Zachster

Some tomb…

Today was our Delhi sightseeing trip. I was lucky to get a full day last Sunday to wander around and see a few sites, but most of the group has seen only the YMCA Hotel and Bawana since they arrived. It’s nice we got to see a bit more before we leave.

Our first stop was at one of the oldest structures in the area. Built in the 1100s, by the first islamic king of India, it’s a giant tower of stone and marble. While structures like the eiffel tower are impressive feats of engineering, they cannot match the sheer magnitude of such a weighty monument. More modern buildings are impressive because of how they defy expectation with their weightless conquering of the sky. This is a brute force assault against gravity, pitting the honest strength of stone against the forces of nature. The top is clad in a newer marble after nature won out with a particularly bad lightening strike a few hundred years after the original construction.

On the same grounds as the tower sits the ruins of the first mosque in India, as well as some aborted attempts by subsequent rulers to outdo the first temple. This is the only place I’ve seen in Delhi where a clear effort has been made to clean the surroundings for tourist consumption. The grounds are manicured. The paths are clean. It was a refreshing sight after so many dirty days in Bawana. It leaves me with the impression than the ancient days of India’s past were cleaner than today. It’s hard to imagine the splendor of these ancient buildings amidst the squalor of the slums, but I suppose it’s possible that only now have the grounds been cleaned.

Next we went to the industrialist’s home where Gandhi was staying when he was assassinated. In some ways it’s fortuitous that he was staying in a luxury home in Delhi while meeting with the British to discuss the terms of their departure. Had he been staying in the slums as was his habit, it would have been difficult to memorialize the location and build such a museum as now sits on the site. I’m glad I saw the film again on the flight out here, but the tour guide’s commentary alone was enough to make this an emotional visit. We so rarely see men live their lives beyond the shadow of compromise, and the tragedy of their absence only highlights our need for them. I don’t know that Gandhi’s philosophy can stand up against all the conflicts that plague us today. Maybe his was a special force against those that threatened the world of his youth. Against the same religious fanaticism we now fear, he was powerless to stop the violence and walked headlong into death because of it. His philosophy is centered around Truth, and wielding it as a weapon against injustice. I suppose that is an adequate weapon. The trick is finding the right truth for the fight.

Amidst the plaques lining the walks around the property, one quote stood out for me where Gandhi laments his own shortcomings and failures. I’m about to start his autobiography and am curious to see in what dark corners his mind dwelt when he felt regret. I don’t like to build men into heroes. As a rule, we’re all just men. But I know of no other who did so much for so many with such a simple message. I feel so helpless to overcome my own faults. I don’t even where to start. Gandhi had a clear moral center that guided his beliefs. This is not to say he was dogmatic. He did more to modernize Hinduism, one of the worlds oldest religions, than centuries of changing social structures ever did. But the discipline of following that code was central to his entire life. When I was young, and life was more simple, I never regretted my freedom from the rules of others. But as I age and the weight of my actions get heavier and heavier I wish I had a stronger base to on which to rest. I now see the appeal of life guided by historical values and not trial and error. While it doesn’t seem like those rules keep the world a kinder place, I imagine they keep consciences cleaner.

Next was the first of our trilogy of religious sites around Delhi. The second largest mosque in the world, it can accommodate up to thirty thousand supplicants. The details of its construction escape me, but it was a beautiful compound built from red sandstone. Tourists tiptoed around Muslims kneeling towards Mecca. It was all very peaceful and serene.

Muslims make up about a third of India, but their impact on the culture extends far beyond that. For almost a thousand years prior to the British occupation, India was ruled by Islamic kings who legislated their culture into every corner of the country. Our guide filled us in on some of the back-story behind the development of the Indian nation. It sounds like the natural protection offered by the Himalayans kept India safe from invaders for thousands of years. But when Alexander the Great proved they could be crossed, and India could be challenged, he opened the floodgates to Islamic invaders. Never before needing a serious defense, India was ill equipped against the invaders and soon fell. This theme of weakness inspiring attack, and strength degenerating into weakness seems cyclical though India’s history. When the Mugal kinds got weak, the line of succession was ‘adjusted’ by a youngest sun who killed his brothers and imprisoned his father. His iron fisted rule of fifty years was followed by weaker kinds who lost their line to the British East India Company, and then the crown itself. The British had the strength of the West, but fell to Gandhi under their moral weakness. Gandhi had the right weapon for that point in history, though I doubt he would have fared any better against the Mugals than he did against the religious extremists.

Our sequel stop was at a Sikh temple. Sikhism is an offshoot of Hinduism attempting to correct many of the social problems so ingrained in Indian society. The caste system especially restricts social movement and keeps the lower class imprisoned in poverty as untouchables. Sikh are a small minority in India, but have a visible presence all over the world. Their distinctive turbans make them easy to spot, though I’m sure they’re often mistaken for desert dwelling Arabs. The temple had its beautiful parts, especially a large bathing pool that reflected the sunset in a dramatic way. But overall it was a bit gaudy. I think it’s hard to pull of opulence these days. Marble and gold leaf sing songs of Las Vegas, and unless they’re kept up well, they hums tunes of Atlantic City. I’ve seen in a few places that ancient cultures focus on brightly colored artwork, and a style of art I believe is termed ‘primitive’. Perhaps the Islamic ban on depictions of natural beings (like Jews and I think Lutherans) is a guard against the infiltration of such icons. I’m sure they appeal to some people, but everyone has different tastes, and it’s tough to find fault with the austere beauty of the Islamic structures.

The Hindu temple that was the final stop in our trilogy had a more consistent design aesthetic, but falls into the same category as the Sikh. The building is beautiful but has an It’s A Small World quality to it. Inside, the dioramas for the major Hindu gods depict them as bedazzled manikins selling folk costumes. I don’t mean to make light of a rich culture that’s thousands of years old, but I’m sensitive to production value and can’t give them a pass just because it’s a foreign culture. The aesthetics of Bollywood have advanced ages beyond what I saw today… of course now I’m remembering a plaster Jesus I saw encased in a glass coffin outside a church in Brooklyn last year and I’m feeling less judgmental. Let’s just say religions across the world are going to need to step it up if they hope to present an inspiring image of divinity to the modern world. The renaissance had Michelangelo. We’d be lucky today to get something that looked like Edward Scissorhands.

Tomorrow we head off to Agra for the Taj Mahal and the Red Fort. It’s a long drive for just a bit of time there, but I’ve still got high hopes. If the ancient structures I saw today are any indication, then I wont be disappointed. This is a nice transition for my drive across Rajasthan that starts Friday. I’ve been part of this group for almost two weeks now and it will be an adjustment to be on my own.

For our last day on site, Amit arranged for us all to move to a new location and assist in the pouring of a cement roof. A big effort is made to frame our work here as a complete project, so I know he worked hard to give us this experience. Considering the nature of our work to date, I was happy to try something different. The project site was a brick house in the same style as the ones on which we worked, but the exterior walls were complete. The stairs had not yet been built, and the roof was supported by a network of bamboo poles wedged in place with bricks and two by fours. This extra support was to hold up the wet cement while it dried and could then support itself. Since a lot of cement was required, the homeowners rented a cement mixer to keep a constant flow at the ready. To mix that much cement by hand as we did for the brick mortar would have taken more time than we had. The mixer was an old diesel model that coughed out a cloud of pollution as it sprung to life. I was standing in the worst possible place and felt enveloped.

The idea was to form an assembly line from the mixer on the ground up to the masons on the roof. A few guys traded off shoveling the fresh cement into shallow bowls. Those were handed up a chain of people where it was spread out from the back to the front of the roof. Negotiating between the bamboo supports was a bit tricky and because there were no stairs, laborers had to perch on platforms connected by ramps of rebar to get the bowls lifted up each level. Up on the roof, we passed the bowls to the mason who tossed the cement out from the bowl into thick blobs that coated a rebar frame. We had about six bowls going at any one time. They’d be passed down empty as fresh bowls were passed up. It felt like we made quick work of it. About halfway through, we hoisted up some type of device with a long hose attached. It looked like an iron shopvac. Other people seemed to know what it was, but I’d never seen this before. After pull starting the motor with a cord that had to be hand wound after each attempt, the whole contraption vibrated. The hose was submerged into the choppy cement where it seemed to bubble a bit. In an instant, the rocky and unevent cement into smoother, soup-like cement. A nice and level roof. After a few more square feet of roof was covered, I moved down to the ground floor and helped with the shoveling. And a bit later we were done.

I accept that our presence saves the homeowners the cost of a few laborers. I also appreciate the fact that Habitat caters to its donors and lets them see where their money is being invested. But there’s no way around the fact that our biggest contribution to the Bawana community is our mere presence, and our committed interest in helping in whatever way we can. Amit explains to the home owners that the money Habitat contributes towards their homes comes from us, and that because of our wealth, we are allowed to assist in the build. There’s more truth in that, than if he were to tell them we were donating our time to help them build. Our lack of skill would make that a poor gift. Whatever the homeowners think of our physical contribution, I do believe they appreciate our interest and our intent. The sadness I feel on leaving the site is only partially from my desire to keep contributing, and to see things change. A big part is also from guilt that I get to leave while everyone else has to stay. We are tourists here, and will take these memories home to our western lives and feed off them when we’re feeling materialistic. But maybe our biggest contribution lays somewhere in there as well. By far, our presence was most appreciated by the children. I’ve written of how novel they found us, and what amusement we brought. Our departure might raise some question about where we came from, and where we go back to. In the same way the visiting circus fills childrens’ heads with thoughts of escape to a larger world, maybe our visit plants a seed of the trees that lay beyond Bawana. The optimist in me hopes that’s the case and gives me something I can hang my hat on when I think about what I really contributed here.

The rest of our day was filled with closing activities. We met with each of the homeowners and gave them a gift of kitchenware for their new homes. We received our certificates of completion and commemorative t-shirts. We had a team dinner, feasting on mugal cuisine from recipes passed down by the chefs of the foreign kinds of India. It was exactly the sort of commencement one would expect, with speeches of appreciation from the program leaders and our team leader. When I think of the complexities of hosting so many people, so far from home, I’m surprised these projects go off at all. It’s impressive that Habitat has worked out a methodology for so quickly integrating us into these very far off places. While it is a form of tourism, it offers a unique view into foreign life unavailable even to most locals. Time will tell if I’ve caught Habitat Fever, or will return to more traditional travel. Regardless, this is an experience that will stay with me.

Oldest Structure. Islamic tower.

We got to sleep in a bit today as we skipped the work site this morning and went on a tour of a nearby children’s home. This is a private facility supported by donors for caring for a variety of needy children. The home was founded in the seventies to house children who’d been abandoned. Many of these children have developmental or physical handicaps so the home includes orthopedic services and other forms of medical care. I prepared myself for the worst, assuming it would be even more heartbreaking than the children living in the squalor of the slums. But what I found was a storybook facility designed for children at every turn. The first thing you see as you’re about to enter is a bassinet nestled in an alcove in the property’s guarding wall. It’s not exactly inviting, but the message is clear. All children are welcome and no questions will be asked. As we posed for pictures next to it, we were warned not to touch it as it’s attached to a sensor (and monitored by a guard through a small window in the back of the alcove). Walking through the gate, we entered a courtyard, lush by Delhi standards. On each side, little buildings make up a compound, connected by paths. To the side of a large lawn is a nice garden that was built by a british team as part of some reality TV series that sounds a lot like “While You Were Out”. We toured the whole facility, but only a few of the daycare rooms were in use. The children sat on the carpet in a loose circle and recited little poems for us, under prompting from their teachers. It was adorable. There were a fair number of toys and games stacked on shelves and arranged on the floor, but mostly the children sat quietly, eyes agog at us. The behavior here was a stark contrast to that at the slums. There, we’re treated like exotic visitors to be touched and queried, whereas here I felt like an intruder disturbing their quiet little world.

We walked from one building to the next and saw where the babies and infants are kept in cribs. We saw the bunk beds for the older children. We saw the handicapped children laid out on blankets in the sparse sunlight, under the watchful eyes of a few nurses. The children live here from the time they arrive until they’re twelve or thirteen when they have to be handed over to a government run institution. During that time, the hope is that they will receive enough of an education, or treatment for their disability that they can survive in the harsher environment. Ideally, they are adopted (and thousands of children have been). Priority goes to Indian parents living in India, but many children are taken in by parents from Europe. We were lucky enough to see a couple taking home an Indian boy who looked about two. I think they were British.

It’s all a little confusing. Here’s a situation by all accounts horrible. Children abandoned by their families because they are too poor to feed them. That means these families are worse off than the ones in Bawana. Yet through private donation (and a pittance from the government) this organization is giving these children a better life and a chance for a future. It must be a situation where the small minority that’s horrendously needy is cared for at an acceptable level, while the great throngs of people who are only horribly needy are left to fend for themselves. It makes sense on some level, but is frustrating on others.

Bawana was founded as a colony about ten years ago when the government passed some new initiative to clean up Delhi. That meant finding homes for the squatters living by the river in makeshift communities. To ease the effort of moving so many people who have so little to lose, the government sold them tiny plots of land in Bawana for a quarter of their value. The whole thing reminds me of “District 9”. I would assume the film was based on this if I didn’t suspect this sort of thing happens to undesirables all over the world, and all throughout time (Trail of Tears, anyone?). Ten years later, we have Bawana: a hodgepodge of buildings loosely tied together with various forms of infrastructure. We’ve got open sewers, electricity strung randomly from house to house, goats in sweaters. It’s chaos. I think back on my time in Irvine, California (the largest planned community in the world) and feel that somewhere these two extremes must meet in the middle and offer a picture of what success looks like. If we know what it takes to make a community work, and we recognize the overall economic benefit of avoiding slums and all the problems and costs they bring, how can we miss an opportunity to start from scratch with something more likely to succeed than Bawana? Basically, Habitat is subsidizing the shortcuts made by the Indian government when they relocated these people in order to clean up Delhi.

With such productive thoughts in mind, I head back to the worksite. It’s become clear we’re not contributing to the build as much as the laborers. Maryann partnered up with the mason and laid a significant amount of brick, but the rest of us stood around and sometimes passed bricks into the house. That was pretty fun. I wish I knew some assembly line songs. It’s our second to last day, so I’m not surprised there’s less for us to do. We knew the project would continue on without us when we left, so there can’t be work left over that they’re counting on us for. Habitat is big on insuring no reliance on our help is fostered in the community. We’re here to lend a hand and contribute as a partner, not to take over and fix things.

After our bus ride back to the hotel, my team and I head over to the Park Hotel to take a yoga class. I wish we’d found out about these before. They begin just after our work day ends, and while I’m too sore to do a good job, trying to hit my poses feels great on my tired muscles. The setting is ideal. We’re on the third story of the hotel, on a tiered sundeck overlooking the swimming pool. Cushy yoga mats are all laid out for us in the dimly lit darkness. The instructor has a strict lilt to his voice and he begins the class rushing us through a dozen sun salutations. I’m winded as we go the mat and he pushes us into ever advancing poses. When he realizes that my teammate Katrina is insanely flexible and well practiced, the rest of the class is about him seeing how contorted he can get her. The rest of us struggle to keep up, coming no where close. When she stood on her own head, I knew I was out of my league. Halfway through the class, I looked over to another part of the hotel and saw a few monkeys sitting, watching us perform for them. A staffer quickly chased them off. I wonder if he had not, would they have joined in?

After some lengthy showers under the endless hot water afforded by the hotel, we hiked over to a pan asian restaurant called Q-ba and ate an eclectic mix of foods we’d been missing (I had lentils again). We sat outside and looked out on the Delhi night. A single firework went off over the presidential palace and kept us waiting for another. We got back to the hotel around 10:30 making this one of the latest nights I’d been able to keep awake for since arriving in India.

Zach Jr. eating a banana peel.

How’s my beard coming?

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.

Maybe I got addicted to the endorphin rush of so much strenuous exercise, and now that it’s diminished, so has my enthusiasm for the work. We’re still at it four or five hours a day, but now there are breaks and a bit of milling about. Or maybe it’s the context under which we’re working. I know it’s hard to imagine a worse context than incessant digging, but there was a simple satisfaction to that. All we do now is haul bricks and sand and cement and rocks. The masons are busy laying the walls of the septic tank, and soon will cap that and build up the walls of the house. They’ve let us lay a brick here and there, but seem unhappy with our work. So they keep us busy moving building supplies closer and closer to the action. Often, we step on each others’ toes. My sand pile keeps the cement from getting where it needs to go, so it must again be moved. For the last two days we’ve labored under the scowling eye of a new supervisor. Speaking no English, he still keeps us updated on what a bad job we’re doing. For even the most menial tasks (like shoveling sand into a rickshaw), he’ll pull the tool from our hands to show us how it’s to be done. And when the time comes to direct the load onto the dumping pile, he takes the lead, lest we dump it wrong. There’s a special kind of shame in being deemed too dumb for mindless work.

As the work loses us, we find ways of busying ourselves. I sulk. That’s working well for me. Katrina gets in tighter with the children, learning names and playing games. Their favorite being when she takes their photograph, then they rush her to be the first to see the image played back on the tiny screen. Recently, she’s started chasing them, in a sort of tickle-monster pose, sending them fleeing down the street.

It’s hard to explain, just how distracting the throngs of children and onlookers are to the work. These are narrow alleys, and at any time there might be six adults and twelve children getting between us and our tasks. Mostly they watch. A few brave ones strike up conversations. These consist of saying hello and asking us our names. Sometimes they try to repeat it back to us. Sometimes they get it close. I do no better reproducing their names. We’re just not used to each others’ sounds. One of the home-owner’s sons was having one of these conversations with me, while nearby a handicapped boy flailed around a bit. I think he has muscular dystrophy. He walks with limbs akimbo, and grins wildly, but seems to follow what’s going on pretty well. The son gestures to this boy in a variety of ways, pointing and waggling his fingers. Finally he points and says, “Potato”. Or maybe there’s a hindi word that sounds similar. Either way, his meaning was clear.

The hours we work make it difficult to take care of our daily needs. We leave and return outside the hours of the hotel’s business center, so rarely have access to internet. I post these updates through a rube-goldberg pairing of my cell phone and laptop. We’re often too tired to venture out from the hotel at night. Our rock hard mattresses surprisingly exert a magnetic pull once we come into range. For this reason, along with a few others (I want to contribute to the slum economy; I want to show the locals I’m here to interact with them) I decide to get a slum haircut. Like most small businesses in Bawana, the barbers setup shop on the side of a wider alley. There are no permits, and no rents. I imagine there’s significant pressure to keep out of the way of traffic, and that territories fall under some type of local supervision. Our community center, laying at the intersection of two larger alleys is lucky enough to have a pair of barbers right on the corner. There’s often a queue of men waiting for a trim and a shave. The barbers, shockingly young, work with deft fingers to cut, and a vigorous lather to shave. Each one takes about twenty minutes. I was lucky to have only one boy ahead of me when I sat to wait my turn. My team members who came out from their lunch break to document the process served to attract even more local attention. By the time I took my seat and received my smock, there were twenty men, women and children around. Our project coordinator stood by, insuring a decent translation for my instructions (“shorter”) and my fears (“make sure he uses a fresh blade to clean up”). If the crowd made him nervous, my barber did not show it. I’ve gotten faster haircuts, but never with just scissors, and never with such precision and care. It took about fifteen minutes. I was curious to try the shave, but I’m more curious to see where my beard will go in another week or two. When he dusted me off with baby powder and took away the smock, I faced the crowd and asked what they thought, “Acha?” (“Okay?”). There were actual applause, and not just a few. This turned out to be one of the most satisfying interactions I’ve had on the site. I’m often working with skilled tradesmen, but as an untrained subordinate. This was a more normalized exchange between a patron and a vendor. Volunteering is one thing, but it felt nice to participate directly in the services of the community I was there to help. Maybe next I will see if I can find a dentist…

This ends our last full day of labor. On Monday, we visit an orphanage in the morning, and Tuesday we tour the work sites and say our goodbyes in the afternoon. The rest of the trip is sightseeing. I have mixed feelings about the work I’ve done. On the one hand, my efforts saved the homeowner from having to hire additional laborers. This expense, while paltry compared to how much I’ve paid to be here, is a major savings for them. On the other hand, I don’t feel like I’ve contributed to any greater good, or made progress towards some grand solution. And the region is desperately in need of one. I’ve felt this way before when donating my time or my money, and I suspect this fear will nag at me through all my charitable endeavours. Perhaps a good measure of an activity’s worth is whether the social good one contributes outweighs the sense of self satisfaction earned by the contributor? It’s hard to be objective about such an evaluation. I tend to be stingy on both fronts.

And the other side of the coin is that the slums of Bawana are a thriving, functioning community. The children seem happy, the mothers seem busy, and the goats wear sweaters. Yes there is disease and poverty and hunger, (and to be clear, I am against those things), but when you see it every day, and accept it as the status quo, then all your hopes and dreams start from there. And there is opportunity for escape. The children study computers at the community center; The women manage micro loans for small businesses; the men work their trade. I don’t believe there’s a thing I can do to speed the development of Bawana into something I would find more civilized, but I also don’t believe that’s a tragedy. It’s just life.

Moved bricks. Mixed cement. Ate lentils.