India.... Land of the Forbidden Fruit.

Me scared.... no not really, BUT a bit nervous. I slept the whole way on the plane; I knew we had arrived safe and sound when the stewardess started to spray something in the cabin. What was that? I dunno.

Delhi by day had many intricate colors, browns, reds and oranges. People approaching us from the whole 360 degrees, begging for money; "they saw us as walking walets," as Elina quite eloquently stated. The aromas came in from all over too, good and bad. They lingered to our noses down to our stomachs that made one become nauseated; deep golden brown Marsala's, fresh garlic nann.... and cow shit mixed with the staggering air pollution made Yasemin and others wear face masks, including myself on a rickshaw drive. Footsteps and knocks from the service boys bringing Masala Tea to rooms, the daily loud honking of cars and spitting sounds of men trying to clear their throats made their way through the closed windows and thin walls of the hotel. Kelly was the smart one to bring ear plugs, while I slept with the light on because Yasemin was afraid of the dark. Early mornings to the train station to make sure our dirty, wrinkled tickets were correct. Alas! They are but pure good! The kids pack their bags and leave Chirs and I behind. Tonsilitis, you see. Poor man. Watching everyone jump on the 50 ruppee ride to the station made me feel sad to leave the group. Chris was babysitted and even got a footie massage, he learned some new tricks... and Chiye watch out! I came to realize that Cory forgot to leave me the 2nd groups' wrinkled dirty train tickets. Back to the station, we went again. An upgrade Chris and I got while the others barely made it on the train. Friends we made that I have forgotten. Men with machine guns and dirty uniforms patroling the walkways. Yellow coffee stains on white socks ruled the walkways. Stories you hear of drugs given to female passengers in their tea, to only later rape them. I don't drink the tea, or eat the food. 17 hours of fake sleep and tying to squat in a moving train with diarreah. Andy tries not to get dirty, so he takes off his pants and hopes his buttocks won't touch anything. A quick swerve, and he slams into the wall. Poor man. The pains of eating that delicious looking Marsala.
We say goodbye to the people we meet, with promises of writing or calling. I don't even remember their names. The one I managed to remember was Mike from South Africa that I met on the train to Xi'an, China. He's another story. We arrived when children were already on us to ask for money. We noticed the petite, dirty blond hair lady wearing a traditional Indian light blue outfit, holding on to her bags as tight as she could. Malati... finally, a familiar looking face in the mist of the beggin and onlooking crowd. My feelings' were inefable when I saw her. We jumped on another train... to Panskura. 90 minutes north of Kolcatta. The colors grew brighter but the poverty grew even stronger. The sun bounced off the colorful saris hanging outside the mud houses. I begin to wonder about my fathers' childhood, as he grew up in the typical mudhouse. The seats are hard, the roaches climb over Andy's shoes and Elina sits between two older Indian men, that keep staring at her. I have the perfect view, since I am at the end of the walkway. Dirty, rusted fans that most likely don't work sit up on top. The train stops at each stop for a mere 2 minutes. Women and men, throw their sacks of vegetables first, and they jump on next. Lucky enough to make it, there are no more seats, as 8 foreigners with their bags take up a lot of seats. A blind man plays the harmonica, as his conductor, or should I say wife leads him through the walkway asking for spare change. Kids Danyelle, Rebecca and Matthew's age, race up and down the walkway trying to sell oranges.