I awoke to the word “breakfast” with a distinct Indian accent, ate, and fell asleep again, only to wake up again to stare out the window. We passed through cities that reminded me of images I had only seen in movies or textbooks – a mad chaos of colorful and decorative three story concrete structures you might expect in Mexico City or Istanbul. And then the countryside would appear in between, revealing endless fields of sugarcane.
About an hour before the train arrived, I walked out the doors of our car to warm up from the freezing air conditioning, and made friends with two Indians taking a break from their work on the train. They couldn’t speak a word of English, but they beckoned me to join them, and I too was soon hanging out the open side doors of the train, watching this new world click by with the wind in my hair…
Today we road into town to pick up some traditional clothing, and we walked through the sea of people buying and selling down a narrow street with motorbikes constantly honking their way through. Wires hang across the tall buildings on both sides, and the unique smell of Indian food emanates from each family restaurant along the way.
And as we all packed eight people into our rickshaws – small, loud little open cars powered by motorbikes, the driver ripped my right hand from my handhold and placed it onto the handlebars to drive for him just as we began descending a steep hill. I quickly learned how to shift, use the clutch, and brake, and we drove the rest of the way back to our new home together.
Above Images:
Upper Left: Riding in the backseat of a rickshaw through Northern India
