Malaria?

Tuesday afternoon, on my way home from visiting with my friend Amber after work, I noticed I was feeling a little "odd." It felt like my brain was a little disconnected from my body, and I realized I was really tired. I was supposed to go running with my friend Julie that evening, but I knew I'd have time for a nap before I went back in to town.

By the time I got home and crawled into bed, I was getting very cold. I slept until my alarm went off, and struggled to emerge from my sleepy haze. It's amazing how rapidly exhaustion can hit, and fevers along with that.

Later that night when I finally took my temperature it was 102.4. It would hoover there for the next several days.

I saw the doctor on Wednesday and he wanted a blood test to see if malaria was showing up positive. Thursday I cancelled my classes and spent the day in bed soaking through 5 changes of clothes from the sweats. By10PM I was so worn out from the fever and my bed was so soaked from my sweating that I pulled out a pile of towels beside my bed and laid one out, slept on it until it was too wet to be comfortable, and then replaced it. Miserable just doesn't accurately describe that day.

The lab hadn't come back positive on Friday, but we took another test, and then another today. The fever is down to about 100 today, but I think the fatigue is worse. I find myself doing things in small increments, with long stretches of naps between activities. For example, I've responded to 2 emails and am now writing this blog, and I'm utterly exhausted again. I slept from 5pm-11pm, and now it's time to sleep again.

If this is malaria, hopefully I can get some kind of eradication medication prescribed on Monday when I see the doctor again. Of course, malaria never actually goes away - it's a parasite in your blood that reproduces in your liver and then goes out into your body and infects more red blood cells. I could be fighting this in various forms for the rest of my life. I think the meds can at least help control the outbreak of it, though. If this ISN'T malaria, however, we have no idea what's going on and that might be worse.

Final moments

Needtobreathe sings, "Shine on, shine on, and let the other see, you've had your victory, will you remember me?" I've had those lyrics in my head all day (along with Katy Perry's "California Girls" because I heard that in a coffee shop yesterday - ugh), and have been sentimentally thinking of these past 2 weeks in India.

Stephanie and I got caught in an absolute monsoon DELUGE on our way to the grocery store this afternoon. I was glad we did, because it's such a normal, every-day-in-India thing to happen. We stood huddled under a tiny umbrella next to a bank, attempting to semi-respectably dry, laughing as the water soaked higher and higher up our "harem" style pants. After we finally gave up on the waiting and decided to just take our chances and deal with the stares (as if that's new!), it was like my eyes had been washed sparkling clean to the details of the streets: I saw the construction bricks and the piles of mud all over the place, and mangled-tangles of electrical wires haphazardly hanging from a post, and the worker who had filled up a dump truck with dirt using a wicker basket, his back, and a ladder to climb in order to dump the fill into the bed of the truck. I'm going to miss the adventure of precipitation events in such quantities to interrupt normal activities to the extent that those very interruptions become normal.

There will be other things too: I'm already mourning the loss of the daily - often hourly - reminder of the persistent needs that continue to abound in the world: milk for small children living on the streets, bits of tarp for the rickshaw pullers who sleep in their tiny rickshaws, a strong arm and kind hands to help a blind woman relieve herself in the bathroom rather than having to lay in her own filth, clean bandages and antibiotic ointment for old wounds, and cooked rice and sauce for the starving. These are things I know in my head, but sometimes - often - my heart forgets them. I don't want to forget them, but I'm scared that I don't know how to remember.

This trip has brought questions to the surface that I didn't know I had. How can God be merciful to some people, and not to others? How can He be just to some people, and not to others? How can He allow such sick, disgusting, abominable sins (like children being sold into prostitution) to even exist in the world? I don't understand. But I remind myself that I don't have to understand - it's not my job to understand, and it's not my right to understand.

India - somehow - has managed to worm her way into the deep recesses of my heart: heat, bites, humidity, vomiting, squatty-potties, stares, mud, and all. She's given me the gift of herself, imperfect, ununderstandable, and crazy as she is. If I cannot accept her like she is, how can I accept anyone or anything as they are?

It's monsooning outside. Jake and I are walking out the door to catch our taxi. How typical India is that? I love it!

2 poems

Sleeping with Why:

You are there in my bed when the first peekaboo game
with the sun starts,
consuming my attention with your big eyes like
the dots at the bottom of
question marks.
You bore holes in my throat, leaving
empty
space.
I wish I could stuff it with breakfast or coffee
or maybe fill it with lunch dates and dinner
plans in pencil,
but like a parasite, you stay
deep in the dark of my stomach
leeching energy and ambition and
nutrients from this host:
Why? Why? Why?


Waking with Pride:

What pride abides within my heart.
It's selfish charm pollutes
like gravy scraped into buckets
of sudsy dishwashing soap,
flavoring every glass and spoon with
salty beef.
It pickles my kind acts into
vinegary-chunks,
and osmosis pulls their waters
away from needy
cells, leaving them dry and barren.
It colors my eyes into green dragons
fighting for treasures to hoard
It wishes judgment on others and mercy on itself
building - brick by brick -
a wall of hardened vile between me and love.

Comforts and discomforts and the search for cobra venom

I think one of my favorite places in the world is inside a bookstore. No matter where on this planet the outside address indicates, the interior of these fine establishments maintain a continuity that has a way of becoming my instantaneous link to sanity. In a bookstore, I can sit on the floor in some corner (usually my favorite section is the social commentary/self help/psychology section) and forget that I'm apparently the equivalent of some kind of strange circus animal on the loose to every person who passes by. Bookstores always have a similar smell, and the sight of all those perfect (or even less-than-perfect) bindings, arranged on shelves or tables or in stacks, are like familiar family faces at the airport when you exit the immigration screening section.

Today I wandered around town for a couple hours before meeting up with Jake. Or, at least, wandering was the plan. Instead I read chapters from Malcom Gladwell's book, "What the Dog Saw," and some minister's collection of inspirational and thought provoking musings. I also browsed some Asian folktales (in the kids section), some Indian literature (lots of love triangles and/or forbidden love), a healthy-eating cookbook (incorporating some fabulous sounding Indian dishes), and a book titled, "How to Avoid Falling in Love with a Jerk," or something equally intriguing.

It rained outside while I was sitting on my woven "poof" in the corner, but I only know that because when I finally checked the time, realized I needed to go meet Jake, and exited out the clear glass doors, there were huge puddles engulfing the streets and enough humidity to render my hairspray obsolete.

Jake and I walked around the corner to the Indian Museum, where I proceeded to be rather unimpressed by the appalling lack of Indian history represented, but thoroughly enjoyed the cultural anthropology profiles room on randomly selected Indian people groups. There was also a formaldehyded display of an 8-legged calf embryo, a human fetus, a 2-bodied/1 headed cat, and a cycloptic goat. Disturbing.

We also hit up the Botanical Gardens ("The Chocolate Affair" happened last night with my hosts for dessert. I have no words to describe it. Anything I come up with would be inadequate. I think chocolate crepes with freshly melted chocolate fudge topping might be my love language.), where I looked and looked and looked for a cobra. And then I looked some more. I even tried to bait one with my mosquito-gnawed white ankles as I went to pose on a bench for a photo, but to no avail. The resident cobras just didn't want to visit. Too bad. I was rather intrigued by the largest-in-Asia Banyan tree canopy, though (if you were a snake, wouldn't that be a great place to hang out? Square meters upon square meters of slithering space far above the ground. Yeah, I thought so too. Or to play tag on.), which is one of the Garden's main attractions.

Now I'm sitting here on my couch-bed, listening to my "Train" station on jango.com (Pandora doesn't work outside the US... but Jango does!), scratching at my various bites like a dog with ticks. My nightly cold showers don't even seem to be helping, but that's really OK. Since I'm facing the looming reality of getting on a plane and leaving India behind me shortly, I find myself making generous allowances for the inconveniences of inhabiting this lovely, exciting, colorful, crazy, chaotic country.

I don't really want to leave.

blossoms, blood suckers, and bad branches

Today is the day the nuns reserve for prayer and solitude each week, so the volunteers get the day off. Eli and I got up this morning and had cereal at the coffee table, sitting on the marble floor. The marble floor is a fantastic element of this house, particularly when 22 liter jugs of water spring leaks and geyser water all over the living room, or other 22 liter jugs of water slip out of slick fingers and burst open on the floor, both of which happened last night (at least we know the floor is clean). After breakfast, we built an elaborate Thomas the Tank Engine track in Eli's room, until the smell of ripe diapers sent me back to my nook.

Jake and I went to the flower market in one of the slums, which was easily the most "Indian" experience I've had. When I thought of India (prior to coming), I pictured crowds of people jostling each other, mud and muck, and traffic chaos. While all of those exist at minimal levels all over Kolkata, the flower market was the most concentrated form of it I've seen. Defying modesty, I rolled my pants up to my knees so the 4 inches of constant mud slime would not stain the bottom of my most comfortable, harem-style trousers.

Perhaps it was that audacious move that resulted in the groping session that ensued. While Jake and I were attempting to slither through a particularly packed section of the market, we got separated. If people could morph into a river, I would have drowned in the rapids; I was carried along by the movement of bodies under the bridge. I think 90% of my body was in physical contact with another body for about a minute, and in that minute, there were some extra friendly Indian hands. It's a strange feeling to realize you really have no influence on this crush of people surrounding you - my hands couldn't both brush the hand off my right hip and the hand on my left thigh and the hand on my stomach and the hand on my chest all at once. So, like any good American girl, I screamed! Just kidding - I kept my mouth shut and a steady movement forward until I was out of the bottle neck, where I straightened my bothersome scarf, brushed a few stray hairs into place, and waited for Jake to catch up with me.

Jake had to go get his Indian visa this afternoon, so I left him at his place and wandered off to the Park Street Cemetery. Apart from being inside my hosts' four walls or in a quiet corner of Prem Dan, it's the only place in India I've experienced where I haven't been surrounded by people staring at me. It was glorious.

The Park Street Cemetery is full of my other expectation of India: old, regal, domed roofs; stately columns; and lush greenery attempting to reclaim the land from the scars of the British Empire. There are countless mausoleums crammed into the walled garden, and the jungle-ish Banyan trees create a shade cover that is a welcome respite from the humid sunshine of the streets. Unfortunately, while I might have been the only human to appreciate that haven while I was there, apparently it was the local mosquito hot spot also. Good thing I brought my anti-malarials (bummer I haven't been taking them...)!

On the way home from the cemetery, a very strange and unusual thing (even for India, I think) happened: a tree attacked me. I was walking along the motor parts block, where not only do they supply horns for apparently all the cars, bicycles, autorickshaws, and bicycle rickshaws of Kolkata, but they also fix and test any horns that might not be producing the desired decibel level. It's like being in a blender of horn noise, which I would imagine Dante would have made one level of hell if horns existed when he was daydreaming in southern Italy. Apparently the trees along that sidewalk are either possessive of their turf, or they don't like the noise any more than I do. One of them decided to perform spring cleaning or shed some excess weight, and down came a branch on my head.

I was confused. It could have been the noise, or the stars filling my vision, but I stood in the middle of the sidewalk and turned circles like an idiot for probably a good five minutes (they should have used me as a money-making display: "Ten rupees to see the foreign woman rotisserie like a chicken! Step right up, folks!"). I kept expecting someone to make some kind of indication that they saw the tree branch fall and hit me and were also surprised by it, or that they were sorry such a tragedy had occurred to me on their street, but instead they just simultaneous tilted their heads to the right a little bit and looked at me curiously. Maybe they thought Allah or my great-great-grandfather was mad at me.

At any rate, I finally stopped turning around in circles, I pulled some bark out of my hair, straightened my bothersome scarf (I might be developed Tourette's syndrom - that particular move is rather like a tic), and continued on my merry way.

I want to try to find a cobra at the botanical gardens this afternoon, if it stops raining, and perhaps try out this delectably-named place called "A Chocolate Affair" (if I can find it - my brain seems to be suffering some sporadic system issues). Maybe, if I'm lucky, snake poison or an overdose of chocolate would make today more interesting.

What is an adult?

Loles is my Spanish friend. She is beautiful. I find that most Spaniards have an innate beauty to them. Loles has shoulder-length, blonde-highlighted hair that curls loosely in the humidity. Her eyes are a rich hazel. Her face is thin, with delicate cheekbones and nose and chin and forehead. Her teeth are white and straight, and her eyes are set back into her head, giving her a wizened look.

Loles often works next to me on the laundry line at Prem Dan. Her English is very good (which is fortunate, because my Spanish is very bad - we tried Italian for awhile, but my Italian is equally poor, so English became our default), so we talk about India, the residents of Prem Dan, our experiences traveling, and our families. In the multiple hours I've stood next to Loles wringing out laundry, she's never mentioned being married. This surprises me, because Loles is probably in her 30s, and she is very beautiful. She has a career and an apartment in Madrid, and she is a very calming, soothing person to be with.

I asked her today, "Loles, are you married?" And she smiled a little and shook her head. "No, no I am not." It was my turn to shake my head, "The men in Spain must be stupid! I think you would be a good wife and mother!" She laughed, "Thank you Daniela, this is very kind thing to say. And you? You have husband in America?" I shook my head again, "No, no I do not." She shrugged, "Well, this is OK. You have time." She winked at me.

It was quiet for a moment while we wrung out purple plaid sheets, then she said, "I think maybe someday I would like to be married, you know? But I have never met anyone and I do not spend my time wishing to be. I volunteer a lot with my time now, because I do not have family and children. Maybe someday this be different, if God wants me to be married, but it is good life."

I nodded (we do a lot of descriptive body-language indications around here to help with the multi-lingual communication) and said, "I think I am learning that with every thing we choose, and every decision we make, we make another decision to not choose something else. Not being married gives me freedoms to do things like come to India for 2 weeks."

"Yes!" She said, "My sister has three children, and she says to me, 'Loles, I am so jealous that you go to India!' and I say back to her, 'But I am jealous sometimes that you have a family.' We are both jealous for the thing we do not have, but we make the decision to be what we are."

I nodded, "I know. I think, for me, until I am always content and at peace - tranquil - with where I am, like, right now and the decision I have made, here, in my present reality, I cannot be content just by making a different decision, because then that decision will be my present reality, and I will just be discontent there. I do not think being content and tranquil should be about my circumstances and the things around me. I think it needs to be about my attitude."

She made "hmm"ing sounds, and finally said, "Si, si, I think this is true. I agree."

Our conversation made me wonder about adulthood. I think, as I try to figure out what being "an adult" means, I've been learning that whatever it entails, if I choose to be thankful for my blessings (and I have a lot of them!), it makes doing whatever my adult responsibilities are much easier.

One of those things might be dealing with disappointment. The disappointment of the last 24 hours is that my cousin got his passport and wallet stolen on the bus yesterday on our way home from Prem Dan. We were supposed to leave Kolkata on a night train for Darjeeling last night, arrive in Darjeeling this morning, spend today and tomorrow there, then catch the night train back to Kolkata Thursday night. Darjeeling is India tea-growing country at the base of the Himalayas, and from Darjeeling, on a clear day, one can see Mt Everest and various others of the worlds tallest mountain peaks. I love being up high. I'd love to be in the heights of the Himalayas. But because of the passport incident, Jake had to report to the US Consulate this morning to get his replacement passport, and tomorrow he'll report to the Foreign Affairs office to get his India visa replaced, so he's out for the trip. I almost left last night on my own, but there was a chance that Jake would get all the paperwork stuff done today, in which case I thought we might be able to catch tonight's train up to Darjeeling and just be there one day.

No such luck.

While I'm disappointed, I decided I'd rather look at the bright side here (and trust me, it's almost blinding!). Since it's cooled off considerably the last 2 days, Kolkata isn't nearly as miserable as it was last week, thus, a trip to the cool Himalaya mountains doesn't seem quite so vital (yes, I know, I'm a wimp!). Also, I get another day to hang out with my friends here, and since I haven't done all that much wandering around to see the tourist things in Kolkata, I'll get to do that as well. In addition, I'll be able to work at Prem Dan and Diya Dan on Friday, and Prem Dan on Saturday before I leave, and interact with both the residents and the other volunteers more. I can take more pictures here of the city. It's cheaper to stay put. We don't have to deal with the stress of getting ourselves up and back or the uncomfortable sleep on a night train. And, we also don't have to worry about not making it back in time for our flight on Saturday.

There is much to be thankful for! Including the fact that I have the choice to be thankful or not. And that's a beautiful thing!

Per che?

Today during tea at Prem Dan I met two young men from Italy. I think their names were Davide and Giovanni. They are here in Kolkata for a month with their father and two other young Italian men.

I'm always curious to find out where the other volunteers are from and why they are here. The two gals I've spent the most time talking to are Loles, from Madrid, and a British gal that I've never learned the name of, from somewhere south of London. Loles has come to Kolkata to work with the Missions of Charity three times now. She said, "I do not know why I come, but somehow I always end up back here. It is like... what is the word? Like magnet. Even when I feel like death in this heat, it is still magnet." I like Loles. She always seems to radiate calmness from her. Today she was sitting with a resident that had grabbed her hand and used it for a pillow. "It is so sad that many of these women, maybe, they have never known love, no? They have problem physically or in their head, and nobody ever loved them. They are just there," she said while she cradled the woman's face in her hand.

Jason, the volunteer I wrote about earlier from Dallas, came to India to write. He taught English at a high school in Florida for two years, then in Korea for four years, before quitting last year and coming to India. He's been here since January, and will go home in November. He did go home to the States for his Mother's wedding over the summer, but otherwise he's just here. He spends every morning working at Prem Dan - sweeping floors, wringing out laundry, hanging it up to dry, bathing and feeding the residents, and then every afternoon he writes on his book or his blog. I asked him if he'd read "Eat, Pray, Love," and he said yes, he had. I asked him if that's sort of what this year was about for him, and he said maybe there were some similarities, but really, they're quite different. Of course, when you travel or live somewhere outside of what you're used to and comfortable with, there is some growth and development, but he also said that he didn't want his time here in India to be completely selfish. He wanted to be bettering the world and serving in some way.

Today Giovanni and Davide's father was talking across the way, and I heard him mention that faith is seen by our actions: "I know a man who come to me and say, 'I spend five hours today praying.' I think, 'Wow, this is very good!' but then I ask him, 'Per che? Why do you pray? Is it make your life better? Is it make you a better man?' because, you see, if our actions do not match our faith, then this is not faith." I'll admit, I was intrigued! Since I'd heard the dad mention he was from Venice, I turned around to one of the sons sitting behind me and struggled in Italian to say that I'd been to Venice and that I thought it was beautiful. That started a friendly conversation with Davide, and then I asked him, "Why did you come to Kolkata to work?" He beckoned his brother over - who speaks better English due to living in Chicago for a summer - and responded that he felt there is much we can and should learn from the poor. We think we come to serve - and in a way we are serving - but we also need to learn about the side of life that we haven't necessarily experienced because of our privileges. This makes us better, more understanding people. It helps us be sympathetic and loving to all people.

I told him I thought he was a philosopher. The brothers laughed. Apparently Giovanni is the one studying philosophy (and theology), Davide dropped out of school for awhile, but is going back as soon as they return to Italy.

Then they asked me, "And you? Why are you here?"

That's a question I've been asking myself. It took me a moment to articulate my answer. Finally I said, "Well, I love to travel, and I have never been to India before, so I thought I would come. I also know that when I travel, it is fun and rewarding, but when I combine travel and working - volunteering and serving somehow - it is more rewarding. So I guess I wanted to come to Kolkata so that I could not only see part of India, but also so that I could give back to India. But even more than that, in my Bible, I read that God loves me, and God loves other people. I also read that I am supposed to love God and love other people. I think that love is not just a feeling. We see love and experience love through actions. I cannot speak the language here, so I cannot tell the people that I love them and that God loves them, but I can feed them food, I can clean up their mess when they don't make it to the toilet, I can wash their laundry, I can change their sheets, I can hug them and touch them, and in this way, I can show them love."

You should have seen the smiles on their faces! Davide said, "I think we have many similar ideas!" and Giovanni commented, "I am jealous of your understanding of the Bible. In Italy - in Catholicism - we do not always read the Bible so much. We think it is so big, so important, we stay away from it. But in America, there is open mind. You read the Bible and talk about it. You have friends who think the same way you do, no? You can discuss and teach each other? I wish we had this in Italy."

Then they asked me how I share the gospel with people at home in America. I explained that I always want to be prepared to speak and tell of what I believe, but more so, I think the gospel is best conveyed through relationships: "All humans want relationships. Friends, family, marriage, community. It is how we are made. I think God did that on purpose. He is all about relationships - he wanted a relationship with us, that's why he became human in the form of Jesus Christ, so he could make a way for us to have a relationship with him. The love of God and the heart of God, I think, is best communicated by genuine love for other people. So mostly I try to share the gospel through friendship and caring for people."

"Yes, sister!" Davide said before they both gave me high fives and went back to work in the men's section. I didn't see them after we finished working, but I'm hoping and praying that I'll get a chance to see and talk with them more on Friday or Saturday, once we get back from Darjeeling. I would like to give them my email address and invite them to stay in touch with me so we can talk about what the Bible says and what we're learning.

I'm sitting here thinking back on my motives for coming before I came, and how I've seen those motives further develop and alter now that I'm here. I can't help but wonder if a small part of the reason I'm here right now was just so that I could have that conversation with those guys. I pray that God would put a fire in their bones to truly know Him through His word.

The Raj Revenge/Dehli Belly/Kolkata Chunks

This blog cannot in any way actually give a proper, full perspective of my time here in India, however, I am trying to represent it to the best of my ability.

Thus, I feel it would be unfair of me to not report on the development of the last 24 hours.

I remember being warned several times that I would get sick when I went to India. I expected it, but was hoping it wouldn't be too bad (my friend Bryan would say, "Prepare for the worst, hope for the best, it'll probably be somewhere between those extremes."). I prepared by bringing Imodium tablets and a general antibiotic prescription. I've been either drinking bottled water or filtered water. I haven't tried too many street foods. I've been cleaning all my fruit with grapefruit seed extract. I thought I was safe.

Apparently I thought wrong. Yesterday I was fine. Last night I went to bed feeling like my stomach hurt. Between midnight and 7AM, suffice it to say, all my hydration efforts of the proceeding day were completely obliterated. I turned off my alarm to get up and go to work after I threw up for the second time. The night was still young at that point.

By the time my hosts woke up, I think my system had pretty much performed a complete cleanse. I told them I wasn't going to work, I took their suggestion that I just let my body finish the poison-extraction process, I tried to sip some water (it turned my stomach), and then rolled over and went back to sleep.

That's pretty much where I stayed for the rest of the day. I did move from my office/bedroom into the back bedroom so life here at the house could sort of continue as normal as possible. When my friend and wonderful nurse/host brought me the Indian equivalent of Gatorade this evening, nothing has ever tasted so good. Good old fake orange flavor!

I haven't eaten anything yet, but I'm thinking I might be up to a banana and some toast. And then... my bed is looking awfully good (again)!

Squats

Back in the PI days (Pre-India) I would perform wall sits while I was brushing my teeth. It was a convenient way to make sure I did them, and since I can be an excessive toothbrusher, it was a handy way to make sure I don't brush all the enamel off my teeth. I'd just brush until my legs wouldn't hold me any more (or I didn't want to make them), and then I'd be done and ready to move onto one-armed flossing and push ups (just kidding).

I haven't been as good about doing that this last week. In fact, I haven't done it at all. But I have discovered an alternative lower body work out.

Are you going to try this with me? Get up off your chair and squat. Squat down - as far as you can go. Now notice, are you balanced on your toes or set back on your heels? Settle back onto your heels. Try to keep your back straight. You have now assumed a common posture of the Indian life. Hold this position.

Let's think about this. What do women living in 3rd-ish world countries do with all their time? Since this is a fairly traditional culture, they mostly have traditional roles, specifically taking care of their family's needs. This probably includes things that lots of wives/moms in America do: food, laundry, childcare, and keeping of the home specifically. In America we have microwaves, ovens, and stovetops; on the streets of Kolkata there are open fires for food. In America we have washer machines and dryers and high powered detergent; on the streets of Kolkata there are fountains gushing water 24/7. In America we have walls and gates and childfriendly cupboard locks and door handles; on the streets of Kolkata there are racing cars, walking people, and money to be made by all the members of the family. In America we have vacuums, mops, brooms, and dustpans; on the streets of Kolkata there are (sometimes) tarps over a "home," and a gathering of branches to brush at the dirt and brick "floors."

To cook their food, Indian slum women squat around fires. To wash their laundry, Indian slum women squat around fountains. To care for their children, Indian slum women squat at their level. To sweep their homes, Indian slum women squat low to the ground.

Are you feeling the awkwardness of that position yet? Do your knees or hips hurt? Do your legs burn?

I haven't clocked it, or looked into statistical studies, but I think it's a fair guess to assume that Indian women spend the vast majority of their life in this position. This assumption is based on the obvious fact that it's a handy position, but also the fact that squatting is a very low-profile thing, and in a male-dominant society, it isn't ridiculous to assume women would want to stay low. I also assume this position is common because of the large numbers of women in the Prem Dan house that perch on benches or the floor like little birds, with their knees up around their shoulders, either watching the world around them, or watching a world I cannot see.

While I'm not living in the slums, I do assume this position to wash dishes, care for kiddos, and clean the floors (and, of course, as my Spanish friend pointed out today, "This is how they use the toilet in this country." He went on to shake his head sadly at me squatting next to a pile of clean diaper rags, "I cannot do this. I just cannot!"). It's not the easiest or most comfortable position to be in for me, but it has been providing that lower-body workout (or at least mixing up the usual drill), and it sort of gives me a glimpse into what it would be like if my life wasn't so easy and comfortable.

I Spy with my Two Green Eyes:

Wheels: I spy bicycle wheels, and tri-truck wheels, and cart carriages, and auto-rickshaws, and cars and buses and wheelchairs.

Water: I spy water from fountains on the street, water covering the streets two inches deep, water dissolving the dirt in the dorms, and water in the laundry buckets full of clothing well-worn.

Faces: I spy faces of volunteers from England, Spain, France, Japan, South Africa, Lebanon, and Canada. I spy faces on the street: a beggar-mother asleep on the sidewalk with the faces of her week-old newborn twin sons cooing next to her; Sisters' faces modestly framed by blue stripes on the boarders of their saris; children with eyes that don't track me but bodies that cling to me; adults with bodies that cannot track me but eyes that cling to me; I spy the face of a baby with a hole in her heart, and the holes on the face of a leper-woman with decomposing flesh. I spy faces of woman sitting next to me on the bus, and men lined up by the thousands in white ready to prostrate themselves on the streets toward Mecca.

Hands: I spy hands that reach out to me pleading to "auntie" for spare rupees, I spy hands of a leper reaching out to his grandchild, unable to grasp him due to a lack of fingers and thumbs. I spy the hands of nuns and their Indian helpers sweeping and mopping the floors; I spy hands of volunteers wringing clean water out of previously-soiled hospital-style-dresses; and I spy the hands of an orphan grabbing onto my shirt's sleeve.

Flesh: I spy the smooth, silky skin of the kiddos at the orphanage, the bald head of a woman lying on her bed. I spy the paper-thin skin stretched across gaunt bones of a young beauty ghostly gliding through the dormitory, and the grossly swollen ankle around a cavernous, green, marbled ulcer. I spy a naked body attempting to rinse herself in the shower, I spy exposed hip bones from a resident sleeping peacefully during her afternoon lunch. I spy twig-like arms and legs, and feet twisted and bent by gang mutilation or nature. I spy blistered flesh on the work weary hands of fellow volunteers.

I spy signs on the walls and buses, mini-colored lights hanging across back alleys. I spy countless men in perfectly white kurtas blocking whole streets to pray, and beautiful women festively adorned in glitzy, glittery shrouds of fabric breaking their conventions with loose hair to celebrate the end of Ramadan. I spy dogs sleeping in the road, shanty-shelters built on sidewalks, food being fried over open fires, and men using their hands to eat rice and lentils and spices hot from the pot.

I spy elevator grates that have to be put in place, I spy Nature's Valley granola bars on grocery shelves. I spy tiny ants and huge bats. I spy every imaginable color on the streets, and every street shimmering each of those colors back in the streetlamp reflections. I spy old men who rely on their muscles to pull their fellow humanity and earn a living, and young men who don't yet realize they've seen their future in the eyes of their fellow slum-dwellers. I spy mercy and compassion, and ridicule and shame. I spy dignity and its lack, and love spilling over into compassion. I spy beauty and pain and ugliness and hope.

I'm spying on India.

I'm the 3rd rinse button on your washing machine

Today I started my work in the Missions of Charity. I worked at Pen Dam, one of the homes for adults that are dying and/or mentally and/or physically disabled.

I ventured out at the early hour of 5:45 this morning to attend Mass at the Motherhouse. It was delightful... at least the walk there. There was hardly anybody out, it was actually quite cool (by that, I mean I only sweated about half a liter on the way, rather than the usual full), and what I thought was constant honking here on the streets had actually subsided.

Mass... eh... what can I say? It was long. It was aerobic-like. It was hot. The sisters looked fabulous in their cool white sari's with blue stripes. I want to wear things like that. Instead I wore my linen pants that seem to get baggier by the day (that's not because I'm loosing weight, it's because they stretch out more and more the sweatier they get), so I struggled to keep them from collapsing to the ground from heat exhaustion.

After Mass all the volunteers converged downstairs, received directions, and took off for various corners of the city. I followed a guy from Spain (his name was not Herardo, Claire, but he kind of reminded me of him! Maybe less intense and less lost, though...), and hopped a bus. Buses in India are fun! Actually, any sort of transportation is fun, even taxis that run the meter up ridiculously high by "accidentally" taking you out into the countryside... But I'm getting ahead of myself. Traffic is very fluid here - we weave, we bob, we squeeze. And then there's the honking. Every single vehicle has its own personality, which is relatively distinguishable by the sound of the horn. There's the angry toots, the friendly "don't hit me, I'm here!", the intimidating goose-blows, the bicycle water-bottle rigged airhorns, the rickshaw fingers-on-chalkboard sounds, and the occasional taxi with a ice-cream-truck-jingle. Incidentally, if a vehicle's horn doesn't work, it's totaled, regardless of it's other capacities to drive.

I was surprised by the Pen Dam compound. It was bigger than I expected, cleaner than I expected (in the slums, that's quite the feat!), and more institutional than I expected.

I spent 2 hours washing laundry by hand at the 3rd rinse sink station. There were two Spanish med-student gals on either side of me, a French woman further to my right, several Japanese ladies down off to the left, and an English nurse to keep us company. I was the only American woman.

After the washing session (it was like a shower - I sweated enough to soak through my clothes, and I splashed enough to wash the sweat off), the volunteers "breaked" for a few minutes while the lunch foods were finished being prepared. I wandered through the woman's dorms and met a bunch of ladies. I'll write more about them in later blogs. I'm still processing at this point.

During the break the ladies and gents all drank chai and ate biscuits together. I met 2 french half-marathoners with strikingly handsome good looks, Jason-from-Texas who has been here since January and is staying until November. He's writing a book about his experiences and keeping a blog. I'm going to try to remember to ask him for his blog address tomorrow so I can post it here as a link, for any of your curious folks. There was also a Chilean dude, and the Spanish guy previously mentioned, a plethora of Japanese men, and I think a couple other Spaniards. There's a lot of Spaniards.

Lunch was next, and then we were finished for the morning shift. I was supposed to head to an orphanage for the afternoon shift, but I got hopelessly lost somewhere between the metro and autorickshaw and building itself, so instead I found myself wandering through more slums, with my camera like a permission slip. I was far and away the only Westerner, along with being the only woman out really by herself. It's also a bit of an unnerving feeling when I realize, "I'm so lost, I have no idea where I am, I have no idea where I've been, nobody knows where I am or where I've been, and I'm really grateful my parents don't know what's going on right now." And then I duck down another back alley and look for clever photo opportunities - this is sort of just how I travel, I guess!

As it turned out, I just followed the flow of traffic out to a main road, hailed a taxi, asked for "Park Street" (which is the part of town where I'm actually getting comfortable), and took a hey-day of a ride out into the agriculture fields outside the city, past marble wholesale lots, alongside some botanical gardens or something, over and back over the river, and finally through the big pasture/park in downtown Kolkata, all while my driver feigned being lost and then dropped me off at Park Street after the meter topped off at 200+ Rupees. I bet YOU have never taken a 45 minute cab ride and had a private discovery trip of Kolkata from the comfort of a yellow taxi cab for the grand price of 5 bucks, have you?! It was fun.

Then I finished walking blisters into my feet on the way home. Now I'm tired. I just finished another cold shower and have a cup of tea beside my toes. Evening relaxation can commence!

Clothing Dangers and Mishaps

I used to love scarves. One week ago I was wearing them as accessories with my summery/fall outfits. I actually remember being excited to pair one of my many scarves with a blazer and sundress - the epitome of that late summer/early fall fashion icon (in my mind at least).

I've had a change of heart. I hate scarves.

Do you know how wickedly dangerous these fancy little inventions can be? They can get snagged in your earrings and almost rip your ear out. They can get snagged on the side of fences/railings/rickshaws/taxis/doors as you're weaving your way along the busy streets. They have a tendency to fall off and/or slide around precariously, until they're dragging in the slime and mud. Gross. Any way you look at it, they're downright hazardous.

Here in Kolkata public fountains are where the street dwellers (and anyone else who wants to - rickshaw pullers, street vendors, etc) bathe. Indian people, from my perspective, are incredibly clean people. They really don't smell, and unless they're REALLY poor, they seem to make big efforts to try to be presentable. These public fountains gush water into the streets all the time. At any given point during the day, someone can walk by and find a crowd of men sudsy and scrubbing. I generally try to avoid walking too close to these fountains. The men are quite skilled at maintaining modesty while they bathe, but still, just in case soapy hands cause something to slip, I'd rather not see. The other day, as I was walking down stream from one of these fountains, I realized the bottom of my long scarf was almost dragging in the mud and muck caused by the water run off. Ew.

However, today I almost hung myself with my scarf. Here's the scoop: Indian style calls for modesty, particularly among the Muslim minority neighborhoods (which is the region around the Motherhouse). Even the Hindus, though, are modest. Their various tactics of modesty include wearing loose and baggy pants (that taper at the ankle so they don't drag through the mud - brilliant!), long, loose shirts that (at the very MINIMUM) have a hemline below the hip/derrier area, and a scarf. The scarf is worn sort of draped across a woman's front (ie: the bosom area), with the long ends trailing gracefully down her back. Her shoulders keep the scarf in place (sort of...).

I've mentioned before how hot it is here. Hot and muggy. In America we have this habit of wearing less clothes when it gets hot. In India, there's not such concept. Clothing isn't to keep you warm - that's a given - clothing is to cover you up. The scarf does both, despite the first being unnecessary; wearing a scarf draped around you is like wearing a sheet all the time. You don't notice it at first, but pretty soon it becomes warm and awkward. Particularly once you try sharing the 2 feet of sidewalk space with several dozen people at once, everyone going wherever they want to go at a hurried rate, dodging each other.

Really, it's quite an adventure. A fabulous spectacle of colors and navigation and ducking/dodging/jumping in and out of traffic and weaving through rickshaws, etc. But it's amazing how all of this chaos will literally freeze in your mind when your scarf happens to get caught on something. Perhaps it would be akin to having your pants fall off you when go to stand up in a busy restaurant or in class or something, and you suddenly find yourself embbarassingly half naked. Where once you were going along minding your own business (and trying to stay out of the business of all the other people around you), the next you're being betrayed by your own fashion accessory/modesty insurer, and you're being choked on the side of the busy/beeping/screeching road, holding up all the foot traffic because your scarf has stretched across the sidewalk.

I saw my life flash before my eyes as my throat was constricted. For a second, I thought a boa constrictor had chosen me out of all the people around to drop on from a barbwire enforced wall to choke the life out of me. I expected to see it's split, slimy tongue in my face any second. Then I realized it was just my scarf.

That was about the time I thought, "Clothing is such a bother. I should start a nudist colony."

Downpour on the Streets

Imagine this scene: it's 11AM in the morning and the city is bustling. Yesterday was a strike-against-the-government day, so all public transit, taxi's, and government buildings were shut down (they shut down because they figured nobody would come to them for business if they couldn't get there. Logical enough). Today people were making up for that with the vast amount of shuffling hither and thither.

It's hot. The thermometer temperature was probably around 95 degrees, but the humidity was astronomically high (evidence by the dark clouds peering down from above the crumbling colonial buildings), so the actual FEEL of the weather was, frankly, rather miserable.

Jake and I were walking down the street to catch a taxi to take us to the "New Market." What were we going to get at the "New Market"? We had no idea, but they said we could buy "Anything! Everything!" there. So we thought we'd ask for super glue. Elmers brand.

Suddenly, the threatening clouds break loose and a torrent of rain starts. I'm from the NW, I know rain. This was nothing like Seattle-atmosphere rain. We're talking, the sky was falling in liquid form! (or, at least it seemed that way) Indian people apparently don't do rain. At least, they don't like to get caught in it in the streets. So within a span of about .47523 seconds, the street is cleared out and the entire population of the city has taken cover under the awnings of the buildings or tarps over streetside vendors along the sidewalks.

I was soaking wet from sweat already (it's warm walking in this weather!), but in true culturally-sensitive manner, I made a mad dash for the nearest awning too (McDonalds, ironically enough). There, we commenced waiting. The street had a good couple of inches of water on it. There was some mysterious white substance being washed down on both sides of me from the ceiling overhead. The wind whipped, the trees shook, and we waited out the storm.

It was fun! It was a communal experience with all the other would-be bustlers in the streets. Once it was done, after maybe 5 minutes or so, we dashed out into the street, I raised my eyebrow at a taxi driver as he passed and he screeched to the side of the road for us (there's a lot of screeching around here on the part of the cars - and plenty of honking to add harmony to the symphony), and we hopped in for the 7 minute/22 rupee/50 cent ride to the New Market.

At the New Market we spent several hours snapping photos (in the meat section I got to help cut up hunks of beef for the sake of the camera. I left with the address of one of the guys and the promise to mail copies of ALL the pictures I took at the meat market to the dude), complimenting fabric, turning down offers of "good deals just around the corner," and pushing our way through the crowds. I left without a sari, which was an effort on my non-people-pleasing part.

Now, I'm about to take my second shower of the day (which is my, like, 10th of the trip! I now LOVE cold showers!) and sip a cup of hot tea under the ceiling fan. Other stories from today will have to wait...

London (check), France (check), Underpants... uh...?

I try to pack light. I'm certainly no expert traveler (I'll admit, I don't have the art of packing down like that dude off of "Up in the Air." You know, the guy who feels most at home in an airport?), but I have packed enough to have a couple tips down. These are the basics:

- Rubber bands are your best friends. Pack extra. Roll your clothes and wrap them in rubber bands. It helps you be able to quickly unpack to get your razor out of the bottom of your bag, and repack without having to refold/reroll all your stuff. And it's a lot quieter than ziplock baggies. RBs are also useful for tying your hair back in a pinch, strapping shoes on if necessary, or keeping clothes in the right place if they're at a risk of not staying where they need to.

- Backpacks are the only way to go if you're anywhere in the 3rd world country. And actually, even if you aren't. Italy isn't the 3rd world, but the massive amounts of stairs in Venice prohibit easy wheeling. Backpacks are just efficient - you can jump trains with them, hike through back alleys under construction with them, or just avoid having to lug them over open sewage awkwardly. Additionally, when you have a backpack, you look poorer than when you have a nice wheely suitcase. Which means (hopefully) less beggars. AND (as if you need another plus!), they keep you limited in how much you pack - you have to be able to carry it!

- Never travel without a functioning hipstrap if you're going to go the backpack route. Seriously - your shoulders don't want to carry all that strain all the time. And it helps keep your center of gravity lower. Definitely a plus on moving vehicles.

- You only need 3 pair of underwear. One to wear, one to be washing/drying, and one as a backup.

I'm now an avid follower of these little tips. I've learned from experience! But this trip - THIS trip, I went a bit excessive. And by excessive, I mean in a less-is-more kind of way.

This may be TMI, gentlemen-who-happen-upon-my-blog, but I'm just gonna put it out there: I forgot my undies. Seriously. Of all the brilliant things to forget, that was them! They're sitting on a neat little stack at the end of my bed, I believe, just waiting to be packed up in my backpack. They'll keep waiting.

But here's another cool thing I've learned about traveling: you make do. In fact, that's the BEST part about traveling in my mind! I just went and found a store and bought a package of 3 underwear today. For the massive price of about a dollar and fifty cents. And... they make a great souvenir!

Enough about unmentionables, though, let's talk about the mentionable things.

Today started in the quiet morning hours in New Dehli, when even the stray dogs are asleep in the alleys. I had the quiet revelation that life is hard for most of the world as I followed our taxi driver to his car. We passed other taxi drivers sleeping in the front of their vehicles, and old men - presumably homeless - congregated together, quietly talking amidst piles of reconstruction rubble.

That thought was only further absorbed after we landed in Kolkata and hopped a taxi downtown. It was a long, hot, congested, exciting, fluid, polluted, smelly ride. Actually, words just don't do it justice, so take your own interpretation and capitalize on it. It's probably 10 times more extreme than you imagine. There are old men pulling rickshaws in the streets, there are young men selling wares to idling taxis and their passengers at intersections, there are skinny, shrunken Mom's in dirty sari's carrying a naked baby and holding the hand of their toddler as they walk down the sidewalk.

A young girl came up to me today asking for money. I didn't know how to respond - I generally don't like being seen as just a dollar sign on the streets, and I usually feel I'd rather give money to organizations that specialize in helping the poor - so I didn't. Her English was broken, and I wasn't really listening because I was trying to keep up with Jake. I felt like, if I could have read her mind, she would have been saying, "Don't you see me?!" And then I realized the horribly reality: I didn't see her. Not really. Not because she wasn't in front of me, but rather because I chose not to.

I'm not sure what to do about that. I mean, with myself. What kind of a person just walks away? But what kind of a person has the resources to help - REALLY help?

I haven't even seen the worst of poverty. I haven't encountered any mutilated beggars or lepers. I haven't been to the Motherhouse yet (no orientation today) and seen the bodies of the dying. I don't know if I have it in me to be compassionate. I don't know if I can care about them. And that makes me disgusted with myself.

India: First Impressions

My first thought upon exiting the aircraft was "Wow, it's cold!" then I realized it was just the AC blast. In actuality, India is hot. Hot and muggy.

We got into our taxi (I let Jake do the talking - wow, weird to travel with a guy again!), and hit the road. India taxiing is much like Morocco or Egypt taxiing - an adventure on 4 wheels. I love it!

It's muggy here, did I mention that? And polluted. I can't actually tell if it's pollution or just misty/muggy-ness, but regardless, it's hard to see, and all the lights shimmer.

The only way to stay sort of cool is to have a breeze on you. Most of the time that's not really possible. In our hotel room, it is. We have a fan. Thank you Lord!

The streets have remnants of many things, including the passage of cows recently and the most recent monsoon downpour. I'm thinking I might take scissors to the bottom of my pants just so they aren't dragging for the next 2 weeks. I don't really plan to be clean for that duration, so pity the souls who have to pick us up at the airport!

Tomorrow AM we catch a SUPER early flight to Kolkata, so I'm off to bed. Hoping Jake doesn't snore ;-)