Of all the times I have celebrated the grand holiday of April Fool’s, never have I been in such a vulnerable location, where the Captain and his crew have incredible potential for scaring the living daylights out of us. Doctor Matt claimed to quarantine two students for leprosy, Dean Ron (the voice) mentioned a nearby cyclone, and I have a feeling the sly Captain Jeremy will cut all power to the ship suddenly without explanation, just for giggles. He draws on his eyebrows; he’s capable of any slimy deed. It’s all fun and games until someone contracts the plague, falls overboard, and dies in a tropical storm.
The hallways are continuously regaining their fresh smell after the stench of Chennai and its rancid waters. Every student has a designated pile of “India clothing” in their rooms that they dare not mix with regular dirty laundry. True, the big city pollution left a permanent memory in all our noses, but as India disappeared in our wake, it was not our olfactory abuse that dominated conversations but the diverse array of wild experiences and wonderful people that we met in those five short days.
Alexis and I brought some much needed excitement to the anti-climactic harbor sunrise of Chennai by wearing turbans and striking Yoga poses on the top deck. The Indian bureaucracy and their ridiculous immigration rules gave us many good hours of sleep before we could clear the ship, which was immediately followed by some rickshaw fun.
It would have been helpful to know a little Tamil, because when we said “street market,” I guess we actually said “the most expensive market in Chennai.” Five costly shops later, we realized our driver received commission for dropping us off at these Nordstrom-esque locations. Anger slowly began to devour our little group, but arriving at a tasty Indian restaurant quickly made us forgiving people again. It was at our first lunch that we noticed the head bobble, the Indian way of saying yes, O.K., it’s all good, whatever you want, etc.
More shopping lead to extreme exhaustion, which we decided to medicate with a nighttime visit to a chic coffee bar called Mocha. It is here that I will warn you of an ancient Indian proverb: I wear capri pants; therefore, I contract malaria. My leg was a succulent network of bloody tributaries to those silent killers.
The next day, two Lindsays, a Meg, and a Sarah were graced with the company of a well-mannered, good-hearted rickshaw driver, who became our practical guide to the city and told us to pay only if we were truly satisfied. That night, after buying out the textile industry, we popped sleeping pills and rode the night train to Erode.
Up until this port, any countryside we have seen could have resembled an American landscape, but India’s farmland was nothing like the corn-filled plains of Northern Indiana. Our home stay was in an upper-middle class house juxtaposed with a school that resonated with praying children. Welcome leis and bindis gave us our first cultural bite, but it wasn’t until we found ourselves in a line of chairs facing a sea of young faces that we felt a wave of difference between our two lifestyles.
They proceeded to pray for the prosperity of the world and meditate as a school, while the foreign onlookers discreetly took pictures. The children were respectful in every sense of the word, and it was refreshing, a treatment we didn’t deserve. Later, when the teachers left them to their own devices, mayhem restored in their little bodies, and dust was flying up from their pattering feet.
We saw weavers, sugar cane farmers, and carpenters, all before the lunch hour, where the tables were sprinkled with a vast array of savory foods and no silverware. It was an odd experience to which we quickly grew accustomed.
After a mid-day siesta, our group departed for the local markets, and never have I felt more like a celebrity, or an outcast, as I did in the fruit market, where eyes constantly followed our every move as though we were a new species or life form. Apparently, white people don’t hit up the rural Indian food markets often. I found no interest in shopping for discount sarees when I could sit on the street corner and watch this exotic world go by, where bulls lead carts of grains down the street and half the shoppers lacked foot apparel.
Dinner at the home of our hostess exceeded expectations yet again; however, it was the Hindi lesson and henna/Western gift exchange later in the evening that satisfied our cultural cravings. One day in the little city of Gobi felt like many, and we could have left on the train that morning with ear-to-ear smiles, but a whole new day still awaited.
Any questions about traveling through Chennai and rural India? Comment below!