Day 11 + Travel Home – Reverse Yaks

Our final day in India was primarily spent in the Delhi marketplace.  We had not intended for a down day like this, but with the travel itinerary we ended with, it was inevitable.  I still had a lot of names on my souvenir list, so I was looking forward to getting the full market experience. 

Yesterday, I talked about longing to get the full India bargaining experience, I thought I did okay buying my knife, but today I one upped it.  I found one store I got very comfortable in, buying souvenirs for my whole family, one at a time, negotiating a bit on each.  With each growing bargain, I eyed the endgame of this budding buyer/seller relationship.  I had my sights set on some of the nice chess sets here on the first venture and today I was ready to negotiate for one. 

When I asked the price, he started much higher than I would even considered paying, we countered a few times, eventually, he came down to my offer that was roughly 40% of the starting price.  I could have taken that deal, but instead I decided to get a combo out of it.  I also had been eying a nice marble vase on the wall, and offered him double the price of the chess set he had offered for both the set and the vase.  He refused, saying he couldn’t make the deal.  I advised I’d be looking elsewhere then.  He shouted different counter offers as I left the store and I ignored him, and headed out. 

I wandered into a few other stores, finding I was not nearly as interested in their sets or prices, and decided I should head back and negotiate a bit more.  On the way back, the man I had been bartering with at that store found me on the streets, advised he was looking for me, and told me my offer had been accepted.  He then led me to an ATM, where I pulled out the needed cash, and completed the transaction, getting both items for $25 less than he originally wanted for the chess set alone.  Now I truly had the India bargaining experience.

Another highlight was the same guy that had driven me crazy as a street vendor 10 days earlier just ignoring me and badgering other people.  It was nice to not say no over and over again this time around.

After lunch, we returned to a restaurant we had eaten the week before for a lunch that was destined to be cursed from the heavens.  The chicken came out looking a bit too tender, which I pointed out to our guides.  He advised it was fine and I, like a fool who forgot that he had already seen guides have phones taken from our leader and tell me midnight home invasions were normal, believed.  I ate a bit of the chicken, less than planned, but clearly too much.

After lunch, we had planned a trip to Baskin Robbins.  We thought.  We were taken to a place one used to be at, then taken somewhere else to try out Indian ice cream.  I’m sure the BR would have offered much better things, but we got was terrible.  It was really just a Popsicle that tasted like honey and cantaloupe.  At the bottom of it, there were anonymous brownish chunks waiting to be devoured.  I decided I had tried enough, and promptly tossed the rest instead of wading through the chunks.

On the way back to the car, we wandered under the street through a Subway tunnel.  As we walked through, we had to step over people just laying there, clearly homeless, hopefully alive, just looking for relief from the heat in the middle of the day.  That was among the hardest moments of the entire trip, literally just walking over poverty, knowing I was helpless to do anything about it.

We also took a visit to the India gate, where we encountered our most aggressive street vendors yet.  One of them grabbed a lady in our group by the hand and started to draw Henna on her arm.  Later, the artist would request payment, which a translator had to reject, as the artwork was never requested in the first place.  The lady was not happy that her forced artwork was not being rewarded.  Not much further ahead, an older lady pinned an Indian flag to my chest that was about a third of the size of a business card to my shirt and asked for the equivalent of $3 for it.  I rejected her request, and later handed her the tiny flag back. 

After seemingly days of drifting through Delhi traffic later, we ended back at the hotel to wind down our trip.  We had to be at the airport at midnight, so sleeping was pointless.  We had some long devotional and sharing time with the entire group.  I did my best to pay attention, but my attention was really being held by the after effects of that tender chicken lunch.  In a beacon of the hell that would be the next eight days of my life, stomach pains and sudden needs to burst to the bathroom in abject terror became the focus of my evening. 

Also worth noting, I pet two more dogs today while several others looked on in shame and disapproval.  The dogs seemed happy, so their feelings on the matter are irrelevant.

At midnight we loaded into a bus and headed to the airport.  Because it was international travel, we had to be there early.  Our flight didn’t leave until 4 AM.  Most of our group crashed on the airport floor for a few hours.  I took about six more trips to the bathroom, and discovered my sudden and explosive bursts of discomfort were shared by others in the group.  I wasn’t even on the plane yet, and this looked to worse than the flight there already. 

The first leg of the flight wasn’t too bad.  I rejected all food, it was only about four hours to Dubai, and since it had been nearly 24 hours since my last sleep, I managed to actually doze off for about two hours. 

And that was it.  The next 24 hours of my life would have no sleep in it.  When we landed in Dubai I again made a mad dash for the bathroom.  There was open stall, and it was something I thought was a chapter closed on my life on the Indian trains, a squatty potty awaited me.  As awful as that experience on the train was, the airport version turned out great.  The forced position it puts you in, really does wonders for making quick work of the bathroom trip.  I don’t want to be too crass, but let’s just say I cleared out fast.  I was hopeful that this had been a thorough trip to the restroom, I had emptied the previous days lunch completely, and would not have a safe and secure flight home. 

I was wrong.  Throughout the remaining two hours of the layover, I had five more visits to that restroom.  There were no other encounters with the squatty potty, only their normal toilets.  The interesting thing about the toilets here is that somehow, when they flush, they bring a waft of humidity in with them. They are automatic flushers, so that happens two or three times every visit.  It’s not a comfortable feeling to suddenly have moisture and heat run across your nether regions for no discernible reason.

I spend stupid amounts of money on the most basic and unimpressive hamburger of my life, because beef, that’s why.  I missed it, and couldn’t wait for home, regardless of my digestive tracks current unhappiness. 

There is truly nothing really to type about the rest of the trip home.  It’s just complaining.  I did not sleep again, I watched two movies, made about 40 more trips to bathrooms, my back hurt, my knees hurt.  After two weeks in one of the sketchiest places on earth, I can safely and confidently say that the airplanes there and back were the hardest things I put up with.  Home’s not much these days, but I’m happy to be here. 

Day 10 – Taylor Brandel and the Very Good, Outstanding, Delightful Day

Day 10 again started quite early, no more than an hour after I finally fell asleep on the train.  We again stood around for thirty minutes or so waiting for the stop and exited the train.  The train station was ridiculously crowded for 2 AM.  I learned later on that there is a reason that the station is so crowded with people at 2 AM.  They are all lying around on the ground, not waiting on a red eye train, but because at night they just turn the station into their homeless shelter. 

We arrived at the hotel for a few hours of “sleep” before our super touristy day in Agra.  For our group of 15 people, we had 3 rooms.  We sent the two married couples to one room, the girls to a second room, and the six remaining men to the third room.  We opened the door to find exactly what we were hoping for: two twin beds, and a marble floor.  Two guys manned up and took the floor immediately.  There were no spare pillows or blankets either, so the beds they made were their backpacks for pillows, the towels from the bathroom for “mattresses” and no blankets.  The other four of us had the task of fitting onto two twin beds. 

The two younger, skinnier guys dove straight onto one bed and slept great.  The remaining two of us stared at the remaining bed, thinking that it didn’t look like a great option for just one of us.  While the other two had comfortably squeezed their skinny selves on the bed opposite spoon position with a tiny gap between them, that option was not on the table for my bed.  We decided to go no spoonsies, but definitely hourglassed with butts bumping in the middle.  The obvious thought is “well this is awkward” but the feelings of awkwardness quickly dissipate when you are instead focused on having the worst night of sleep in your entire life. 

In four hours, I think that I fell asleep twenty separate times, and achieved roughly eight minutes of sleep.  My arm fell asleep three times from the circulation crushing angles I had to lay down at.  Oh, and we had to share a pillow too.  Around 6 AM one of the guys on the floor decided that he was ready to have his back hurt while standing up instead, and left the room.  I proceeded to take his entire pack of towels and roll them up into a single pillow lump, and lay straight on the marble floor in the 18 inch space between our bed and wall and got the best sleep of my night for the next hour. 

After a quick hotel breakfast, we were off to do what most white people in India come to do: See the Taj Mahal.  The building is incredible, although it’s smaller than we expected.  The symmetry between the building and the gate and the surrounding reflective pools are all brilliant as well, all perfectly aligned so that you can see the peak of the Taj perfectly right through the center of the gate, and in all the pools as well.  Inside the grounds I saw a cat that looked to not be starving to death, and that was a really great experience too. 

We learned several amazing details about the construction of the building and man who oversaw its assembly.  I don’t want to write it all out, because you can find that elsewhere, but one fact I loved was that when it was done the man who ordered it built had the main architects hands cut off so he could never make anything better.  That’s one way of saying thank you.

The experience is mostly all on the outside of the building, as the inside is a mausoleum and guards keep traffic moving quickly straight through, and all photography is strictly off limits.  The tour guide of ours really did a great job of not letting pesky rules get in the way of his tour though, halting us all inside the building to explain stuff until guards berated us into moving.  Later, he asked our group leader for his phone, so he could use the flashlight to show the reflections in some gems on the wall.  Our leader complied, and then watched a security guard walk over and take his phone away from the guide and walk away casually.  That led to a sketchy few minutes of asking the question “did we just lose the only phone with all of our in country contacts on it?”  After a few minutes of arguing with the guard, the guide eventually got the phone back, and we proceeded out of the building, presumably so he could find a new way to be bad at his job.

After the Taj, our group was ready for air conditioning.  We went to a factory where they showed us how they make all the marble artwork.  Holy cow, it’s incredible.  Absolutely everything is done by hand, and it is so incredibly detailed.  One young man showed me a flower he had made that was barely visible on his fingertip.  That took an hour to make.  Most of the large tiles or end tables that were on display had carved out areas where different gems are placed inside to create pictures.  Some of them had over a 1000 gems of over a hundred different types.  Several were of the Taj Mahal itself, some were decorated elephants carved out of Indian marble. 

Unfortunately I can’t share pictures of them, no photos were allowed in the gallery.  The prices were out of my range however, although perfectly reasonable.  What cost $500 in that room, would cost five grand at home.  I wish I could have brought several items home.

 

After the marble factory we went to the Agra Fort.  You’ve probably never heard of it, but it’s incredible.  Essentially it’s a giant castle just down the river from the Taj Mahal, where you can actually look out and see the Taj Mahal.  The structure is enormous and took forever to tour.  I’ll post a ton of pictures, as there is no purpose in trying to capture the experience in words.

After that we headed to lunch.  Lunch itself was completely forgettable, but while parking the bus at the restaurant, my eye caught a snake charmer on the street corner, the first I’d seen all trip long.  My interest must have been immediately visible, as the guide asked if we wanted to watch the charmer in action.  I straight up squealed like a schoolgirl, yelled “YES” at a pitch likely much higher and louder than intended and bolted from the back of the bus to the door, rejecting the usual pecking order of waiting my turn form the back. 

Snakes are not popular animals, but I have loved them for as long as I can remember.  Growing up I used rifle through animal books looking for any new fact to absorb about them.  I have always wanted to hold a boa constrictor, and as luck would have it, that is just the snake this man was holding. 

The man welcomed us all to gather around.  A large number of our group was not stoked to see this reptile in action, but eventually we all circled up.  I was bouncing up and down giddy for the show, and the charmer picked up on the excitement, asking me to come sit by him.  I was happy to oblige.  What I did not expect was to have him then drape the boa around my neck.  SCCCCCOOOOOOOORRRREEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!

My whole day was pretty much made at this point, but the excitement did not end there.  He then took the hat off of my head and placed something else up on top.  If I had been thinking at all about it, I would have known exactly what was happening, but I wasn’t.  In my mind, he was just placing some item on my head that was ceremonial garb or something, I thought nothing about it.  As it turns out, it was a basket with a king freakin’ cobra in it. 

The boa started to hiss and move its head back towards my hand.  I freaked out a bit at this point.  I knew I could stop the boa before it squeezed me, but those things have giant fangs.  They can’t poison you, but the last thing I wanted was a trip to an Indian hospital for giant gash.  After I got scared, I handed the boa off to the handler, and then it was pointed out to me that it actually had a rope around its mouth, so the bite was never a real threat. 

Then the basket was taken off my head, and I saw the cobra for the first time.  This was another situation where a normal person probably feels fear, but I’m not always normal.  A king cobra is probably my favorite snake of them all.  I have dreamed of seeing one up close, and seeing it within five feet of me created a burst of unreasonable excitement. 

Another minute or so of charming later, and I was off to lunch with a bucket list item destroyed. 

After lunch, we just looked for some light shopping to kill time until we hopped on another train.  We pulled up to an upscale store that sold pretty much everything from idols to tapestries, tea, and clothing.  Spraypainted on the side of the building was wonderful message of “Welcome Obama.”  I’m sure that was from the time he definitely didn’t come here.  The stuff in the store was really expensive, although cool, but I decided to wait for better deals at the matketplace tomorrow and headed back out to the bus.

I got on the bus with two other people and it quickly caught my attention that I was virtually unattended and that several dogs were visible in the street.  This was my chance for victory.  I snuck off the bus and started to wander down the street alone in a fashion that assuredly would have gained me a nice long tongue lashing had all the real adults not been inside bartering for tablecloths. 

The first dog that caught my eye was about a hundred feet down the street.  I slowly approached it and was quickly met with snarling teeth.  Okay, not that one.  I walked backwards, and caught another dog curled up in a ball sleeping in the sun.  About ten feet from it sat a man in a chair, just staring at the street.  I asked the man if the dog was his, I wasn’t interested in petting a tamed dog, I wanted a wild one.  He said he didn’t know the dog, and I chose my target.  I slowly approached and was met with a slow, nervous tail wag.  Challenge accepted.  I closed in and………. I PET THE DOG!  GOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!  CUBS WIN, CUBS WINS!  I PET A DOG!!!! TAKE THAT AUTHORITY!!! If the snake didn’t make my day, that sure did.  I pet it for about thirty seconds as it melted in my hand, perhaps experiencing love from a human being for the first time in its life, and snapped a picture for proof. 

I jumped back to the bus and bathed in hand sanitizer and awaited the groups return so I could boast of my accomplishment.  My story was met with eye rolls and concerns about how rabid I may or not currently be.  Those concerns are obviously foolish.  I wasn’t bit, and was barely even thinking about biting everyone else.  Blood does sound good though.

Afterwards, we took one more pit stop at a jewelry store where they make the merchandise in store.  This was clearly on the bottom rung of the tourist attraction ladder, and about half the group stayed on the bus, but I had only a few hours of India left to experience and I was going to absorb every last second I could.  It was a chance to walk the street a bit and maybe catch another pet-thirsty dog.

 

In the store, they showed a bunch of expensive jewels.  I advised I had no need of any jewelry, they asked about ladies in my life.  I again advised no opportunity there, they countered by saying something could be arranged.  That’s a negotiation technique I’m not used to at home, but I held strong and declined still.  Fun note though, they had one ring that costs 35 million rupees, or roughly $500,000 US dollars.  I countered with a $50, they declined.  I tried.

In the next room though, I encountered unexpected temptations in the form of vintage stabby things.  Knifes, and these redonkulously awesome things that fit over your hand and essentially become Wolverine claws.  These I was willing to negotiate for.  I had been hoping to get the real Indian bartering experience on the trip and this was the time. Eventually I bought a curved dagger with an elephant head handle, and case decorated with paintings in actual silver.  I may have gone over budget a bit.

On the other side of the room I saw the most amazing needlework of my lifetime.  I have been amazed by several of these items throughout the trip, but know all of them are out of my budget, so haven’t bothered taking time to stare at most.  On the wall here was a roughly eight foot wide hand embroidered picture of a tiger mauling a zebra in the jungle, and it’s just about the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.  Among the highlights are a small trail of blood dripping from the zebras freshly snapped neck, and a carefully crafted zebra phallic portion to be anatomically correct. 

I still didn’t ask the price but couldn’t help but stare for a while.

After the store, the group boarded the train to spend a final day in Delhi.  Whilst waiting for the train to take off, I stared out the window trying to distinguish what animal I was seeing.  It was a bit in the distance and I was getting that curved window distortion effect.  I couldn’t tell if it was a dog, two dogs standing close to each other, or a goat.  I verbally processed this, and others got involved in trying to understand what it was.  Eventually, I got bored of the mystery and just went sarcastic with it, declaring it to be an albino tiger.  To my surprise, a group member bought into that, and I got to run with the joke for a few minutes.

It was a goat.

Day 9 - I Don't Have a Clever Title for This One

This day started probably the best way it possibly could: Late.  The day’s agenda had a late start, so an opportunity to sleep was given.  Normally, I’d be against this, I have my whole life to sleep, but only two weeks in this country, however, I’ve had a tough time sleeping most of the trip, and 2-4 hours a night has been pretty standard, getting until 8:30 to have breakfast seemed a monumental break here. 

Then breakfast hit.  In an earlier journal entry, I waxed poetically about the joys of Indian food.  Well somewhere around day 7 or 8, that joy began to fade.  I miss beef, but not as much as I miss a few other things I clearly take for granted.  Chief among them is ice.  Nothing is ever really served cold here.  The drinks come out of a refrigerator often, but they are still pretty close to room temperature, ice is virtually never an option and I haven’t had a cold drink since I left Seattle.  The other thing is fresh food.  It’s not safe to eat anything raw here, so everything is cooked, soft, and warm.  I miss cold and I miss crunchy. 

At breakfast, we were offered sausage.  We had chicken sausage in Delhi, and it was delightful, so I loaded up.  This chicken sausage needs several words to describe, but delightful will not be one of them.  It tasted a little like someone had soaked cardboard in water with just a hint of Tang powder until it was completely mushy, then rolled it in crushed dog food for extra flavor, and placed it in a cooler to harden.  After one bite, I figured I must have been missing out on something and needed a second bite to adjust.  I was a bit headstrong on the second gulp, putting the remainder of the sausage into my mouth in one large bite.  That bite never made it to my stomach.  I tried so hard, but eventually it ended up in my napkin, hoping our hosts would never discover that it was found to be indigestible. 

After breakfast, we had the opportunity to spend some time meeting up with the students from the Bible College here.  We had about three hours to spend with the students, and I was beyond excited for the experience.  These young students are truly something to be admired, before they will even be accepted into the college, they must sign an agreement stating that they are willing to die for the gospel.  One semester of their studies is an internship, wherein they are required to plant a church.  No church plant, no graduation.  That is commitment the likes of which is completely foreign in western education, debatably even in western faith.  I couldn’t wait to see what these men were like on a personal level.

The idea was that the majority of the time would be spent sharing testimonies with each other, but that didn’t work out for our group.  I heard later that for most of the other groups, that is what happened, but for ours, the men felt like blazing through their stories quickly.  We had about three hours, and had ten testimonies knocked out in about forty minutes.  After a short break, we were encouraged to lead a short Bible study, and try to spark a small group discussion. 

Both myself, and the other member of our visiting group gave a short study, and we jumped into a small group discussion.  As could be evidenced by our quick burst through testimonies, we didn’t have the chattiest group of guys in the world.  The actual discussion didn’t last all that long.  What followed though was very cool.

With about an hour and twenty minutes left, one student jumped completely off subject, opting to ignore the discussion and ask me to explain a passage he didn’t understand in 1 John.  At this point, I should point out something about myself that may or may not be common knowledge to my readers.  I am by no means a biblical scholar.  I know my gospels, Acts, Romans, and a handful of Old Testament books pretty well.  I have read the entire Bible and have a good idea of how it all completes and compliments each other, and a confident understanding of the important aspects of my faith, however I do not have the ability to just pop up with answers from Micah, 1 John, or Habakkuk on command.  I need time to study passages, and I don’t tend to absorb things to long term memory quickly.  I have to study things in more depth than I have with much of the Bible to have the ability to recall quickly. 

Yet, surely enough, that’s exactly what the next hour of time was comprised of.  I had Bible College students tossing questions at me left and right about passages I’ve read maybe once or twice in my lifetime, looking for answers on what they mean.  Much to my surprise, I had answers to all of them.  Jumping them back and forth all throughout scripture, often to passages I’m only vaguely familiar with myself, for answers.  From Micah to Job, I referenced scripture all over the place and provided clarity to the students in a way that I know I am not capable of.  The Holy Spirit was guiding me and using me to bless those in that room.  It was an amazing, one of a kind experience that I was not expecting or even slightly prepared for, but it may have been my favorite part of the entire trip.

I made sure to share with all the students those exact feelings.  I let them know that I’m not knowledgeable enough to answer all the questions I had just answered, and we were all able to praise God together for the learning that had occurred.  We spent a few minutes in prayer together and parted ways, with grumpy Taylor well behind me and encouraged by the morning’s events.

Afterwards a lunch with the leadership staff occurred.  This was our final interaction with the leaders before we departed to another city, and I was disappointed to find my white brother in arms was not a part of it.  I never did get an opportunity to reconnect with him, unfortunately.  I’ll try to find a way to connect by email or something when I get home.

I had been excited to visit the gift shop they had on campus that afternoon, knowing that I could pick up souvenirs, A. without bartering and B. with all the money going to support the mission.  That turned out great for the ladies, because the store was about 90% clothing, but for me, it meant buying two things because I would have felt guilty getting all of it elsewhere.  $20 to a good cause I guess.

In the evening, we hopped back onto a train for a trip to Agra and some legit tourism.  Unlike the last train ride, I was not tossed into a train car with only two other people, but rather with a group of several travel companions, most of whom, I really did not know well at all.  Instead of writing or sleeping my way through the majority of the ride, I joined in a long conversation getting to know them all.  One by one, seven of us listened in for an abbreviated life story of the others.  Starting with childhood in some cases (long winded people like me) and others focusing on current life.  In all cases, we got real with each other at the end.  Opening up about the people in our life that need prayer and the challenging we are facing today.

I got to know those folks better in five hours than I know several people I’ve known for years, and it was great.  I’m a very relational person.  I crave depth in my relationships, and this train ride was a great encouragement for me.  I had the chance to open up about some current struggles I am having in my own faith and with my church, and was listened to and encouraged by people who were near strangers when I woke up that morning.  I have learned that train rides are a more conductive environment in virtually all ways compared to air travel.  There is enough room to sit and converse, and not an obligation to watch movies and sleep the whole way.  I wish we could take a train back home.

Day 8 – Preachin’ Son of a Preacher Man

On this morning I had the hour of experiencing a first.  I got preach (sort of) from the pulpit.  It wasn’t a full sermon at all, and really can’t be.  In India, evangelism is illegal, and foreigners can’t “preach” at all.  Instead I was asked to lead a morning devotional.  I was asked to do it earlier in the week, with roughly 10 hours notice (right before bed), and I asked for a later day.  Normally I relish public speaking, and I script nothing.  I usually go up with a few bullet points outlined and adlib it. 

However given that I had a pretty negative state of mind, I didn’t know if I was in good shape to do that.  I got a two day delay and during that time, I was able to change the passages I wanted to speak on.  I had spent most of my trip thus far feeling pretty down because I hadn’t really served at all, and I didn’t have much confidence in the message I planned.  I prayed about it and God helped me see I had been planning mostly just based on what I thought would be easy to teach on with no experience and a down mindset. 

Instead, he called me to preach on some of my favorites, a few passages that have always been close to my heart, and speak with passion. So with a two day delay to help me get ready to speak, I decided to change my topic ten minutes before going to bed, with chapel at nine the next morning.  I’m quite comfortable with public speaking, enjoy it really, but I was still a bit nervous.  My confidence has been low because of the emotional turmoil, and I wasn’t really sure if I would be good at church speaking, that was a first for me. 

I started with something I hadn’t heard from the pulpit the whole trip: a joke.  Indian culture is not as comical as American culture is.  The people live seriously and don’t joke around much at all.  It’s great in the aspect that you get to see people raw and real, but it is disheartening in that you also see a lack of joy frequently, and laughter is somewhat rare.  I started with a crack about how if I didn’t speak well, to just blame the translator because my devotion was great.  The translator has written books in both Hindi and English and is one of the most respected preachers on the planet, so that certainly wasn’t the case.  Regardless, I got a laugh both before and after the translation, so I had accomplished at least one thing for the day, I made the congregation laugh, including the translator.

I spent the next few minutes going over the passages of Romans 12:1-2 and Isaiah 26:3-4, two of my favorites.  In what I took as a sign that I really did belong up there speaking, I was told I went a little long, which is the ultimate sign of a preacher’s heart.  Afterwards, my concerns and fears that I shouldn’t be up there at all were put quickly at ease.  Virtually everyone was telling me I did great up there.  I always feel good about my stage presence, but in this case I wasn’t sure about the content.  In classic Taylor form, I went up there without a single note, just my Bible and mental note about where to turn.

The encouragement I received afterwards was, by far, the largest boost I received on my entire trip.  I felt vindicated in that my aspirations for full time ministry might not be so far off after all, something my current job hunting struggles have caused me to doubt recently. 

In the afternoon, we took a short tour of the city that the main campus is located outside of.  I learned some interesting things on the drive, including the fact that “colony” is really just a word that is used to describe a little zone of housing, similar to how we might say neighborhood or development.  It then struck me that leper colonies were likely just neighborhoods in town. 

The city tour was just a time killer before we headed to the hospital that is operated by our host organization.  The hospital was a big pride point for them; they had invested a lot of time and resources into making it the best one in the district of about 1.5 million people.  What I learned quickly is that every American needs to stop complaining about their health care.  Our system isn’t perfect, but everyone who needs urgent care will always get it, and virtually everyone will receive adequate care.  The concerns at home aren’t about the quality of care, but the cost.

Keep in mind as I share the following information, that it is describing the best hospital servicing an area with a population that exceeds the entire state of Idaho.  Among the most impressive features in the hospital was the single dialysis machine in the entire district, which pretty quickly connects the mental dots to the fact that virtually everyone here that needs kidney dialysis will just die.  On a good day, they are able to get five different people on the machine. 

Additionally, the hospital features not one, but two surgery rooms.  That’s it.  If more than two people need scheduled operations, they wait.  The hospital also includes the only ICU in the region with air conditioning, so keep in mind that most people that come in for help, will end up sitting in 100 degrees while getting it.  As we toured the facility, we just walked straight through the ICU, with patients and their families just looking at us curiously.  In that moment, the revelation hit me that in our red tape burdened country; a hospital could be shut down for privacy violations for that one action, while the patients there were just happy to be getting real assistance.

One thing I learned throughout this trip was that we in America underestimate the durability of the human body.  These people had virtually no options for quality health care.  They eat primarily a diet that guarantees diabetes at some point because it’s so heavy on carbohydrates, and options for fresh, uncooked vegetables are almost non-existent because of the pollution and filth in the country.  The fresh water is also completely undrinkable here.  Few places have real indoor plumbing, and even when they do, the waste management system just ends up with it in a place that is bad for the general population.  India is the second most populous country on earth, 40% of the citizens live beneath the poverty line, and is the most polluted country on the planet.  Despite all this, the average life span is 66 years.  That’s obviously well short of most of the developed world, but given that every aspect of their life seems unsurvivable to the North American eye, it’s about 36 years longer than I think most of us think we could actually survive in the same conditions.

Later I got to share a lunch with the same teacher I had joked at the expense of from the pulpit that morning.  Unfortunately, I can’t really share too many details of that conversation, but it was a great encouragement as well.  He did give me some encouragement that there are ways that I could be helping their efforts on a permanent basis, and was hopeful we could speak again at a later time about some specifics.

In the afternoon, some of the preachers from the organization came to speak with us about their testimonies.  I had heard horror stories about persecution from India before, but hearing about it first hand is a different matter entirely.  Probably the hardest moment for me was one pastor who shared that he had once been beaten unconscious and his wife killed by attackers.  He was unconscious long enough that he did not even get to attend his own wife’s funeral.  That happened nine years ago, he had surely told the story countless times since then, and still he could not get through it without weeping. 

How can one process that?  In a country where so many don’t share their faith because they don’t want to get in a debate about it, or are scared of being judged, sitting in front of me was a man who still preaches in the same village where that attack happened because his belief that God wants him there hasn’t changed.  Again, as throughout this whole trip, people were ecstatic to have us pray over them.  Even this man, for whom I can’t see any real basis for caring about what a persecutionless American thinks or feels about his story, was overjoyed to have one of our own pray over him.  Our man couldn’t get through it without choking up himself.  That was raw and powerful emotion. 

Later, I was asked to pray over one of the pastors as well.  He spoke no English at all, and translators aren’t active during prayer, so no words get through to the person.  I was told later by someone else that the man I was praying over had tears in his eyes as I prayed for him (they were dry when I started).  I know God heard me, and my team did too, but his emotional investment in my power to help was so strange to hear.  He had a faith in both God and myself to truly bless him, and again I was blown away by how much simply hearing encouragement went to these people.

Throughout the afternoon we got to hear more horrifying stories that had incredible endings.  Among them were the stories of one pastor who woke up one morning to find that twenty babies six months or younger had just been left on his doorstep, all of which he was able to ensure were provided for.  The story of a baby who someone just randomly found out of curiosity inside a plastic bag on the street, and another taken in with the umbilical cord still attached as the baby was never even cleaned once born.  The most powerful though was of a man who watched a persecutor rape his wife right in front of him.  Two years later, as he persisted to preach in the same area regardless, he baptized that same rapist into his church.

Later that night, we attended their weekly youth group event.  It was pretty similar to all the other church or chapel visits we had made, and after the emotional exhaustion of the days other experiences, honestly didn’t leave much of an impression. 

Another day, another failure on the dog petting front, I was scolded away from one more, and had another chased off right in front of me by a kid who pelted a dog with a rock.  So that was sad.

The last observation I have for the day is that I want to point out the awesomeness that is the marble floors.  In the US, we look at this as a sign of luxury, marble is crazy expensive, and almost no one has it in their homes.  Here, it’s essentially carpet.  Every building that is at least a middle class household has it throughout, and even the lower income places seem to at least have it for the stairs.  It’s just crazy easy to come by here.  I find a simple beauty in the consistent contrast of the beauty of the floor itself, and the filth that often surrounds it.  The dirt here is essentially just reddish clay, and it tracks everywhere.  Floors are always coated with it, and usually there are beetles and flies everywhere.  The contrast of the marble and the filth being commonplace together is something I never seemed to adjust to throughout the visit, and always appreciated the simplicity and beauty of.

Day 7 - Raksha Bandhan

Grumpy Taylor emerged from bed hoping to be less grumpy today.  The morning didn’t start out so hot.  I’ve been shy on details about this subject thus far, but it’s time to address the obvious burning question: Taylor, how have your bowel movements been affected by the Indian food?  For the first few days, the answer was not at all, for the past two days, the answer has been “explosively.”

 

My Tuesday-Wednesday mostly consisted of eying the bathroom carefully and pondering whether or not I should dart towards it preemptively or not.  I’m living in fear of going anywhere that is more than 10 feet from a bathroom.  I brought some pills for this issue, and they work, but a bit too well.  Currently I’m playing the rotating game of letting everything just work itself out for about three hours, then taking the pills and letting everything get cloggy after I’ve ensured the tummy won’t end up overcrowded.

The point being that diarrhea isn’t really an attitude fixer-upper.

After 20 minutes of staring at my breakfast plate and processing the internal mental battle of hunger and fear, I ate one banana and slice of bread and called it good.  We were then off to prepare for VBS.  The majority of the group was beaming with excitement to get some kiddo time, but kids have never really been my gifting.  It was great to get to some real ministry work, and I was beyond ready for that, but the giddy “I WANT TO HOLD ALL OF THEM AND I CAN’T WAIT TO TAKE PICTURES OF ALL OF THEM!” effect isn’t really there for me.

Plus, I’m still grumpy, so everything is stupid anyways.

To start, we had some songs prepared to lead the kids in.  Yes, prepared.  There was no repeat of the “This Little Light of Mine” incident of 8/17/2016.  The songs were performed competently, the children sang along and danced to Father Abraham and I’ve Got the Joy, and then our musical peeps sang This is Amazing Grace for them.  Good times were had, and no mothers were left shaking their heads and pondering how America functions.  On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d rate about 800 points higher than the previous day.

We broke the children into two groups after that and one of our team members led a Bible study.  It was really wonderfully done, and she was able to relate to the children in a way I’m sure no American had before.  She was actually adopted out of India as a toddler, and this was her first time coming back, so she had the ability necessary to relate to the kids here.  Her story was about how Jesus considers all of His followers family, and that our family is more than just blood relation.

We broke into smaller groups after that, and I led a group discussion with about 10 children.  There was an awkward part at the beginning when I performed the essential introduction step of asking every child for their name.  I was greatly worried about this step, more so than any other, because between my knowledge of exactly two words in Hindi, and my generally inability to interpret anything spoken with an unfamiliar accent, I was concerned I’d spend all the time just trying to repeat their names once.  My worries turned out to be unnecessary, because one was named Joshua, and all the others were Ramabaski.

The small group discussion proved two very distinct things:

1. That these kids were listening intently to the story we shared in a large group setting, and know their Bibles incredibly well. 

2. That real conversation is tough to accomplish when your translator waits until everyone answers an open-ended question, and just gives you a summary of all of their answers at once.

Needless to say, the discussion was pretty short.  We had a short activity afterwards where art supplies were provided and we asked them to make a card to thank someone who has been family to them.  I ran out of construction paper before I got any, so I just used a piece of printer paper to make what has to be the worst card an adult has ever created for a friend.  Knowing that creativity is pretty well capped when you possess no artistic skills and only a single piece of white paper to work with, I set out to intentionally make it as bad as possible.  Backwards letters, occasional Spanish, misspelled words, you know, the works.  I’m proud of it, I wish I’d taken a picture before I gave it away.

After we finished the cards, two of the kids gave theirs to me.  I probably should have expected that based on everything else I’ve experienced on this trip, but it really caught me by surprise.  It warmed my heart to see how much love these kids have, that they can just easily give it someone whose main contribution to their life has been to mispronounce their names and then speak a foreign language to them.

We played a quick game, and then all the kids wanted to gather their cards up before going back to the large group.  One of the kids who had given me his card looked around the stack of cards confused for a bit, and then I showed him the one he had given me.  He responded by excitedly grabbing it, and running off to give it someone else.   Ce La Vie (probably spelled wrong, we’ve established that I’m not good with foreign languages right?).  Anyways, I’m keeping the other one, I’m special darn it!

After we rejoined true chaos ensued.  We had a game set up, wherein we split the kids apart, and put them on opposite sides of a room.  Then we dump 200 or so balloons in the middle and tell them the goal is to get all the balloons on the other team’s side of the room.  That would be loud and chaotic in any setting, but this is India, and a special environmental condition exacerbated it. 

As you can probably guess, it’s hot here.  AC is not in every room, and in several where it is, it’s not super effective.  No matter where you go here, if the room has power, it has a fan running on the ceiling.  In large rooms, like the one we’re in for the game, there are like 20 of them.  The next few minutes mostly consisted of kids accidentally knocking balloons into fans while about 190 of them became loud, bursting casualties of war.

After electricity killed our game, we got to witness the festivities of a national holiday called Raksha Bandhan.  That translates to whatever you decide is does.  How should I know?  I don’t speak Hindi. 

It’s a celebration of brother and sister, and the importance of familial bonds in this culture, a perfect complement to the story our team member had chosen of the Bible study earlier.  In it, the female goes to the male, ties an ornate bracelet (called a Rakhi) around their wrist, marks their forehead with that red dot you’ve likely seen, places a cloth on their head, and then gives them a bite of a sweet treat to eat.  This symbolizes their support and blessing for prosperity and well being for the brother.  The male, then gives a gift (which can be whatever is deemed appropriate for their relationship) to symbolize their support, love, and care for the sister.

It was fun to watch the kids go through a really cool celebration that is much more meaningful than how we usually celebrate most holidays back home.  Of course, kids will be kids and got anxious as they waited for everyone else to go.  They then started dancing on stage to some songs.  They all knew the dance to a song called “Stop and Listen.”  After that played, I learned that you can escape a lot of American things in India, but the Newboys aren’t one of them.  God’s Not Dead was next on the dance playlist, and I lamented that it had followed me across the globe to annoy my eardrums.

Once the ceremony was completed, every kid in the place jumped on stage to dance to the stop and listen song again.  Apparently the artist that recorded it had visited them just two weeks ago and taught them all the actions personally.  With that in mind, the This Little Light of Mine incident grew even more embarrassing than previously experienced.

Later in the day, we took a trip out to a village where there is a young church.  That was an absolutely phenomenal experience.  When we arrived, immediately, the villagers came forward to welcome us into their house and complete the Raksha Bandhan ceremony with us.  From a tourist perspective, it was a really cool moment to be a part of, I feel very lucky to have been here for not just one, but two national holidays that are specific to this country.

From a spiritual perspective though, it was just a further continuation of the things I had processed after watching the kids go through it earlier.  These were my brothers and sisters in Christ, and here were complete strangers that sought to bring me into their celebration to display that fact.  The pastor made me feel right at home as well by repeating the same joke over and over again.  I wasn’t just meeting new brothers and sisters, this guy reminded me of my dad too!  I’ve always believed that I had siblings through Christ all over the world, but now I have a bracelet to prove it.

After the ceremony, we went on a tour of the village, starting with the house we were in.  The house was very small, it featured a burn pit on the inside that is somehow a part of the job of the entire family.  We learned more about how they make a living, by making cigarettes.  The wage they earn for this work is 50 rupees, which is less $1, for every 1000 made.  Once acclimated to the process, an individual can feasibly make up to 1000 in a day, so the family is making no more than a $1 per day for each family member.  This is what true poverty looks like.

They showed me the rest of the property, which consisted of a bathroom outside and their farm animals. They later offered our group the opportunity to milk one of their cows.  It turns one girl in our group had that exact experience high on her bucket and was thrilled to oblige.  It turns out that it wasn’t a cow being milked at all, but a water buffalo.  Yep, consider that bucket list item obliterated, she just milked a freaking water buffalo.  I love this country.

As we proceeded into town, a small crowd of children gathered to see the white people, an occurrence we had been forewarned would likely occur.  When we had arrived at the village, the people gave us some flower leis, something we had grown accustomed to at most every step of our visit.  Of course flowers die fast, and I can’t hold 80 of these on my neck, so we usually give them away after wearing them for a bit.  Children are always happy to be the recipient, so we started handing them out to the kids.  That came with the unexpected result of groupies.  I think every kid in the village was following us at one point, not really asking for, or expecting anything else, just happy to see the rare sights. 

At one point a child somewhere in the pack started wailing and crying loudly behind the group, to which I reacted by saying “it’s okay, I’m not a ghost.”  I would later find out that it was a child reacting to one member of the group trying to give her lei over.  The member who made them cry?  Well, it was the Indian girl, who on sight would in my mind be the least threatening as she looks like everyone else in the village.

We were invited to look around in someone else’s house.  While there, the man of the house asked for our group to pray over him, which we did.  He offered to host all of us for dinner, which was case example number 4000 of me being blown away by the generosity of the people here.  When we get home, I fully expect to spend a week of this guy’s wages on one hamburger, and he wants to host 15 strangers for dinner to thank us for a simple prayer that we were happy to give him.  The generosity of the people here is something I’ll carry with me the rest of my life.

Outside his house, a dog peaceably laid by the door.  I’ve shared before about the general heartbreak the dogs all over India have generated inside me.  Well, I’d set my mind on petting at least one dog before I got on the plane back home.  My fellow travelers have not been supportive of this objective, frequently stating things like “that dog is going to bite you” and “you’re going to get rabies” and “you don’t know what kind of diseases that thing has” and “I can see the fleas on that thing from here” and “I can hear it craving blood.”  You get the idea. 

Regardless, I’m confident that rabid dogs will certainly warn me far before I enter petting range.  Also, I’m willing to risk it.  THESE DOGS NEED MY LOVE!  This dog let me get very close to it, but was looking at me with a lot of uncertainty.  As I was pondering whether or not to press my luck, a man came up and told me “no, no” while shaking his head and making a scratching motion with his hands.  The communication seemed pretty clear, but then he starting saying “good dog” over and over again.  As I tried to put together in my head the puzzle of

a. what was me hearing what I wanted through broken English and

b. how the scratching sign language could possibly not be a warning that this dog was likely to rip my kidney out

I was again interrupted by a scolding for an unsupportive group member.   “TAYLOR, DON’T PET THAT DOG!”  Again, the adults had conspired against me, and I moved on.

We passed a house that had the sweetest old hunchbacked lady I’d ever seen come to the door just to wave at us as we passed.  Next to her was a lovely young lady, spine all straight, waving with her.  It was a beautiful reflection of what this country is in so many ways.  Loving and generous in many ways, but wearisome and harsh in others.  It was like staring at a before and after picture at the same time.

We continued on a short ways, but were at one point turned back down the path by a group of people.  The details of the reasons here were not ever communicated to our group, but we had been warned prior to the visit that oppression was not without precedent in the village.  Our handlers take absolutely zero risk with our safety, so we were quickly turned back towards our bus.  Nothing violent or threatening appeared to happen, but it was clear that those villagers had no interest in being a part of our tour.

On the way back to the bus, another pettable dog entered my crosshairs.  This one got so close it still hurts me to think about.  I hunched and whistled at it, encouraging it to come closer, and it wanted to so, so bad.  It looked at me with its head down low, and still in a frightened stance, but was also wagging its tail so hard its body was wiggling up to the ribs.  This was a nervous, but optimistic, full butt shake.  A trademark of my own puppy, Nova, back home.  This was the dog.  The stars had aligned, sweet petting would be mine. 

But no. NO!  Responsible people had to happen.  A girl in the group straight up mom voice scolded me with a shout of “TAYLOR, THEY SAID DON’T PET THE DOGS!”  To which I responded by contesting that they did not say not to pet any dogs, just that last dog.  In the time I took to turn and defend my actions, the dog chose anxiety over full butt wagging optimism and scampered away.  Someday I will lay on my deathbed and wonder “what if?”

After we got back home, I spent some time in prayer, looking for a cure to grumpy Taylor.  God had been convicting me that I had been holding some anger against my pastor for my frustration about the trip thus far.  My blog has been mostly positive and light-hearted, but the fact that we had almost exclusively been served by the people instead of serving was not at all the experience I had expected, and it has caused me to feel guilty several times.

Oh, the freedom of confession.  We chatted for close to an hour about the trip, my personal walk with the Lord, my frustrations with my church (which we’ll explore further in a future blog.  Foreshadowing!), and my lack of direction in life at the moment.  You know what changed about every one of those things during the conversation?  Nothing!  Still I felt a weight lifted.  I’m hoping for better serving opportunities still, but in either case, my anger was gone.  We had a nightly devotion and off to bed I went, looking forward to a day ahead with a clear mind, and grumpless Taylor ready to be unleashed on an unsuspecting India.

Other Day 7 Observations

• ·         Holy crap the bees are big and scary

o   They have a hive literally right on the other side of our bathroom fan

§  Yes, the kind of fan that just blows air out through a hole in the wall

·         As in, yes, they can fly into the allergic dudes room whenever they want

o   I’m glad I brought my epipen

• ·         The dogs outside at night are not ready to be pet

o   They have embraced the dark side

§  Puns!

·         Seriously though, you can hear them saying no through the walls

o   Aggressively.  Them rabid.

§  Did not attempt

Day 6 – This Little Light of Mine

Overall, this was not an impacting day.  We did more touring of the facilities here, including the nursing school.  Nursing, and really the medical field at large, is not my scene, so it wasn’t the most exciting couple of hours of my life.  One thing that did jump out to me however was, as usual, the contrast from American society.  Their anatomy lab, looked a lot like my high school biology classroom.  It seemed quaint in every way.  That’s not a knock against it by any means, it’s a highly reputable institution, but yet again was a glaring example of how much different things are here, simpler in nearly every way.

In that lab, I saw something that rattled me in a way I hadn’t been rattled in a long time.  Among the items visible in the jars on the shelves, were human fetuses.  I saw the five week one first, and that didn’t have much impact, however, there was a much later term one across the room that looked almost full term.  There in a jar sat a pale lifeless face that never quite was, and I couldn’t handle it.  I had to leave the room.  I’m always pale, so I guess my face went transparent.  The shock wore off quickly, but it’s been years since anything has overwhelmed me in that way in an instant.

Later in the tour, however, a much lighter moment occurred.  We entered into a different room in which a poster on the wall with several pictures emblazoned a headline of “different types of placentas.”  I had no idea that there were variations here.  I want to make a joke on that phrase using the alternate pronunciations of the word tomato here, but instead using the word placenta.  However, the words are typed the same, so I don’t know how to actually make the joke in literary form, so please do it yourself in your head.

Anyways, I, of course, wandered over curiously and started to study up.  After about ten seconds, a girl from our group walked up behind me and teased me by asking if I was brushing up on placentas.  For the briefest of moments, I thought I must have been the only moron who didn’t know that placentas were the uterus’ fortune cookie, until someone else walked up behind us stating “I didn’t know there was more than one type of placenta!”  I giggled to myself, moved on, then watched as one by one, about half our group did literally the exact same thing.  Before long, there were eight people studying the placenti options on the wall with curiosity that equaled my own.

In the afternoon, we had the opportunity to REDACTED.  They bring in impoverished children from the surrounding area and provide them with a bag of food for the week.  While they are there, they also do a Sunday school type interaction with songs, memory verse, etc.

Remember how I mentioned previously that they are big on just letting you know at the last moment that you’re going to be doing stuff?  Well, at the last minute, we were told to prepare lessons for the kids in small groups.  I got off the hook, because about half of our group had planned something for a VBS program already, since kids aren’t really my strong suit, I wasn’t one of them.  So I got to be moral support for someone who had.  He gave a great lesson, and then the kids didn’t feel like chatting at all, so it was over pretty quick.  One kid asked us to tell the story of Noah’s Ark, so again, I let the other guy go, because….. well, kids. 

He got through the first half no problem, then it became apparent that we were both a little hazy on the details of the birds being sent out.  The variation of the story that ended up being told was that a crow went out first and never came back, leaving the world to wonder how the crow population survived after half the species darted off into the night with no dry land, never to return.  We got the rest right, but those kids will now have questions whenever they see a crow, because unless they became asexual at some point, they should have been extinct a long time ago.

Also worth noting, before the small groups broke out, we were asked if we would like to sing a song for the kids.  We had prepared nothing, so obviously we said yes.  After a moment of awkward deliberation in front of the entire room, with microphones in our hands, we settled on performing the worst rendition of This Little Light of Mine in the history of earth.  Nay, in the history of everywhere.  It’s such a simple song, but we wouldn’t let that stop us from running that train off the rails. 

First, we started off key.  Check.  Secondly, I clearly don’t know how to operate a microphone, so really I’m leaving the two gals to go it alone.  Check.  Third, we didn’t really discuss hand motions ahead of time, so they kind of just happened completely out of sync.  Check.  Fourth, as it turns out, we had settled on singing a song none of us remembered well, so we just kind of slurred and gave up about three words into the third verse.  It takes a special sort of skill to make the hand motions to this song seem challenging, but we managed.  The audience gave a courtesy clap and all the mothers looked at us as if they were trying to understand how white people happened.

Early on the event, while all the kids were singing their songs, one little girl in a beautiful white dress caught my eye.  I’m not one to usually get excited over children and don’t tend to think every single one is the cutest thing to ever happen, but this girl was the cutest thing to ever happen.  As a matter of fact, I nudged my friend next to me and whispered to him “that girl in the white dress is the cutest kid I’ve ever seen in my life.”

This turned out to be pretty significant, because after the event was over, there was one girl in our group who was anxious to meet up with a very specific child.  She and her home group have been sponsoring a child through REDACTED, ensuring that she gets food at this event every week and helping with other benevolence as needed.  She was beyond excited to meet with the little girl and provide her with some gifts that they had sent over for her.  Well, guess who the girl was.  Yep, the cutest stinkin’ kid I’ve ever seen in my life, and watching them hug and exchange gifts was among the warmer moments my trip has generated.

In the evening, I got grumpy.  We tried to coordinate plans for VBS the next day, and I decided to just be grumpy for all of that.  The thing about grumpy Taylor is that he’s pretty easy to cheer up, all he has to do is let people know that he’s grumpy, admit he shouldn’t be, and then he feels better just knowing he opened up about it and people will encourage him to not be grumpy.  The hard part about grumpy Taylor is that he virtually never does that, and instead just sulks like a child in the corner.  My posture is generally pretty slouchy, so sulking Taylor looks just like normal future hunchback Taylor.  He just talks less. 

After a few hours of grumping through, it became apparent to me that I was not going to stop being grumpy, so I just went to bed the moment the opportunity arose.  I could elaborate more on the events and such, but I want this blog to be a happy place, so I just won’t. 

This day doesn’t have a happy ending, just Taylor going to bed grumpy.

Other observations:

•          The dogs here are still scared of me, but I’m determined to pet one before I go home.

o   I don’t have a healthy fear of rabies

•          There is a sign out front that was made welcoming our whole group by name.  Somehow, about a third of us got included by our middle name, so I’m Brother Nicolas Brandel.  Craig, James, William, and Anjela are among the other first name casualties.
•          I wish I had time to write more, because I’m skipping a lot but I’m also tired.

Day 5 – Genital Fragments

By comparison, being rattled and told to grab your things in a hurry while on a train, was a very calming way to start the day.  At about 4 AM, we gathered our things and made our way to the front of the train to await our stop.  The trains don’t really announce the stops or hang out for a long time while you decide whether or not to get off, so you have to be prepared when your stop comes close.  We ended up standing around in the squatty potty lobby for about an hour. 

Once off the bus we exchanged greeting with a bunch of the REDACTED, received a bunch of flowers, and then took a short bus ride to our destination.  An uneventful few hours of finding our rooms, eating breakfast, etc. followed.  Then we were off to chapel.

It’s worth noting here that advanced notice isn’t really a thing that is part of the culture.  While eating breakfast, you can expect to then be told what is happening 15 minutes later.  At no point in our days here has it been known by the group at large what to expect throughout the day with the exception of travel.  So that being said, the day was spent mostly hour by hour waiting to find out what’s next.

The events were not breathtaking, but mostly consisted of a tour of the campus for a children’s home and visiting with a few key members of our host organization.  Though one in particular really stuck with me, not because the story was overwhelming in any way, but because it is what I would love to do.  We spoke with someone who is from the United States, came to India as an adult, and now has a highly important role within the organization.  He has overcome barriers in language, culture, and color of skin to succeed in a role that he would have had every good excuse to fail in. 

That is specifically motivating to me.  I have a passionate heart for international missions, India specifically.  I’m not passionate about this country because I came here on a trip, rather, I came on this trip because I’m passionate about this country.  As a general rule, I’m actually against most short term mission trips.  For the price of me coming on this trip, I could provide substantial funding to indigenous people to further the ministry here in more powerful ways.  I’m here because I’m trying to find out if God has a calling for me permanently in foreign countries, and I believed leaving home at least once to see could be achievable for me is essential to find the answer to that question.

I know undoubtedly, that supporting foreign missions, whether by working in the field, or assisting in the states, is something I need to be a large part of whatever ministry role I end up in.  I’ve always been very resistant to pursue though for several reasons.  Chief among them is that I believe that the most qualified people to minister to foreign people are people from that culture.  I don’t speak the language, and I’m not a particularly quick learner, so I couldn’t for a while.  I’m open about being a pretty soft individual.  I don’t handle illness, poor conditions, or general physical challenges well.  My skin is nearly transparent, and there’s really no unreached population I could ever be a part of without it being immediately visibly apparent that I’m a foreigner.  Those barriers matter, and they’ve caused me to believe in the past that overseas missions could not be an option for me. 

This man helped me see that it’s not an impossibility to have an effective role with those same hurdles, and that was a great inspiration to me, I’m going to try to talk with him more this week about his transition and recommendations for further pursuing a similar path.

That was my inspiration during the day, with the night came inspiration of a different sort.

In the evening we packed into the van in order to visit the temple of Lord Shiva, the god of destruction.  We had visited a Baha’i temple last week, which was visually stunning, but experience-wise ended up being quite dull.  This was a radial contrast.  From the outside, the temple looks like nothing.  The architecture is unique, at least by western standards, but it’s not pretty.  The temple looks and feels old, it’s run down, and there are street vendors and markets leading literally right up to the doorstep.  There’s not a maintained set of grounds around it like you’d find at a mosque or at the Baha’i temple, it’s just crammed into town like another building. 

Our guide (more on him later) walked us through the outer area of the temple, and it affirmed the feeling of the outside, overwhelmingly unspectacular.  There were altars to lesser gods and goddess everywhere.  All of them were behind a dingy gate that could be opened and closed to provide a better view.  The idols were larger than the ones around town, but not really much nicer, just in a better setting, they seemed a little dingy, albeit cared for.  The temple is open air, with the exception of the main area housing Shiva, so when it rains the floor, both walkways and tiles alike get drenched and slick.  There are bugs crawling around everywhere, and at one point a member of our group wandered a bit behind an exhibit to find a rabid dog that proceeded to growl at us for several minutes after we had left its eye sight.  That is the feel of the temple.  It’s as dark, dirty, and sad as most of the country, it just doesn’t have the litter.

Before we get to Shiva’s altar, I have to share with you the story of Shiva himself.  Lord Shiva is the Hindu god of destruction.  His image is not an ornate person, elephant, monkey, etc. like the other Hindu idols you’ve likely seen before.  His image is based around a rather unique origin story. 

A long time ago somewhere of in the unknown space where Hindu gods roam the universe, Shiva was feeling a bit frisky one day.  He went to his wife and was ready to do some marital stuff.  

Unfortunately for Shiva, his wife wasn’t having it.  Unwilling to give up after the first pass, Shiva was all like “come on baby, I’m seriously needing this right now, I’ll buy you a drink.”  Despite his great offer, the wife was still all like “naw man, ain’t feeling it.”  Shiva then did what a god of destruction tends to do when he’s told he can’t get what he wants: he gets a little Jameis Winstony with it.  Shiva’s wife is legit though, she’s been through self defense classes, and grabs a knife.  You’d probably expect that in the story, she’d use the knife to kill Shiva or simply ward him off.  She doesn’t, rather, she decides to start slicing at his endowment like she’s chopping up a carrot for a stew. 

The fragments that are chopped off, called shivlings (that part is not a joke), fall to earth.  The shivling is the image that is the temple, and in case you’re wondering what it looks like, it’s just a black rock that someone has made a face on with flower petals.  A face with a slick handlebar mustache.  That story is not made up.  It really is the Hindu mythology behind this god. 

It is also, despite its ridiculous back-story and appearance, the most evil thing I have ever encountered.  In my preparations for this trip, I had read a book on the essentials of Hinduism, so I had a decent idea what I’d be walking into.  What I didn’t realize is that these gods of theirs had real religious ceremonies for worship, wherein large groups of people gathered.  I thought that people just kind of popped into the temple whenever, made their sacrifices and someone just cleaned up once and a while. 

Nope.  There is full on worship services, and they aren’t like the ones in the church I’m used to.  There is no singing of praise, there are no smiles, no warmth whatsoever.  We entered into the inner part of the temple, just a few feet from the altar, apparently they give guests positions of honor in the temple, and others stood outside to observe through the opening to the altar.  At 8 PM, worship began.  Two men started to bang on gongs rapidly and the mood immediately changed from one of laughter at that mustache someone put on a rock, to one of darkness and intimidation.  Two more joined in banging on loud drums, and the noise was deafening.  We were in a small space with stone walls, so the echoes were everywhere and contained.

Priests lit incense and stoically waved them around the altar, then carrying them outside for the other viewers to see.  A woman in front of me came close to the altar and bowed low in complete submission and reverence to a rock.  I turned to look outside as the drummers walked past me out of the inner temple area.  I was surprised to see not a few other white tourists, or a smattering of people there to pay respects, but probably 100 people looking on with as much reverence as the woman in front of me, and as much anger as the priests both at the same time. They were completely under the control of whatever force was in that temple.  Desperate to please it, fearing they may not. 

My stomach turned.  I know it’s just a stupid rock, but a stupid rock can’t possibly create fear in people like that, and it was obvious that was what this worship was: fear.  I locked eyes with that rock and began to pray to the only God that matters, cursing Shiva and asking God to destroy the demonic power that was clearly controlling these people.  Our guide walked us around the backside of the altar and explained a few other things about Shiva, and we left before the ceremony ended.  I was never scared of what I encountered in there, but I was depressed by it.  I know that this is not isolated.  What I saw is characteristic of 900 million people in this country, and while the idol may look different, the fear and hopelessness of the people worshiping it does not. 

The temple guide talked to us about Jesus.  He spoke English, but had never been taught the language.  He states that Jesus gave him English, and our hosts who have been to see him many times before told us that because of this, he has added Jesus to the list of gods he worships.  He had apparently been telling visitors this story for years, he loves Jesus.

Today though, I didn’t meet that guide.  His English seemed rather broken, it had been described to me by previous visitors as “perfect.”  Today he did not acknowledge Jesus as one of the gods, he actually specifically stated that he was not a god at all, but that he was his “good friend.”  He then acknowledged that he was having problems with his English and asked me to pray for him.  I will, but not for his English.

That guide, is in essence, the Hindu faith.  Living life in service to a god, seeking their rewards and approval, living in sacrifice and fear when those rewards stop, and seeking to earn that approval back.  There is no room for love, just merely trying to add up.  Our guide no longer looked at Jesus as a god, because his gift was weakened, Jesus was never truly a god to him, just a genie in a bottle.  That stuck with me the entire drive home and throughout the rest of the night.  As laid in bed that night, it wasn’t my inspiring conversation earlier in the day that plagued my thoughts, but just sorrow for the people wasting their lives in slavery to demonic, mustached rock.  

Day 4 - Room Number AK-47

Sleep has not been my friend since my arrival.  Normally I’m a night person, but now I’m an extreme morning person.  Most nights I wake up around 2 AM, and am just kind of done sleeping.  The time change is a factor, I don’t ever sleep well in new beds, which is also a factor, and occasionally there is a radical sleep interruption as well. 

Day begins in unique fashion at 12:45 AM.  There is a loud buzzing sound that startles me from my sleep.  Power outages are common here, as in daily, so I assume it’s just something resetting itself, and just lay back down.  It buzzes again.  No worries, sometimes it takes two tries for a machine to successfully reboot.  A third time!  It’s feasible the power just keeps going back out. A fourth time! Honestly, not good reasoning here, I just don’t want to get up, and I’m hoping it goes away on its own.  Fifth and sixth time in rapid succession.  I start paying attention to other things. 

I hear loud noises in the hallway, several voices; quite unusual here.  They aren’t Americans, and aren’t loud all the time.  They also have a seven day workweek and don’t make a habit of being out and about late.  The streets are pretty quiet by about ten.  I assume I need to answer the door and slowly start to get dressed.  A seventh and eighth buzz occurs, followed by a knock on the door.  It turns out the buzzing is a doorbell that the hotel staff uses to let residents know they hate them too much to knock.

When you answer the door at 12:45 AM after a night of quietly enjoying dinner and not leaving the hotel, I’m not sure what you’d expect to find on the other side, but it was exactly as I expecting: three cops open carrying AK-47’s demanding to see my passport.

Yep.  That’s how my morning started, how was yours?  Our local guide was with the cops and let me know that this was “normal.”  That was a surprise to my colleague down the hall who had spent six months in India previously and had never needed to randomly provide her passport at midnight.  I proceeded to go over to my roommate, who shall here forth be known as Ears of Steel, to wake him up and let him know that he needed to get his passport. 

I probably should have been scared, but for whatever reason, I just thought “no bigs, I’ll get them my passport.”  As they inspected said passport, they also held up a camera high in the air and snapped a picture of gorgeous two hours of sleep Taylor.  It was nice that they lifted it up high so I could get the Facebook angles thing going, but it later occurred to me that this was likely simply required for them to actually get my face.  They are after all, generally six inches shorter than me.

After confirming that the passports were in order, they and their lovely open carry AK’s, did need to come into the room and inspect my roommates backpack for whatever scary things make it through customs but are dangerous in a hotel room.  Obviously.  A few moments later, they left, and that was that.  Strangely enough, I had no issue going back to sleep within a few minutes.  I would later learn that most of our group got a similar experience, although not all of us.  That’s right, I’m one of the scary ones.

My morning started again around 5:30 the way any rational American would hope for after that experience: with the loud sound of “AAAALLLLLLLAAAAAHHHHHHH” blaring through their window.  Yep, that was my follow up to by AK-vestigated at midnight.  The loud noise was followed up by about three minutes of prayer at a similar volume.  Later in the day I noticed that the medians throughout the city streets have large speakers that sit on a pole above the.  They have different songs or speeches coming through on almost every city block.  Who controls these and determines their content, I’m unsure of, I do know that at least one of them likes to start his day by praying to screaming at Allah though.  I later learned that this is simply a traditional Muslim call to prayer, but being that Muslims may as well be pandas because of their rarity where I'm used to being, I had never experienced such a thing.

A breakfast buffet later followed.  To follow up on yesterdays food blogging, their juices and omelets are also better than ours, and my feelings that chicken could in fact replace all other meat was reaffirmed by chicken sausage.  They don’t bother with the cute American crap in their omelets either, they are always called “cheese omelets” because they are just eggs with a butt ton of cheese in them.  Delightful.  Unfortunately though, there was a bowl labeled “fresh fruit” that had stuff in it that tasted like tomatoes.  Kind of a jerk move India, I guess the food isn’t perfect.

Given the events of the night before, it was determined that the planned activities for the day of visiting the REDACTED would not be a good idea.  Instead we visited another inner city church.  Our bus decided to just power on down an alleyway to get us there, proceeding to convince one man to help us out by lifting a tent pole that was essentially the roof of his house out of the way for us.  Personally, I would have preferred to just walk an extra 200 feet, but my opinion wasn’t asked.  It was good for about five minutes of looking out the window and watching what felt like half the city laugh at us.  White people right?  Darn Brits.

Church was a similar experience as the past two days.  I’m still not super comfortable with the gifts or the attention but am happy to help make their day, even if it is just by being the hairiest ghost they’ve ever seen.  But remember how I wrote about how guilty I felt when they all wanted pictures with me the first day?  Well that was back, and after the selfies, one girl wanted my autograph.  That’s right, I was literally viewed as a celebrity for being American.  That broke my heart.  I almost cried right there while chicken scratching “Taylor Brandel” on a slip of notebook paper for someone who’s name I didn’t, nor likely ever will, know.

It’s heartbreaking to know that the situations these people are in are so sad that simply seeing big white guys handing Dum-Dums to kids inspires hope.  If you need someone to finish your leftovers, find dark humor in a situation, or represent you in some crazy trial-by-boggle justice system, I’m your guy.  Inspire hope?  I hope you’re collecting more autographs to be safe. 

After church, we found a different way back to the bus, which I assume must have been airlifted out of the alley I last saw it in.  Or we just boarded a new bus and the old one was just turned into low income housing.  I took an enlightening ride in a car with a local back to the bus from the church.  He drove like a madman.  Well, like rainman, it was brilliant.  He bulleted down that alley at like 30 MPH, on a dirt road, just swerving around bikes, pedestrians, mortal cars, and riskshaws like it weren’t no thang at all. 

That was entertaining but the enlightening part came when he pointed at the car ahead.  The rear window had a campaign sign in it, along with several cars in a convoy in front of it.  He pointed to the cars and said “those are politicians.  Crooks.”  Ah, corrupt politicians, the universal language.  Or so my colleagues and I thought, and said as much until he followed with this golden nugget of info: “that large face in the middle there, he just murdered someone last month.”  So that’s a thing.

The rest of the day was just more travel.  Three hours to go 40 km back to Delhi, boarding a train (my first train ride ever!), and buckling in for a 12 hour ride to the next city.  The train is a unique experience, like everything else here.  There are more people than seem reasonable to me but somehow it works.  Leaving Delhi was as exhausting as the bus ride.  There is no stopping, and instead of slowly taking in the whole town, you just look at the window as you see literally miles and miles of slums pass by your eyes with no breaks.  It’s the saddest I’ve felt on what has thus far been a trip severely lacking in joy. 

As I type this, I have just returned from my first trip to the squatty potty, which in case you’ve never experienced it, is a hole in the train you squat over and poop through.  As in it just drops to the train tracks below.  Note to self, do not play on the train tracks.  Also, I made the mistake of going to the “bathroom” without my shoes on, so now I have to take my socks off to avoid playing the game of “whose urine is in my sock right now.”  I joke because it’s how I deal with sadness.  Urine on my sock is gross, but that’s not even really dirty compared to the living situation I’ve seen literally millions of people in over the past 72 hours.  Don’t worry about the pee on my sock, pray for the people of India, that’s what I’m going to do.

Other Day 4 observations:

•         The pizza came with a ketchup packet.  I truly don’t know how to respond to this.
•          I saw a goat on the roof of a house.  Twice.
•          My friend Mitch truly has a gift for spotting people peeing on the street.  His count is at 32.  I’m just at 2.  I’m okay losing the contest.
•          40% of this city is just high rise apartments that never finished construction.  Seriously, I’ve seen like 100 of them.
•          I’ve seen enough limping dogs to last a lifetime in 48 hours.  My puppies are getting the biggest hugs of their lives when I get home.
•          Once you leave Delhi, the clouds are actually white again, and the sky is actually blue.
•          All Hindu gods that are Elephantic look the same to me. 
•          I think I was accidentally racist today, but it’s the hardest I’ve ever seen our pastor laugh, so I’m okay with it.