Day Four

Out on a limb here, thinking the best way to start any day is by watching a herd (tribe?) of monkeys stampeed by your window. There’s this drained swimming pool in back of the hotel, bordered on two sides by tall trees. It looked as if the baboons were descending from the treas, crossing the pool deck, on their way into the city. Sixty million years of evolution. Right before my eyes. If this is a daily occurance, I’ll get some photos tomorrow. I will start from the window outside my room, and work my way closer as my fears allow. If I go all Goodhall and run off with the tribe, give my comic books to Nate.

Now let’s talk about swastikas. The symbol is one of the earliest known to mankind, dating back to 5000 BC, with it’s origins tied to that of the cross symbol. It’s theorized that any basket weaving society would discover the symbol within their craft. The natural progression of a woven basket results in a swastika pattern as the bottom center of the basket radiates outward. The swastika has been an important symbol in Hinduism since at least 300 AD. Facing right it represents evolution; facing left involution. It’s four arms pointing in all four cardinal directions give the symbol a representation of stability. The symbol is ubiquitous within Hindu temples. The blue elephant god Ganesh is often depicted sitting on a lotus flower on a bed of swastikas.

More recently it has been used by western Europeans for other purposes.

I explain all of this so that when I say I spent the entire day hauling bricks, each with the imprint of a swastika, and that I found the work fulfilling, you will understand the context. The irony is not lost on me that I went from digging trenches on the frontlines of poverty, to assembly-line service surrounded by that symbol. Am I a prisinor of war? If I am, my enemy is not the people for whom I work. Most likely it’s western guilt, but maybe it’s also the whole damn system that gives me what I have and these other people, nothing.

All in, I estimate I moved 300 bricks. If you’re ever given the choice between moving bricks and digging ditches, go with the bricks. There’s a clear rythem to it of pick-up and drop-off, with some time to walk, and some time to rest built in. Digging is incessant, unending.I realize I’m obscessed with quantifying my efforts. I would like to be the sort who works with a detatched mind, against no measurements. I get a glimpse of that through my own ignorance of the process. I have no idea how many more bricks I will move today. Our supervisor says ‘more’ and I move more. He tells me ‘deeper’, and I dig deeper. I make little deals with myself that I will take just ten more steps, but when those are behind me, I have to make a new deal. But I still keep vague count of my totals. I stack them up and devide them by the pain in my body. For every five bricks I move, my muscles ache this-much. This is not news to me. I keep track of things. I look deeper. I don’t let things go. Nirvana, the abandonment of self, is not in my future. But that’s alright. I’m doing okay in this world. I’ll leave the next to the brahmans.

After work today, most everyone else went out to the Bollywood film Paa. It was supposed to be an eastern version of Benjamin Button, but in India that means the little boy had Progeria. So I skipped that and caught up on some photo uploads. I also bought a belt so my pants would stop falling down. It’s funny how things like that become incredibly inconvenient when one is hauling bricks. Finding a US to India power adaptor was a bit more complicated. You cannot walk through the center of town without attracting the attention of local men, looking to assist foreigners however they can. I’m still not clear on how this whole system works, but it makes me very uncomfortable. I started out fine, asking a few men to leave me alone. I put in my headphones to feign deafness. But after being directed from one shop to another, none having what I needed, I let myself be guided by an older man who spoke formal English and talked about his brother in Colorado. He took me to a shop that looked promising, but still turned up nothing. He told me they would have one in five minutes, brought down from a shop a few streets over. In the meantime, we should go to his shop of Kashmiri handicrafts. I’ve heard such amazing things about Kashmir, a region like Israel that is forever in dispute because of its beauty and long history. I’ve also heard of tourists paying for tours to the region and finding themselves kidnapped having to buy their own freedom. So while I was nervous about it, I followed him down an alley and upstairs to his shop. It was a cramped and winding staircase with display cases lining the walls exhibiting handmade boxes and notepads. The narrow hallway opened into a small room packed with scarves, carpets and jewelry. It was all quite lovely, but I had no confidence the jewelry was worth the price they were asking. There’s no way of knowing, I suppose. I ended up buying a twenty dollar cashmere scarf. Or was it a Kashmir scarf? That barely matters as it was bought out of obligation, so I don’t mind if I overpaid. It also sets off my eyes nicely. I was able to leave without much sleeve pulling, which gave me a good feeling about my guide. But returning to the electronics shop, they had nothing for me. This began a mile long trek from shop to shop looking for my adaptor. We finally ended up in an underground market built off the metro tunnels. This was very similar to Saigon Plaza in Los Angeles, with vendor stalls packed tight together, and tighter with cheap merchandise. The second shop we visited had what I was looking for. I bought two. I thanked my guide and let him take me to one more carpet shop in which he had a stake before heading home. On the way, I asked him if I should feel safe in Delhi. I told him how other men had approached me offering hashish, and that made me feel in danger. He agreed it was dangerous, but then asked me if I would like some. I think maybe this is the whole point of the thing. These men, young and old befriend tourists and lead them to hash dens. I don’t know what happens there, but I’m not willing to go so far outside public view as to find out. I’ll pet a cobra any day over that. The next time I am approached with offers of help, I will try my luck at telling them right off the bat that I’m not interested in hash. If that’s the magic opt-out, I’ll consider myself well prepared to wander the city a bit more.

I’m a bit ashamed to say that on my way home, I stopped at the Park Hotel. It’s a five-star with gourmet restaurant and full service spa facilities. I got a discount group rate for the rest of my team, but couldn’t resist a sixty minute Balinese massage to end my day. There is a pleasure to the complete abandon with which I’ve approached my work, and the pain I feel is constant reminder of this. Submitting to this kind of pampering takes much of that pleasure away, but I can live with that. Holding onto my pain is its own form of selfishness, and I was more than happy to give that up; yielding it to oil and pressure. I walked back to my hotel, leaving behind the lush splendor of The Park, taking a bit home with me in my loosened muscles.