The India Chronicles: Sunday. Letter #4

Family plus,

I’ve been here 4 days, and written 4 letters. I’m really excited for the days when I’m so busy working and serving people that I don’t have time to write these lengthy letters. But for now I’m just getting acclimated, and I have the time, so here goes letter #4.

Sunday. We went to church! One serious advantage to being Mormon: every church building in the entire world has the same wifi password (Pioneer47). Metaphor for stability in life? I think yes! Everywhere you go in the entire world has the same exact wifi password, the same exact service, the same ordinances, and the same hymns. The doctrine is the same universally and being half way around the world, it is a wonderful slice of security. Stepping into that church building was stepping into a haven: familiar building structure, familiar paintings, familiar feeling. Even seeing the customary lettering outside the door “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints: Visitors Welcome” was like a personal welcome sign from God saying, “you are not alone.”

The members here are incredible. They live by extraordinary faith. A lot of them are converts, and have given much up to be members: jobs, homes, familial ties, if nothing else, most of them gave up cultural upbringings. One man I met in Sunday school trekked to the church building every week for 15 years, having to wake up at 3:30 in the morning, so he could receive the sacrament. He went with faith every week as his home teacher told him to continue in his journey and God will bring him closer to the church. Recently, the man got a job in the city and moved to a house right next to the church building. I don’t think his home teacher knew how literal his advice would prove!

Everyone is so kind and friendly. During relief society I stepped out for a moment, and met the most charming woman. Her name was Loalitta (just like in Bride and Prejudice!) she kept offering me food: little dried rice noodles, and banana chips, “these aren’t spicy, so don’t worry.” And “More! More! Have more if you’d like!” Because I could understand her English, and she understood mine, I felt like I finally connected to a piece of this world. She even taught me a little Telugu! I can now say “thank you” and “you are beautiful.” The moral of the story is that wonderful things happen to you when you skip Sunday school.

Kidding!

But I wasn’t sorry I got to talk with her. She invited all of us to come to her daughter’s baptism in the early evening.

So at 4:30 I went back to the church building with Hudson (a nice friend to sacrifice his Sunday afternoon to go with me). We were a few minutes late, and still the first ones there by about a half-hour. In India, time runs a little more fluidly. The baptism was lovely. The people here are inspiring with their love of the gospel, the love for their children, and the support they show one another.

I had a really embarrassing moment at the baptism.

Here’s the situation: this congregation cannot sing.

Not even a little bit.

Everyone’s in different keys, in different tempos, pronouncing different words. It sounded awful. (apparently that’s a similar phenomenon in all of Asia.)

Now normally, I would not laugh at other people’s misfortunes or lack-of-musical talent. But during the 3^rd or 4^th hymn, when Hudson gave out a small chuckle next to me, that was the end. I could not control myself. I had a giggle fit. Not just like “ha ha oh that’s funny”… but shaking, sobbing, desperately attempting to stifle uncontrollable giggles. It was worse than that Nauvoo show where I tried to make it look like my character was crying. This time I couldn’t very well pretend like I was crying… it was a baptism. Also, nearly everyone in the room was looking at me, cause I’m white. It was bad. Luckily I caught my breath before the end of the song, sort of, so I could be semi-reverent for the remainder of the ceremony. We congratulated Loalitta and snuck out the back.

I think I’ve mentioned this before, but I want to say it again. Indian children are SO STINKING ADORABLE. They have these gigantic brown eyes, and the largest, sweetest smiles.  In India there is a cultural head bob, it’s in between nodding “yes” and shaking “no.” It’s like an ear-to-shoulder side-to-side back-and-forth thing. It’s the perfectly expressive equivalent of “eh.” When the little kids do it—oh man, it kills me! I think I’ll marry an Indian man just so I can have Indian children. (Then we can have a platform and a shower of rose-petals too!) It’s decided.

OH! The best part of the day! The airlines brought my bag! Finally, gloriously reunited! We laughed and cried and danced. There were fireworks. I feel complete.

Hope you’re all doing well over there on the other side of the globe.

Lots of love!

-Averill

p.s. I have a horrifyingly itchy bug bite on my foot. So it begins.

The India Chronicles: the market experience. letter #3

Dear family plus,

I guess we don’t work on the weekends! So yesterday (Saturday) we went to a market called Charminar. I think this will be my new euphemistic expletive. Quashqueema may be replaced. It also fits the sentiment more: I love the land that Nauvoo was built on, Quashqueema, but I felt a little differently about Charminar. Go ahead, try it out: “Oh Charminar!” Getting there we took a bus. Earlier, I forgot to mention a fun fact about the buses: they don’t stop. You have to be on your spidey-game and jump at the right moment. Sometimes they’ll sort of slow down. It’s very considerate.

            Charminar is a public market. There are thousands of people. You can’t even see the street for the feet. Everyone is moving, trying to buy something, trying to sell something, trying to avoid getting hit by a car, or just trying not to be overwhelmed with sensory overload (me). Again with colorful India: scarves, dresses, henna, saris, and prayer rugs, shoes, bangles, earrings, wedding dresses, ribbons, food, fried pastry things, fresh fruit, everything is colorful. The people buying things are from all kinds of religions. The streets were full of everything from jeans and t-shirts to full-body burkahs and hijabs. There’s lots and lots of noise. If you can hear anything through the hundreds of horns honking over each other, you hear street vendors shouting “excuse me, Ma’am!” or “look look!” or “Miss? Maam? Come here.” Of course I always look.

This large thing behind me is Charminar

 I did manage to walk away with one outfit. (Which I was exceedingly joyful about because my clothes were starting to rot on my body.) A kertis which is like an oversized shirt, and a pair of the world’s most unflattering pants. You think I’m joking—but I’m not. They’re loose starting mid-hip, flare in a big swoosh until the mid-calf where they are suction-cup tight until the ankles. But they were much more comfortable to sleep in than my jeans.

We went to a small museum that used to be a palace. It was a gorgeous little palace with a lot of lovely history. The Hyderabad rulers were for the most part charitable and beloved. The people had a lot of respect for their royalty; even though it wasn’t large, it was intricately beautiful. There was this darling cute Indian woman and her family who followed me around the museum. They are so fascinated by us. We’re so different. There’s so much history associated with the white-faced people. Personally, I have done nothing to contribute to their adoration, but I want to compliment it for the next white people they meet. The two of us kept trying to talk to each other, but all we could do was smile a lot. I’m trying to learn some key phrases in telagu so I can communicate with the people at least a little bit. Things like: “you are so beautiful”, “your dress is lovely”, or “this is the only thing I can say in telagu, but I hope you have a wonderful day!”

That sort of thing.

Apparently Hyderabad is the world’s capital for spicy food. For those of you who know my eating preferences, you know this is a challenge for me. Imagine if you will, eating at Bombay House for lunch and dinner every day. Then make everything 2975% spicier. I’ve been trying the “taupe diet.” Someone told me if things are white or taupe they’re not spicy. This is a) false and b) the causation of potential naan overdose. (by the end of this I will have either lost 10 pounds from not eating a lot, or gained 100 from the naan.) Last night we got pizza—chicken and cheese.

I thought I was safe from spice.

I was not. 

The entire team was laughing at me. “That one’s not even a little bit spicy!”

I’m going to die.

I then I got a drink at the market that looked interesting: it was a purple round plant thing, I assumed plum, and lemon. Turns out it’s black pepper.

What is this place?

I have discovered a new game I like to play. It’s called the temperature game. You see, everywhere has fans, but is still hot. And one room has real air conditioning: our bedroom. Here’s the game: Get sweltering warm, then go into the bedroom. First relief, then a slow decent to freezing, eventually put on a sweater. Get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, sweat, take off sweater in jungle heat, come back to bedroom. Repeat.I’m getting to the master level, I think pretty soon here I’m going to beat the game.

Love you all!

--Averill

p.s. I was just kidding about the clothes rotting thing. I’ve been borrowing clothes from my kind team members, but I will be so happy when my bag gets here. Arrival impending indefinitely. If you want to pray for something, pray for that. I think I’ll feel much happier in my own pants, and with my own toothbrush.

The India Chronicles: letter #2

Family plus,

I found out that HELP India is the hardest to recruit for. It’s not glamorous like Africa or Thailand, it doesn’t have a beach like Fiji or Belize, it’s just a hot, dirty, problematic third world. I wish I’d known about the other countries… just kidding!

But these circumstances lead to a specific group of people who end up on the India team: they have all been abroad before, and are serious about development. They are also very funny. My first morning, one girl came out to our morning meeting in a wedding dress. Full-on, head-to-toe white flowing fabric. No one else acknowledged it, and I didn’t want to be rude so I didn’t say anything. I later heard from different stories about how this girl just wears the wedding dress when she misses her boyfriend too much. She’ll just break down if anyone mentions anything about him. So I was to avoid referencing a “Josh.” One guy on the team even told me he didn’t think Josh was real at all… So here I am thinking Abby is a little… well, what would you think?

Plus my first friends, the two first people I met, someone told me they were cousins. Their project sounded the most interesting, so I jumped on with enthusiasm for creating an entrepreneurship class for women.

Turns out those two are actually dating. So I’m buckling in as my professional third wheel status. Also turns out they were playing a prank on me with the wedding dress girl—they don’t know that I know it was a prank. So Abby and I are trying to figure out how to get them back for that one… any ideas??

We went to an orphanage, and while our lesson didn’t really get anywhere, I met the most incredible man who was our translator, Vasanth. He was a convert to our church, 6 years ago, and said, “I’m a product of the church.” His job, his language skills (which were awesome) and his community he said he owed to the church. He was so incredibly nice. Even though he was Indian, he felt like a little piece of familiar home.  

The third world is a difficult place. Everything is frantic, chaotic, and messy. Not only the city but also the problems. No problem here has “a solution” or “the answer.” Everything is complicated. There have been a lot of passionate people who have come through here trying to solve things that are basically unsolvable. All I can hope for is to try and do some good, I suppose. Even if it’s not a large impact (which I’ve come to accept it won’t be) it will still be good. It’s also incredibly humbling—I’ve never been so grateful for the simple things I take for granted. Like not spending 4 hours a day to get semi-clean water to use to wash things. Or having a home that I’m not afraid will get bulldozed by the government at any moment. Or being able to read. I look at my advantages in life completely differently.

It is beautiful and colorful here. Sometimes we’ll come by a really phenomenal smell, and sometimes we’ll come across a really colorful one in another direction...  The clothing here is so colorful. Most women wear traditional clothing every day, and it’s all so bright and bold. Even in the slums. Like I’ve mentioned before, I think their faces are stunningly beautiful.

Last night we went wandering through the streets of Secunerabad following the sound of drums. We stumbled across a wedding. They pulled us onto the dance floor—a mess of beautiful, decked-out young people trying to teach us a dance (Indian dancing=not my strong suit). We wandered back through this veil of white flowers and chandeliers, into a traditional Indian wedding. We were the equivalent of rock stars. People wanted to take pictures with us; they wanted their children to take pictures with us. Ashley got handed a baby at one point. Everyone was so welcoming. The father of the bride (we think) insisted on us coming in and eating. (We’d already eaten, but they were happy with us at least eating ice cream, which was delicious). The celebration was incredible—they had food buffet tables set up filling an entire garden, with different cuisines from around the world, and professional chefs in every corner. Fruit bars and ice cream stations and lot of stuff our Indian friends insisted we try, that were very very Indian (some of them actually inedible). There were flowers everywhere. The groom rode in on a horse, picked up his striking bride. We were fairly certain it was an arranged marriage because they were both a little stiff. But they still looked so happy. They stood in the center of a platform as it rose up and hundreds of pink rose petals showered them, while a million pictures were shot. The intricate henna patterns on their hands and arms complimented the complicated jeweled beading and jewelry. They were beautiful. We met alovely young woman named Mythri, (pronounced mytree) who wanted to practice her English with us. She became our tour guide and asked if we could be best friends, I of course agreed. We’re now facebook friends.

Also, my bag still hasn’t come. I think my clothes are starting to mold on my body… But it doesn’t smell any different than anything else here, so it’s hard to tell. Half the fun of living in the third world right?

Love you all,

-Averill 

The India Chronicles: Hello from Hyderabad

Family and friends,

I feel like I’m writing a mission letter. Greetings from the other side of the world!

 Let me paint you a picture of Hyderabad, India. Imagine, if you will, a large city. Huge buildings that all look like apartment complexes. Flatten all the roofs, take out window panes, add bars on the windows and those metal pokey pigeon-perch-preventors. Color everything with a pastel green, purple, blue or pink, then add 50 years of wear on the façade. Add a lot of dirt, make everything dusty. Place trash everywhere. I mean everywhere. (I never thought wastebaskets would be a luxury I’d miss). Then top it off with an oppressive, humid heat and you’ve got inner-city Hyderabad!

            These are the rules I’ve figured out when walking across the street: 1) keep a steady pace. Don’t get scared by the masses of oncoming traffic and run. 2) try not to die.

            The traffic is even better when you’re riding on a bus! If you have motion sickness, you should get over that really quickly. There’s a loud cacophony of horns, every vehicle blaring to try and pass the one in front of it—even the buses. The driver of said buses is driving a manual vehicle; his 4-foot stick shift sits 2 feet behind him. I had to stop watching.

There is a happy ending to all of this. We got off the bus in the slum. Truly the most wonderful place I’ve ever been. The slums here are not what you might think of. Some might be I guess. Frequently the government will bulldoze slums made up of tarps and tin roofs. However this particular one proved they were an organized community and came together to appeal to the government, and became recognized as a legitimate community. Now they have permanent cement walls, and permanent dirt roads, and they are the nicest people I’ve ever met. We mostly met women and children. The women are so welcoming, friendly, kind and incredibly beautiful. (Indian people arebeautiful. A lot of the city center advertisements are western women wearing traditional Indian clothing. I do not understand because the people here are just stunningly beautiful in their own right). The kids kill me. The children here are SO CUTE. If I died today, having experienced nothing else besides playing patty-cake with the three adorable wide-eyed little Indian girls, I will die happy. Yes, there was a bit of a language barrier. We had a mild translator, but for the most part we didn’t really understand each other. Even so, we LOVED one another. Something you can’t really describe, but it was a wonderful feeling. If I experience nothing else besides this feeling of love, I will deem this trip a success.

are they not just darling?!

         

seriously the cutest. right? 

Some other fun facts about my current state:

The time difference is not that noticeable. Hyderabad is almost exactly the same time as Utah, I looked at my watch I was only ½ hour ahead. Well 11 ½ hours behind actually. After 28 hours of traveling, 2 days have passed.

It’s hot here. My hands are covered with a nice moist layer of moistness. Moist. 

The airline lost my bag. Luckily all my valuables were in my backpack, except my camera.  But the airline gave me a toothbrush! So I’m really living the dream out here with only one outfit. For a while I wasn’t worried, but now I’m beginning to think I’d enjoy a clean shirt. And I would really really enjoy wearing something other than jeans and sneakers. Did I mention it’s hot here? Socks don’t exist on anyone else in the entire country besides me.

Also, thanks to the most wonderful phone carrier, I can text! So if you want to text me, you can! I'd seriously love to hear from you.

Love you all! 

-Averill 

follow up from my prince at the bar

So last weekend, I got hit on by a guy at a bar. (or the closest thing BYU has to a bar.) To read that story, and fully appreciate this follow-up Click HERE.

I did give the guy my number, and I have a rule that I can't say no to a first date, so I went to lunch with him. 

The following is a series of factual statements of events with zero judgment, just actual occurrences from the date. You are welcome to draw your own conclusions as to whether or not you would have enjoyed this date: 

• His favorite color is Yellow. "Yellow is a girlie color, you know spring and flowers and all that. But you haven't heard my reasoning!" 
• The "Crotch Rocket," (which is a motorcycle apparently) is Yellow. Obviously.
•  As I was eating the lettuce wraps from P.F. Changs (you know the really messy ones you eat with your hands), a small piece of chicken fell onto my plate. He said with sincere happiness, "I'm so glad you're a messy eater! Cause it makes me feel more comfortable! Now I can eat like a slob because you do!"
• He took the entire serving dish worth of spicy mustard (their equivalent of wasabi) and put it on one bite to "feel like a man." I asked him if it worked, if he felt like a man. He said yes. 
• On the way out the door, he walked me to my car and held out his hand. "Will you hold this while I go for a walk?"
• I responded by shaking his hand. Like meeting-a-new-boss hand shake. He said, "You're funny!"
• As I was rummaging in my backseat putting my wallet back, he said, "I left you a little note to remember me by" and winked as he walked away. 
• Drawn by his finger in the dirt on my back windshield were the words "WASH ME"
• As he pulled around his car out of the parking lot, I was still standing outside, and I hear: "OW OW" in the good, old-fashioned cat-call style. 

this is a model--not my date. 

I might have to amend my "no saying no to a first date" rule. 

getting hit on at a bar: an odd cliche

BYU has been rated the #1 stone-cold sober school for the last 20 years. There's not a big "bar scene" here.

Last night I went to a concert at the closest thing BYU has to a club--"The Wall." My friend's band was playing, so I went to go see him there. I left my pregnant friend at our table, and went to the "bar" counter to get us two glasses of water. 

I'm standing at the counter and I hear a guy saying, "hey. Psst! Hey!" Until I look over and find a young man with his fist holding up his chin, the other hand around his drink (lemonade I think) sitting at the bar, trying to get my attention. 

"Yes...?"

"Can I tell you a secret?"he shout-whispers over the music. 

"Sure"

"You're beautiful" 

I laugh, awkwardly. He was almost charming. certainly bold."Thanks."

(Had I been on my game, I would have said, "That's not a secret!" missed it.)

"Can I tell you another secret?"

"uh... sure?"

"'s not really a secret, it's a question." 

"Ok" He was acting a little drunk frankly. I'm 100% certain he wasn't. Perhaps this pseudo-bar-esque atmosphere just makes people a little weird. 

"How tall are you?"

"5'9". how tall are you?"

how long does it take to fill 2 glasses of water??

"6'1""

"good height" 

"really?" he looked like a kid on Christmas morning. Like that was the most wonderful thing he'd heard all year.

"Hey--you got any sweet plans for the weekend?"

"uh... I dunno" 

"well here!"He whips out a pen, and a napkin, and slides them both across the bar. "give me your number and maybe we can make some."

Shoot. I should've seen that coming. I didn't want to be rude. and I feel like he had the guts to ask, and I'm stuck here waiting for my water... What was the guy doing? getting the oxygen and hydrogen molecules separately to watch the chemical reaction turn to liquid? 

He got a funny little side smile at his  accomplishment in obtaining my number. And I caught a glance at the shirt he was wearing: "You don't need a permit for these guns" with two arrows pointing at his biceps. Classy. 

Finally my waters were handed to me over the counter. 

"I'll see you later" he called as I turned to go back to my table.

When I arrived, my friend, having observed the whole ordeal, was laughing out loud. 

"That was wonderful" She said through giggles.

"Shut up" I said playfully, "the sacrifices I make to bring you water!"

"I'm so glad I'm not still single. Single life is the worst!"

Truth. 

Searching for Signal

A little while ago, a big group of friends (a Nauvoo reunion for those of you who know what that is) went down to Southern Utah for an adventure. Monday morning: sandwiches packed, granola bars in hand, maps at the ready, everyone was set to drive to our destination trail head to start the hike. We stop at the visitor's center to clarify our route, and I look at my phone to check the time.

 A little bit of back story: for the past month, I've been desperately job searching. I'd been rejected, I'd exhausted my resources, and the only jobs I got were "direct advertising" and "financial planning" which is euphemistic for Sam's Club and Insurance sales.

I was waiting to hear back from my ONE, LAST, HOPE for summer employment. I'd interviewed with them the week before and they told me they'd let me know by the beginning of the next week.

So here we are, Monday at 11:00am. I have one missed call, from an unknown Utah number, and a new voice message. But I can't check the voice mail because we have NO service in the depths of Capital Reef National Park. 

You can imagine my distress. What if they're calling me to tell me I didn't get it? Or what if they're calling to say I did?! What if they need me to call them back ASAP with.. I don't know...insurance info? Or a work-email password? Or my shoe size? I've never had a real-life grown-up job--that could be a thing.

So my sweet friend, David Thunell, offers to drive me out of the canyon until I get service so I can check my voice mail and hear my fate for the rest of the summer. Everyone lovingly complies and agrees to wait for us at the base of the trailhead. We wind slowly out of the canyon, with little bits of cell service, coming in and out. My angst growing by the second. Finally we reach a place with a comfortable 3 bars, and I call my voice mail and hear the demonic, automated words:

"You've reached the voice mail box of ____Averill Corkin__ Please leave a message" BEEP

"Thunell!" I panic, "There's something wrong. When I call my voice mail, it won't let me check it, it wants me to leave a message. This has never happened before."

"We can call it on my phone. Do you know your password?"

"No." I'm useless. My future career is a button click away, and the stupid button won't click correctly!

"Here, I'll leave you another message" He calls me on his phone, we hear: "You've reached the voice mail box of ____Averill Corkin__ Please leave a message. BEEP"

"Sister Corkin!" In his best pick-up-line voice (which is very smooth, Thunell, by the way), "How bout you and I hang out a little bit later, ya? I'll call you later to make sure you say yes ;)"

New Voice Message appears on my screen. I click the button. 

What I should hear is "You have two new Voice messages. To listen to your messages press one" but instead I hear, "You've reached the voice mail box of ____Averill Corkin__ Please leave a message" BEEP

GAH!

We turned off and on the phone, we checked my data, we checked my email, everything we could think of. My heart was pounding faster by the minute.  

Finally the message came through as a visual voicemail. I listened with baited breath. Then gave the OK to drive back to the trailhead and report the news to my family waiting there. 

As we pulled in, the YPMs gathered around the car with hopeful faces. Whisperings of "did she get it?"..."she's smiling!" ..."That's a good sign!" until I popped out of the car and reported:

"That was Michelle, from the office on State Street" 

"And...?"

"And she was calling to remind me I have an orthodontist appointment tomorrow at 2:00"

Everyone burst out laughing with relief and grief at the same time. We then had a wonderful hike and a wonderful weekend. 

And when 2:00 rolled around the next afternoon, I spaced and missed my orthodontist appointment completely.