tucked into the turban. Based on my limited knowledge, there are similarities to both Hinduism and Islam in architecture and style of worship, along with some key differences. The Sikhs' disregard for the caste system, their belief in equality between kings and beggars, sets them apart from Hinduism. They have a grisly history of conflict with their Hindu and Muslim neighbors, portrayed in rows of grim paintings lining the walls of the local museum.

'Been enjoying free meals and residency at the Temple. Hospitality here is incredible. 60,000 visitors are fed delicious vegetarian meals each day, free of charge. I entered the massive dining hall, recieved my plate and watched with amazement at the clockwork system that feeds so many mouths. Everyone sits in long lines, servers move down each line with buckets of rice, dal, and chipatis, filling each plate as they pass. As each row finishes their meals, a massive squeegee is pushed down the line, mopping up spills, leaving the marble floor sparkling. Amy was hear a few months back for a friend's wedding; for more details be sure to read her entry.

Last night another westerner brought some birthday cake to the temple dormitory. He offered some to the Sikh guard, who strode up to him, gave him a stout hug and wished him "Happy Birthday." He turned down a spoon, favoring instead a foot long curved dagger that he unveiled from his robe. He proceeded to eat the cake with it, crumbs falling into his long white beard.

Will post photos once I get back to McLeod Ganj.