I've been trying to put my thoughts into words for days now. I had big plans of keeping a daily blog while on my trip here, but alas, I haven't. This post is probably going to be jumbled and chaotic, which is pretty much reminiscent of India and my pregnant brain. So there you go, I'm really letting you in on my experience. This may end up feeling more like a letter than a blog. We'll see where it takes us. I've never been much for descriptive writing anyway. If you don't believe me feel free to inquire with my college English Comp professor, we passionately debated on multiple occasions on my "misuse" of fragments. Whatever. Im down. With. The. Fragments. She said I could use them when I have my own book or column someday. Sweet vengence, look at me now teach! Ok. I digress.
So basically, this is the jist (gyst? juist? Is this a word? who knows) of my being in India. Will and I had big plans of coming for months. We wanted to come just after Nehemiah's first birthday and stay for several months, working at our family's orphanage and experiencing some life outside the US. We decided to give it to God and pray about it. Various circumstances and opportunities came our way that we knew we weren't supposed to turn down, err go our trip was indefinitely put on the back burner. Even though our extended stay wasn't in the cards for us at the time, we both agreed on the importance of Nehemiah meeting his great grandparents before they, eh, you know, cease to exist. If it weren't now, it wouldn't be possible for me to go until baby #2 is over a year. So it was now or never, pretty much. Will has commitments with work and coaching that he couldn't leave.
So, here we are.
This is my second time to India, so I feel slightly more equipped physically and mentally this time around. I say slightly because as an American, I really don't know if there's a time when I won't be taken back by the abundance of sound and people and colors and commotion. It is noisy all the time. At all hours. I guess that's what you get when you put over a billion people into a country 1/3 the size of the United States. There are constantly people outside, doing things, just living life right there on the side of the road. There are cars honking and motorcycling passing and animals talking to each other. There's a big variety of religion here,. They all make themselves known though, at very early hours with very loud megaphones. I wake up at 4:30 am regularly by the sound of the Hindu temple in the village singing and chanting over the loud speaker. Not long after is usually the muslim mosque, and then around 5:30 our kids at the orphanage chime in with their worship songs and prayer. The birds, crickets, chickens, dogs and buffalo at the school all join in too, singing their own songs. Noise is just a part of the culture here, and I suppose one just becomes immune to it. The bombarding noise is met with motion. Nothing stands still here. Do yourself a favor and YouTube "Indian Traffic". Um yes. It's terrifying. Cars and auto-rickshaws and pedestrians and bicycles and motorcycles and animals alike, all sharing the road. No traffic rules, no lanes, no nothing. The rules I can observe basically consist of "if you can fit, you can go" and "the bigger one always gets the right of way". It amazes me how unafraid people are to cross the streets or share the road with vehicles of all shapes and sizes flying by without a care for anyone. Before I had a baby, I got a kick out of it and enjoyed watching traffic. Now it scares me to death. I hold myself in a ball and close my eyes and bargain with Jesus to spare our lives.
It's also hard to prepare yourself to handle being the only white person. I am as white as they come folks, straight out of Scandinavia with the hair and skin to prove it. There is nothing that tans on me. My skin hates the sun; I am the ideal Oregonian. That being said, there is not a chance in the world that this toehead could fly under the radar in India. Everyone looks the same here. Brown skin, black hair, dark brown eyes. Saris. Braids. Gold jewlery. Jasmine in her hair. He has a mustache. There is one acceptable way to look in small-village India. I hear the really big cities are much different, but I have no experience to stand on for that. The interesting thing is that regardless of how vast I differ from the Indian status quo, they love to look at me. Most of them have never seen a white person in their lives, only in magazines or TV. The bold ones come up and touch my hair or my skin, but most just stare. Some come and take pictures of me. Some take pictures with me, knowing I will likely be the only white person they'll ever see. I'm much better at handling it this time around. It's easy for me to feel embarrassed and overwhelmed by the attention that I didn't do anything but be born to merit. I have gotten good at telling myself to ignore the stares and just smile at them. Sometimes I make a weird face. Hey, if they're looking, I might as well give them something to remember, eh?
The first time I came, there was quite a learning curve between Will's extended family and I. Most accepted me with love and affection, some didn't. Even if they liked me, they didn't know how to act around me. They laughed at me with surprise when I denied the fork and knew how to eat rice with my hand. I didn't want to be treated differently because I am white. If you don't need a fork, neither do I. If you poop in a hole in the ground, by all means, show me which hole to use and I will oblige. This time around has come a lot easier now that we understand our expectations of one another. Although I still have to fight the special treatment sometimes, I know this time it's out of love and hospitality instead of fear or insecurity. They don't laugh when I answer them in Telugu and they don't even offer me utensils. They still hand me a roll of toilet paper when they point me to the toilet though, which I graciously accept. Sorry, I am not that Indian yet.
Speaking of bathroom situations. Yes. I have to talk about this. So I don't know how many third world countries have public restrooms with holes instead of/coinciding with toilets, but I am going out on a limb and saying most, because Western toilets are called Western toilets for a reason. As much as I love a good ole toilet, I am totally kosher with the hole in the ground. We have reconciled our differences and I no longer pee on myself or feel the need to remove my pants when I go for fear of getting them wet. This is an accomplishment for me. I will precede my next statements by reminding you how cautiously you set the toilet paper on the seat at Mini Mart before even considering touching butt to toilet; I will leave it to your imagination how many rolls of toilet paper you would like to use in India to separate your skin from whatever you're reliving yourself in. In the terrible event you're desperate enough to go in a public restroom, I'll tell you now, it is better to choose the hole than the "western toilet". I don't know if ever there was someone hired to clean these toilets, but if there were, they 1. are blind and can't smell and should probably be fired immediately if not sooner, or 2. need to be laid to rest because they surely died. Because of that, my skin is getting nowhere near any surface in those places, so I will opt for the hole. You're welcome for that little nugget of wisdom.
Don't worry though, it's not all bad. Aside from the gross toilets, rampant mosquitos and flying spiders, there's lots to enjoy here in India. The fruit is sweeter, the trees are greener and the sun is warmer. The society cultivates a sense of community and loyalty, which is a stark contrast from our self-serving and closed-door culture in America. More on that later.
I wish I had a great conclusion but actually, I am just ridiculously unsure of the jumbled mess that I just wrote and have no way to sum it up. Eh, when in Rome, right? er, India?
So basically, this is the jist (gyst? juist? Is this a word? who knows) of my being in India. Will and I had big plans of coming for months. We wanted to come just after Nehemiah's first birthday and stay for several months, working at our family's orphanage and experiencing some life outside the US. We decided to give it to God and pray about it. Various circumstances and opportunities came our way that we knew we weren't supposed to turn down, err go our trip was indefinitely put on the back burner. Even though our extended stay wasn't in the cards for us at the time, we both agreed on the importance of Nehemiah meeting his great grandparents before they, eh, you know, cease to exist. If it weren't now, it wouldn't be possible for me to go until baby #2 is over a year. So it was now or never, pretty much. Will has commitments with work and coaching that he couldn't leave.
So, here we are.
This is my second time to India, so I feel slightly more equipped physically and mentally this time around. I say slightly because as an American, I really don't know if there's a time when I won't be taken back by the abundance of sound and people and colors and commotion. It is noisy all the time. At all hours. I guess that's what you get when you put over a billion people into a country 1/3 the size of the United States. There are constantly people outside, doing things, just living life right there on the side of the road. There are cars honking and motorcycling passing and animals talking to each other. There's a big variety of religion here,. They all make themselves known though, at very early hours with very loud megaphones. I wake up at 4:30 am regularly by the sound of the Hindu temple in the village singing and chanting over the loud speaker. Not long after is usually the muslim mosque, and then around 5:30 our kids at the orphanage chime in with their worship songs and prayer. The birds, crickets, chickens, dogs and buffalo at the school all join in too, singing their own songs. Noise is just a part of the culture here, and I suppose one just becomes immune to it. The bombarding noise is met with motion. Nothing stands still here. Do yourself a favor and YouTube "Indian Traffic". Um yes. It's terrifying. Cars and auto-rickshaws and pedestrians and bicycles and motorcycles and animals alike, all sharing the road. No traffic rules, no lanes, no nothing. The rules I can observe basically consist of "if you can fit, you can go" and "the bigger one always gets the right of way". It amazes me how unafraid people are to cross the streets or share the road with vehicles of all shapes and sizes flying by without a care for anyone. Before I had a baby, I got a kick out of it and enjoyed watching traffic. Now it scares me to death. I hold myself in a ball and close my eyes and bargain with Jesus to spare our lives.
It's also hard to prepare yourself to handle being the only white person. I am as white as they come folks, straight out of Scandinavia with the hair and skin to prove it. There is nothing that tans on me. My skin hates the sun; I am the ideal Oregonian. That being said, there is not a chance in the world that this toehead could fly under the radar in India. Everyone looks the same here. Brown skin, black hair, dark brown eyes. Saris. Braids. Gold jewlery. Jasmine in her hair. He has a mustache. There is one acceptable way to look in small-village India. I hear the really big cities are much different, but I have no experience to stand on for that. The interesting thing is that regardless of how vast I differ from the Indian status quo, they love to look at me. Most of them have never seen a white person in their lives, only in magazines or TV. The bold ones come up and touch my hair or my skin, but most just stare. Some come and take pictures of me. Some take pictures with me, knowing I will likely be the only white person they'll ever see. I'm much better at handling it this time around. It's easy for me to feel embarrassed and overwhelmed by the attention that I didn't do anything but be born to merit. I have gotten good at telling myself to ignore the stares and just smile at them. Sometimes I make a weird face. Hey, if they're looking, I might as well give them something to remember, eh?
The first time I came, there was quite a learning curve between Will's extended family and I. Most accepted me with love and affection, some didn't. Even if they liked me, they didn't know how to act around me. They laughed at me with surprise when I denied the fork and knew how to eat rice with my hand. I didn't want to be treated differently because I am white. If you don't need a fork, neither do I. If you poop in a hole in the ground, by all means, show me which hole to use and I will oblige. This time around has come a lot easier now that we understand our expectations of one another. Although I still have to fight the special treatment sometimes, I know this time it's out of love and hospitality instead of fear or insecurity. They don't laugh when I answer them in Telugu and they don't even offer me utensils. They still hand me a roll of toilet paper when they point me to the toilet though, which I graciously accept. Sorry, I am not that Indian yet.
Speaking of bathroom situations. Yes. I have to talk about this. So I don't know how many third world countries have public restrooms with holes instead of/coinciding with toilets, but I am going out on a limb and saying most, because Western toilets are called Western toilets for a reason. As much as I love a good ole toilet, I am totally kosher with the hole in the ground. We have reconciled our differences and I no longer pee on myself or feel the need to remove my pants when I go for fear of getting them wet. This is an accomplishment for me. I will precede my next statements by reminding you how cautiously you set the toilet paper on the seat at Mini Mart before even considering touching butt to toilet; I will leave it to your imagination how many rolls of toilet paper you would like to use in India to separate your skin from whatever you're reliving yourself in. In the terrible event you're desperate enough to go in a public restroom, I'll tell you now, it is better to choose the hole than the "western toilet". I don't know if ever there was someone hired to clean these toilets, but if there were, they 1. are blind and can't smell and should probably be fired immediately if not sooner, or 2. need to be laid to rest because they surely died. Because of that, my skin is getting nowhere near any surface in those places, so I will opt for the hole. You're welcome for that little nugget of wisdom.
Don't worry though, it's not all bad. Aside from the gross toilets, rampant mosquitos and flying spiders, there's lots to enjoy here in India. The fruit is sweeter, the trees are greener and the sun is warmer. The society cultivates a sense of community and loyalty, which is a stark contrast from our self-serving and closed-door culture in America. More on that later.
I wish I had a great conclusion but actually, I am just ridiculously unsure of the jumbled mess that I just wrote and have no way to sum it up. Eh, when in Rome, right? er, India?
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