疯狂的人

Every morning at 6am the Cai's neighbor starts playing his revolutionary music.  He starts with one song memorializing the conquest of the communists in the early 1950's.  He likes this song so much he plays it 3 times at full volume.  It's loud enough to wake up the tenants in the whole apartment building.  The playlist grows a little more varied after that and continues for an hour before closing with the same song it began on.

Two weeks ago Mrs. Cai was trying to get over a cold and needed to be able to sleep in, so her husband found the power switch for their neighbor's apartment, disconnecting his ability to disturb the whole neighborhood.  When the perpetrator of the racket discovered what had happened he wrote death threats all over the area to ward off further disruption of his electricity.  The Cai's contacted the police about the noise violation but they were told that since the man is mentally ill, he can do whatever he wants.  He reportedly used to spend his days throwing bricks out the window at passer-byes who happened to wander near his apartment.  The police admitted that they are afraid of him and refuse to put a stop to the morning music.

They know the man is insane and therefore exclude him from prosecution, but there aren't enough facilities to house the mentally unbalanced, so he remains in public housing, free to do whatever he pleases.

When my friends first told me about their annoying neighbor I dismissed it as a laughable story without cause for too much concern.  The news today made me reconsider my first position.

Twenty-eight children were stabbed in Jiangsu province when a mentally unstable man went into a kindergarten with a large kitchen knife and began attacking students and teachers alike.  This is reportedly the second of such attacks recently and demonstrates just how serious of a problem it is when the mentally ill receive no treatment and have no access to professional help.

It's time for officials realize the enormity of the problem and take action to adequately treat and restrain, if necessary, the millions of mentally ill people in China.  Too much time has already gone by without anyone taking charge.

"Politicians and diapers should be changed often and for the same reasons."

-Mark Twain

泰姬陵

There is a place in Agra
It's called the Taj Mahal
And it's been the ruin of many a traveler
It just might wreck us all

Our bus, it was a late one
Slowed by the traffic crawl
The guide he was a lyin man
He caused our own downfall

Now the only thing we really wanted
Was to see the white wonder
And the only thing we couldn't bear
Was to hear the traffic thunder

Oh mothers, tell your children
Not to do what we have done
Spend your day in sincere misery
When the trip has just begun

We got one foot on the building
When they called, "It's time to go"
We're goin back to Delhi
Cause the bus is really slow

There is a place in Agra
It's called the Taj Mahal
And it's been the ruin of many a traveler
It just might wreck us all

你应该去新德里

I was straddling the fence.

Not figuratively.  I was literally hanging there, with one leg on one side, and another about to swing over and join its partner.  We were in the middle of a dark alley in Delhi, at a time when the only people who would see us would have reasons of their own for sticking to the dark.  I looked down and tried to untangle myself from the wires inhibiting my progress.  Getting through the barbed wires looked tough but soon I had managed to extricate myself and hop to the ground.

I looked around to make sure the same crazy old man wasn't waiting below this time to ask us countless questions in Hindi.  Or maybe it was the same question, I don't really know since I don't speak Hindi.  Either way the coast was clear the second time we climbed to freedom.  We glanced over our shoulders one last time and walked quickly away from the shadows of the alley and toward the stench of the River of Rubbish.  A beacon of odor lit the way for us like the pillar of fire in the Old Testament.  We followed the smell to the 'Garbage Ganga' running past the med student's dorms until we located the sweets shop we were supposed to wait in front of.

Pausing to wait for the tour bus gave me the chance to strip off my clever disguise—the scarf tied around my head—and resume my prominence as a foreigner.  I felt the freedom of victory.  Twice we'd managed to sneak in and out of the med student's dorm, posing as Indians who belonged there.  It was a desperate move for desperate travelers without a bed.

Waiting for a tour bus was peaceful.  It was somewhere between dawn and daylight, the sky caught in transition when it hadn't yet settled on a color.  We watched a man wash a car in that grey light—watched the dirt get wiped away like the color from the sky.

The contrast between the beginning of this day and the one before seemed too great to have happened in the same city.  The previous day began in a conglomeration of elbows and shoulders all pushing me from every direction as I fought my way into the line at the train station.  It had taken us a minute to figure out the system but we were determined to act like the seasoned travelers we wanted to be.  Jessica got in the inquiry line and fought viciously to hold her place in the crowd as she shouted out possible train numbers to me and I submitted them to the lady selling tickets, who incidentally did not speak English.  The lady looked at me with eyes full of exasperation and I knew the answer before she shook her head.  There were no tickets to Agra on that train either.  Just like the 13 trains I'd already inquired about.  I wondered silently if I was giving her a reason to study English, so she could tell me to give up.

This time we were sure we were going to make it to Agra.  What's a traveler to India if they don't see the Taj Mahal?  After running out of trains and time on our first full day in Delhi we had booked a travel tour to ensure our passage.  The tour package was located by Prince Oswin, who came to our rescue for the thousandth time, and promised us three hours at the Taj.  I wasn't thrilled about the idea of a tour when all we really wanted to see was the world's most renowned expression of love, but decided it was better than not going at all.

After our long battle at the train station we waved our white flags and surrendered to the stronger warriors, knowing that we still had a chance at Agra the next day.  So we called the ever-faithful Oswin and asked him what to do.  He called the tour company and got us on a bus touring Delhi and leaving immediately.  Thus we began our exploration of Delhi—on a bus examining our wounds but safe from further combat.

That day was spent comfortably traveling from site to site.  We had ample time to leisurely examine each stop.  A few of my favorites were the Qutab Minar, Humayun's tomb, and the Rajghat—where Mahatma Gandhi was cremated.  Delhi is packed with historical sites, but don't take my word for it—go yourself!  And do yourself a favor and stay longer than two days.  Also, be sure you have a place to sleep.

A high pitched tune brought me out of my reverie to the realization that I was still standing in front of the sweets shop, reliving the day before.  It took me a minute to place the noise until our tour bus pulled up and I realized it was the horn that played a melody.  Little did I know how much I could come to loathe that sound in the next 22 hours.  We boarded our bus with high hopes and settled down for a long, long, long, long journey to the Taj Mahal.

I closed my eyes and let the sun spill through the window onto my shoulder.  I didn't know then that despite all the wondrous things we had seen, and were going to see, the things that would stay with me were the few minutes stolen from the trip to spend with my friends.  I smiled to myself when I thought that Ami and Akhila had given up their room for us to sneak in and out of in the dead of the night.  Remembering the late night laughter we shared warmed me from the inside out.  Hopping from place to place didn't give me much time to spare, but the meals shared and jokes told with my friends linger in a different way than the amazing things we saw.  Time may erase the words we said but won't touch my affection for them.

"True friendship is an identity of souls rarely to be found in this world.  Only between like natures can friendship be altogether worthy and enduring."
-Gandhiji

骆驼没有名字

On the first part of the journey I was looking at all the life.  There were plants and birds and rocks and things.  There was sand and hills and rings.  The first thing I met was a fly with a buzz and the sky with no clouds.  The heat was hot and the ground was dry but the air was full of sound.

We sat high above the sand and plodded our way into the Thar Desert atop Chewbacca and a camel with no name.  Each step jolted me into a new appreciation for walking.  I resolved never again to consider walking a less-than desirable method of transportation.  Our camels ruled the desert, they were in their element.  The only thing that seemed out of place was us.

We were in Jaisalmer.  Rather, we were outside Jaisalmer; it was our first great adventure in India.  We met it at full speed with arms thrown open in expectation.  Jessica, I, and our two desert guides found ourselves at the mercy of the earth.  Or what I once thought was the earth, but felt as though I had been transported unknowingly to Tatooine.  Chewy belonged there, the sand people belonged there, but we did not.

Our guides were exceptional.  The men and plants seemed to spring from the same seed, spawned by the desert.  Both were marked by their ability to subsist on only the barest of sustenance.  I was in awe of their thrift.

After a few hours of rocking through the sand high above the ground I forgot where we came from or where we were going; I was aware only of the incredible loneliness of the land.  We met no other travelers, only a herd of sheep.  Even the sheep seemed like they were looking for companions in their aimless wandering.  They stared at us expectantly, knowing that the sight of another living creature was special.

My mind began to drift and I found myself writing the story of our journey using only song lyrics.  I surprised myself with how many songs I found that fit perfectly into the story like they were written for that purpose.

When we reached the sand dunes we stopped for the night.  The sudden stillness was unsettling, as though the world was supposed to sway rhythmically underneath us and the constant motion was our tie to reality.  I had a hard time walking but the dunes were calling to me as clearly as if they'd spoken aloud.  I had to summit the sand ridge even if I couldn't walk the next day.

That night we slept under the stars.  The temperature was as bitterly cold as it had been ferociously hot during the day, changing only its direction and not its intensity.  I've never seen the contrast between the blackness of the sky and the brightness of the stars in quite such an extreme display.  I lay awake as long as I could and tried to etch them into my mind to recall whenever I want.  Because every once in a while you have to lie under stars and lose yourself in their charm, and forget that life on earth isn't always beautiful.

"All we are is dust in the wind"