A Day in the Life of...

At 8 AM, took the bus to Ghandipuram bus station in Coimbatore to catch the bus to PSGR Krishnammal College and an appointment with the principal scheduled for 10 AM. Stepped off the bus at the city center with 18 rupees 25 pais. Bought a freshly- squeezed glass of pomegranate juice. Amazing. Realized only after finishing the drink that it cost 18 rupees. Decided to go directly to the ATM. En route, realized that my debit card was in the back zipper pocket of a canvas side bag presently sitting below the bedroom window at Matthew's house in Chavadipudur – an hour bus ride away. Realized I had no money to take a bus to my appointment at the college. Realized I had no money to take a bus home. Realized I had broken every rule of traveling1 in one morning. Long moment of silent stupor. Felt very sorry for myself and started laughing.

Decided to find a bank to see if someone could look up an international bank account and give me money without using a card. Walked 2 kilometers to the State Bank of India. Was greeted by an air conditioned lobby and promptly kicked out by the security guard because the bank didn't open until 10 AM. I was not special enough to take a place in the already growing inside line. Crossed the street. Sat down on the shady steps of a closed shop and pulled out Ghandi's autobiography to read for an hour. Moved to a shady bench when the shop opened and the owner kicked me off of his steps. Was approached by a beggar woman selling q-tips and held out my 25 pais – all of my money in the world. Was refused by the beggar woman. Another long period of silence, this time in deep thought. Returned to the bank. Was kicked out again, this time because they couldn't pull up international accounts. Shuffled back to the bus station. Despair. Had an innovative but humiliating thought. Acted on it: returned to the juice stand from earlier in the day. Begged the juice boy for a ten rupee loan with the promise of returning and repaying tomorrow. Was smirked at by the juice boy. Was given 10 rupees.

Swiftly boarded the bus to Chavidipudur. Rode an hour home. Grabbed the check card. Caught the bus back to Coimbatore. Visited an ATM. Repaid juice boy. Bought diapers and wipes for Jill and Ty's baby. Rode an hour home standing up smashed between ten women under five foot. Triumph! I will not be returning to PSGR Krishnammal.

1The Rules of Travel
Rule 1: Never travel alone
Rule 2: Always carry emergency cash on your person
Rule 3: Never agree to buy anything without knowing its price
Rule 4: Always carry official personal identification on your person
Rule 5: Avoid indebting yourself to someone of the opposite sex.
Rule 6: Expect disappointment

Indian Style Trauma

(Photo: Liann expressing her feelings about the bathroom - sketchy...)
Yesterday at the movie theatre I decided to use the public bathroom and Liann offered to hold my purse because “you never know what you'll find in there.” It's a good thing she did, because the floor of the squatter stall I ended up in was clean but rather wet. After doing my business, I turned on the water spicket on my left and suddenly I was wet all over. Water was spraying out of the nuts, bolts, and washers of the spicket but not coming out into the little bucket used for flushing. Frantically, I turned the knob to the right, but the water didn't stop. All the way to the left didn't work either. At this point the spraying had turned into a single arching projectile of water going over my head and hitting me square in the back. So I started laughing. What else could I do? I think the ladies in the stalls next to me thought I was insane. My salwar kameez was tied around my waist and my chupada flung forward and tucked into it, and everything dripped, including my scrunched-up pants. I was still in the crouching position, so calling for help wasn't really an option. I kept messing with the spicket until finally a slight turn set the nuts, bolts, and washers into harmony; the water stopped. The little bucket had filled thanks to the local rainstorm, so I finished and tried to arrange myself in front of the mirror before going out to the Liann, who looked at me once...and then again. It is a good thing that going to a Tamil film involves three hours of darkness and lots of fans.

It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.

After two weeks in India my most burning question is how Indian women remain composed and immaculate after a day of dust, sardined bus rides, crowded markets, and cooking. It's a mystery, especially when I look in the mirror and see the train wreck of hygiene I have become. But today I woke up and thought, “Hey, it isn't that hot here.” Hooray for acclimation!

I wish there were a graceful way for me to begin writing about India. I'll try. My first taste of the country was the famously hot and filthy city of Chennai. My group met there on Saturday, May 3rd and tried to get out as soon as possible, but the trains to Coimbatore (the major city near our present village home) were booked and we weren't able to escape until May 7th. The train booking offices are a perfect representation of Indian bureaucracy and time management: come early, wait, move up in the line of people sitting ten benches deep, wait, flash a hundred rupees at the desk clerk, move up the line more rapidly, find out you need to take a train to a different station to book through the foreign booking office, do that (and have a rousing conversation about arranged marriage with a group of Muslims from Sri Lanka going to Delhi for three months of religious study) and finally meet someone who can decipher my American English and book the tickets. I learned in Chennai that it's possible to drink more than a gallon of water a day and still feel thirsty, as well as fast until five in the evening and still not feel hungry. Before acclimating, the best way to handle the afternoon heat is a short nap, shower, mango, and reading under a fan. It's strange to have the environment shape my daily life. In America I can carry on with what I need and want to do independent of the weather. Here, if it rains in the village I can't go into the city that day because of the roads, or if the power goes out that means no phone calls or computers . As a result, the pace of life is slower and people spend more time talking to each other. When plans are delayed or fall through, no one worries because everything happens in its time. That attitude makes India a heaven or a hell, depending on what one wants out of life that day.

Chennai is also memorable for its insane rickshaw drivers and a trip to the city's central mosque. Halfway through visiting the Muslim saint's shrine on the side of the mosque I found myself being blessed in a curiously Hindu manner with a bouqet of peacock feathers. Interesting how cultures blend...Eating sugar crystals and having giant black ants crawling on us also left particular impressions on us.

We enjoyed an eight hour train ride to Coimbatore with open windows and tiffin (snack) vendors hawking chai tea and coffee. I've never seen so much trash thrown out of windows before, but there are no rubbish bins on trains, so whatever you buy from the snack vendors that isn't edible eventually finds its way to the tracks. The family of a Pentecostal pastor sat across from me and he spoke English very well, so we talked about family, Indian politics, the orphanage he runs back in Chennai, and his education. The best moments in India come when you think you're stuck somewhere and then you decide to begin talking to the person next to you. Sunday at a coming of age ceremony for a Hindu boy (an Upayanaman), a businessman from Mumbai struck up a conversation and we spent the next hour talking about the changing culture of India and the influence of faster-paced lifestyles in India. He has several family members living in America, but while he enjoys modernization he misses traditional ways of living. He was dressed in a linen kurta and wearing Armani glasses. I didn't quite know what to tell him except that it is possible to preserve good families and the sacred parts of life as well as enjoy modernization, because my family and many people I know do it.

Getting out to our host family's village was an adventure! We arrived by train around 10:30 at night and found every hotel in town we could find full. Picture nine tall Americans and one very tired two-year old hanging out on the Indian streets in the dark. I was thinking, “Hey, it could be worse. It could be raining.” And then it did. A lot. Fortunately we found a hotel that let us camp out under its awning and arrange some taxis to take us to the village directly. Our host family welcomed us at 1:30 in the morning and when we all walked into our room and saw the woven mats, cement floor, and Indian-style toilet I thought their home was paradise.

My research group lives at the home of Matthew and Jeeva Daniels in a little village called Chavadipudur, about a 40 minute bus ride south of Coimbatore. They have been hosting BYU students for 10 years and are very patient with us, especially when we do ridiculous things like plug in our power converters on the wrong voltage and blow their circuits. (I’m not speaking from experience.) Jeeva teaches us how to string jasmine flowers and wash our laundry, and Matthew speaks English well and is our cultural advisor. He learned English as a missionary in the 70s. I enjoy talking with him; he spied my book of indulgent reading, The Battle for God, and now he's reading and we're discussing it. I'm glad to still have someone who enjoys sorting things out through long talks. Evening time is veranda time, and everyone comes out of their rooms and sits, eats and talks while swatting at mosquitoes. It's good to forget all of the inconveniences and frustations of the day and enjoy being with people. I may not be able to handle everything about this country, but India's all about detaching from the material world and coming into harmony with the spirit (right?), and veranda time is one of the ways that is accomplished.

The weeks have seemed short but the days go slowly by. India certainly feels like the land of contradiction, but I'm enjoying it so far, probably because I haven't yet been struck down by any form of nausea. The fresh squeezed fruit juice still tastes great!