solo travels

Last week, I set out on an adventure. I was a bit unsure of all the details, but took the opportunity to let everything work itself out. The adventure began with a 12 hour overnight drive in a jeep – through the entire state of Gujarat with a group of kutchi women from a rural village. We were off to visit a health center on an exposure visit. The ride was bumpy and uncomfortable, I shared the back portion of the jeep – effectively the trunk – with 5 other women and we configured ourselves so we could sleep on each other. I had one woman draped over my knees while another one rested her head on my arms – I was across from another woman who didn’t sleep, but spent the whole night chewing tobacco , and spitting warm red spit out the window every 15 minutes. It was uncomfortable, but I loved sharing that warm and intimate space with those woman.

Every few hours we stopped on the side of the road to use the bathroom, and of course, get chai – despite how late into the night it was. On the road in India, you gain a whole new perspective of what it means to become “developed,” what it means for a country to grow and expand and rise to the top. At night, the roads are filled with giant trucks – transporting goods all over the country.  Along the sides of the roads are men working throughout the night – building bridges, connectors, tunnels – I don’t even know what. There are “hotels” that have sprung up in every small town on the side of the road to service truck drivers who eat big Indian meals in the wee hours of morning. When we stop for chai I notice that we are the only women there – surrounded by men scarfing down food, demanding more subzee (vegetable) or roti. The roads are dusty and polluted and each time a truck rolls by, dust and particles fly through the window.

And in the state of Gujarat, it’s especially bad. As the state makes a name for itself as one of the most industrialized states of India – it has transformed all of its small cities into hubs of pollution, exhaust, and traffic. As we drive through I am struck by the notion that some of these places feel completely uninhabitable by humans, it feels like a land for trucks and machines, and I wonder where do all the people go?

We arrive early in the morning to our destination and begin the morning with chai and nasto (snacks/breakfast – often something fried and spicy). We visit some organizations working to create farmers cooperatives, though I was under the impression we were to be visiting health centers. I can’t seem to communicate my misunderstanding, but am happy to take a tour of the farmer’s co-op, and am served fresh and local mango juice along the way.  The women, who are all dry-land farmers themselves, seem relatively uninterested. While our guide is explaining to us how mangos are canned, they squat down on the floor and chew more tabacco.

While I have difficulty interacting with these women using language – I feel that our journey has helped me to remember the joy of communicating without language. I remembered my first placement – where no one spoke English, where I was living a daily reality of never being able to use language. All the frustrations and difficulties came back to me almost immediately. Then, every so often I would try to say something in Gujarati, or use some words that I knew – although they were out of context, and everyone would laugh – slapping me on the back, shaking my hand, confirming with one and other the hilarity of my trying to speak Gujarati. In those moments, it felt nice.

At the end of the day, I was dropped in a small town where I would be able to board a bus to Mumbai so I could go meet my friends for Christmas. I said goodbye to all the women who made me promise to visit their homes next time I was in their village. They took my phone number also, so they would be able to call me whenever they wanted – which later led to some interesting phone calls…(hello? Hello kettiben! How are you? I am fine. Ok, good. Ok, bye!) Then, they left – to begin the journey home, while I was left to sit in the travel agent’s office, where I waited for the bus to come.

I was, of course, the only woman to be taking the bus this late at night and inside the office were only men and mosquitos…great. I was nervous, realizing all the factors of risk present in the situation. Then, the travel agent says to me, “ok, let’s go,” and gestures to his bike. No thanks, I say. I am waiting for the bus, of course, and not going anywhere with him on his bike. Then he tries to explain that no – the bus will come over there – on the other side of the highway, and he will have to drive me there to catch it. Again – I reassess the situation, I am alone – at night – in a town where I know no one, and a man on a bike is telling me to go with him to catch the bus. Hm. Not safe. But, there’s nothing else I can do. The alternative is trying to find somewhere safer to go in this little town. Either way, I am completely dependent on people to lead me to safety. So, I take a deep breath, hope for the best, and go with him. It’s late and cold outside and we are waiting for the bus – and I’m wondering if it will even come – and if it does, how will I know it’s the right bus?

Eventually, a bus comes, I get on, find my berth in the very back, close the curtains, and try to sleep. Then I realize I really have to pee. I go to the front of the bus to ask the driver to stop, but realize all the passengers are locked in, so as to not disturb the driver. So, I begin knocking on the door – and when he glances in my direction I hold up my pinky finger – the gesture which means “I need to pee,” and I make a sad face. He doesn’t notice. I return defeated, to my berth. Just as I begin to think seriously about peeing into a plastic bag, the bus stops! I run out, into the night, through the “hotel”/restaurant full of men, and reach what is supposedly a bathroom and finally pee. Then I run back out through the restaurant, my dupata flailing behind me, and run back onto the bus, ignoring all the looks the men must be giving me. I reflect for a minute, on the scene from their point of view and laugh – a white woman running through the all-male-joint alone in the middle of the night. What a sight. Restored by my own confidence, I happily fall into a deep sleep.

I arrive safely and miraculously in Mumbai at 6:30 am. It is still dark as the bus drives further into the city and I begin to have the impression that this city does not sleep like the one I know and live in. There are dogs roaming, people already beginning the day’s work before sunrise and those not yet awake sleep like lumps of cotton under thin blankets on almost any flat surface. Other buses arrive and drop passengers on the side of the highway to make their way home and the palm trees swoon in the cool air.

I soon realize that the bus will not drop me at a safe and busy station as I had envisioned. No, it will also drop me on the side of the highway. A nicely dressed, English speaking man notes my concern and offers to help me find my way to m friend’s house. I don’t like the idea of blindly following a man through one of the biggest cities in the world and hesitate…but I realize my other option is standing alone in the dark …in one of the biggest cities in the world. I follow him into a rickshaw.

When I arrive at my friend’s house, I finally lay my body down I feel entirely blessed to have made it there. I think of all the trust I have put into people, into the universe, into myself and can’t help but feel proud to have made it there on my own. I close my eyes, and fall into a deep sleep for 5 hours or so.

I wake up and shower for the first time in a few days, standing under a real shower head – letting the cool water slide off my warm and still sleepy skin. Sami (my friend) makes me pancakes and I relish in the lazy morning mode – missing syrup, coffee, the new york times.

Later in the afternoon we board a bus to travel to Pune, 4 hours away, to pick up our friend who needs some help getting to the airport. After finally leaving the outskirts of Mumbai (which takes a good hour or so) the drive takes us inland, over the mountains in the late afternoon. I love the transition out of the center of the city, through the streets where the Muslim community lives and men carve intricate wooden furniture on the street. We drive past slums and open sewers, children playing hopscotch on fat exposed sewer pipelines which wind right through their city villages. Hours later we are in the clean and green(er) city of Pune. I don’t see much of the city as night has covered the mountains in a cloak of darkness, turning them into looming giants, but I feel the clean air of the city, note the lack of pollution, and feel almost like I am in a very Indian city somewhere in the West.

We don’t spend long in Pune, but head back to Mumbai and head straight to bed. I make an omlette in the morning and am overwhelmingly excited to use real cheese. We eat breakfast with Sami’s neighbor, an Indian guy who shares the apartment with a mysterious American just a few years older than us. The American doesn’t speak with Sami or her roommate. He has lived in Mumbai for ten years, the Indian roommate explains, and he has seen it all – foreigners coming and going, touring around, searching for something and then moving on.

I am fascinated by the description of the mysterious American. He is so frustrated by the “ex-pat” scene, that he has completely cut himself off from it.  All foreigners are the same, here for a short time, creating this bizarre environment of people that is constantly changing – always impermanent, always temporary.

In a city like Mumbai, you see it all, all the foreigners coming through, stopping to look around then packing up to leave,  and it always looks the same, I imagine.  I hated the way this whole description made me feel - - like I was just another foreigner (I guess I am?), in India looking for answers to questions not yet fully formed, ignorant, unimpressed in the long-run, and ready to move on after assuming that I’d “understood” enough. I think in many ways, that American is right, and I understand why he has cut himself off from all of this.

That evening we are invited to a Christmas party in one of the nicer suburbs of Mumbai. I have no idea what to expect, but Sami and I dress up for the occasion. Of course, I have only brought the traditional clothes which I wear in Bhuj, and which in a city like Mumbai make me look frumpy and awkward, an odd tourist trying to fit in. Sami lets me borrow some clothes – jeans, a slinky sleeveless top, and earrings and when I look in the mirror I recognize a strange feeling I have not experienced in months – I feel attractive!

With this feeling, we leave the apartment and make our way through the city to the party. I feel a bit like we are in any city, two young women on their way to a party, and it’s funny to me to remember we are still in India – the stench of the streets mingling with the scent of imported American shampoo in our freshly washed hair.

We reach the apartment and step into what feels like another universe. Inside, it is warm and there are men and women dressed smartly, swirling cups of wine while they engage in intimate conversations. The lighting is dim, and candles line the wooden bookshelves. The apartment is modern and beautiful, cherry wood floors, stainless steal handles on everything, a balcony. I am shown to the area where drinks are found - there is a variety of drinks including red wine, and my mouth waters at the sight. Then I am shown the food and I think my jaw actually drops as I gaze at what I at first think must be a mirage: turkey, cranberry sauce, lobster, three varieties of pasta, salads, Spanish tapas, and French bread. It’s beautiful and it smells amazing.

I indulge for the rest of the evening, eating too much food, drinking too much wine, and socializing for the first time in a long time. As I lean casually against a wall, or on the balcony’s railing and talk about my work – I feel completely disassociated from what I am saying. It’s the first time I’ve ever described my work, my placement, my life to people I’ve just met and I can’t seem to bring those two worlds together. Even as I am speaking, I can’t fathom how it is I live there, and how far removed this situation is from my life in Bhuj. “Yeah,” I say, “basically we strengthen village level governments and encourage a grass-roots approach that really empowers people...” I go on, swirling my wine, letting my sweater fall, exposing a bare shoulder to the cute guy who lives here, working at social-venture-entrepreneur-something-or-other in Mumbai.

Everyone at the party does something unique and amazing – someone works on “concept design” for films, another is a young prodigy of an obscure Indian instrument on a scholarship to study under one of the best musicians in the world, another girl is flying to the US next week to open at a Mos Def concert and a 27-year old who described himself as retired, after founding one of the biggest charities in Canada at the age of 16.

The socializing continues, and effectively turns into a dance-party which I after my giant meal I am ill-equipped to handle. Eventually, I walk home with David, one of the other fellows and we decide to take a late-night detour to get in more digestion time before bed. He takes me down to the water, where a make-shift village has been set up for the fishing communities. We sit on a bench and watch giant rats run around the feet of sleeping people. The people sleep everywhere in Mumbai – on ledges, on benches, on vegetable carts. I am struck by how similar this make-shift village is to the one I’d gone to see in Kutch. The same village lifestyle, the same homes, the same families, the same smells…transplanted into the middle of a bustling metropolis.

The next afternoon, I take a rickshaw to the train station and board the train headed back to bhuj. The ride is 17 hours, but it goes by quickly and I sleep well in 3 A/C – which I pay more money for, but the windows are closed and I am not awakened by the sound of the train stopping and starting throughout the night. When I reach Bhuj, I am so happy to be home. I realize how much I love the simplicity of my life here, the slow pace and the lack of almost anything “western” somehow soothes me upon my return, and I am relieved not to have to think about parties, new clothes and expensive restaurants. I reclaim and celebrate my bhuji life by handwashing some clothes upon my arrival home. I hang them to dry in the morning sun, eat a bowl of cereal, and head to work, looking forward to all the sites and places along my commute that have become familiar.