India -> Arabia

Some place other than India meant leaving India. It would be redundant to repeat the myriad of reasons why the thought vexed me, let alone doing it. Beyond anything, I was caught up in the process, in the trains and buses, planes, checkouts, and goodbyes. So much so that I did not plan a thing. This is how it went.

From India to Oman

1. March 29th - The train. 580 INR; $11 USD

I took a long train across central India from Calcutta to Mumbai. The journey had me in near sweltering weather from the evening of the 29th through the 30th and I arrived the morning of the 31st.

2. March 31 - Toilet Bath. 5 INR; $0.10 USD

I was weary, excited, hot. Unfortunately there was not a proper shower available in the train station so I semi-bathed (something I have become accustomed to- necessity often means only a trickle of water, ice cold water or bucket baths). So I did the best I could with water from a high stray pipe in a bathroom stall. Afterwards I threw some of the clothing I had been wearing away.

During the day I walked the streets, looked for African guidebooks, stuffed in as much Indian/Spicy food as I could, attempted to escape the heat, and thought only of what I was leaving behind- nothing of what lay ahead.

That morning I took in an air conditioned café where I enjoyed a $1.30 USD coffee drink and then I went to the movies to see the disappointing Naomi Watts/Clive Owen thriller The International for $1.60 USD. I traded 9 books for 1 book, drank sugar cane juice on the street, had another treat at an air conditioned spot and tried to drink enough water so I would finally need the bathroom- I was all sweating out.

3. “Fancy” Dinner. 200 INR; $4 USD

That evening I shared a large meal with a friend (total 200 INR; $4 USD). Since my flight was in the middle of the night, early early morning April 1st, we didn’t sleep. We went back to his place and I was able to have a proper shower and get my things together. The local train to his apartment outside of town cost .30 cents.

I took an auto-rickshaw to the airport around 1 or 2 am. It cost less than $2 USD. While I waited for my flight I ate Pizza Hut. It was nice to have melting cheese (In India I mostly only had access to paneer, which is delicious, but like large chunks of cottage cheese). However, I am embarrassed that this was my last meal in my favorite country.

4. April 1 - BOMBAY --> ABU DHABI $439 (included onward flight to Johannesburg)

An Etihad Airlines employee agreed to bump me to business class, but then she looked at my shoes (Chacos) and apologized, citing a dress code. Sorry, Ma'am.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed the flight. When traveling long hours from place to place no one can begrudge me my favorite pastimes- filling pages with little words and crunching numbers (costs, places I have slept, countries visited).

But I made a huge mistake. I forgot that getting on the plane and enjoying endless trays of food and many hours of playtime meant that I would have to get off the plane and navigate a new world.

5. Abu Dhabi; bus from airport to town; 3DR; $1.25 USD

I got some dirham and scratched United Arab Emirates onto a list somewhere, and stood in front of the airport scared.

My luggage is light; I have one pair of shoes, 2 pairs of pants and just a few shirts. My clothes are modest, kept clean and in fairly good condition. But I felt completely out of place when I arrived in Abu Dhabi. The country has only 13% Nationals; 87% of the population is foreign-born. Now, even though that is made up mostly of blue-collar Bangladeshi, Indian, and Pakistani workers, there are plenty of visible Westerners. These are the people that scared me. Women in high heels and manicured bee-hives, with Fendi shoulder bags and designer wheeled-luggage.

Sitting on the curb I decided to leave the UAE immediately.

6. Bus & Shared Taxi, 15DR, $4.25 USD

After the bus into town I got another bus and then a shared taxi to one of the Oman border posts.

In true unprepared fashion, I was, well- unprepared. In India and similar places, this is alright. I have always found towns on the other side of borders. Why wouldn’t there be a town?

There wasn’t.

I arrived on the Oman side to... Nothing. Beyond the immigration and customs building there was... sand.

7.Hitching +20OR; +$52 USD

I hitched. The Omani man was so kind and helpful that he dropped me at a taxi stand and insisted on giving me some local money- over $50 dollars. This behavior would be indicative of Muslims I met all over Oman- they truly believed they served God when they helped anyone.

From the small town of Ibri I was able to make my way to Muscat and start my adventure out of India...

Going To Die

I arrived in Malawi July 31, after a long stay in Zambia. Aside from adventure activities which included a lot of jumping and screaming, I spent 3 weeks in the capital volunteering.

On a whim, I was invited to Lusaka. It turned out that my friend and host lived nearly next door to a Catholic Mission with a school, orphanage and hospice. In Texas I spent years volunteering in similar places with children and adults, and even ended up doing my Master's thesis at an AIDS hospice. I went back to Livingstone, visited Zimbabwe, then returned to Lusaka to stay with my friend and volunteer.

I spent the majority of my time in the male ward of the hospice/home. But several times a day I would visit the women and when I felt down I would see the dozens of babies- usually at the end of a day. They were in small cribs, 20+ to a room, and often they were alone. However, every time I saw other foreigners they were with the babies or toddlers. The children were lonely. They barely cried, even when 3 or 4 others in the same room seemed inconsolable. Without discretion, they wanted to be held, and those tiny grips echoed on my fingers and neck every night.

I felt more needed with the adults. In Texas, my volunteer work there included bed baths, changing catheters and diapers, wound care, cleaning the deceased, cooking, anything and everything. Soon I was "Sister Maya" ( I am not Catholic), but the job was easier than before since women did not touch or see unclothed men. So, I held hands, asked questions, made jokes, helped serve food.

Remember that film, "The Shawshank Redemption"? Everyone in the prison was "innocent". Everyone at the Mission spoke of TB or Malaria, no one spoke of HIV/AIDS; no one was HIV-positive.

The average life expectancy in Zambia is 42 (up from 37 a few years ago). In the United States, 78.

There was a young man, L., aged 26. He had been a teacher. We talked a lot my first two days at "Mother Teresa" and planned to put a letter together for his 7 year-old daughter. On day 3 he seemed to have deteriorated rapidly overnight. He no longer spoke and vomited blood, bile, water. I left early that day to hold babies- he died in the afternoon. That same evening a man nearby- S., with a beautiful, glowing smile died too. We didn't talk much, but I had spent time with him. The next morning when I arrived I found out the news and decided to accompany the bodies to the mortuary. I was glad to see their faces one last time, to say goodbye.

In a van packed with L., S. and some assistants to carry them, as well as people with hospital appointments, we set off. First we stopped at a police station. This procedure was common and quick, and the forms stating cause of death were soon stamped and signed.

At the hospital we pulled up to an unmarked room. There were drunk and somber people milling about and two waiting bodies already inside the room. We moved L. and S. inside and waited. Once the room was full a doctor was summoned to confirm the deceased. Then we moved the bodies down to one of the several mortuary rooms.

L. and S., not large, were hard to lift and the assistants struggled to push their limp bodies onto long, high shelves.

I stood alone in the ice cold tomb and said a secular prayer. The room was the size of a large classroom, rectangular and sparse, long rows of stacked shelves ran along the walls. There were about 40 adult bodies and 15 baby and toddler-sized bodies mixed in. All of the bodies were wrapped in sheets, feet and hands sticking out, sometimes a torso bare to the cold.

A week later I spent some time having a one-way conversation with a man who was "active", actively dying. He listened to me and I tried to listen to his eyes and small movements. He managed to only say a few words to me. I leaned in, guilty at his effort: "Going. To. Die... I am... going to... die." Those were his last words and he died a few hours later.