one last delivery

With our bags all zipped, the boxes all taped and the auction finished, we still had bags and bags of things that would make a very welcome addition to our little village outside our window. Having visited just a week prior with food and clothes, there was still more; pillows, sheets, towels, clothes, shoes, medicine, shampoo, blankets and everyone cleaned out their pantry to give to us to give to them. It was the largest load yet that we had been able to deliver.

And I hope to always remember the photo that I didn’t get. Driving slowly up the dirt road to the row of shackle houses, it was morning with some hanging fog still in the air. So the solemn looking, yet fully contented person walking towards us, hands happily holding each other behind his back, seemed like a dream. His age made his gait slump and the weight of a life’s worth of bricks on his back made his legs bow. He stood out to me immediately because I thought the green color he was wearing would make a beautiful photo. But before I could reach past the bags on my lap to my Canon, it was too late. And it wasn’t until he was passing us that I had realized he was wearing a sweater that we dropped off just a week before.

My head, my heart, my eyes and teeth all cried joy. Yes. Yes, we did meet a need. It didn’t matter that the green sweater was a woman’s sweater. It didn’t matter where it came from, it was keeping him warm, all night and all morning until the sun managed to break through the fog. The rush of the morning, the night, week and year prior had kept me from keeping myself together. I still needed to drop this load off and this beautifully adorned, solemnly content man was gone.

We were greeted with the most eager hands we’d seen. By now, they know that the white woman means clothes and food. It was chaos, a mosh-pit that would make Black Sabbath blush. It took all of two minutes for it to disappear. I awkwardly said goodbye and thank you and already missed the fact that I wouldn’t be able to watch them from above, from my living room window, watch the sheets we gave them drying on the line, the kids playing on rebar construction, fires burning into the cold night like tiny candle flames. I couldn’t convey this to them. No hand gestures could possibly explain my gratitude to this dusty, rural village. I couldn’t possibly explain to them that I hope to always remember how grateful we should be for what we have.

Sadly I’ll never see those faces again. One day we’ll return to India, hopefully with an older Josiah, old enough to appreciate the beauty and sadness of it all. We’ll see new faces, faces that are in just as much need as these. Hands that will grab what they can.

I am forever changed both by what I’ve seen and what I’ve failed to see. There is beauty and pain and unfairness and grace and uncertainty on every corner of this globe. People are the exact same everywhere you go. And unbelievably different. We all just want to be understood, loved and appreciated.

I don’t know if we could ever permanately close the book on flipside living; once you get bitten by the abroad bug, you never lose the desire to keep exploring. But for now, we’re happy to settle down for a little while, two years, maybe ten.

rupees talk

With the requisite trip to Taj under our belts and as many last minute trips into Delhi as we could handle, it was time to relinquish three years worth of furniture, kitchen wares and 220-volt appliances.

Fortunately for us, just a few months prior we enjoyed the sights, sounds and smells of an Indian auction. All spoken in Hindi, all we did know was that the family selling off their stuff was quite satisfied with the turnout. With three families (very) quickly vacating the country, we opted to combine our assets and have one big auction.

We had to be pretty cautious about what ended up in the ‘ship home’ pile and what was left to the hands of the auctioneer. Munish was pretty thrilled with the goods we had. For reasons that can only be described as obvious, imported goods go for a very pretty price. And auctioneers like Munish have a pretty loyal following of buyers who attend his auctions to then turn around and sell for an even prettier profit.

The shippers came bright and early Saturday morning, starting off with a surprisingly efficient team of packers. The efficiency slowly wore off to an eventual dead halt, but lo they managed to pad, wrap and tape up all our shippables in just under 7 hours. Leaving us just a handful of minutes to transfer all our sellables down the street where the auction is being held. Eager buyers started showing at 8am for an auction that began at 4pm. And though the auctioneer team showed up more than an hour late, we somehow managed to keep the stress (of leaving the country on 13 day notice) at bay. We had bikes, blenders, ovens, pots, pans, pillows, rugs, utensils, cups, coffee pots, glasses, grills, wardrobes and a very loved, very photographed orange couch.

Though in Hindi, Munish did a good job catering to us English-speaking folk, he would confirm the price with us before it sold, and if it didn’t live up to what we thought it was worth, he’d squeeze a few hundred more rupees out of the eager buyers. It was hectic, loud and smelly; a little microcosm of India itself. Things went for way too low, others went for way too high. Tim managed to sell his super thin, super sleek 42inch LCD TV for as much as much as he bought it for three  years ago. But a tabletop’s worth of our entire kitchen cabinets went for a mere pittance. Our pockets swelled with thousands of rupees. Every minute someone was shoving a wad of money in my hands, while I tapped away on my iPhone noting each item, how much it sold for and if I had received the dough for it. Tim handled the toddler, I bargained the ghandis.

Instead of carrying an orange couch and wardrobes down the street, a parade of Indians marched from the auction place to our place. A sweaty elevator ride up eight floors and suddenly there’s 60 people standing in our home and plopping their feet up on our couch. Finally a jovial looking fella was the proud owner of our beloved sofa. I took one last quick photo of Josiah on the fiery threads of his babyhood and before we knew it we had an empty apartment, except for our luggage contents and a travel crib.

There was no time to process the series of unfortunate events that led us to this moment, there was a little more rejoice than remorse, but certainly feelings of uncertainty and confusion. We ordered the Friday night cheese pizza staple, watched a movie on the laptop and slept in bath robes and towels to keep warm. Our last night in India.

The place was echoing while we wrangled up our suitcases and feverishly looked through what I thought I had already looked through to find my week-long lost wedding ring. It could have been anywhere. In something sold, in something shipped, in something tossed. But, amazingly the 91-year old heirloom was waiting patiently in my suitcase. Waiting to be discovered either before or after we reached our next destination. Fortunately before, as my next task was to go through the vacuum bag and trash cans. My ring finger had never  felt such joy, and I, I was infinitely relieved.

One step closer to leaving the country.

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Overall we made out pretty well considering we got three years worth out of everything.

“I’m wearing my son!”

What began as a holiday party, heralding the success in India; a firm breaking new ground, making new rules, was quickly overshadowed 14 hours later when Tim and his colleagues were told they’d be packing up and moving out. In short, the client couldn’t afford to keep us expensive white folk there anymore, but the project could (more or less) continue from Chicago. And as previously mentioned this news was met with very grateful ears and anxiously I immediately started packing.

I spent the first week packing, looking eerily similar to the three year ago me, packing up our condo in Chicago, preparing to ship off to Abu Dhabi. All I could manage was placing one item in a box, take a swig of wine, repeat. It’s a slow process. It wasn’t until the second week and after the Taj that I realized I’d no longer be able to relish in the markets of Delhi, finding delightfully random trinkets for almost nothing. Easily the (only?) thing I’d miss the most. I think I made it to eight or nine markets that week.

It’s always nice to get a reminder that the path you’re about to go down is the right one, when, the new driver for the day puts your car seat in the trunk, “no, no, my child sits in that…” then swiftly gets lost going the complete opposite direction and adding unnecessary traffic time by then circling the destination twice. All’s well, right? We’re leaving soon, breathe deep, only a few more days.

Just one more easy errand, FedEx. Simple, right? Even though the day prior led to a completely nonexistent FedEx, regardless of what I had confirmed over phone and internet. Alas, I digress. This one is in a landmark hotel. Easy find. Well, yes the hotel is an easy find, and once I negotiate to leave a sleeping Josiah in the car with the driver for 14.8 seconds to run in, ship off some goods and run back I go through the airport-like security to be told the FedEx office is now no longer a courier office. “just print ma’am.” Strike two on the fedex then.

Breathe deep, only a few more days here. The blood pressure had begun to drop when we started to pass a roadside market I had wanted to stop at since we got there. An antique market of sorts selling old doors, windows and other reclaimed parts of demolished buildings. I go through the rigamarole of scooping Josiah into the carrier to peruse some potential rad wall decor.

I am immediately swept into a cacophony of catcalls. Hmm, that’s strange, I think. Three grown men sitting on the half wall and carrying on in Arabic, very obviously about me. I raise my chin and continue looking and walk the other way only to be met with a another group of equally prowling men. What is going on? I’m most certainly used to the stares, the straight up head turns, but the cat calls are a little different. My heart is starting to race and I’m trying to ignore, remembering that I only have some 56 hours left to deal with this unrelentlessly frustrating place. Breathe. Breathe. Breeeeathe.

A teenage boy tapping away on his phone, calls out something in arabic with some inappropriate hand gestures. I shoot him an unapproving look, only to be met with similar gestures, the heat is starting to rise, breathing is no longer an option. The broken down cars, the oppressive heat, the disgusting filth, the infectious diseases, dreadfully subpar childcare, unbreathable pollution and the lid finally boils off. With a pointing finger as fierce as a searing poker, I point at the boy, eyes burning into his pupils and with a voice not fit for a 5’2 white girl, “How Dare You. How dare you disrespect me like that, I’m wearing my son!” .

I feel Josiah dig his fingernails into my sides. He knows Momma Bear is pissed. A lasting look long enough to know I mean business, I return to the man who’s probably the kid’s uncle, try to have a conversation about old doors, only to be met with more verbal torment. I half hear a price about doors, and I’m back to shooting the devil eyes and poker finger back at the boy. I look back at the man, wondering why he’s not coming to my defense, being a potential sale and all, he shoots the kid a look, which does nothing to stop him. And I quickly surmise that I won’t be giving any money here anyway, with one more pitchfork eye dart, I walk towards the car.

A crowd has gathered at this point, mostly of the group of men who were just as vulgar. I have a hard time taming the beast in the heat of the moment and it’s clear these men are not accustomed to any sort of retort from a female. I’m quickly trying to get Josiah out of the carrier and into in his car seat, all the while still shooting demon eyes at the group of men. Buckle his seat, race to the other side and stammer to the driver to get me out of there. “This is the muslim area ma’am, not good.” My face is red and my fingers shaking. Could this day get any worse? I clammer for my phone to call Tim and relay the tale and, no phone. No Phone Anywhere. Oh God. Oh God Oh God Oh God. It’s there. It’s there and I have to go back there. With my tail between my legs whimpering like a girl who’s lost her very expensive phone, in a destitute, dirty road side market where she’s just committed the sin of sticking up for herself. Oh My Gosh. The driver whips around, and literally driving like he’s in a video game, narrowly missing women, men and mule carts in the street, cloudy dirt trailing behind us, we slam the brakes into the very spot we had sped off from. It was as if the men had just dispersed and here were are, jumping out of the car, carrier still wrapped around my waist, less one baby. And a little boy, probably related to the cat calling group of men, came running up with my phone in his hand, “you dropped ma’am”, pointing to the ground with his head and eyes.

The hate that had filled my eyes moments before was instantly transformed into unspeakable amounts of gratitude, shock, humility and embarrassment. I held his hand that still held my phone for what felt like twenty minutes. I sheepishly / appreciatively stared into his confused eyes, darting left and right, wondering how he got into a hand holding party with this foreigner. My faith in mankind instantly restored. The pure hatred I held for this place subsided, if even for just an indebted minute. Tail permanently lodged between my legs, I stumble back into the car. It didn’t occur to me until we had already driven away, that I could have, should have given the boy money. I couldn’t pick my jaw off the car floor; grateful, shocked and still shaky I recounted the ordeal in my head the whole way home. I had reached my emotion quotient for the day. Three more days.

touch the taj

A lot can change in a day, or even an hour. Returning to India from our latest break came with an attempt to look on the bright side. That lasted all of an hour and in a 3am epiphany I came to the very resolute conclusion that I am, in fact, finally ready to move back to Chicago, plant some roots and let ‘em spread. In my excited state of pertinacity I immediately instant messaged my mom and my best friend. Many exclamation points later and I could finally con myself into believing it was time to go to sleep.

I wasn’t exactly sure how I was going to make this happen or what exactly Tim had to say about all this, but I did know this whole “living in rural India” thing needed to end. And my geographical clock was telling me it needed to end quick. Each polluted day and every horn honk was just tick tock reminder of a very real, very innate need to get out and get home. So when, two weeks later, Tim comes home to tell me about a little change in the company dynamic* and all expats were being shipped back to Chicago, I was already pulling out the suitcases.

Clearly a curve ball thrown from who knows where, but a welcome one. We immediately began the mental gymnastics of figuring out what all needs to be done in two weeks. As, you know, moving out of a country on two weeks’ notice can be a little bit of a somersault. What all do we still need to see in India and what do we actually have time to see? What do we do with all of our things? What gets shipped, tossed or sold? Where will we go? Equal parts stress and excitement we got under way with as much as 15 days would allow; including, but not limited to, the Taj Mahal.

I think we surely would have been sucker-punched by everyone we know had we not managed to see the Taj, you know, having lived 100 miles away. Of course, living “just 100 miles” from it, by no means equates a quick and easy jaunt. It required a 4am wake up call to get an early start on the lorry-infested, truck-drenched two-ish lane road. Jill, Cara, Tim, Josiah, Yoginder the driver and I all piled into the safer by comparison vehicle, one we were relatively convinced could get us there and back.

There’s nothing like an Indian road trip to force you to longingly remember designated truck stops, gas stations, and above all else, decently clean bathrooms. But road-side food stands and holes in the ground will just have to do. A relatively stress and drama free five hours later we arrive at our Agra hotel, take our showers and start ticking off the bucket list.

Yoginder went to college in Agra and has family there, so knows the area and people well, so connected us with a tour guide, who would spend the day with us and take us to a few sites. We were warned to under no circumstances give to beggars or even show interest in street side souvenirs; it would set off a massive mosh pit of people desperate to sell or beg. “Keep your eyes straight, don’t even look their way” he said.

Through the gate we slowly made our way to the Taj and just as every book, article, movie and song suggested it was stunning. Ethereal, it seemed to just float on a cloud. We lucked out with the weather, We hadn’t seen a day so clear in months and it was a perfect mixture of cool and warm. We went at the perfect time of day with the sun hitting it at about 45degrees. It was easy to get lost in the white marble; the thousand people around you magically disappeared. Every view seemed better than the last as you creeped your way closer. A line of people waiting to get in snaked all the way around and back.

Josiah made friends with every pair of eyes that saw him. Transfixed, as always, on his fair skin, blue eyes and blonde hair; people are eager to take his picture, pose with him and shake his hand. And not all that dissimilar from the hungry beggar dilemma, stopping to pose for one picture often leads to about thirty-five. I have go all Momma Bear on the vultures, stopping short of throwing myself on him to keep away the pecking beaks.

Standing on the gleaming white marble was, not surprisingly, another one of those textbook moments. Wondering how on earth you – the once marveling 5th grader – is actually standing on, and touching the Taj Mahal. Oh Josiah, how you’ll loathe us later, taking you to so many places that you won’t remember.

Requisite family photos and we’re on to the next spot, the Agra Fort. Almost as impressive as the Taj itself, it’s where Shah Jahan, the emperor who built the Taj in memory of his favorite wife, was jailed by his own son. He was given a front row view of his masterpiece for the last 8 years of his life.

Field trips and tourists from all over the world provided ample people watching; I was thanking the Canon gods that my battery hadn’t died sooner, then thanking Steve Jobs for making an incredible back up camera in the 4G.

After a failed attempts to find some Agra wares, our toes were tuckered and throats thirsty. It was time to eat and drink; having survived mostly on Masala flavored Lays, a little protein would have done us all good. It happened to be a lunar eclipse and though the Taj didn’t stay open late like it does for a full moon, we were able to marvel from the hotel grounds.

The next day we opted to detour our way back home by stopping at the “Forgotten City”, Firozabad. The imposing mosque at the top of steep hill and steps overlooked the surrounding prairie-like towns. I think I stood on those steps for well over half an hour just oogling the sights. More field trips, beggars, feeble old men crawling up the stairs. It was a sight to behold, a hidden treasure I wasn’t counting on finding outside of Taj.

We were able to find a tour-guide approved market to shop, delightfully tacking on another hour to the now seven hour trip back. We load up on more oddly flavored potato chips and circuitously head back home. A traffic jam and a wrong turn make for a long road trip back home. But all things considered it was drama and trauma free, always a plus when still having to tame a toddler on a road trip.

Once finally home, the much anticipated search party for my wedding ring would have to wait – because, yeah I lost it the night before we left for Taj. In the midst of packing up clothes and shoes and pots and pans…

*more, so much more, on this later.

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give me warmth.

A naysayer had warned me: “they’re just going to sell the clothes you give them for money “. And for some reason a few of the Indian colleagues had turned their nose up at the request to help donate the some 90 pounds of winter wear and food; “They can just go to the temple and get what they need, and there are hundreds of NGOs and charities that cater to them”. We needed a translator to help with the delivery, and after two rejections, we weren’t sure what we were missing here. But Vishal, an American educated architect recently transplanted back to his motherland, was thrilled to help.

So when we arrived and set up at the same rickety table as before, one of the first kids I saw was wearing one of the shirts we donated last time; “Surf’s Up” emblazoned on her chest. It made my heart melt to know we were really meeting a need. And another man asked Vishal “is she with the World Health Organization?”. Then not surprisingly, told him that no charity had ever come to bring them anything. A little girl ran off dancing with the new pink, fuzzy scarf she had just been given. A fully naked baby had been ushered to the front, clearly in need of something, anything.

I was excited to bring Tim this time; it’s such a gift to experience. Again it was chaotic and sad and beautiful. The clothes went fast and the food faster. I had printed some of the photos I had taken last time to give to the people that were in them. I wonder if they had ever seen a picture of themselves before. They giggled and pointed as they looked at the people they knew in each photo. One mother received a photo of her son proudly hugging his sister.

The next morning we could see the sheets we brought hanging on the laundry line. The easy-to-spot argyle sweaters now walk the dusty, little village. No, they aren’t selling the clothes and no NGO is looking out for this 100-person camp. How could they? There are millions just like them who live in much easier-to-access places than Greater Noida.

It made me both sad and proud to know that friends and family, who live 7,000 miles away from this construction site slash village, were more eager to help than the Indian neighbor who looks down (literally and figuratively) on this group of people. I fear for the future of this country if this is the reaction to nearly half of the entire population of India living on less than $1.00 a day. It boasts progress but does nothing for the poor, extols development yet keeps castes from advancing. Status quo is going nowhere.

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A 7,970 mile wide thanks to the people back home who emptied their closets and gave to these people. Winter is going to be a little easier to handle.

My condolences to the many more whose clothes wouldn’t fit in the already full duffle.

It’s an Indian Life

Since we moved here, I’ve been anxiously awaiting a visit to Chandi Chowk, the quintessential, crazy market of Old Delhi. It’s so insane, guidebooks tell you to not visit on your first day – otherwise you might lock yourself in your hotel room for the duration of the trip. A few of us took a Saturday opportunity to visit the Red Fort and the decrepit, crumbling market next to it.

The Red Fort was a nice, relatively calm sightseeing venture, huge walls, really old, and giant, sprawling grounds within. The real action happened when us few white folk passed a particularly impressionable group of young Indian girls. All of a sudden we were posing for dozens of pictures, awkwardly standing alone or with a group of teenage girls. But if you stopped for one picture, you stopped for ten. It was charming and flattering, of course and it made you wonder what made you so special, then feared what they are planning to do with these photos. I hope somewhere there’s a blog devoted to these awkward white celebrity pictures.

The calmness and serenity of Red Fort slowly then quickly faded as we made our way to the market. Accosted by half a dozen rickshaw drivers, anxious to give us a tour, unrelentingly dropping the price by 10 rupees every step further. We didn’t have an agenda, we just wanted to see it, take it in. About seven and a half footsteps into the actual market, we hopped into the nearest rickshaw we could – feeling rescued from having to walk the filthy, crowded streets. It gave us the chance to marvel without having to watch where we walk and provided amble photographing.

The sheer number of everything is so astounding. The people, the cars, the motorcycles, the rickshaws, the tuk-tuks, the stores, the apartments, the crumbling walls, bare ceilings, you’re stepping over people and into people, dodging engines and looking up and down and wondering how this explosion of consumerism and marketplace happened. The rickshaw dropped us off in the Spice Market portion of the chaos, where being on the ground of it all brought on a whole new level of OhMyGod.

There is so much happening it took a while for the severity of the situation to really sink in. It really is a brain overload. I accidentally got separated from the three people I’m with when all of a sudden I’m in a closed off alley with people spitting and peeing and squatting and how on earth did the sky disappear? It was like a dream, when the transition between ‘scenes’ makes no sense at all. Had I not been glued to the viewfinder on my canon I wouldn’t have taken the very wrong left into the very dark, putrid alley; it was only 30 seconds but it was a horrifying 30 seconds. Familiar faces are seen and heart rate returns to normal.

It’s unbelievable how differently we live. It’s hard to fathom this sort of living as normal. There were men sleeping in the middle of the street, their hand flopped over, just begging to get run over by a number of different vehicles. Buildings were half crumbled, leaving accidental al fresco living. People were everywhere. eating, sleeping, selling, walking, screaming, coughing, sneezing, hocking, haggling; it was a bone fide war zone. It was a strain to the senses; the smell was oppressive, the sound deafening, it was not only visually piercing, but the actual air molecules were so saturated with fumes and dust and pollution and spices that it stung the eyes. Sensory overload does’t even begin to describe it. I was just thankful to have only one goal; to photograph it. But even that was difficult. I was genuinely convinced there were not enough pixels in the world to capture this optical anarchy.

It wasn’t until a lengthy stop at a spice stall that my fill line had been filled. The proprietor was coughing all over the open bags of spices and lentils, the women outside squatted on the ground while a man cleaned their ears, and the sea of swarming just moved around us, begging to sweep us away in the current. Walking was like treading, once you stop you’re gone. Nic wanted to buy some spices, so us three very ready-to-leave ladies waited for what felt like four days for Nic to pick and pay. A kilo of red chilis later and we scurry into the first rickshaw we see. Retracing our rickshaw rides, we aim for respite. An hour in the car in Delhi traffic rarely symbolizes relief, but after that pandemonium, a joyride in a rocket would seem serene.

We ditched everything else on our agenda and made a beeline for the “expat market”, plopped on cushy lounge chairs, dined on Italian and muddled our senses with alcohol. Check, please.

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Tour De Frowns

Aside from being overjoyed about being in the grand ole USofA, I think a grimace was stapled to my face the entire time, completely by default. Obviously going home warrants the question from anyone and everyone, how is it?, and how life is over there? And the typical BSwanson style is to put a big cheeky smile on it and say “it’s great!”.

Though, I just couldn’t bring myself to sugar-coat it, at all. Things really have been and are tough. My mom is not the only one confused; she has the esteemed honor of hearing me bitch on a near-daily basis about certain “living conditions”. And this most recent sojourn with the parents unleashed a 10-day spit fire in the direction of the subcontinent. Begging the very fair question “well, why is your blog so…positive?”

The past three months have been nothing short of tumultuous. Heat imposed entrapment + extremely strong-willed, screaming toddler + nuances of Indian life equaled an emotionally deteriorating me. There have been lots of tears, screams, wails and tantrums, and it wasn’t (completely) coming from Josiah. When they said “it takes a village to raise a child”, “they” weren’t kidding, “they” were the smartest people on the planet.

After Greece, Josiah was inside-out and upside-down; he was so confused he didn’t know anything anymore. So that whole sleep in the crib thing was not happening, neither was the sleeping through the night thing. He got to spend a whole week rocking to sleep on a boat, snuggled up next to the ma and pa, no creature on the planet would want to go back in the jail bed.

We’re also struggling with how to handle discipline. It’s like one day we woke up and needed to know how to do it, but didn’t have a clue. All the books I read, confidently explained that at this age they “don’t understand punishment” so you just have to suffer through, until it “clicks”. It seemed like every book expected me to somehow explain to my 15 month old that touching the outlet is not safe, or that screaming incessantly is not the way to get what you want. Well, I certainly tried that, I didn’t want to resort to the hand slap or face flick. It just felt cruel. Another book described  ”time out” as “love withdrawal”, explaining that it shows your child you don’t love them when they do something wrong. Needless to say I was (and still am) confused. I genuinely have no idea what to do, trying half a dozen things for each offense or trying to stay calm for so long that I eventually snap, literally screaming in his face.

I try to be understanding of his confusion; the poor child is in a new place every six weeks. We are his only constants. Naturally, he is going to cling to me, ALL. DAY. LONG. Right? Well, that gets old, after about 12 minutes. And when daddy works 10-11 hour days, it’s only natural for me to have pulled all my hair out by 3pm, right? And remember the part about it being too hot to go outside, to go anywhere? Yeah. It’s been tumultuous, alright. Our apartment suddenly felt like a prison. Even Josiah started going to the door in a sort of “when are we going outside?” motion.

We live about an hour outside of anything worthwhile, so I either suffer through a day trapped indoors or two+ hours of Josiah screaming in the car. And his scream, makes your teeth hurt. And the middle-of-nowhere place that we live has more cows than people, so that village that should ideally help me raise that child, is miles (x 1000) away. I’ve never felt so lost, lonely and confused in my life. Suddenly regretting the life-altering decision to move to India, leaving behind the family we built in Abu Dhabi, moving even further from the real family we have in the US. I may always remember a particularly low moment, when a jet-lagged Josiah woke in the middle of the night, of course, confused and Tim and I differed opinions on how to handle the situation and all I could do was rock Josiah, sobbing the words I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do over and over. I was millimeters away from a panic attack, the room was spinning, I was sweating and there was no way out.

That, in a nutshell, is how days and weeks went. That explains the scattered posts. What do I say, “I’m failing as a mother”? “Today, I screamed so loud I literally scared the poop out of Josiah”? Thank goodness their memories don’t start working for a few years.

So, on my month-long sojourn, when all my friends and family asked how I am and how things were, a quick breath in, a raise of the eyebrows before I decided to tell the truth and say, “well, actually, it’s pretty awful”. On some occasions I remember grimacing before even hugging hello. What a joyous pity party I must have been to brunch with.

It was actually very therapeutic to get it all out, to ears that would listen. The concerns that I have to deal with on a daily basis are so far away from what I and my peers are used to facing:

The food. Clearly a no-win situation. Fresh produce can only be consumed once chlorinated. Packaged goods often are past expiration and if you’re lucky to snag something with a month to spare, bugs may have beat you to the punch. I’m scared to eat and I’m scared to feed Josiah, for fear of yet another food borne illness.

The heat. Oppressive, offensive and unrelenting. This new wave of cooler temperatures, which I had hoped would provide the much needed respite of outdoors, only brought pollution that can only be described, literally, as hazardous. So, the summer is too hot to go outdoors, the winter, too polluted.

A break. We went to check out a local play school, a place where Josiah can safely go for a few hours, a few times a week, so I don’t have to drag him to the crowded, filthy markets just to buy some bread and eggs. An open-air, cinderblock “structure” with exposed rebar and parts that seem to be permanently “under construction”. But not to worry, they offer a pick up service, where they’ll come to collect your child in the morning. Put them on the tin-can bus with no seat belts, and of course no car seats. Right.

The play school option came to fruition as the search for a part time nanny only got us as far as discovering the number of kidnappings of these little humans. Kids who never returned home from the park and, years later are still gone. One particularly delightful story, told from the head of security here, who would have been our best option for recommending someone, about a nanny who would take the small child, dress him like a street kid and beg for rupees. This was one of the better stories we heard, at least the child returned home. In any case, he, “in good conscience”, could not recommend anyone, because if anything happened to Josiah, it would be on his head. Oy.

If I do manage to work up the bravery to get in the car for an hour, I’m not necessarily able to get a car, as that in itself is an unbelievably, ridiculous, convoluted mess. In short, we were told there is no more personal use of the cars. The end. We’ve since contracted a taxi service company, and so far, have had broken down cars with questionable seat belt situations with drivers whose english isn’t much better than their knowledge of the city map. It would be one thing to be stranded in the major metropolis of Delhi without a car, we could easily ring up a number of different modes of transportation, but to be in Greater Noida, rural, farmland India, is a completely different, intolerable story.

It was nice to hear from friends and see the horrified looks on their faces, justifying my grief. I was starting to think I was just being dramatic; a pain in Tim’s side, always complaining. But no, this is not overly dramatic. Things are pretty terrible. A fellow expat, who’s been a expat for 35 years now, who’s lived all over the world, said this is the most difficult post he’s ever had. That, to me, says it all.

So what do we do about this very unsettling situation? This “very wonderful” opportunity that allows us to explore the world? Well, traveling with a toddler really does limit the use of the passport. And after all the flying we’ve been doing for the past three years and particularly the last 16 months, I don’t want to see another airplane until it’s the last one I see for a year+.

We are trying to be more positive, see the silver lining, but, no matter how hard we try, something is usually waiting around the corner to slap us in the face. Sort of like the most recent case of Delhi Belly.

That said…

Being stateside was wonderful. The only request I had for my Memphis leg was to spend as much time outdoors as possible. And that we did. It’s no surprise I enjoyed going to the grocery store. Marveling at the endless selection of products, flavors, brands, all of which are nowhere near expiration. Prices clearly marked, ingredients too. I could let Josiah wander the aisles with me, not fearing the inevitable hand-floor meet up.

I enjoyed eavesdropping. I miss nosily listening in on others’ conversation.

I was able to leave the home without <gasp!> Josiah. Leaving him in the non-kidnapping arms of his “Nani” (mother’s mother in Hindi). Though it really was fortunate that she was able to really see how rambunctious her grandson is. She felt relief when I came home after just a couple hours (try doing that alone for twelve.) Josiah not only acknowledged his grandparents this trip, he thoroughly enjoyed them, which was, as you can imagine, an enormous relief.

In Chicago, I spent a large number of evenings out, getting dinner, drinking wine, going dancing. Getting OUT. Tim busied himself with studying for his architectural exams, so I took the opportunity to uncoop myself while son slept and husband studied.

The Swanson g’parents made an appearance in the Windy City, along with Josiah’s cousin, auntie and uncle. My heart melted watching him play with his big cousin. The swan son’s even gave us a night away from the little man, the first ever. And wouldn’t you know, he was an angel the whole night? Not waking once? I was floored. But I have to be honest, I raced to their hotel so quickly, I was literally out of breath while I hugged him.

Ah, the American life. We went to zoos (three in three cities!), parks, museums, gymboree classes. We had play dates and participated in a Halloween parade. Josiah was introduced to leaf piles, mittens and coats. Tim arranged his work day to line up better with the Indian work day, and managed to shift his shift, getting off at 3pm, so I could find some mid-afternoon relief. I could go shopping, walking, whatever. In one particular afternoon, I went and got my nose pierced. I had planned on doing it in India, but the whole sanitary thing was, shall we say, lacking? So I found some hipster, Wicker Park place to put a hole through my nose. It only took two days for Josiah to pull it half way out. I thought it would make me look more Indian. So far, it’s not working.

Chicago, as it’s designed to (in our case), provided respite, refreshment and rejuvenation. It gave a renewed sense of toleration. The Chicago trips are also helpful in remembering the greener grass phenomenon. It’s always greener in your head and generally, there are challenges and difficulties everywhere you go. So, equipped with our 70pound bag of sweaters, coats, hats, scarves and mittens for India’s poor, we strapped on a new pair or rose-colored glasses and mentally just kept repeating “silver lining, silver lining, I think I can I think I can…”.

We know we’re here for something…

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Operation: dent

Of course I wait until hours before my overseas flight to take the bag of clothes and toys to the village outside my window. The bag of clothes and toys that has been sitting under my bed for two months. Through my binoculars I can see people moving and working all day long, families, children, babies, scurrying every which way. Makeshift homes of brick and metal sheets. They are just a drop in the bucket in India, untouched and nowhere near any radar that could bring them more. More food, more clothing, more shelter. They are like the empty hands that tap on the car window, except they aren’t asking for anything. Perhaps they are perfectly content with things just the way they are.

There are an endless number of charitable organizations and NGOs in India, desperate to help the billion in need. Organizations that know how to do a better job at lending a hand; a system for fairness, a rationale for what is given. Those things might have been helpful. But I wanted to get that bag to them before my plane departed, and I didn’t want to go through all the bureaucracy that usually entails reaching out. And no group would have been able to get these things to this specific village. So I took them myself. RK and Prateesh acted as both translators and later, as bodyguards.

The village up close, looked bigger, looked more crowded and more in need than from the safe confines of my living room. We found a table to set up and start giving away Josiah’s outgrown clothes, food, toys and some of my and Tim’s hand-me-downs. Two big bags still wasn’t going to be able to satisfy everyone there. At first, it was a relatively calm process; people were shy and confused at first. Why was this white woman here? It didn’t take long for the crowds to gather. Unfortunately it got a little out of hand pretty quickly. We are dealing with people who are in need. They need clothes for their children, they need food for their family. So, yes, they are going to fight over what is available, regardless if it’s something that will fit or is needed; it’s something. The 6kilos of rice and lentils were the biggest hit. And folks who hadn’t received any of the clothes or toys were definitely going to make a last ditch effort to yank food, even if it is from their comrade’s hands. It quickly became a mosh-pit with one little white lady in the middle of it all. I was thankful for my bodyguards and more thankful for the decision to not bring Josiah along on this field trip. RK and Prateesh got very angry with the crowd and tried to take away what was still left to give them; I think it’s hard for Indians to genuinely care about their fellow man – they are brought up with an “every man for himself” mentality. It was sad. It was heartbreaking and only made the drive to get more, stronger. I felt guilty that I didn’t have more. I don’t think I’ll ever have enough for what they need. But for the time being, the little babies can run around with Josiah’s old t-shirts and play with some of his toys.

Now to figure out how exactly to get the insanely enormous bag of coats, sweaters, pants and scarves to the folks outside my window. Methinks another moshpit is necessary.

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family supper

I don’t think when RK said “One day, you come to my house, have dinner” he was expecting the immediate response of “How about next Sunday?”.

So we did just that. RK drove us to church then took us to his uncle’s home. RK only gets one day off a month to visit his family, so this gave him a second time in September that he’d get to see family. RK’s parents were originally going to host us, but another uncle fell ill in Chandigarh, so they had to take a train south to be with him. So, on extremely short notice, RK’s uncle, aunt and cousins managed to whip up what easily became the best Indian food we’d ever eaten.

His cousins all spoke English well, and they all held reputable jobs at international companies; a dream for any father, but even more so for an Indian one. They all welcomed us as if we had been friends for years. Josiah, obviously charmed them instantly; he was the main attraction. Their home was modest, a one bedroom apartment in a three story building. Stairs throughout were outside, along with the bathroom on each floor, that is shared with all the tenants of the building. The eldest son, Prakash, had his own little bedroom on the roof (which he shared with the family marijuana plant) while Lakshmi and Tetu shared the dining room/living room. This is why Tim’s firm is doing what it’s doing; the growing middle class. Delhi seems to only cater to the super rich and super poor.

Our faces began to hurt from smiling for so long, and after the summer I had, anything longer than 8 seconds was a true treat. Auntie served us the best Dal Makhani I ever had the pleasure of tasting and even Tetu is a whiz in the kitchen, making his own dish of mutton curry, it was divine. I cleaned my plate for the first time in months. In India, we’ve settled into accepting that food is for fuel, not enjoyment, so we generally just eat to survive, but this food, this food was different. I can no longer call the quick Indian meals I get from Honey Money Top worthy, in fact, by comparison, they are awful.

It was a day with family and it was easily the best day we’ve had in India.

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sweat

Though there are countless things that continue to separate us on this planet, driving the millennia-old wedge even further, sweat, is one that just occurred to me this morning. As I clopped one foot in front of the other for an am jog, I noticed the stares that I should be fairly accustomed to by now. But as the rickety lorry truck jumbled past, with what I surmise to be about 45 pairs of eyes, I couldn’t help but wonder what on earth they themselves must have been wondering. “Why is that white woman running?”

You are not someone who choses to sweat. Your sweat is a consequence to your unfairly bestowed position in life. The mud and brick hut you live in does not provide any sort of cooling system, outside of the fortuitous breeze for the lucky few; you wake up in sweat. The 2 kilometer walk to work, carrying lunch, tools and children is just the work day’s first marks of drudgery. Mid-day wears on, whether you’re making bricks by hand, plowing fields with pick axes, carrying 20 pounds of dirt on the top of your head, each bead of moisture is a bead of energy lost, with little to help you gain it back. Your sparkling and sweaty sari sticks to every part of your body, constantly needing adjusting, folding, fine tuning. The day’s lengthening shadows bring only a mild temperature drop with the comforting promise of the day’s end. The minutes counting down to the last hour are even heavier than the first.  Though the freedom to return home is only met first with the hour-long walk back to your village. The looming gray clouds could provide respite, but unfortunately bring only an oppressive humidity. Packed together, sweaty bodies sit together, crowded around a small propane tank cooking pounds of rice and lentils, it’s here where you question whether body heat is actually worse than the searing of the sun’s rays. Retiring to your dark, square room, lit only from street lights outside, you’re safe from the sun until even dawn reminds you that you cannot escape.

We choose to sweat. Waking early to tie on the Mizuno or New Balance or Nike sneakers, we bop our heads rhythmically to the the iPod tunes as our feet pound the pavement, each stride a mark of pride. We’re able to promptly shower off any sign of over exertion with whatever temperature of water we desire. Air blasts from every vent in every room we encounter, then follows us to the car then the mall or office building, kept at a cool 60 degrees, often requiring a sweater or a complaint of being “too cold”. A brave few will take the stairs to and from lunch to get in some exercise, squeaking out as much manual labor as possible. By 3pm our legs start to cramp from the inactivity beneath the computer screen and we march from the xerox to the water cooler to the mail room, sending some much needed blood to the toes. The whistle blow sends a flurry of energy into the streets, on trains, on interstates, the grocery store’s abundant shelves more than cater to the 6pm rush; cool, cold and freezing air blasts throughout. We may dab our brow walking up our three flat, or upstairs to tuck in our kids. We say goodnight to the day, snuggle under our plushy and puffy comforters and turn down the air just a degree, else our toes may just get too cold.