Day Ten: Out Of Time

Day Ten: Out Of Time

It’s hard to tell, as I write this, if today is Saturday or Sunday. We took off at 11 PM in Delhi, 10 hours ago, so it seems like it must be Sunday, but when we land five hours from now, it’ll be 4 AM. I suppose what day it is depends on which place I consider to be my current reality, an easy metaphor for coming home from trips like this I have no intention of unpacking.

The flight tracker on the headrest in front of me puts somewhere off the east coast of Greenland, having just descended from the white nothingness at the north of the map. It’s odd to see a trip around a round earth projected on a flat map, the line squiggles and curves as if we’re being piloted by an indecisive crew with a predilection for polar ice caps.

Day Nine: Where I Started

Day Nine: Where I Started

A few members of our team have gotten up before six each morning, without fail, to power-walk their way through the city. The first day or two, they politely asked if I wanted to come along, a question I tried to answer without guffawing too rudely. I am not an early riser, and when I am, it’s certainly not by choice. I’m not up before sunrise unless someone’s ordered me executed at dawn.

But late last night, my roommate Matt announced as we were climbing into our bunks that he’d decided to take part in this foolhardy venture. Since I was somehow cast as the responsible one of the pair early in the voyage, I was forced to awaken in the pale morning light and rouse my slumbering roommate. Figuring that if I was up to begin with and I might was well get something out of it, I wrestled on shoes and stumbled down the stairs after him to see what the city looked like in the grey morning.

Unfortunately, Matt neglected to tell the other members of the team that he was planning to join them for the journey, and by the time we reached the lobby there was no one in sight. With a shrug, Matt climbed back into bed and was asleep again in moments, while I found myself concerningly wide-eyed. I checked the clock. Two hours till breakfast.

Day Eight: Some Stories Are Real

Day Eight: Some Stories Are Real

The story of the Prodigal Son is, far and away, my favorite of Jesus’ stories. I love the fall and the rise of it, the way the metaphor mirrors our lives. In high school, my AOL IM name was “prodigalfall.” Probably still is, now that I think about it. I have not logged on in quite some time.

Today, I saw a herd of wild pigs and a number of little boys picking through the same trash pile, looking for food.

Out here, some parts of that story are not a metaphor at all.

Day Seven: Sunstroke

Day Seven: Sunstroke

Matt and I are sitting in our hotel room, watching an episode of “Winnie-the-Pooh” dubbed into Hindi. To my untrained ear, it sounds like gibberish interspersed by high-pitched squeals of “Christopher Robin!”

I’m curled up under a sheet, somehow simultaneous hot and shivering. I spent the morning shooting interviews with team members on the roof sans water, and ended up sunburned and nauseous, edging on collapse. While my methods were unwise, my timing was fortuitous: the festival concludes today in a spasm of drinking and fireworks, and after the roads were closed, the team was sequestered for safety at the hotel for most of the afternoon. I curled up atop the hotel covers and awoke to darkness, feeling… “refreshed” isn’t the word. “Alive.” I am decidedly not dead.

Day Six: The Gods Are Dead

Day Six: The Gods Are Dead

I’m starting to think that maybe this wasn’t as good an idea as I thought it would be.

We’ve been packed tight inside this crowd for an hour now, moving, always moving. My hands have stiffened into claws from gripping the camera so tightly, and my arms are starting to shake from holding it protectively aloft for so long.

Behind me, a hand makes a quick, exploratory dive into my back pocket, looking for cash. I’d spin to face the would-be thief, but experience has taught me that by the time I turned, I would be met only with a sea of blank faces. 

I’m regretting bringing my passport and wallet along. I’ve kept them with me every step of my journey so far - for safety, I thought - and they sit in their regular spots, wedged deep in my front pockets. But I know that should any enterprising pickpocket make a grab for one, I’d never get my hands down in time to stop them. I should ask my guide, King, to hold on to them for me, but then I’d have to admit that I’d felt hands reaching into my other pockets, and I’m sure that King will force us to leave once he hears that. I jam the items deeper into my pockets and hope that this doesn’t become a story about “that time Ben had to live on the streets in India for three months, then came home to crippling credit card debt.”