India

Some days I struggle with what to write about in a blog. I then consider taking the day off from it, and then have my husband come home from work to ask me why I didn't write that day.

It's warming, really, to know that he, and at least 2 other people (JN & Maria, I heart thee), read my blog daily. It is warming that it will be the first question he might ask when he comes through the front door at 5 p.m., and he'll even seem a little bit mad that I didn't get to it.

This dude that I live with and spend every evening, weekend and other spare moment with wants to read what I have to say. Perhaps it is a male thing, since I am certain he doesn't like to listen to what I have to say.

Lately I have been thinking about my summer in India. Maybe because it is summer here, because I recently saw "Slumdog Millionnaire", or because I have been more actively seeking opportunities to do more volunteer work.

India was a really difficult place for me. I hate to admit that, but it is true. If you have seen Slumdog Millionnaire, then it is a good and accurate picture of what life is like for many young children there. I have a tendency to internalize other peoples' feelings. While the other volunteers seemed to manage separating themselves from their surroundings, the intense empathy I felt led me to a depression that I have not experienced since.

What I did love was the experience of it all. I loved putting myself out there in the world. I loved that I was distancing myself from life as I had always known it. I loved my students who took advantage of the fact that I would not hit them like their other teachers would (although there were the few that made me consider it). What was scary was being thousands of miles away from the people I loved and not having access to a telephone or internet service. I did not speak to my mom or siblings, and I would have infrequent email exchange with Lloyd who was in England.

When I first arrived into India there was Hindi writing on the walls. I did not recognize anyone or anything. The sights, sounds and smells were beyond what any other person could call "culture shock". I was to be picked up by a local Volunteer worker who I had never met. He was waiting just outside the airport with a sign with "Dorado" on it. I was both relieved and deathly afraid when I saw him. Relieved because I had been awake for 21 hours by this time and unsure whether I would actually be picked up, afraid because he was a perfect stranger in a perfectly strange place to me.

There were tons of people all cramming outside the street in India. As I approached him, he took hold of one of my luggage and led me to his vehicle, similar to a VW bus. There wasn't a bench in the backseat. We put the luggage in the boot and I crammed alongside it. He was anxious to get out of the parking area. It was just after midnight at this point and I remember feeling so distant from everything. The ride was extremely bumpy, from lack of paving on the dirt roads. Out my dusty window I was shocked by how many people were on the streets living in tents. I made a comment about how many people were awake at that time, walking or riding bicycles in the street. He explained it was because it was the coolest time of day.

It was? I was hot and sticky. I was exhausted and bewildered. I was wondering if he was going to murder me and how long it would take anyone in my family to realize I was dead. I needed a shower. I needed an air conditioner.

It took, what seemed, about an hour to get back to the hostel where I would be staying with the other volunteers. I was the first to arrive there. It had linoleum floors, and a large sleeping mat on the floor. There was a single room off to the side, which would be where I slept each night with the other 2 female volunteers. There was a single "bathroom" and a small kitchen. I got the full tour and remember wondering where the toilet was. I was too embarrassed to ask and figured I would figure it out on my own.

I figured it out on my own. They don't have toilets (or toilet paper for that matter). In India they utilize a large hole in the ground that you have to squat on. Not that I am trying to paint a visual picture for you, but I think it's worth mentioning. Next to the hole was a large bucket of clean water, from which you would, theoretically, clean yourself with. Fortunately, I didn't need to tinkle, because that might have been a lesson in local Indian culture that I was not quite ready to have. I was tired, and if I wasn't raped and butchered that night I would figure out my t.p. dilemma the next morning.

India, Part 2 coming...