Water Bags and a Flat Tire

I've spent too much of my oh-so-precious time deciding whether to organize my Ghana blogs chronologically or thematically, so I've decided to stop the thought process of how to organize and just write.

Excitement, curiosity and sheer exhaustion washed over me like a wave as I first stepped off the plane in Accra. If for some reason I had doubted the pilot's word that we landed in Africa, the blast of humidity that immediately hit me would have convinced me that he was correct.  

The cold weather preceding my trip and my lack of tolerance to it had me irrationally excited at the prospect of warmth. I couldn't wait for the embrace of the blanket of heat to wrap around my constantly frozen exterior. However, the warm comforting blanket I expected turned out to be a bit more stifling than I'd hoped for. Sweat immediately cascaded down every inch of my skin and continued to do so for the duration of my stay in Ghana. Sometimes there were fans, but more often than not, the only way to attempt to escape the shroud of debilitating humidity and heat was to sit as still as possible wearing the loosest garments in your possession.

Anyways, before I get too sidetracked, let's get back to my arrival in Ghana (see that, I guess I just decided to do this chronologically). Getting through customs was easy enough, but baggage claim was a different story entirely. Actually, the reason it took me so long to get my suitcase was because the damage done to it in transit transformed it to the point it was unrecognizable. When I finally realized my bag was my bag, I grabbed it, took a deep breath, and headed outside to find my ride.

I almost instantly saw a man holding a sign with the name of my volunteer organization on it. I was instructed prior to the trip to insist on seeing his I.D. but he just shrugged and said he left it at the volunteer house. Great. I was potentially about to get kidnapped. I went with him anyhow; he seemed relatively harmless- a teenager named Elvis.

Another volunteer had been waiting for me in the cab since my flight was delayed. I sat down beside her and felt the sweat on my back plaster my shirt to the seat of the car. Better get used to this, I thought. Finally, we were off to the volunteer house where we were to spend our first night prior to heading out to our specific placements.

Of course, something just HAD to happen en route to the house. As we drove along, a loud rattling sound began to come from the car and the driver rolled down his window and looked to the back of the car, discovering a flat tire. For WAY longer than he should have, he continued to drive. Eventually, however, we pulled over in possibly the worst part of the road possible and called another cab. We made it to the volunteer house exhausted and very, very parched.

Elvis immediately taught us about how drinking water works in Ghana. Yes, it needs to be explained. He led us to the refrigerator and grabbed two clear bags and handed one to each of us, then told us to bite the corner and suck. Turns out that is how they drink a lot of things- shots of alcohol, yogurt, and more. Okay, that's enough typing for one post. Stay tuned for more!

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...

Saving the World, One Fungal Infection at a Time

Since we arrived over a week ago, the younger boys at the different monasteries have all had strange, white, powdery-looking spots with no hair on their scalps. Maree, the wife in the New Zealand couple, and I had piqued curiosities which, of course, led us right to Google to see if it was some sort of infectious, contagious disease. Maree guessed from the start that it was ringworm, but I felt unsure about this diagnosis as I thought ringworm appeared as raised, red, bullseye-like marks on the arm.

"White spots on scalp" yielded photos closely resembling the heads of the mini monks, and the descriptions generally referred to the ailment as "scalp psoriasis." Maree and I were satisfied with this diagnosis for a few days, but the fact that there was no improvement in their condition along with the fact that psoriasis is not contagious and all the little boys had it led me to question our conclusion. After I searched "ringworm of the scalp," I knew that Maree's gut sense was correct. According to the website, scalp ringworm is common among children in unclean conditions (I would not be surprised if the kids shower once a month maximum, and wear the same clothes daily) and closely resembles psoriasis. Ding ding, we have a winner!

Of course, the fact that our students have ringworm coupled with the information that another class of kids has scabies did not bode well for a someone like me who is overly paranoid about contracting a crazy illness. Thankfully, it turns out that scalp ringworm can only be contracted by children whose immune systems have not developed enough to fight off the fungus. Specifically, according to patient.co.uk, "scalp ringworm mainly affects young children. It is uncommon in adults. This is thought to be because the normal skin oil (sebum) that increases on the scalp after puberty (in the teenage years) has properties that make it resistant to fungi." Yay for puberty!

Had Maree and I not pointed out to one of the school administrators that the young boys' heads were covered in chalky-looking spots, they may never have noticed. After we told him, he immediately arranged for them to go to the doctor to obtain the necessary medication. The chances of seven boys under age 12 remembering to take anti-fungal meds? Considering they never bathe, I'd say not good. At least, thanks to our persuasiveness, they have the cure in their possession and hopefully someone harasses them to take it.

Music Tastes of Monks

During conversation class, we pair up one volunteer to one monk and practice English for an hour in the evening. On my first day, a little monk around age 10 named Sonam scampered over and plopped beside me. I had no idea what I was in for. He looked cute at first glance, but quickly revealed his inner Don Juan. He is a smooth talker always trying to get a little action. I would not be surprised if he does not last too long in the monastery. I'm not even sure if he is aware that being a monk means he can't ever be with a lady. Apparently, the only unforgivable sin in Buddhism is a monk having sex.

Anyway, the first day I played along and told him I would marry him and be is girlfriend. Then, he started to get really cheeky the next session. His behavior during the second session scared me off from conversation for awhile. Right from the get go, he started going on and on about how he wanted to kiss me and how much he loves me. No matter how desperately I attempted to change the subject, he would not quit. The last straw was when he got fresh and tricked me to plant a kiss right on my lips! He pointed to the corner of the room and said "what's that?" Not realizing I was being fooled, I looked where he pointed and the minute I turned back around there were was his face waiting to plant a smack on my lips. That cheeky little rat!

My absence from the next session seemed to have scared him into submission, at least to a certain extent. The other volunteers informed me that he went on incessantly about how much he missed me and loved me and said that they told him I was not feeling well. The next time I attended conversation, I hoped to be paired with someone else, which I initially was. However, the moment little Sonam spotted me he rushed to my side like a puppy with a bad case of separation anxiety. I decided not to play along with his little love game anymore, and he spent the whole time making me fancy origami animals. He does have some redeeming qualities- he has presented me with a hand-made gift almost every session for the past few days. Two times he arrived bearing origami, one day a beautiful bracelet, and one day a white shawl for good luck. He has not tried anymore kisses, thankfully; the last day he simply asked me on a date which I adamantly refused. Where does this kid learn this stuff? Probably from all of the Justin Bieber he listens to.

On that note, I am baffled by the pop music that is popular here in India. It seems like every restaurant, public place or taxi we enter has Avril Lavigne, Enrique Iglesias, or Michael Jackson blaring through the speakers. All of the young monks seem to idolize Justin Bieber (probably not the best role model), Bruno Mars, Taylor Swift and One Direction. Seriously? I mean, I don't have anything against Taylor, and One Direction is okay, but I feel obligated to introduce them to some quality classic rock like The Beatles. Or, if they are going to go the boy band route they could at least go with a quality one like The Backstreet Boys. I just can't comprehend how, out of all the pop music out there, Avril Lavigne made it big here. How did that happen? Did she go on a tour of India at some point? It just seems very random.

Apparently, they also love John Denver. While Jim, my temporary New Zealand dad, was teaching his students, he offered them a selection of three songs of which they could choose one to learn: Welcome to My Wold by Jim Reeves, Top of The World by The Carpenters and Take Me Home, Country Roads by John Denver. They eagerly opted to learn the John Denver tune. Now that demonstrates good taste!

New Student

Yesterday while teaching our afternoon class we had a visitor. Generally, the English lesson begins outside, weather permitting, where the boys read quietly from books about animals donated by my Australian friend Fiona. Just a quick side note before I relieve you from the accumulated suspense regarding the identity of our visitor- Australian books are about animals I have never heard of in my entire life. It seems odd teaching kids about creatures whose names I cannot even pronounce. Echidna? Sugar Glider? Kookaburra? Bowerbird? Seriously? I think the author was making those up. Well, at least the kids will be well-versed in zoological terms from Down Under.

Anyhow, we were reading about the Sugar Glider's latest shenanigans and noticed a shy girl standing beside a tree at a distance eagerly listening to the story. We invited her to come join the class, and the look of pure joy that washed over her young face made me feel warm and gooey inside, like the center of a jalapeño popper fresh out of the oven. Okay, not the best imagery there, but you get the point. This Indian girl, Sunita, quickly became the most eager of the students. She loves learning and soaks information up like an overly-absorbent sponge. Not one of those pathetic little kitchen sponges, but one of those gigantic ones you use to wash your car (for those of you who still do so yourselves). Her enthusiasm for seemingly mundane English exercises is refreshing, and the fact that she is so happy to listen and take in everything I say makes me feel like I am actually making an impact.

We found out that she has already taken a decent amount of classes and that she should move up to a higher level, but she seemed hesitant as she truly enjoys spending time with us. Every time I smile at her or call her name she sits there and beams; it is truly rewarding. Her positive behavior almost makes up for the atrocious behavior of the little boys. The bribe technique seems to be losing its novelty and they are back to their obnoxious selves. The Monster's Inc. stickers don't motivate them like they once did, so perhaps the new reward should be candy or some other sugary treat. I'm not sure I want to see them on a sugar high, however; they bounce off the walls without fructose flowing through their energetic bodies.

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!