When I left my motel room at 8 am this morning a downpour had just conceded itself to a light drizzle. I walked down the main bazaar, still in shock that I was actually in India. Even as things happen, it doesn't feel real. It's just a big practical joke my mind and senses is playing on my consciousness.
Further down the street the road had flooded. I miscalculated the depth, thinking it was only a couple inches, only to find myself half-calf deep in a muddy, trash strewn puddle. As I pondered whether or not to turn back or keep going (both choices were the same distance), I glanced to my side and watched a young indian boy scoop water out of his water-submerged shop with a huge bucket and toss it back in the streets, as if his shop had just capsized in a tidal wave. With my ankles soaked in water that is probably going to give me STDs, I looked at him with a curious look. He looked back, and in broken English told me, "Come back 5 minutes! We give you real good pancake!"
Not knowing how to respond, I sloshed forward in search of a good cafe I could get breakfast. On my way there a dangerously skinny old lady carrying a crying baby came up to me and pleaded, "Please give me 10 Ruppees. My child so hungry." Worrying that if I gave her money I would become a magnent for the destitute beggars, I walked on not saying anything. She followed me, tapping on my shoulder begging, "Just 10 Ruppees. We need food." I felt her desperate glare sear into me as I kept silently strolling by. If she had known how many thousands of Ruppees a favorable transfer rate left me with, her desperate glare probably would have been an angry scowl.
After the poor old lady stopped following me I found a really nice rooftop cafe where I bought a huge breakfast for 2 US Dollars, sipped on some tea, and people watched on the bazaar below. I struck up a conversation with my waiter, a nice and quiet kid probably in his mid-teens. I asked him what he did for fun. He told me that he woke up every morning in the room upstairs and worked from 8 am to 11 pm every day, so he was too tired to have fun. Now, I barely know this kid. I don't know if he's been doing this his whole life, let alone whether or not he has dreams and aspirations that stretch past this restaurant, but learning of his predicament made me sad. Every single day on my blessed journey across foreign lands, he'll be working 15 hours a day. He'll probably work 15 hours a day for fmany days after my adventure is over.
Trying not to let my mind wander towards realms of shame and guilt, I struck up a conversation with a solo traveler sitting at the table next to me. He was in his mid-20s, and like me, from the United States. A few years back he spent a few months in Thailand. Instead of going back home at the end of his trip, he changed his ticket to Australia. After his bank account dwindled to $18, he got a job on a farm where he performed hard manual labor for 10 hours a day. After doing this for a while, he had enough money to a buy a plane ticket, so he came to India. He doesn't know what comes next.
There was a time when hearing this story would make me jump up and down and pull my hair out in an insane fervered excitement and wonder. Yet, as crazy as his story is, I've become acclimated with the alternative vagabond lifestyle that a certain crazed subculture choses to adopt. In fact, learning about this subculture made me feel as if the US was in some ways acultural. As in, the people are so diverse, that there is no natural culture. I mean, what does my mom and this mad traveling man have in common. What binds them together?
Then, I looked out upon the main bazaar again. A group of half-clothed Indian boys had just sprinted out of a side alley into the dirty streets without any shoes on. A speeding car swerved around these kids and almost collided into a cow.
On second thought, I can think of one thing that truly binds the United States together. We're not India.
Further down the street the road had flooded. I miscalculated the depth, thinking it was only a couple inches, only to find myself half-calf deep in a muddy, trash strewn puddle. As I pondered whether or not to turn back or keep going (both choices were the same distance), I glanced to my side and watched a young indian boy scoop water out of his water-submerged shop with a huge bucket and toss it back in the streets, as if his shop had just capsized in a tidal wave. With my ankles soaked in water that is probably going to give me STDs, I looked at him with a curious look. He looked back, and in broken English told me, "Come back 5 minutes! We give you real good pancake!"
Not knowing how to respond, I sloshed forward in search of a good cafe I could get breakfast. On my way there a dangerously skinny old lady carrying a crying baby came up to me and pleaded, "Please give me 10 Ruppees. My child so hungry." Worrying that if I gave her money I would become a magnent for the destitute beggars, I walked on not saying anything. She followed me, tapping on my shoulder begging, "Just 10 Ruppees. We need food." I felt her desperate glare sear into me as I kept silently strolling by. If she had known how many thousands of Ruppees a favorable transfer rate left me with, her desperate glare probably would have been an angry scowl.
After the poor old lady stopped following me I found a really nice rooftop cafe where I bought a huge breakfast for 2 US Dollars, sipped on some tea, and people watched on the bazaar below. I struck up a conversation with my waiter, a nice and quiet kid probably in his mid-teens. I asked him what he did for fun. He told me that he woke up every morning in the room upstairs and worked from 8 am to 11 pm every day, so he was too tired to have fun. Now, I barely know this kid. I don't know if he's been doing this his whole life, let alone whether or not he has dreams and aspirations that stretch past this restaurant, but learning of his predicament made me sad. Every single day on my blessed journey across foreign lands, he'll be working 15 hours a day. He'll probably work 15 hours a day for fmany days after my adventure is over.
Trying not to let my mind wander towards realms of shame and guilt, I struck up a conversation with a solo traveler sitting at the table next to me. He was in his mid-20s, and like me, from the United States. A few years back he spent a few months in Thailand. Instead of going back home at the end of his trip, he changed his ticket to Australia. After his bank account dwindled to $18, he got a job on a farm where he performed hard manual labor for 10 hours a day. After doing this for a while, he had enough money to a buy a plane ticket, so he came to India. He doesn't know what comes next.
There was a time when hearing this story would make me jump up and down and pull my hair out in an insane fervered excitement and wonder. Yet, as crazy as his story is, I've become acclimated with the alternative vagabond lifestyle that a certain crazed subculture choses to adopt. In fact, learning about this subculture made me feel as if the US was in some ways acultural. As in, the people are so diverse, that there is no natural culture. I mean, what does my mom and this mad traveling man have in common. What binds them together?
Then, I looked out upon the main bazaar again. A group of half-clothed Indian boys had just sprinted out of a side alley into the dirty streets without any shoes on. A speeding car swerved around these kids and almost collided into a cow.
On second thought, I can think of one thing that truly binds the United States together. We're not India.
No comments:
Post a Comment