India follow-up

Dateline: Kiev, Ukraine; March 29, 2011—The last week in India went by amazingly fast necessitating a little finishing up of the first leg of my around-the-world journey. It was a sun-starved week, that last week in Mungpoo, compared to the sun-warmed week previous. Human nature being what it is, I was yearning in India for warmth when in three months time I will be remembering with fondness the coolness of the nights and chill of the mornings while living in the oven called Alabama.
During my second week at Mungpoo, I was awakened late one night by the most eerie and haunting sounds I have ever heard. Swirling through the fog of somnolence and calling from somewhere in these foothills of the Himalayas, came long and mournful moans expiring in broken, breathless sobs. Beginning far out in the darkness, it groaned nearer and nearer until finally passing below our school and melting back into the darkness. I heard this two nights in a row before one of the students mentioned it during breakfast.
“Did you hear the monk last night?” he asked.
“You mean that strange sound passing below us?” I replied.
“Yes, that is a Buddhist monk scaring off the evil spirits.”
Seems the “horn” he is blowing is made from a human femur. Probably the previous owner, if he were still alive, would have some serious thoughts about which were the most evil of the spirits; the unseeing and unknowing ones existing in the imaginations of the monks, or the monks themselves. The morning after the night of blowing the bone, the monk retraces his steps and collects rice, oil and turmeric for his labors. Quite a racket.
The Christian churches here have unique issues to deal with. One is of polygamy. A woman has been attending the small SDA church in Mungpoo who would like to be baptized. The problem is she is a fifth wife, her husband having four other current wives. Matter of fact, the husband wanted to be baptized too but polygamy is against the principles of the Christian church, therefore the dilemma. He quit attending but number five faithfully attends.
Another member of the church in Mungpoo is a former alcoholic. He so abused his first wife that she eventually died. So what does the man do? Finds and weds another. But the drinking continued. One evening he came staggering home to a supper his wife had spent hours preparing. He passed it by, having no appetite for aught but the bottle. His wife was so upset she poured kerosene, not on him, but on herself and struck a match. She survived but struggles with the disfiguring and restricting effects of the scars. Her husband was eventually baptized and is a faithful church member, but the consequences of his, and her, actions are permanent.
Students wanting to complete their forms, or as we call them, grade levels, have to take comprehensive tests, many of which are given on the Sabbath. One of the young men attending the church and studying, is preparing for the form tests, but he will not take them on the Sabbath. Not taken, many doors are closed. The following year the tests might be on different days and he will try until he can take them all. He is a bright young man. It is his sister who is the 5th wife. The mother invited me to eat with them on my last day in India. They live way down the previously mentioned steps.
An Indian yard resembles quite closely a southern USA rural yard. No grass, just well-packed and swept dirt. Not a blade of grass finds the light of day there. But flowers perfume the perimeter of the yard. It is azalea season here, as it is back home in Alabama, and they are everywhere. The people in this region take particular pride in having an attractive yard and home, no matter how modest that house might be.
The family I visited lives in a room about the size of my bedroom back home. Dirt floors, no screens, thatch roof, all facing a million-dollar view of the valley and opposing mountain. Cooking is done in a separated shed; meals are eaten on the bed. We sat and talked for a long time before it was time to eat. Sheets of newspaper were laid on the bed as a tablecloth. When the food arrived, it was only for Joseph, my translator, and me. It always feels strange to sit in a home and eat a big meal while the hostess and her family watch. But that is what they do.
My last morning, March 28, began early with a jeep ride to Siligari where Joseph and Sandra did some shopping before Joseph and I caught a motored tricycle cab to the airport in Bagdogra. From there I flew to Guwahati and then on to Delhi. It was a very nice flight and the price, for the whole four plus hour flight, was a modest $72.10.
Delhi is a beautiful airport, clean and completely modern, belying what lies just beyond its sparkling walls and polished floors. It is a tidy room in a dilapidated and decaying house. I had been told to find the Pre-paid taxi stand as that is the surest way not to get cheated. Where that stand is located, I have no idea after searching for a long time. I did happen upon a Post-paid taxi stand. Duh, all taxis are post-paid but I somehow thought this would be an honest alternative to the elusive Pre-paid cabs. I was quickly ensconced in a cab, told the driver where I wanted to go, and we were off to nowhere. He had no idea where either of us were going but he was making good time getting there. I had instructions written out giving the exact location of the hotel, which I had reserved through Hotels-com. He would scrutinize the directions, talk on the radio, and bury himself in the atherosclerotic traffic. We made a full circle around the airport, which is very large before he seemed to settle on a better direction to the missing hotel. I have been in holding patterns before while waiting to land, but this is the first holding pattern I have ever encountered waiting to go to bed.
At last I saw the hotel, a ramshackle derelict looking place on a typically dirty, crowded street. India defies description. Inside wasn’t all that bad. I was told I would need to leave by at least 2 AM to catch my 5:30 AM flight so it was a sort night. I asked the surly clerk to reserve a ride for me the following morning which he agreed to do. He did not make any arrangements I found out at 1:45 AM but a ride was able to be secured and I was wicked away to the airport. And now I am in Kiev.
More from Bulgaria coming,
Don
PS. After three and a half hours in the Kiev airport, I flew on to Bucharest, Romania and then my friend drove me to Banya. Bulgaria. It was a few days later I discovered I had left my camera on the plane from India to Kiev. That was #2 camera lost this trip. I need help.