GOING GLOBAL WITH LOCAL

I see an attitude problem with some big town journos. Exceptions apart!

They fly to small and slow towns wearing arrogant and almost repulsive vibe, groaning why the heck their editors dispatched them out of their cushy metropolitan cocoons to cover a local story. And so their stories will capture the pain they had had to suffer on the way to cover a story on, say, a farmer's suicide.

The story therefore turns out a journalist's painful journey rather than one about economic or social realities surrounding the subjects or stakeholders.

Mark Tully, the legendary BBC journalist, had an advice for us at the National Foundation of India's awards function in 2002.

"You are not the story", he reminded us, "you are the story-teller."

You can see the stereotypes when you read the stories from rural India in the national and international press: '...dusty countryside'; '...parched land'; '...no power, no road, no water.' Yet stronger metaphors: 'Hungry land'; 'Suicide country'.

The white man is slightly better, but not always.

Both these creatures para trooping to small towns to cover a global story are in some ways similar: They come to cover a story, and often, leave without one.

They tell a global story without even touching on local realities and invariably miss out on the threads that make a story worthy.

I sense a window of opportunities for small town journalists, like me.

The geographical and economic disadvantages that big town guys face provide us new opportunities. That drove the shift in my training plan at our mid-term seminar at the Poynter Institute in St. Petersberg earlier this month. How do you tell a local story to a global audience? Personal coaching sessions there helped immensely.

My new theme: Going global with local or vice versa. I had earlier taken a web-course on the Poynter's News-U: Covering global stories locally.

We can effectively tell local story globally by joining the dots, and a global story locally by studying the impact of global processes. Nothing new in there, except the way the faculties dealt with the subject.

The week at Poynter was undoubtedly stimulating. I learned as much from the faculty as I did from my re-charged co fellows.

The session on "how to teach" was real surprise. I look forward to using some of those tools to share whatever good I've learned on this program with the willing-to-learn fellow journalists. Thankfully, we have so few that sharing will be easier.

But this update is for the entire month:

So here's what I did through the month that saw some of my stories getting published in the Sun Sentinel. I did a couple of editorial blog entries too.

I spent the first week of July with metro-desk, covering courts. I did one story on a death sentence to a homicide convict, which was in line with one of my goals: how to write tight and crisp. The story was pruned to 250 words from 600 that I penned. That's how much could fit in the available space. Online version was slightly long.

That weekend, I attended a conference of the Florida Press Association at the historic Breaker Hotel in West Palm Beach with my mentor and editorial page editor of Sun Sentinel, Mr Antonio Fins. There was one session on multi-media that was of some professional interest to me, but it was an occasion to connect with media persons from across the sunshine state.

I returned to the business desk to finish two of my stories with Doreen Hemlock, and we did it before I headed for Poynter. Both the stories got published while I was at the Poynter. They got good displays and had multi-media presentation online.

One of the two stories was profiling a bagasse power plant against the backdrop of new energy bill passed by the Congress earlier this month; helped me understand the process of tight writing. It gave me an insight into the massive sugar sector.

The editor returned that story at least four times with questions and more questions to be clarified. Frustrating it was. But in the end, it was for the good.

Editors in the U.S. newsrooms will in seconds crush any ego you might have. They are unassumingly brutal.

Honestly, it's not easy to get your story through the several lines of editors here. All my friends in Nagpur, I must suggest, value your words and integrity. Facts come first. And they are paramount. Read your stories again and ask yourselves: "Is that true?" Writing a news story is not a piece of imagination or fiction. Editors back home too need to be more careful. For, their writings shape future journalists. Ergo sorry! I can't be preaching those who already are self-proclaimed intellectuals!

Post Poynter, I am working on a big project for the Outlook section slotted for the August 23rd edition. It's a comprehensive story on small farms in South Florida. And I am currently doing my field visits: a lots of them. I am taking the video too. The story will have sound slides, a glimpse of which we saw at Poynter. I am working with a photo-journalist on the project that would hopefully be my major take-home!

This story will meet all my goals: It will allow me to study the farm issue; write a narrative story, and learn multi-media skills (aka sound slides etc).

I plan to attend a small farms conference in Kissimmee, Florida, on August 1 and 2. That's when I meet small farmers, scientists and policy makers from Florida.

I spent the entire last week visiting farms. We are half way through. We will finish the visits this week. I plan to finish the writing as soon as possible to then work with the photo-editors on sound slides and possibly the video.

Next couple of weeks, while I work on this story, I would also do a couple of serious editorial pieces to meet my last goal: to write opinion pieces.

That's all about work and goals. Now beyond the work.

I explored new things in Florida. New sites and cuisine.

I was hosted by former travel editor of Sun Sentinel, Thomas Swick, and his wife, Hania, for dinner on the eve of my Poynter visit. Tom, an avid traveler, loves India. A visiting faculty at many journalism schools, he has much to share, particularly about travel writing.

After our Poynter seminar, I traveled with one of my mentors, editorial cartoonist Chaning Lowe, to Cape Canaverel, the Kennedy Space Center.

Kalpana Chawla's name is etched in the memory of every Indian. I saw her name etched on the memorial glowing bright in the Sun light.

I stood silent, paying homage to the woman, who chased her dream and left her legacy for millions of young Indians: To dream and chase it to fulfillment.




Last Saturday I went snorkeling with my main mentor Antonio Fins and his son Anthony. It was a thrilling experience to see colorful fish in its home.

Blue green waters in Key Largo hide fascinating coral reefs. I wasn't sure of swimming in the ocean. But as I buried myself deep into the waves, the world of reefs and marine life came to me in all its tranquility. I loved it.



There are many other tit bits. For now, I keep them to myself.

NO LUCK, WHEN IT COMES TO GAMBLING

Coconut Creek:

It could have made a superb souvenir: I, photographed right in front of a machine in the huge casino. But they won't allow me to take a picture inside!

I lost a dollar though. Click click click....two sevens rolling in; the third could have doled a jackpot for me! So close but not so close!

Florida has a ban on casinos; this one's not a Las Vegas. But native Americans can run casinos in their reservation. This one - in the Coconut Creek city that is home to the retired people - has one run by the Seminoles in their reservations.

The Seminole tribe pays significant revenues to the city from the casino in return of services such as water and security. The casino revenue is shared equally among the tribal clan. Each individual, even a new born, gets the share from the earnings.

We don't have casinos in my part of the world. We have other ways of gambling. And we are old gamblers. With no offense to anyone, it dates back to Mahabharata age!

So it was naturally an attraction for me to visit a casino.

Wow! That's what I said, when I opened the door to enter what seemed like a peaceful and simple plaza from outside. I expected it to be crowded going simply by the cars parked in its acres and acres of land with boards saying, pictures not allowed. It indeed was a crowded place, a reason, I felt, why the rest of the city is so quiet.

It was a noisy dimly-lit room, spread over easily a few acres, filled with smoke (because it's a reservation you can smoke here, while smoking is banned in public places in the city), with red and attractive carpet and equally dazzling ceiling, hundreds of people seated on the machines waiting for the lady luck to smile on them.

Average age of the gamblers -- by a cursory glace -- seemed between 60 and 70.

I saw almost a bed-ridden grand-ma painstakingly walk with the box-crutches, oxygen pipes running into both her nostrils, and a cigarette tucked between her middle and second finger (easily into her early eighties), desperate for a machine to play with for her luck. Another grey-haired, in his 70s, was catching nine winks while still at the machine, drained by the thrills of gambling. After some time I found him back to his game. Click click click....no luck! Click click click....try again!

The casino interiors are designed specially so that you stay put. It's a trap that customers easily walk into. Usually, a casino has no window or door that reveals the outside views. So that you won't know what time it is! If it's a day or night!

Casinos don't have wall-clocks. It's brightly decorated. Bright colors are to pump up your adrenaline. Young girls, with bare clothes, walk around with water and other beverages for you to drink free of cost, so that you stay hydrated and playful.

A big cafe offers loads and loads of buffet at cheap price so that there's a drive. The evenings are peppered with live bands, jazz, and live shows, adding elements of entertainment. Chances are if you've walked in to throw away 20 bucks; you'll spend 100.

I lost a dollar as a charming young girl explained how the machines work.

Pleasantly though, an Indian expatriate from Tamil Nadu, who works at the casino as its software programmer, was more than willing to show me the different programs in the gambling den. He said to me in Hindi, 'sirf dekho, khelo mat'. And I replied to him with a smile: "Koi nahi! Main apna purse gaadi mein hi chod aaya hun. Jeb mein sirf ek dollar hi laya tha, woh chala gaya hai, aab sirf dekh hi sakta hun!"

He smiled, and then showed me around.

The casino brought back to me one of the special moments from my college years. Each one of us treasure some moments from the past. This one matters so much to me!

Sometime during my graduation (I think it was the year that I lost while doing my B.Sc.), I was left with one rupee (two cents) and a week to go before my father would send me my monthly pocket money. I was studying at Nagpur and living in a small room. My parents had allowed me to study away from my home town of Chandrapur despite tight finances, for, it would give me a better exposure to life. They would pay directly for my food and lodgings, and give me a monthly stipend for my daily expenses. It used to be moderate, but good by our financial standings.

Idea, as I see reflecting back, was to provide me with a better life, but one that has to be lived within the means. Looking at the hardships they had to negotiate in their early lives, my parents gave me far more luxuries than most kids in India get.

My mother would ask me to save little bit every month from my pocket money for any eventuality. And I never ever did it. I could never save. It was a tough ask for me. It remains so even now. You can say I am very intemperate when it comes to saving.

But that month had been extravagant on many fronts. Left with only one rupee and a week still to go, I woke up nervous that day, and walked up to my tea stall: Sitaram chaywalla. I visit him even today for a cup of tea and some nostalgia.

I weighed two options on how to spend that last penny: Should I go for a cup of tea or should I buy a one-digit lottery from the vendor right opposite the tea stall and try my luck. Just in case it clicked, I'd have some money to go for the week!

I sat there for about two hours but did not drink tea. Sitaram could sense something was wrong with me that day.

After about two hours, I asked him to give me a full, hot cup of ginger tea. And I felt morally relieved! That tea, believe me, was the best I've had so far in my life.

It was the right and moral way of spending that rupee, I felt, as I resisted the temptation to gamble.

It's one thing to take a calculated risk, and quite another to gamble. At any given time, I would rather take a calculate risk than gamble.

Secondly it was a hard earned penny of my father, and I felt I had no right to spill it over like that. I was suddenly penniless, but my nervousness had gone.

Re-energized with a cup of tea, my mind was back to its senses.

Sitaram, who was like a friend, asked me what the matter was, and I told him frankly that I had run out of my monthly stipend a week before the month ended. I shared with him the dilemma that I faced for two hours, with a hearty laugh.

No sooner did I share with him the story, Sitaram took out from his pocket a bill of Rs 100, and said, you can borrow it from me and return in installments.

"Try to save every month as your mother says, and repay it to me," he said.

I do not know if was proper on my part to take money from him at that point. I could have asked my parents to send me money immediately and they would have done so, even if grudgingly. But I had no second thoughts about it. I took that note from him, and paid him in two equal instalments earnestly.

Sitaram 'chaywalla' is special to me. To him, I remain an equally valued customer to this date, except that he doesn't accept money from me for a cup of tea.

"You've paid your money," is his usual answer. We chat about the changing times, the good and the bad.

Losing a dollar bill at the casino here in the distant land however rekindled that nostalgic moment. It was fun to spend time at the casino, but painful to lose a hard-earned dollar.

I was happy that 16 years ago I had made the right decision.

MY FIRST PEACH...

Amazing, how super chains keep you blind to what's in and out of season.

You'll get mangoes almost round the season in a super-market. Frozen foods - ergo proteins and carbohydrates as food is commonly called here in the distant land - don't tell you what's in season and what's not. Last two weeks, hitting the road to see farms and countryside reaffirmed my belief: We mostly eat trash everyday.

Eating a packed peach from super store doesn't come anywhere close to eating a fresh and juicy peach or freshly plucked mango.

I had never tasted a peach. Last week I did. And thanks to the last remaining small road side fruit seller in Vero Beach, who travels all over Florida and Georgia to bring to his age-old customers, juicy peaches, or whatever is in season.

Willis, the only road-side fruit vendor in the whole of South Florida was out in the field, but his adopted daughter was more than happy to offer me a free peach.

I bought a basket to bring home the delicacy of this part. Peaches are in season now. In super stores, they'll be in season just when trees won't have the fruit.

I just ate my first star fruit. Don't know the name of two other fruits that I ate on the way straight from the trees. They were tasty. That's what I care about.