How I Love Airports

I am currently in the middle of eating my feelings in the form of a delicious veg curry from an airport restaurant. I am shoveling down this food alone under artificial blue lighting in a desperate attempt to bury my anger that sprouted from such an awful airport experience. To all of my readers who will be entering the Delhi airport in the near future, please do everything in your power to check in prior to your arrival so you have a boarding pass. If you don't because your airline specifically noted that you needed to be at the airport to do so (like mine did) they will not let you through the doors. Basically, make sure you have a print out of some sort of proof that you have a flight with your name matching my passport. I had my itinerary but it did not have my name on it, so I was out of luck.

Thank the Lord that Chris was with me- if he hadnt been there to talk to someone inside the airport about getting me a boarding pass, I would most likely still be sitting out there, glaring angrily at the guard intent on keeping me out. Finally, after poor Chris got me a pass, I was allowed inside by the evil man. If I had seen the machine  gun at his side from the get-go, I may not have been so mean to him.

I seriously felt like I was dealing with the doorman at Oz. I guess my boarding pass was the horse of a different color. So I finally stepped through the doors to part two of my horrendous airport experience. At the check-in counter, the woman assisting me told me it was fine to bring my carry-on bag onto the plane since it was not overweight. However, almost immediately after saying so, she informed me that my bag was too long to fit in the overhead compartment. I threw a fit that would rival a three year old's, rooting myself to the spot and refusing to backdown. Eventually, despite my bellowing in an inappropriately loud voice my concerns about the airline losing my precious luggage, I conceded with the white flag of surrender held high. I got down on my hands and knees and dug out the items I could simply not bear to part with. This included, of course, my saree, gifts for friends and family, and my plane reading material. The little airline witch then informed me that I could go buy a handcrafted Indian bag to put my things in. In an act of defiance, I rejected this suggestion and, looking ridiculous, tried to juggle all of my items in my arms as I waddled over to the passport check and security. 

I quickly pegged the surly customs agent hell-bent on making things difficult for anyone who dare hand over his or her passport. Thankfully, my airport nightmare began to improve when I got to the somewhat attractive customs agent who flashed me a suggestive grin which I was all too eager to return if it meant quick passage to security. I have seen airports worldwide with over-the-top security measures but this one in India takes the cake. So, at your check-in gate, the agent assisting you was supposed to provide you with a tag for all of your carry on luggage. Many of them neglected to do so, making the security agents very surly and getting angry at the tagless passengers who had no idea what was going on. My bags somehow do not incur their wrath despite their lack of tags, but when I got to the gate to board the plane, the tag issue reared its ugly head again and the agent almost didn't let me on the plane. Man, some mysterious force truly wanted to keep me in India. I wish it had succeeded.

Final Moments in Bir

Every second I spend in India, my love for the country grows. I continuously think there is no way my love can augment any further, and then I realize just how erroneous a thought that is. The culture is richer than a three-layer red velvet cake with thick, cream cheese frosting. Kindness and genuine warmth radiate from the people here making it impossible to feel even a twinge of sadness or loneliness. The music and sounds drift along the air and entangle you in a warm embrace of sensory stimulation. India cast out its shiny bait and like a naive little fish, I eagerly gobbled it up. Now I am trapped in India's trance, enveloped in an inextinguishable love for this magical place. Anyone who never steps foot in this country will never realize what the are missing

When I left Bir, I cried more than I did at the end of The Notebook and the beginning of Up combined. J.R.R. Tolkein once said that friends are the family you choose for youself. This was certainly the case with my family of friends in Bir. I came to love everyone I lived with during my home stay here. I thought it was going to take a crowbar to pry me away from them. After some of the toughest goodbyes of my life, I stepped into the cab and headed off on the beginning of my journey home.

After the bus trip from Hell that got me to Dharamsala, I completely swore it off as a way to return to Delhi. However, my fear of my flight becoming one of the many that are cancelled out of the Dharamsala airport trumped my dread of a long bus trip down windy, pothole-ridden roads. The bus ride started off on the wrong foot (or wrong wheel? Since it is a vehicle?) when we were picked up late and dropped off at some sketchy, middle of nowhere makeshift bus stop. We were given barf bags at the start of the trip which I initially found comical but quickly realized I may actually need. The big, clunky bus puttered up and down the mountain, weaving precariously and far too fast around tight narrow curves. My stomach instantly felt as though it had jolted up into my throat. All I could do was put on headphones, close my eyes, and try to ignore the wave of nausea washing over me.

Thankfully, it was not long before we made our first pit stop. From the experience on my previous bus trip, I assumed we would be stopping for food and bladder relief at a dodgy truck stop where you would expect to be chainsaw-murdered by a psychopath or at least expect to pick up some rare STD from the toilet seat. Not the case for this stop, the Sidhartha resort in a little wooded area on the side of the highway. It had the cleanest bathroom I have seen in India hands down. Actually, to put it in better perspective, it was cleaner than a good deal of restrooms in the US. Though I was not particularly hungry, once my nose detects even the slightest hint of the aroma of curry, I am unable to pass it up. It is my own personal kryptonite, for any of my would-be arch-nemeses if I ever become a superhero- now you can easily defeat me limiting the comic books released to one or two. Anyways, Chris and I payed the "whopping" 150 rupees for the buffet (about 3 USD, whereas in the states something like that would be about 10 USD) and chowed down on vegetable manchurian, raita, daal, naan, mutter paneer and salad.

After we were refreshed from our wee rest, we reluctantly returned to our seats for the remainder of the trip. There was a delay for literally no reason and we ended up staying at the rest stop about an hour and a half in total. Thankfully, the remainder of the journey was uneventful and comprised of my unsuccessful attempts at uninterrupted sleep as the driver constantly blared the bus horn, which sounded like something you would hear at the carnival, at other vehicles. We would have had no idea we had arrived in Delhi if one of the other passengers hadn't told us to get off, especially considering the entire journey took only about 10 hours and it should have been around 12 or 13. The final stop was alongside a sketchy road in, once again, the middle of nowhere. We probably got majorly ripped off by the cab driver who took us to the hotel where we are staying until our departing flights, but thankfully everything is so cheap here that even when we are hustled in the worst way it seems dirt cheap comparatively. The cab was a mass breeding ground for mosquitoes- I felt a tickle on my hand and went to brush it away but smashed the most blood-bloated mosquito I have ever seen. I wanted to ask the driver if he offered a Malaria or Dengue discount. Or, maybe a free ride altogether if you contract both.

Anyways, after a long ride where it felt like a 50/50 chance we were being taken into a dark alley to be mugged and killed (I was so glad Chris, another volunteer was with me) we arrived at the hotel at the ass crack of dawn- around 5:30 AM. We were told our room will be ready at 7:30, so now we play the waiting game...

Delhi Redefines Traffic

Being one of the few Americans in my volunteer group has made me extremely irritated that the USA cannot get with the picture and switch to the metric system. Temperatures have come up a surprising amount in conversation and trying to convert Fahrenheit to Celsius in my mind is more complex than a 9x9 Rubik's cube (if those exist). I feel like people are speaking Chinese when they mention kilometers, meters or kilos.

On an actually-related-to-my-travels note, today I experienced Indian traffic at its prime, and it puts to shame the traffic of the most congested cities in the United States and made San Jose, Costa Rica driving look tranquil. Before today, I had not been in the thick of traffic here since yesterday was a holiday and Sunday was... well, a Sunday. Essentially, everyone is laying on their horns at all times so there is a never-ending beep invading your ear canals. There is an eclectic combination of cows, bikes (both standard and motor), pedestrians, tuk tuks, rickshaws and cars following an unwritten set of traffic rules. There are generally no speed limits and hardly any traffic lights. Initially, I thought the insanity on the roads meant awful drivers, but the lack of accidents among such chaos made me realize that they are actually incredibly skilled. Indian drivers would laugh in the face of those complaining about Los Angeles traffic.

Today was our sightseeing tour of Old Delhi, which included stops at Qutub Minar, Humayun's tomb, and the Baha'i Lotus Temple. Qutab Minar is a world heritage site comprised of a victory tower built by the Moguls, a cemetery and a partially-built mosque. Humayun was apparently a big shot Mogul leader with a rather impressive palace housing his remains and the remains of others. That guy truly knew how to select an ostentatious burial place.

The lotus temple, a recent architectural marvel representing a squished Sydney opera house. As you can see in my photo, the lotus temple resembles a blooming flower and the opera house an already-bloomed flower. Not sure that such a detailed description was necessary, but whatever. I am tired, cut me some slack. If I am to contract a foot fungus on this trip, it will be from my trip to the temple where shoe removal prior to entry was required. Even after reading the information pamphlet about the Baha'i religion, I am still confused about what it is. However, we were informed that the temple is a place for people of all faiths to pray or worship or meditate.

When we returned from a day of sweating and walking barefoot, I craved a bucket shower (no, I am not joking even slightly). My ranting and raving about my newfound love bucket showers has surely driven everyone I'm around insane. See, before discovering the wonder of the bucket shower I had three options: not shower, get singed by three sharp streams of water shooting from the shower head, or freeze and stick my head under the faucet. Yet the bucket, oh the magical bucket, allows you to concoct the perfect water temperature and use exactly the amount you want. I may continue the bucket showers upon my return.

Castes, Kids, and Dengue

When I arrived and was waiting for the other volunteers at the airport, the volunteer coordinator pointed to a mosquito that had landed on my suitcase and said "you have to watch out for those." I told him that I knew all about Malaria but was almost willing to risk it because I felt so awful on the prevention meds, which is a great irony because it means that I am getting sick from preventing getting sick. Much to my dismay, he shook his head and said "no, not Malaria-dengue." Dengue fever! My arch nemesis from Costa Rica! The unpreventable, untreatable illness that makes your bones ache for days! Just another ailment to add to my list of what I could catch out here. Food poisoning or GI upset of some sort is a given. However, the mother-daughter volunteers from San Francisco (the mom is almost 70, WHAT? I had BETTER be doing stuff like that when I am 70) insist that a tablespoon of whiskey every night does the trick warding off GI disruptors.

I want all of you to stop reading this for a moment and, before you resume, go take a nice shower with water that is not so hot it singes your skin and not so cold it turns your lips purple. I want you to enjoy it so I can enjoy it vicariously through you and forget about the one I just experienced. I sound like such an American girl whining about something so mundane, but so be it. I know that about two posts ago I predicted that I would be unable to shower this whole trip, so i should consider it a treat that I got to at all. But this was the kind of shower that made me rather go without. Turning the heat knob one millimeter the wrong way made for unbearably hot or cold water, and the shower head emitted three measly streams of H2O. Yeah, I will opt out the next few days.

I am trying to observe the caste system with no judgement, but it is really hard to watch people get treated like dirt because of a societal hierarchy. The maids at my host family looked terrified when I spoke to them and introduced myself with a smile. No one acknowledges them at all. These people whose life roles were determined at birth go about their jobs as maids and cooks and nannies and simply accept it as their fate. They expect no contact from anyone else. It is a system that, to me, seems so backwards.

The stray dogs are also a pathetic sight. They lay docile in unbelievable numbers and hardly even move their heads as cars and people approach. Flies circle their heads and bugs line their patchy fur. It was heartbreaking to see a puppy in such a state. The begging children are also difficult to behold. I had been warned not to give any money to a single kid because doing so would cause a wasp-like swarm of more, but I did not realize to what extent these kids get up "in your grill" (as rappers say). We would be standing around in the open market and these kids would infiltrate our circle, tug on our clothes and poke us in an attempt to extract money. Such desperation is so hard to see.

People are also fascinated by our whiteness. When we stopped at a gas station en route to our home stay, three guys came up to us wanting their photos with us. People stop and say hello to us and wave all the time. Speaking of my new home stay, below is a picture of my room. There are 6 beds crammed along the wall and I believe 12 of us staying here now. There is a brit now living in Calgary, the couple from New Zealand, a nurse from Boston, an electrician from New Jersey, a young man from Canada, the mother-daughter from San Francisco, and a guy from Bangladesh who everyone thinks is Indian.

Western Toilets

Last week, I received an e-mail containing the specifics of my upcoming volunteer placement in the Northern Indian village of Bir. The first thing that struck me was the emphasis placed on the fact that I would be in a home with a Western-style, FLUSHING toilet. This fell under the most pertinent information category, which concerned me. What must the volunteer organization think of us pathetic, privileged foreigners going there to volunteer? That we would expect a flushing toilet? I've seen Slumdog Millionaire. I know people squat over holes in the ground in other parts of the world. The most crucial item in my bag is a multitude of toilet paper rolls (that are not typically used by Indians), so I was basically planning on roughing it hygienically. I kind of figured the part about being provided three meals a day would have been a bit higher on the priority list. Or, the bit about being in walking distance of a healthcare facility. In my world, these all top "flushing toilet."

My number one priority while traveling

Aside from the flushing toilet news, I also discovered that I will be at one of two projects: either teaching 13 children under age 3, or 17 children between the ages of 4 and 6. Wow. This will take my babysitting experience to a whole new level. Plus, in the evenings, I can help teach English to monks. Not sure that it will be my forte, but hey, I'll take a stab at it. I am open to anything at this point, que sera sera! Staying in Bir will be a grounding experience for sure as it is such a tiny, off-the-beaten-path village in Northern India. I also hope to find it a welcome contrast after sightseeing in Delhi, a chaotic city of people crammed together.

As anyone who is even slightly acquainted with me knows, I have this everlasting, passionate love and obsession with Indian food. It is so intense a love that after my last bite of an Indian dish, I instantly crave another. I think I may actually die and go to Heaven with my first bite of authentic Indian food while on authentic Indian soil (well, probably concrete since my first bite will be in a city). That would make for an interesting obituary at least. Another possible event that will cause me to die and go to Heaven is practicing yoga in India. Definitely a huge check mark on the bucket list. Only one week to go!