Day Five

Remember all that stuff I sait about swastikas? It’s all true, and I do take it to heart. But It’s still very satisfying to sit on a giant pile of swastika bricks and smash them to pieces with a hammer. Shattered bricks line the bottom of the septic tank pit, so we spent a solid hour smashing a few hundred bricks. With the right focus, directed in the right spot, one good hit can split the brick into just the right sized pieces. The rest of the day was spent hauling bricks and rocks from one location to another.

First we started carrying them by hand (eight per trip is my comfort zone), but later borrowed a rickshaw to load up a hundred at a time and wheel them over to where the masons needed them. There’s been a natural progression from the base labor where we started to using tools and mechanics to make our work easier. My body had gotten used to the strain, and now that it’s lessened, so has my interest. I’m sure I would have bored of the digging by now also, but I find myself seeking out the more strenuous tasks on site. The brick shards need to be further smashed and leveled once laid in the pit. We do this with a weighted compactor mounted at the bottom of thick bamboo stick. You lift it a few feet off the ground, and then slam it down onto the shards. It’s exhausting and creates blisters almost immediately.

Every day at lunch, we feast on three or four dishes prepared by a local woman who has started her own catering company. These are consistently our best meals in Delhi, centered around lentils and rice, and then a few (sometimes exotic) vegetable dishes. The saag paneer was the best I’ve had, and there was a carrot stew that was amazing. The carrots here are bright red-orange and taste a bit like sugar beets. The food at the hotel, which is included in our rate is similar, but not quite as good. Breakfast especially is repetitive, but we have our own supply of local fruit to distract us. Twice now we’ve gone to local Indian restaurants to see what else is out there. I’m invariably drawn to the same lentils and rice I have every meal. Each time it’s different, but always delicious.

Before dinner tonight we stopped by a shop for musical instruments. They sell pianos and guitars, violins and violas. But their main item is the sitar; big ones, little ones, and eensy baby ones. They range from $150 to $1000 dollars, but are all beautiful and works of art unto themselves. We asked to hear one and the proprietor went out to the street and pulled in and old man. He played a slow and sollomn song, and sang at times, but only with the do-ray-me-fas of the scale as lyrics. Katrina bought one of the less expensive ones for her brother the musician, and got a massive case that to keep it safe on her travels. I’d love to have one, but the strings are tiny and dig into my fingers, and the rhythm is so far beyond me, I am left behind uncomprehending.

Our last stop of the night was at the chemists, where with the right research you can find some interesting pharmaceuticals available without a prescription. The last time I was here, I rediscovered ambien. This time I got recommendations for some muscle relaxants that nicely take the edge off my aches and pains. As with most things here, medicine is priced for the market and I got a few dozen pills for five dollars. I’m not sure if this pricing is evidence of our victimization at the hands of the drug companies, or evidence of India’s violation of intellectual property laws. Either way, it suggests the world is out of balance. This is the overall theme of any trip like this, where us with so much work side by side with them with so little.

We’ve now passed the halfway mark for workdays on our project. The walls of our house are slowly coming up. Members of our team are slowly dropping down. This one has a stomach illness, that one a flu. One left to return to her sick father. One smashed a finger hauling bricks. I’m getting what I came for in that my enthusiasm for the place is wearing down. Visiting the same site, along the same roads, every day breeds familiarity. Likewise, the slum children are adjusting to our presence, following us with less frequency, more captivated by their games and conflicts than our comings and goings. I feel less like a tourist, and more like an immigrant.