Here was an email I sent at the beginning of my time in India. We were in Agra & Delhi at the time.
Agra: "Clean Agra, Green Agra"
As a rule my updates were done very late and very sporadically. Think, “written by a squirrel with vodka in one hand and chocolate in the other, typing with its toes”. Then I think the update will be kinder on your mind. (Doubt it.)
Well, here I am. In INDIA!!!!! I am very, very pleased with everything so far. I’m sitting on a roof, our clothes are drying about me, the people and horns reassuringly loud down below. (I love cities.)
I’ve seen cows (scary!), monkeys, [Newsflash: I’m terrified of monkeys. They run up against me and they look at me with their creepy eyes.]
EEEEVIL monkeys
…weird ground squirrel things, dogs, cats, pigeons (the first place we stayed had a pigeon training house or something right close, and when you were on the roof you could see the flocks of pigeons circling, circling, while the men waved lassoes about and yelled and screamed and whistled. Such a cacophony would keep me away if I were a pigeon… I guess it’s good I’m not one.), water buffalo, horses, and eagles! Love the eagles. They’re not bald eagles; more like red kites. Oh, and I saw a cockroach.
The cockroaches and I developed a mutual understanding of each other: we both wanted to sleep in the bed. (Whenever one was available.) I must say, cockroaches are the sauciest bugs in the world. One time we had quite a large number living in our room, we kept our bags zipped so we didn’t get curious investigators. I had unzipped my bag for like FIVE SECONDS while I was braiding my hair. And then I saw him. A little cockroach skittering towards my backpack.
“Hey! Stay away from my bag!” I yelled with bobby pins in my mouth, standing helplessly across the room.
He climbed up to the top.
“I mean it! Go away! Stop!” I tried to finish my braid hurriedly.
He ran to the edge of the opening, pausing for effect. Waiting for me to feel his full power and insolence.
“Don’t you dare!!!” I thundered, dropping my braid and going for his throat.
He dove cheerfully into the depths of my pack.
I screamed in outrage and yelled threateningly after him. Sparky and Kitchen Nazi (the girls on my team and my darling roommates through everything) laughed at my misery and humiliation.
One of the cozier rooms we stayed in
India is much like China, so that has made adjustment way easier, praise God. It does make me miss China, though. I dress like a native now, except for my “Pansy Fantasy” skirt, which I’m wearing currently. (I’ve been given the opportunity to go minister to women today, and been told that I have to change into pants. Which I have one pair of but they’re wet right now. So I have to borrow some from someone…)
I was sick coming to India with a bug I got in Cascade, ID and followed me back to Chicago, and then to India. I and my teammates are all suffering; I passed my sore throat, stuffy sinuses, and wooziness along. I am also feeling a bit queasy… hopefully that will pass instantaneously. We must rebuke these spirits. Every member is getting sick repeatedly. Yesterday I had a fever of over 101.4 which went away after we read the story of Jesus rebuking the fever in Simon’s mother and I had Chris rebuke it.But only until late that night did we think of that. Don’t ask why.
I went on to have more fevers of 104+ after this episode. And that was just the beginning. I got sick a total of 8 times. (“Getting sick” was if you missed an event or threw up.)
The food is great! I love it. Lassis and curry all the way! I’m also learning how to barter. I never could in China, but now I’m sort of forced to. I’m the best at getting rickshaws.
I got really good at bartering. So good that everyone was embarrassed to go out with me because I made them nervous. I guess I was pretty brusque.
We went to the TajMahal! We went for the sunrise, but the fog was so bad it didn’t make much of a difference. In what I can only hope was the morning mist, the Taj looked mystical and fantastical, it was hard to believe it was real. Especially when you compare it to the rest of India: loud, vibrant, and dirty.
I’ve had two ministry opportunities so far, once with a fellowship which met on a roof, at which I shared my testimony, and then in a village, where most of the people had never seen a white person before. Needless to say we were ogled, most likely holding their attentions with our melanin level rather than the words we spoke. I didn’t share anything that time. I just observed and said, “Hi!”, “Namaste!”, and “Apkiannaamke hay?” a lot. (By the way, when I was lying in bed, alone and feverish, the only thing that kept running through my head was “How many brothers and sisters do you have?” in Marathi: “Tumhi kiti bhau ani bahini ahat? Tumhikitibhauanibahiniahat? Tumhikitibhauanibahiniahat?” I was about to go crazy.)
First ministry: um, we had... fun
Rickshaw riding is the new life-threatening sport. Rickshaw driving, we’ve decided, should be the next Wii game with levels from American streets to the playing field of India, where death is near certain. The game is to stuff as many people as you can into a little human cart built around a motorcycle (the current record is 6 people), after bartering for 10 minutes on a good price, and then… try to survive! It’s incredibly exhilarating. Rickshaw drivers have major driving skills. They dodge carts, cycles, people, cows, dogs, children, other rickshaws, cars, trucks, more people, some more people, trash, bumps, more cycles, etc.
Stuff 'em in da rikshaw!!!!
I have to pay for any internet I use, so that means Miss Miserly Hattie won’t be sending out too many emails. (Miss Miserly Hattie also made an uninformed decision to buy a salwaar and got ripped off by the salesman, so that reduced her pocket money a bit more.) It also means that the ones I DO send out will most likely be on the larger side. Bear with me.
This evening we will be going to a Christmas Carols service! I am playing violin on most all of them, but no one has told me what we’re singing, so I just ran through a handful hoping that the group will choose from those. Right now I’m sitting on our beds, wrapped in a scarf, listening to Sufjan Steven’s Christmas album and crying because I miss Sufjan so much. Sufjan, and all he signifies to me. I’m going to cry a lot at Christmas this year, I think. It’s a joy to follow the Lord and to see what He is doing, but sometimes all you want is your mommy. I’m growing up. I can’t always have my mommy. But I’ll always have my Heavenly Father, and this is a difficult weaning time where I must transfer my comfort needs from my earthly parents to my Creator. (Oh, that’s so mean! I don’t want to do that! You sound so cold and calculating! my heart says as I type this.)
That whole part of my time was a disaster. Homesickness to the max. Self-consciousness about violin to the max. I don’t wanna talk about it.
To change the subject to something more amusing, we have five girls sleeping in a tiny two-bed room in which has been stuffed another little cabin bed thing. The blankets smell of mothballs and feel like steel wool (and offer about that much warmth, as well). There’s really no room for our stuff, and there wouldn’t be much room for us to sleep except it’s so cold here at night. So the cold forces us into little huddled lumps, where we try to conserve heat. Last night I slept under the window pane that’s missing (which is why it’s so cold), and woke up several times absolutely astonished and almost in laughter at how ridiculously cold it was. There’s nothing to be done about it, though, so we’re just gritting our teeth and… and complaining about it extensively in the morning to each other.
We have our own personal rickshaw drivers, practically. They always pop up when we need one; how it’s always those same ones is still a mystery to me. It might have something to do with one of the brothers fancying Sparky, and one of them possibly fancying me. (I’m only saying that because I’m the only one whose name he knows, and when they pull up, he always says, “Harry! Come sit! You can ride here!”) We found out last night that it’s three brothers that have been carting us around. Their whole family business is rickshaws. The one that knows my name has dyed red hair and has similar bone structure to Johnny Depp, so we call him Johnny because we can’t remember his name. They wear the same things every day. Actually, most all the Indians we see regularly wear the same thing every day. I feel better because I also have just a few clothes and have to repeat. A lot. This way I fit in! Sort of.
My rikshaw driver has reddish hair, next to the orange sweatered dude. Isn't he cute??
Pray that I will feel comfort and learn from my Father’s arms, and that I will not try to do anything on my own strength. Pray for patience!
hattie turns some leaves 