J and I spent the day doing some shopping for household items and a scooter for his sis.  She had gone to the beach with friends so we thought we’d get a head start on scooter hunting.  We perused the motorcycle market.  One dealer after another offered us the “white-man” price.  (A price for a commodity much higher than any native would pay).  Why? You ask.  Because to most Indians, white man=money.

With empty hands we cruised home to pick up V.  It would be her job to pick out the scooter of her liking.  At around 6p, we were on our way back to the moto market with sister in tow.  J and V on the bullet.  I, on the scooter.  Traffic at this time of night is always horendous.  It’s stop and go on windy, narrow roads.  Battling buses and cars.  I drowned out the noise of blaring horns with my ipod.  The music is a lifesaver.  The sweet sound of my favorite songs puts me in my own world.  Keeps me calm in the chaos.  This thick traffic makes my hand stab with pain from clutching so much.  I see J flicking his left hand from time to time as well.  He must be feeling the burn too.

We stop at one point to check google maps on the iphone.  Its better to verify your destination then get lost at night in India.  “We have to do a u-turn here,” Jason says.  Since we had stopped along the side-walk, on the left hand side of the road, this meant we had to cross traffic to the median and then continue with our u-turn.  I waited until J started going so it was more likely to be safe.  I revved the engine and followed his lead.  I could see headlights coming towards me on my right, but I knew I had plenty of room to pass.  And even so, a person with common sense would break to let me pass anyways.  No person in their right mind would continue or speed up if they saw a person crossing in front of them on 2 wheels.  I could see a set of headlights out of the right corner of my eye but I thought I had just squeezed by.  Suddenly, I felt the back-end of my scooter being pulled to my right… and right from under me.  Within seconds my scooter and I were slammed onto our left sides.  My helmet cracking against the pavement.  It all happened very fast but I remember thinking, push away from the scooter.  Get out from under it and get away. Like a reflex, I did just that, as fast as I could.  I looked behind me as I stood up to see a van had run me over.  Jason was at my side already.  “Are you ok?!  Who did this?!”  He was yelling at the van and letting loose every four-letter word he could think of.  Intermittently, he kept asking me if I was ok.  A nice Indian boy picked up my scooter to push it off to the side of the road.  V still sat on the back of J’s bike trying to balance it in the middle of traffic.  My toe had spilled blood all over my foot and sandal.  I couldn’t tell if it was a bad cut or not.  I just knew it didn’t hurt.  (Which is a good thing).  My knees hurt and my elbows hurt but a quick mental examination gave me the clear that I was actually ok.  I could walk.  No dislocated knees.  No broken bones.  Only a bleeding toe.

The van drivers never came over to apologize.  Never came over to see if I was ok.  I watched them get into their vehicle and drive away.  I felt my blood boil at that moment.  I was pissed that they would just drive off without any concern for the person they had just scraped across the pavement.  Interrupting J’s “Are you sure you’re ok?”  I spit ever four-letter word I could think of at the deserters.  “I’m fine,” I said to J, “Just pissed more than anything that they purposely hit me.  There is no way that they couldn’t have seen me.  And what sane person would keep going?  Speed up?  And hit a person on a scooter with their van??”  (Yep.  I was yelling this to the heavens.  To the Hindu gods.  In the middle of Indian traffic.  To whoever was listening.  Literally, cursing this country and all of its stupidity, at that moment).  I felt positive, that at some point, this country would be the death of me.

To add to the matter, V had just witnessed this whole ordeal while we were on our way to buy her a scooter, which she would have to drive home tonight, in this traffic.  She was shaken up.  It was pretty obvious.  I put on my tough girl face and we pushed on.

We arrived at the moto-market.  One long road of adjascent 2-wheeler dealers with their merchandise proudly displayed in front of their stalls.  Each dealer’s “store” is about the size of a dorm room.  Just enough space to cram a desk in the back and all their bikes at closing time.  As we walked the line I found myself glancing at my toe repeatedly.  I kept thinking to myself, I wonder how many Indian street germs are infecting my open wound at the moment? I couldn’t wait to get home to bathe my foot in peroxide.  After 40 mins of cruising the market on foot, we had found V’s gem.  A 1998, white, TVS scooty.  No gears.  Electric start.  Easy to operate.  (Slower than shit.  But hey, it works for her).  It even had a “Kiss” sticker faded on the front end.  A hippie mobile for a hippie.

J and I put V in between us as we drove off.  I kept a close eye on V since she’s never driven a scooter before.  It was easy to see she wasn’t quite sure of the balance yet.  I could see her movements weren’t fluid yet.  And it would take her some time to learn to lean.  She did very well after our eventful ride to the market.

We stopped at the Manhattan Bar on our way home.  I was still shaky and needed a beer.  The Manhattan is a rooftop bar that overlooks the city lights.  Its a middle-class place only filled by men.  And it also happens to be the place where I saw a giant rat scurry across the floor last year.  Nevertheless, its a decent place, with cold beer and good eats.  It was a relaxing end to an eventful evening.

I drove off the beaten path.

The scooter and I have an understanding now.  I’m no longer afraid of it laughing at me in its slumber as I try to choke it awake.  Its old and rusty.  But its sturdy and fast.  Starts every time.  I’ve been venturing farther and farther with my scoot scoot because of this new comfort.

I got away from the noise of the city.  Just barely off a busy street.  Its quiet here.  My toes are tickled by sand.  I stand in what must be an old soccer field.  Rusty old goal posts still stand proud, unused.  Vibrant green shrubbery surround this sand field.  Huts poking out from the stubby trees.  Its peaceful here.  I can here the smack of fabric against a rock or tree.  A woman shaking the dampness out of her sari before hanging to dry.  A few cries from children playing in the distance reach my ears.  Little ones, too small for school, since it is only midday.  A man on a bicycle lazily peddles along.  His “cargo” roped behind him.  On his way to make a delivery.  An ancient form of transportation but cheap and reliable nonetheless.

I’m less than a kilometer from my flat.  Happy to have discovered a sanctuary from the urban bustle.  I’m surprised that this precious piece of land hasn’t been inundated yet.  No slum.  No IT buildings.  No push to urbanize.  Why, when land is nabbed and developed so quickly in this growing city?

Cemeteries surround me.  Each surrounded by a cement wall.  Categorized by religion.  Hindu adjacent to Christian.  Muslim adjacent to the latter.  Ancestors resting in their final place.  Moved on to be one with their proper gods.

The air is fresh.  A cool breeze brushes my skin.  No sting in my nostrils from urine, garbage, or otherwise.  I ask myself, How has this place stayed so clean?

Golden Palms Army school lies just down the road.  A giant compound surrounded by a high cement wall.  Shards of glass protruding out from the top.  Keeps the riff-raff out.  The compound, although military, and most likely government funded, still fits the Indian profile.  Maintenance lacks.  The white-wash has been worn away.  Windows dark and thick with grime.  Overgrown landscaping.  The wear of the sun, wind and rain ages the structures.  The buildings are clean enough, I suppose, but by no means meet the standards I would expect from a military school.  This is India.  Standards for infrastructure only hold exceptional levels when coinciding with an IT company.  A foreign company outsourced for cheap labor.  Ebay, Dell, HP, etc.  All stand tall.  Glistening in the sun.  Unique architecture with beautiful landscaping.  Beautiful colored glass reflecting the skies.  They always look alien amongst their native counterparts.

Two little girls peddle a bicycle across the sandy field from me.  Each taking a tun on what must be their greatest form of entertainment.  Their clothes clean but worn.  Possibly the only set of clothes they own.  The girls are barefoot.  Common for lower castes in India.  Shoes aren’t a requirement in this country.  And nobody looks twice at an employee in a shoe store whose barefoot.  I wouldn’t dare journey into the streets of India with unprotected toes.  Its anyone’s guess what lies in the filth and puddles which natives walk through.  But those two little girls are happy.  Unaware of the giant world around them.  This is their world and will be their world until they pass on and join their gods in the appropriate cemetery across the way.  The little girls have what they have and that’s just that.  Nothing more, nothing less.

I’m lucky to know where I come from.  And even more lucky to know what this side of the world is like as well.  Its a contradiction and yet a parallel.  Its inspiration to strive for more.  And its a thought provoker.  If the population keeps growing at such an alarming rate, in this country, and people continue to live in the manner that they do.  No proper sewage or rubbish disposal.  What will this side of the world look like in 5-10 years?  And the people that I know, back home, in that tiny mid-western town, may not be affected at the moment.  But its inevitable.  Eventually, they will.

We stood there and watched as the moon appeared as just a sliver, at first, until it was a full eclipse.  A partially cloudy day was a blessing in disguise.  The clouds acted as a filter, making the strain on our eyes less severe.  This is what we saw.

Rummaging through the millions of photos I have from India I ran across this one.  It was taken in Bangalore this past October.  J had flown me out (commercially), to meet up with him, for a few days of R & R in a quaint hotel.  (Perks of the job).

Just before we took off I had the co-pilot snap a pic.  It’s one of my favorites.  It captures us perfectly.  J, looking quite professional, in front of his flying machine.  And I, a bit smug, I must admit, because I was being chartered home by my own personal pilot.  I remember looking out the window thinking, Life is good.  And I’m the luckiest girl in the world right now.

I looked at J, in the cockpit, and my heart burst with pride.

I thought to myself, Today is a good day.  No.  Today is a beautiful day.

Moments like this make all the stress, strife, and difficulty of living in India, worth it.

“The first annular solar eclipse to be seen from India in 45 years will occur this Friday.”  How exciting!  For exactly 10 mins 7 secs this phenomenon will be visible, starting from Africa, crossing the Indian ocean and ending at the Shandong Penninsula in China.  The next one to be seen isn’t until December 2019.  A rare event and a sweet experience for us expats here in India.  J, Val, and I will be standing on our rooftop at 1:17pm to lay eyes on this celestial event.  I’m excited!

Death by rickshaw.  Ahh!  This article brought me straight back to Lucknow, when our rickshaw damn near rolled over on top of us. 

Death by bus is my biggest fear in this country.  And how appropriate that today, while on my way home, from grocery shopping, the inevitable almost happened.  As I was cruising down the road, in fourth gear, on my handy-dandy scoot, a coach-style bus (used by most colleges to transport students), dead stopped in front of me.  I know that my scoot is sensitive to quick braking so I tried my mightiest to ease my foot down on the brake.  But with my scoot full of groceries and the slick oil easily observable on the pavement I wasn’t stopping fast enough.  I slammed harder, knowing full well that my back tire was going to lock up and slide on that slick pavement.  All I needed was to to avoid slamming into the back end of that gigantic monstrosity in front of me.  If I could just push down a little… bit… harder… As I was already aware, my back end started to slide out from under me.  I used whatever cat-like reflexes I had to balance that rusty old bucket and managed to 1) stop with just inches between my nose and that big box of metal and 2) keep my scoot-scoot upright and ready to rock-n-roll.  With a huuuuuuuge sigh of relief, I popped it into 1st gear and weaved around that crazy bus. 

My motto as a driver, in this country is:  be faster than everyone else.    If I’m ahead of all the idiot drivers here then I don’t have to worry about running into them when they make stupid mistakes, such as said bus.  Let me clarify by saying, there are no emission standards in this country, no laws requiring brake lights, no turn signals or the like.  The only thing that seems to function on every single indian moto-mobile is the horn.  Oh, and the Indian drivers use the horn constantly!  I have to remind myself to use my horn (consequence of being brought up in a country that utilizes such sparingly and only in an emergency).  I suppose its safe to justify the cause by saying every second driving in this country is warranted as an emergency. 

As a side note, I must say that there are far too many unlucky ones here when it comes to meeting a bus.  Not even two weeks after I’d been here I’d witnessed a motorcyclist hit and killed by a bus.  Yikes!  For a while there, J and I were seeing, on average, 1 dead person every two weeks.  Not necessarily all by bus, but dead nonetheless. 

So, how ironic that I would come home from my shopping venture and read in today’s paper how one unlucky little girl was killed, not only by a bus, but while riding in a rickshaw.  Thank you Times of India for extending my fear of buses not only to when I’m behind the wheel but also to when I’m a passanger in a rickshaw.

Ten years ago, my paternal grandmother passed away.  I can’t believe how quickly ten years can pass by.  I must admit, in the last few years I haven’t thought about her much.  But this year, during this holiday season she was at the forefront of my thoughts.  I’ve felt guilty at times for feeling like I’ve forgotten her.  Guilty that she doesn’t cross my mind as often as I feel she should.  I guess guilty for I don’t want her to get lost in my memory.

This Christmas while at my brother-in-law’s grandmother’s house for a Christmas party, my sister and I ran across an ideals magazine.  Both of our eyes lit up and as we looked at each other we had spoken without even using words.  Grandma Ellen had bookshelves full of the ideals magazine.  As children, we had sat for hours thumbing through copy after copy of those treasured books.  Fascinated by the poems, stories and pictures.  We lay, in the sun-porch (with it’s plastic roof–that on nights when pelted with rain it would ensure no good sleeping for us.)  We lay in that porch for hours with those books, copying those poems, reading them out loud.  To this day I couldn’t tell you why those books fascinated us so much, they just did.  And they will forever be imprinted in my mind as “grandma’s books.”  Whenever I cross an ideals magazine, which will most likely be in another elderly person’s home, as they seem to be a trend of the past, I will think of grandma.

My sister and I read a piece from that ideals magazine at the Christmas party.  I surprised myself by choking up, mid-sentence.  I couldn’t do it.  My baby sister, ever the strong one, took over and read as I sat and listened.  Memories of grandma paralleled her words.  I missed her a lot at that moment.

Grandma passed away the day after my sister’s birthday.  I remember ten year’s ago crossing my fingers that grandma would hold on just a little longer than January 11th, to ensure that my sister wouldn’t forever have to associate her birthday with grandma’s death.  Grandma did just that.  She held on just long enough to grant my wish.

She passed away peacefully and she lived a long, strong life.  She worked up until the day before she died.  She worked hard her entire life.  If she wanted anything, she had to work to get it herself.  She didn’t come from a wealthy family and she ended up a single mother.  When I think of hard work, I think of her.  She inspires me to strive, to work hard for those things I want.  She was a tough person but she had a soft spot for being a grandmother.  She was born to be a grandmother.  She was the huggable, loveable, stereotypical, but amazing grandmother.  (Stereotypical as in buying you gifts that are for someone 5 years younger than you, but always having candy around the house, hugging you and kissing you until your cheeks hurt, and having enough knick knacks to fill a museum). 

Sisterface and grandma have been at the forefront of my thoughts lately.  I’m glad I got to share that small moment with the sis at Christmas.  I hope your birthday was wonderful, sans me   (Oh, how do you live without me!)  And grandma I miss you with all my heart.  As you’ve watched over me in dreams and in life, you’ve made it known that you’ll always be my guardian angel.

If the above video doesn’t work copy and paste this link–>

http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/258311/january-04-2010/skate-expectations—curling-team-tryouts—colbert-vs–shuster

I’m a little behind on American “news” briefs due to my current geographical location. I think Colbert would be hanged and mamed in this country for half the crap he does on air if it was broadcast here.  Thank god for the world wide web and my glorious mother for keeping me up to date on all the local gossip  

I just watched this clip this morning and must comment on my old high school chums’ success (Jason and John).   

Smitty (Jason Smith), Shuster (John Shuster), I and a few other friends used to frequent our local curling club on weekends to pass the frigid winter months in our high school days.  Us girls, of course, were in it just for the fun (well…. and maybe for the eye candy).  The boys were always serious though.  They played with us on a team, (bless their kind hearts for putting up with our “lack of ability”), to quiet our whining of wanting to play.  But they also played seriously on their own man team.  We all knew they were good back then.  I guess the old saying that hard work pays off is true.   Those boys were determined.  In that curling club daily.  Us girls, slackers.  We’d follow them around the range to all their curling meets to watch.  We spent weekends in various curling clubs and were always a bit disappointed when they traveled a little too far for us to follow.  I’m so proud of the boys!  They’ve done so well!  But all this talk of old high school buddies has got me reminiscing.  My brain is now reeling with an idea…

A Chisholm High School curling reunion should be in order for next christmas.  Instead of wasting our time at the local pub watching all those that still haven’t left our small abode.  I say our old group meets at the curling club and throws a few rocks.  We could hail our old stomping grounds and whoof down Choppy’s pizza afterwards (old traditions die hard!).  I’m sure my mom still has my old broom and geeky Chisholm curling jacket packed away somewhere.  I could see myself sliding all over the ice, most likely breaking a knee in the process, but all in good spirit, in honor of the glory days!  What do ya say guys?! 

Reminiscing… 

I’ll never forget our high school days.  I remember, Smitty–that will forever be his name in my brain–(Jason Smith) picking us up in his blue pick-up truck, every morning, blasting Dr. Dre.  He was the only one with a driver’s license then.  Shuster (John Shuster), the ”ladie’s man” making his rounds on all of the girls   Just kidding John.  Actually, what I meant was, I remember playing football (I’m talkin’ tackle people) in Shuster’s backyard, on Sundays, after watching the weekly Viking’s defeat.  And hanging out at one of our girlfriends’ place–her parents owned the pizza place next door.  We’d set up the playstation for 007 on the projecter screen and play against one another for hours while munching down pizza.  (Wow, I’m really making us sound like nerds here!)  We weren’t though.  We were a tightknit, random group of friends from differing grades making what fun we could out of a small town.  I have friends now that make fun of curling.  Laugh when I tell them about my days on the ice.  I shrug them off.  Curling is fun if you give it a chance, have fun with it, and are playing with your best friends.  (Warning:  I’m going to get cheesy here)  It wasn’t just about curling for us.  It was about  great friends, passing the time, (and I’m sure our parents loved that it kept us out of trouble).  Having fun with the ancient sport was an added bonus. 

So in closing, I wish our USA Olympic team all the luck in the world.  I’ll keep my fingers crossed on this side of the world and watch what I can on my ancient dial-up, suffering through the inability of this slow internet to stream videos steadily.  Smitty, John, you guys rock!  I hope to see you guys next year, when we’re all usually home for the holidays.  Take care. 

WIth Love,

 from the Eastern half of the hemisphere

V (J’s sis) is new to India.  Its her first time living in a foreign country.  I was in her shoes exactly one year ago.  I had big eyes, wide smiles, excitement and anticipation for my new adventure in this land.  One year later, I see myself in  the completely opposite spot.  When I left India, two weeks ago (for America), I’d come too despise this place.  Tired of the dirt, the smell, the chaos, the noise, especially the sickness, especially everything.  I didn’t just want a vacation.  I needed it.  I’ve said this before and I’m saying it again.  I’d grown a sore spot for India at the time…  sad but true.  This country had lost it’s luster, it’s adventure, and fun.  When we left I’d hoped the vacation would recharge my batteries.  Reignite my fire for adventure and desire to take in everything this country has to offer.

December 30th, 2009.  Chennai, India.

Standing on the rooftop at 6am, I watched as pink and purple were brushed across the horizon.  J and I had never watched a sunrise in India.  Never stood in this spot.  Never took adventure of what an early Indian morning had to offer.

(I apologize for the inconvenience with my links.  I haven’t quite figured out how to embed video links into my blog.  Until then, just copy and paste the link into a new browser window)

http://s792.photobucket.com/albums/yy204/shelbyhurlbert/?action=view&current=muslimchants.flv

From this rooftop, Muslim chants serenade us a “good morning” song.  This beautiful moment is our first experience back in India.  This moment is perfect.  Its as if I’m looking at India through new eyes again.  Appreciating the small, good things it has to offer.  Those brief moments of stillness.  The distant song, never quite understood, because of the language barrier, is peaceful.  I’m drinking it all in.  Not even the ripe, thick, polluted smell, can bother me now.  I’m in another world with my head on J’s shoulder, arms around his waist.

Maybe being back in India won’t be so bad.  Maybe India will start to show it’s good side to us again.  This country has challenged us to the breaking point in the last two months but we’ve shown our strength and resilience.  We’ve more than earned our keep in this country.