Day Eight

Today was our first day off after six of working on the site. Normally projects go four days on, one day off for two weeks. But we’re saving our R&R for two days of tours at the end. I didn’t mind the longer work week, but this rest would have been more satisfying if we’d ended on a high note. As it was, we agreed that it’s been anti-climactic, with the work petering out near the end. A day of rest after day-two would have felt like heaven. The day was further sullied by the nasty cold I came down with last night. I don’t want to dwell on it, as it’s very common for being so far from home in these conditions. At least half of us have it. But to get an accurate impression of my day, picture all of this with me snotty and wobbly.

There’s been a bit of grumbling about the food. Most of it has been excellent, but I hear talk of cravings for pizza and pasta; staples of western life. For me, it’s been great. I could eat lentils and rice day and night. But to add some variety to our diet, we walked over to the Park Hotel. This has become our getaway when we need a bit of a five-star recharge (tomorrow we’re taking a yoga class there). The buffet was pretty great, with lots of fresh fruit and the breakfast staples you’d expect. There was also a nice selection of international foods, mostly non-Indian. I had some steamed fish with vegetables that was a nice change of pace. My tastes may put me out of touch with the rest of my team, but it was a joy to see them so happy with their dumplings and juices.

At noon, we boarded the bus for a team trip to a handicraft bazaar. While most markets are an organic collection of stalls and shops, grown up over the grime of the city, this was a curated assembly of artisans and more of a craft fair than a shopping mall. We’ve all been accosted by merchants while trying to sneak glances at their wares through open doorways. They’ll chase us down the street, trying to entice us inside. The few times I’ve gone along, I’ve been bombarded with endless presentations of rugs and scarves, necklaces and paintings. I don’t mind so much, but it’s fairly high-pressure and a bit tricky to get out of without emptying your wallet. The most recent time, I was sitting through a series of ‘ancient’ kama sutra paintings, overlaid on pages from ‘ancient’ manuscripts. I was considering a particularly naughty one, when I noticed the back of the page had an illustration of a man talking on the telephone. “An ancient telephone”, I was assured. When the shopkeeper started crooning to me the purported lyrics written on the page, I bid a hasty retreat. This bazaar was a nice change of pace from things like that. All the staples of the tourist trade were there, but in a more relaxed atmosphere. There was still a lot of haggling to be done, but it struck me as commerce in captivity. A good rule of thumb I found is to refuse to pay more than one third the original asking price. I’m sure that’s still a coup for the vendor, but at least we feel we put up a good fight. I picked up a few gifts (stay tuned people, if you’ve been good you’ll get one) and saw some neat stuff. The most impressive was some carved sandalwood that I can best compare to a transformer. One was a large model of a pockewatch that split open like a ladybug’s wings to reveal tiny, detailed models of the Taj Mahal and the Red Fort. Each of those split further to reveal their inner workings. There were numerous other details that sprung forth behind hidden doors and latches. There were similar models of a sitar and an India bride, each with their collection of secret compartments and intricate dioramas hidden within. No I didn’t buy any of them, though I fear I could not have resisted a sandalwood Optimus Prime. Maybe he would have transformed into Gandhi? Best. Ever.

Everyone seemed pleased with their purchases. Some were most happy with the price they won, others the find they found. My roommate, Patrick, picked up some amazing umbrellas and a thin carpet, embroidered with all sorts of Indian flare. The only thing I got for myself were some linen hankerchiefs to keep from wiping my nose on my wrist. They make me feel like a snotty old man in a rather pleasing way.

Tonight I heard talk of Dominos Pizza and massage circles to prepare us for our work tomorrow, but I am more than content here in my room. Now properly medicated, I’ve got a nice taste of freedom from my symptoms. I’ll read for a bit, and them head off to sleep. In the morning we visit the children’s home that houses an orphanage and hospital. I expect it to be sobering, but I want to see it. The children here have been such a source of joy and optimism and I hope a glimmer of that can be seen even amongst these least fortunate.