Future posts will cover this time in Bissamcuttack, but for now I need to catch up on what has been happening in Mungeli.

On Thursday I posted a cryptic Facebook update saying, “This delay in blog posts from India is brought to you by the number two.”

Snuffy and Big Bird

Being a child during the 70s, raised on a strict diet of sugared cereal, second-hand smoke and copious amounts of television, I have an uncanny memory of Sesame Street’s songs, skits, object lessons and the unfolding drama regarding the existence of Mr. (Aloysius) Snuffleupagus. As a teenager I was pretty devastated when I heard this lovably simple wooly mammoth character was revealed as real and not an imaginary friend of Big Bird. Talk about robbing a childhood! What is so wrong with having something “real” in the world that doesn’t have a physical presence? Things really did go downhill after Jim Henson passed to the great beyond.

For those of you not as familiar with Sesame Street as me, each episode’s plot and content revolved around early learning lessons that included a number and a letter. Math concepts used the number in the skits and songs, language development used the letter. In addition to presenting this special letter/number combination, simple spelling lessons were shown using rhyming and alliteration. I’ll never forget the pre-Muppets Animal-like character saying/shouting, “(Spoken) Cat. Rat. Sat. Mat. (Yelling) The fat cat sat on the mat and the rat pat… ”

At he end of each episode, as the final credits were rolling, one of the characters would announce, “This episode of Sesame Street was brought to you by the letter L and the number 6,” or any variety of letter/number combinations.

So as I lay in my room in Mungeli Monday evening, suffering from the “dark night of the bowel,” “travelers stomach,” “the great brown flood,” “Montezuma’s revenge,” “Delhi belly,” or more appropriately, “Mungeli belly,” I wasn’t really in the mood to write much. I did manage to get in my two interview sessions with Nancy and Viru, but not much else happened beyond that for the following few days.

In this weakened state, my brain reverted to my childhood and came up with a few ways of explaining my distressed absence. Second was what I posted, “This delay in blog posts from India is brought to you by the number two.” But my first thought was a quote from the first Austin Powers movie, where Mike Meyers as Austin Powers in this pinnacle of lowbrow comedic genius, spy-spoof trilogy, repeatedly asks when being attacked by “Random Task” (as opposed to James Bond’s villain “Odd Job”), “Who does number two work for?” Of course, all of this happens while fighting his nemesis in the stall of a bathroom and dunking Random Task’s head in the toilet in his interrogation attempt. Genius!

You can take the boy out of junior high, but you can’t take…

All this said (did I really just spend 460 words on that?), with three doctors and a long-time nursing superintendent in the immediate Henry family, I was given a prescription of Noroxin the morning following my interminable night of stomach distress and given strict orders by Viru to drink water and eat simple foods in addition to the medication.

Eat (Indian food.) Pray (It digests correctly.) Love (When it does.) Medicate (When it doesn’t.) — or, how I learned to love Noroxin…

Thursday was also my 44th birthday.

The 90-minute trip to Tilda Thursday morning included a quick stop along the main road to Raipur and a visit from the Henry’s grandsons who had returned from boarding school in Velor that morning after being delayed in Mumbai the previous evening. The drivers recognized the others’ car and pulled off the road so the 15-year-old boys could greet their grandparents before we continued on our respective ways.

The hospital at Tilda is on a large parcel of land, wide open in areas where the 46 degree Celsius (114 F) sun soaked air feels hotter. We are told the ground is radiating heat near 60 C (140 F) and a mirage of heat ripples can be seen as I look out over the cricket field toward staff housing.

The nursing school initiated by Nancy Henry in 1970 is still graduating 20 students each year out of its three-year R.N. program. Third year students are on break during the summer heat, but first and second year students are still in class.

After stopping by the bungalow where Nancy and Viru lived during their active retirement starting in 2005, prior to their health issues, we get introductions at the nursing school and I am given the grand tour of the hospital complex. The facilites at Tilda are complete but feel older than Mungeli and Bissamcuttack. Newer additions, including a nurse’s hostel constructed with help from the UCC/DoC Global Ministries, are interspersed with historic and reconstructed buildings. The medical superintendent, Dr. Amarjit Jeewenmal, says they are hoping to replace the plumbing soon. Like most improvements at remote mission hospitals, improvements are prioritized and happen as resources become available. In the mean time, the staff makes due and continues serving all who seek help.

The maternity ward at the Christian Hospital Tilda was a building project of Dr. and Mrs. Henry in the early 1970s.

After lunch I help Nancy retrieve items from the bungalow: commemorative magazines with articles about the Henrys, pictures in envelopes and stacks, and her wedding album. It’s a small stash, but important information for my research. Also found is a complete set of Disciples World magazines, the publication I wrote for during and after seminary. As the car is loaded I wander the grounds and make a few images of the facilities and the students in session before we leave the hospital compound.

Viru is insistent that we meet with an friend’s son Anil Dau, who’s family has run a rice-milling business near Tilda for two generations. We arrive and Viru instructs the driver to honk his horn. Though most of the family is sleeping through the afternoon heat, when the office manager retrieves the 25-year-old grandson of Viru’s old friend, he alerts the house and we are ushered in with the gesticulations and honor given a revered person.

The custom in India when meeting a great person, especially a great man, is to touch his feet and then bring that hand to your heart. The origins of the custom are fuzzy to those I ask but it is generally thought to be a way of saying, “may the least honorable part of this great person (the dusty and dirty part of him) be enough to bless me.” In turn, each member of the household gives Viru, and some Nancy, this honor.

I have seen no one else, at least in my immediate presence, honored this way in India, though I’m told it is a common way to revere elders. In return, Viru and Nancy touch the head of those who have humbled themselves; offering a blessing in return for the respect shown.

The family showers us with food and drink and I have to refuse all but water. My stomach is acting up, cramps have started again, probably due to the heat. I know this isn’t the gracious way to treat our host and hostess who have gone from napping to entertaining in 60 seconds flat, but Nancy excuses my irritable stomach to them in Hindi. They nod knowingly.

We plan to stay only 10 minutes according to Viru, but nearly 90 minutes later – which includes a visit from another friend, Viru giving our host’s eldest son a terrible time about not being married yet, and numerous photos snapped – we are on our way. Viru wants to visit his brother in another town, but Nancy convinces him that we’ve had enough for the day and we head back to Mungeli, stopping for roadside watermelon (calinda) and vegetables along the way.

We arrive after 7:30 pm and I’m beat. I drop my things and fall into bed, reaching for the air conditioning remote to begin the process of cooling my room and me. The phone rings. It’s Anil. “You will come for dinner tonight?” “Yes, Anil, I’ll come. But I have to rest.” “OK, don’t be too late.” “What time are you eating?” I ask, knowing the Henry household often has dinner after 10 pm. “Not too late,” is the reply.

Setting my alarm for 9 pm, I nearly pass out when I lay down again. I don’t remember a single thought before unconsciousness.

The phone rings once more. It’s nearly 9 pm. “Come. Come. We are waiting.” Says Anil. Oh yeah, his sons have just arrived home and I have a suspicion that they may be planning something for my birthday.

I throw some water on my face and tamp down the swirl of hair that has developed on the back of my head from heavy sleep. At the Henry’s a party is underway.

Parties at Christian Hospital Mungeli are common when guests arrive or leave, birthdays, anniversaries, baptisms, etc. There is always a good reason for the staff and guests of the hospital to spend an evening talking, eating and singing karaoke at the Henry home.

Following some introductory karaoke and a bit of BBQ chicken from the grill we eat dinner. Anil calls me to the living room after the meal where everyone, 40-50 people, sing happy birthday and I’m presented with a cake and presents.

My birthday cake in India. Banana with fresh chocolate frosting. The bakers used a mortar and pestle to make powdered sugar for the frosting… Oh yeah, Go Norway!

The cake was made by my Danish guest house mates, medical students Ditte and Lisa, and decorated by the orthopedic surgeon who lives above us, Dr. Deeptiman. It is a huge banana sheet cake with chocolate frosting used to create the decorations “Happy Bday Gregg” in big letters across the 3×2 foot cake. It is delicious!

Presents include an official hospital t-shirt from the Henrys along with a two-liter bottle of coke and a variety of biscuits (cookies) from my house mates.

Following this time of thanks we begin karaoke in earnest and the hospital staff starts to slowly filter out. By 11:30 pm it is Anil, Lise, Ditte and me left singing. Somewhere in the evening I sing the Bryan Adams hit, “The Summer of ’69″ and score 100 according to the karaoke machine. I tell people that this is the song of my birth. Anil makes them do the math. “Na na na,” says one of the nursing tutors, “You cannot be 44 years old.” Thanks…

By midnight, the rest of the Henry family wants to head to bed and we make our way back to the guest house. After a quick shower and another dose of Noroxin, I again fall asleep immediately.

Although I miss my loved ones in the USA, and this is the first birthday I have spent away from “home” with the exception of my time in the Navy, it was a really great birthday. Facebook birthday notes began flooding in the evening of May 23 (still morning in the USA) and continued through mid-morningon May 24, when I had the chance to talk to Lindsay on a Skype call. In addition to all the care and fun of the party in Mungeli, it was wonderful to have those 100+ greetings from back home and to remember how fortunate I am to have good friends around the world.

(This entry was written upon arrival in Bassamcuttack on May 25 and, due to only one limited-hours access point on the hospital campus, posted on May 28.)

Today started early again – I haven’t been able to sleep past 6am yet. I woke up and did a little reading before deciding to take a walk around the hospital complex to take some photos as people began their days. It’s Sunday here, so other than the on-call doctors and scheduled nurses, there isn’t much activity at the hospital. But life never stands too still at Christian Hospital Mungeli and I’m sure there will be plenty happening as I take my camera with just a wide-angle zoom lens attached and head out.

I hadn’t gotten very far when I was called over to the room at the end of a dormitory where the nursing school cooks, Pushba and Sukrata, were making puri, a deep fried bread. They are sitting on the floor rolling balls of dough for flattening prior to frying. The single-room kitchen is hot and smoky. A small coal-fired stove heats a large wok-looking pot half filled with cooking oil.

An "Indian way" portrait of Pushba, a cook at the Christian Hospital Mungeli. (Gregg Brekke/SixView Studios)

Sukrata (Sook-rah-tah) is first to slide the tortilla-sized disks of dough into the hot oil. The oil crackles as each one submerges, Sukrata deftly avoiding touching the oil or being splattered. After about 45 seconds she flips each piece of puri with a flat ladle and allows the other side to cook. As soon as this happens, the dough puffs out as the cooked and uncooked sides separate. Another 45 seconds in the oil and she ladles out the fully cooked bread into a waiting cloth-lined basket on the floor. Now it’s Pushba’s (Push-bah) turn to cook the batch of dough she has been rolling on the floor.

After the second batch is cooked they offer me the freshest – and HOTTEST – puri from the basket. Sukrata asks if Kavita, the guest house housekeeper, has made me breakfast. I say that she doesn’t come on Sundays so she insist that I eat and makes up a plate with four of the puffy golden brown disks and adds a few scoops of the tomato sauce to the aluminum plate as she hands it to me.

The puri is still scalding hot and steam rushes out as I tear it open. I say “hot” and ask what the word is in Hindi. “Garum” is the reply – meaning temperature hot, not spicy hot which they also tell me, but I forget the word. Though I do remember that cat is “billi,” because they have to shoo a cat from the kitchen several times during the preparation and cooking process.

When the bread cools a bit I begin dipping it into the tasty sauce – yellow curry and a variety of other spices – that makes up my delicious but very non-western breakfast. This isn’t the toast and peanut butter I usually eat in the US.

Which brings up a good point. Someone once asked me if India is more like being in the inner city or more like being in a suburban area. I looked at this person, knowing they hadn’t ever traveled outside the US, and could only reply, “India is like no other place in the world.” I’ll stick by that statement in a number of ways including what’s for breakfast. It’s also a little unsettling to my American ways to have housekeepers and cooks who insist on treating you so well. I know everyone at CHM is payed well in relation to local salaries, but I’m still unaccustomed to being served in this way.

I finish breakfast, wash up and thank them for sharing their gifts and allowing me to photograph them. I will be sure to get some of these “Indian way” portraits printed up and distributed before I leave.

Making my way toward the main gate I chat with some of the maintenance and security staff. We talk about the oppressive heat – the forecast calls for 44-48 C today (109-118 F). They sit in the shade of a large tree and say how thankful they are for Sunday, a rest day from anything but emergency work that may need to happen around the hospital.

The road that passes in front of the hospital complex leads to town as you turn left out of the gate. On the same side of the road, heading that direction, sit the grounds of the Rambo English School and the Mungeli Christian Church in succession. I go that way and recognize some children from the school. We talk and they want a photo taken in front of a nearby Hindi shrine before they will let me continue. It’s still before 7am and most of the town won’t be open yet so I stop my walk at the church and take a few photos there. One lone parishioner has come early and sits in the back, talking on her cell phone. I leave the church and see other nurses arriving, then hear the sounds of music – choir practice for the 9:30am service has begun.

Walking back toward the hospital I pass the school and see one of the school staff, Peter, watering flowers and we exchange a few words. I remember him, and he seemingly remembers me, from my last trip here. More children are out and a group of four who are heading to church grab me for photos as they leave the hospital gate. The littlest one, Bhighe (big-ay), hams for the camera and scrunches up his face instead of seeking a formal portrait. That is, before the kids want their picture taken together.

I wander around the hospital for a little while, photographing a few family members of patients. To keep costs low, patients have relatives stay on the hospital grounds – preparing meals and providing basic care like washing clothes and bathing the patient. A building is dedicated to housing these family members, though most sleep and cook outside during this hot weather. I notice a woman hanging wash who is covered in tattoos. Pointing to mine I point back toward hers. She then points to my camera and I take her picture.

Another little boy approaches and wants his photo taken too. His uncle arrives and explains, in English (!), that the boy’s mother is expecting and the family has come to help. He is a very serious boy and I take a picture,  but the uncle and other men joke with him until he breaks into a little smile that I’m also able to photograph.

Back at the guest house I began processing photos from the morning (the slideshow above) and have a Skype call with Lindsay. Video starts out OK, so I walk around with my iPhone to show her a bit of the living space and yard. We start having connection issues and switch to voice-only, but it was still nice to see each other for a few minutes. The place is waking up, people are wandering about and giving greetings – there are really only about 10 people in the apartments, they just all happened to go outside at once. To my surprise Kavita arrives, I guess to make lunch, and in short order brings me a cup of her special masala tea as I talk on the phone. Num!

With the main kitchen closed for Sunday, an electric Dutch oven will be used to bake chocolate cake and dinner rolls.

Lise and Deeptiman prepare the chocolate cake batter as Ditte (right) mixes the yeast dough for buns.

The Danes and a doctors Nirmal and Deeptiman are preparing to bake a cake and some dinner rolls. Yeast is hard to come by in India, so the Danes have brought their own stash from the Netherlands. Kavita has made sure all the ingredients are set out – white flour, cooking oil, eggs, bakers chocolate, sugar – and they begin to measure and mix.

The nurses modern style kitchen with the oven is locked so Anil brings over an electronic Dutch oven that they can use to bake the cake. I’m processing photos from the morning (and before long a call comes and everyone has to take off for the operating room with the cake in the oven. I’m about to leave for my interviews and Deeptiman stays around to make sure the cake is removed from the Dutch oven when it is done baking.

We made a good dent, but there is plenty left for tomorrow!

After my interview session and lunch with Veeru and Nancy, I return to a nice piece of chocolate cake! The yeast smell of the baked dinner rolls (Ditte calls them “buns” just like my mother did) fills our steaming hot common area. Two ceiling fans have little cooling effect on our space after a day of Dutch oven baking and 111+ F temperatures. There is still half the cake remaining. I’m guessing we can work on that for breakfast along with a curried something…

Starting to get into the groove and feeling more oriented with the people, especially the staff. Knowing their names and what area they work in is a big help as I walk through the hospital several times a day. Everyone is so helpful and I hope to keep learning Hindi words and phrases as the days go by.

Until tomorrow – peace.

When recalling the story of their meeting and romantic interest in one another, both tell me their version of when they recognized they may be more than. Veeru, a talented musician and singer, was invited to provide music for a gathering of the regional church assembly. He asked if Nancy wanted to accompany him on the flute and she agreed.

Nancy had recently received her flute from the USA and had taken to learning a popular song on the radio, sung in Hindi. Nancy had learned Oriya, the language spoken in Orissa where she was serving, but not Hindi. Veeru wanted to know if Nancy could play any Indian songs so she played the one she had recently learned, and Veeru agreed they should perform it at the gathering.

After they played the song, Nancy began to get smiles and giggles from those in attendance. She was confused as to why this was happening and someone finally gave in and told her the song they had performed while Veeru sang was titled, “A Foreigner Took My Heart.”

So darn cute! I can’t wait to tell the rest of this, and hundreds of other stories.

Veeru, who suffered a severe stroke nearly three years ago, has a very difficult time talking. I’m starting to understand more of what he is saying, but I’m having a hard time piecing together the connecting words, especially when he speeds up or starts describing places with Hindi names. I’ll be sure to have Nancy, or another family member, with me until I can understand better. So many great stories and I don’t want to miss any.

It’s great to see Nancy and Veeru laugh together. Following Nancy’s train accident and Veeru’s stroke around the same time, I know it has been hard for them to find a new normal. They were at the top of their game, highly sought after retired medical professionals who were training the next generation of Indian medical missionaries, when their accident and stroke occurred. Our talking together seems to be lifting their spirits, especially Veeru, who has been more isolated.

My patient registration form at the Christian Hospital Mungeli. Nothing serious, just picking up Malaria medication.

In addition to all this good fun, I became a patient at CHM yesterday – getting my own registration number and everything – CHM15908. Nothing is wrong, but the malaria shot I received two years ago was deemed “no good” by Anil so I needed a prescription for preventative medication. Two tablets once a week for the next five weeks. Maybe I should see if he can schedule the removal of the titanium plate from my collarbone while he’s at it…

The hospital is buzzing with activity. There are at least two large construction projects happening – an additional guest/staff apartment building and the completion of the cancer center. There are probably more, but those are the most visible.

Next to our apartment building the construction crew is busy working on a second similar structure. I recognize the builders – two female stone workers and one of the men working on steel frameworks that will ultimately provide new levels to the apartment as it rises to three stories. They ask if I am married and I say, “no, I’m engaged.” I show them Lindsay’s picture on my phone, they say, “wife?” I try to explain, but given the words “engaged” and “betrothed” or even “girlfriend” mean little in this world of arranged marriages, I give up. Sorry Lindsay, but to the construction workers at a hospital in remote northeastern India, you are my wife…

Looking on my PhotoShelter site, I see that I have pictures of some of them from my last trip and download them to my computer along with a collection of family images they asked to see. They laugh and are surprised to see themselves from two years ago and then ask me to take more pictures.

A mason working on the additional guest house at CHM laughs as I we compare “ink.” I promise to get her name today…

One of the stone workers is very curious about my tattoos. She has some too, and I believe they are related to her marriage. Each of the construction crew takes turns licking their thumb and trying to rub off my tattoos. “Henna?” they ask. No, “ink, like a pen,” I say as I pull a BIC from my bag. The conversation, or the hand gestures and Hindi-to-English non-translation, turns to how this ink on my arm is permanent.

I find a piece of wire on the ground and make a sewing motion, saying “needle, pin” and they seem to understand. I then over exaggerate the motion of the tiny stabs that the tattoo process involves, moving the “needle” to an imaginary ink pot as I point to the pen and say, “ink.” We finally understand one another and I say, “owww!” describing what the tattoo process feels like. We all laugh and I go back to editing my interviews at the guest house and find some relief from the 44 degree centigrade (112 F) heat.

The local ice cream (sorbet) vendor posing with his cart adorned with images of Hindu gods. He says, “good for business” as he points to the images and gives me the lime sorbet in his hand with my promise to provide him copies of the photos.

On the way to my evening interview session with the Henrys, I’m approached by the ice cream (really sorbet) man to take his photo. He patrols his cart between the hospital compound and the nearby carnival that has been running for the last week. He is very proud of his cart and of the icon images of Hindu gods he has lining the frame of his cart. I ask if he would like to have a photo of just him. He scoops a cone full of lime sorbet and stands next to his cart – I take a photo. Then he pulls in friends, and motions that he wants to include his cart and images of the gods that bless his business. I ask them to stand behind the cart and make a few images before promising to have copies made before I return to the US. He hands me the cone and I hold out 10 rupees in coins offer to pay. Holding closed hands between us and shaking his head he says, “copy, copy.” All he wants in exchange is a copy of these photos… And I’m off, enjoying a cool treat on a hot Mungli evening.

The interview with the Henrys concludes by 9pm and I’m heading back to my room when a young doctor named Nirmal and the Danes call me onto the concrete playing area for some basketball. While I’m just an average height white guy who has shot baskets most of his life in the US, by Indian (and Danish) standards I’m a 5″9′ hoops powerhouse. Knowing the rules of the game, being able to dribble while running, and understanding the concept of rebounding are great assets when playing against others who haven’t grown up with the sport. I expect all this to change as Nirmal, who is probably 6’2″, begins to know the game better.

We are hot and sweaty when we head back to the home to eat a special treat – beef. Nirmal has found a local beef supplier who sells to Christians and Muslims in the area.

“The King of Good Times” – or so says the label. It’s not Double Mountain Vaporizer, but it’s cold and beer flavored…

Just as we are cleaning up and preparing to eat, the grocer, Monos, arrives with a special order I had made – bottles of Kingfisher lager beer. Although I thought I was ordering US sized (12 oz) beers, these turn out to be large 650 ml (22 oz) bottles. That explains what I thought was a high price initially, but now we have twice the beer I had expected to buy. Oh, happy fault…

It isn’t forbidden for Hindus to cook beef for Christians and Muslims, so our housekeeper and cook Kavita takes those rough cut chunks of meat and delivers a delicious brazed beef in a mild, in Indian terms, gravy. It’s a great meal that includes fresh cucumbers and a spicy tomato sauce macaroni dish.

The cold beer is a great addition to our beef and spicy noodles. The Danes and I have a nice conversation on theology and religious practice in the US and Denmark. We split two of the big bottles of beer before my push-through-the-jet-lag exhaustion finally hits. It’s 11pm and I need to get to bed. I expect this is the last of the jet lag providing I can sleep in a little. By Portland time, it’s not yet noon, so the fact that I’m ready to crash is a good sign.

Until tomorrow – peace.

A new airport has been constructed in Raipur – a huge update to the small terminal I flew in and out of in 2011.

My flight arrived to Raipur from Mumbai on time and I’m currently waiting for the ambulance/jeep from the hospital to pick me up for the 1.5 hour drive to Mungeli.

The morning went OK, only three hours of sleep but my body is still switching over to being 11.5 time zones away. The Daisy Residency hotel, described by my Indian host Anil as “that dingy little place,” stirred awake as I entered the lobby around 5:10 am. The desk attendant was sleeping on one of the lobby couches; the boy who had met me at the airport last night was asleep on the floor.

We chatted a bit – me with my non-existent Hindi, they with their non-existent English – and had a cup of tea together. Psy was on the TV, doing that Gangam style thing, then the channel switched and we were watching cricket – a sport I have yet to fully understand.

A quick ride on nearly deserted streets got me to the Mumbai airport with plenty of time to check in, get through security and grab a latte and veg roll for breakfast.

Speaking to a Brit in the boarding area who was headed to a different destination, we discuss our impressions of India. He works for a multinational personal care company with its biggest operations and gross sales in India. He’s been here dozens of times and we both agree on how different India is from anywhere else in the world. He also echoes what I read in the morning paper – many Indian business leaders are calling for less democracy, which for them often results in layers of bureaucracy, in business development practices.

On the surface this seems like the “smaller government is good” argument often levied by conservative and tea-party forces in the US against regulatory practices. Underneath the conservative/liberal argument the US may experience though is a highly entrepreneurial country that longs for expansion. I wonder aloud if deregulation, especially in terms of working conditions and environmental practices, might be bad for India in the long term. “Ah, there’s the rub…” he says, and we depart for our respective gates.

So, here’s one thing you need to know about India if you plan to travel here. Prepare to have your personal space invaded. Prepare to have every socially normative personal distance norm you have accumulated throughout your North American life shattered. Prepare for people to touch you, hold you, rub you and otherwise make body contact with you in ways that would send you screaming back home. Prepare for big guys and tiny women to see you as the impediment between you and getting where the need to go no matter how impractical their progress may seem. And if they need to crawl over you, all sweaty and half-naked, that is not a problem for them. Though it will probably be a problem for you.

One friend described India as “a billion people with no concept of a queue,” and he is partially right. More importantly the queue, or line as we say in the US, is a social norm for keeping bodies separated by a polite distance. This social norm does not exist in most of Indian culture.

The coolest tea box ever, and the cup of tea it produced, sort of made up for having my personal space violated on the flight from Mumbai to Raipur…

When you are standing in line getting ready to board the bus to your airplane in India, you are not really in line. You are in a herd, or a school of fish, that is eagerly orienting itself toward a common spot. You may or may not get there in the order that you started.

When you are sitting next to a large-ish man on an airplane, it is totally acceptable for him to splay himself over both armrests and expect you to rest your folded arms on top of him.

When you stand up to depart said plane, it is also totally acceptable – no matter how far back you are in the plane – to jostle your way as far forward as you can get, or until said large-ish man gives you a gentle but stern reminder that you may be offending the westerner standing next to him…

I was aware of this dynamic more during my last trip to India. This time, I hardly notice. There is a bit of “standing your ground” involved, but it isn’t in the American “this is my space” sort of way. It is a general assertiveness that pervades Indian culture and an Indian says it is partly a carry-over from a time where the caste system ruled the pecking, and line placement, order. When the caste system was abolished it granted impunity to lower castes who were suddenly able to “get their own” without fear of prosecution, though rampant persecution still exists.

Landing in Raipur I get my bag and find my favorite bicycle chain rimmed blue aluminum luggage tag is mission. The clasp was a screw and I guess it came undone, or someone in the Mumbai luggage really liked it. It has been on my bag for hundreds of flights. I will miss it dearly as it was #1) bicycling oriented and #2) unique enough that I could pick my bag out from all the other black “Travel Pro” bags on the conveyor. Bummer.

Outside I wait for the white ambulance jeep mentioned at the beginning of this post. After a not too unreasonable wait, a maroon SUV pulls up and out walks a driver who looks familiar to me. He holds up a sign saying, “Mr. Rev. Gregg Brekke” and I confirm that it is indeed Virendra from the Christian Hospital Mungeli. We load bags and begin the drive, again with my Hindi skills and his English competing for the silence in the car.

The smells on the road between Raipur and Mugeli are different. It is a clean hot smell in Raipur. It is the savanna, desert dry at this time of year – awaiting the monsoons of July through September. Three seasons visit this region of the country – dry (March-June), rainy (July-October) and cool (November-February), with about a half-month overlap on either side.

A great alternative to coal! The solar array on the Christian Hospital Mungeli guest house roof provides huge amounts of energy-free hot water for use around the hospital.

Down the road a bit and beyond Raipur, the bituminous smells of burning coal start to filter in through the air conditioning vents of the SUV. It isn’t suffocating, but you can see the black smoke mounting from homes and factories along the road. Piles of coal are dumped unceremoniously outside homes, along with kindling wood, which will provide heat for cooking. This is tribal area and the people are poor. Some run roadside shops selling random items like fan blades and empty oil drums, others can be seen making cow patties by mixing manure with rice stalk and drying them in the sun. Those who cannot afford coal can cook over dried poop.

With all due respect to Dr. Anil Henry, Virendra is a much safer driver than Anil. Anil takes every bit of the road and speeds through intersections with the pedal to the floor, often missing oncoming traffic by inches. There have been a few cringe inducing rides with Dr. Henry. Virendra, on the other hand, keeps his hands at “10 and 2″ and gives space to the huge cargo carries heading toward us at break-neck speeds.

Another observation you make quite quickly in India is that vehicles of all types are mostly utilitarian. It is very unusual to see a single-passenger vehicle. Even more uncommon is seeing a bicycle that, though designed for one, is not carry two people or lumbering down the road with cargo. Overburdened and underpowered motorcycles, most in the 60-125cc range, struggle to maintain speed as they traverse pitted roads strattled by two and three passengers in addition to a variety of goods.

Government rice stores, near Bisrampur, India. This locally produced rice will not likely be distributed to the hungry in this area. It is more likely to rot once the rainy season begins.

Time goes quickly and we pass Bishrampur, the site of a church dedication I attended in 2011. Nearby, the first of several government rice storage areas is under guard from looting. Though this region is quite poor and many people are hungry, due to government quotas and shipment difficulties, locally produced rice – the mainstay crop of the area – often rotes once the rains comes. The hospital and internal relief groups have tried to urge the release of this “surplus” to no avail. I’d like to follow this story more at some point…

I arrive in Mungeli and am assigned a guest room in a suite that I will share for the next three weeks with Danish med students Lise (pronounced like Lisa) and Ditte (pronounced Dee-tah.) I get re-acquainted Anil and his parents, along with other staff I met on my previous visit, before heading into town with the med students.

But before I can get beyond the hospital walls Anil has invited me into the ultrasound room where he finds a woman in great pain who has a large mass in her abdomen. He thinks it may be liquid (pus) but encourages her family members to operate. In the manner only Anil, and I understand his father, can operate in – he asks the son if he wants his mother to get better via a quick surgery or to believe the tribal doctor who has recommended many treatments, except surgery.

The man smiles and agrees to the surgery. Following a quick conversation, Anil and I head to the operating room where the woman is having the pus drained from the infection and ready for treatment.

Emergency operation like this happen dozens of time every week at the Christian Hospital Mungeli. This is in addition to the regularly scheduled operations to correct long-term problems and other emergencies, like Cesarean section baby deliveries.

In town, the Danes do some garment shopping, hoping to receive tailored items they ordered last week. Though their outfits are not available, they buy some shirts before we pick up staples like coffee, milk and snacks. Happy the Danes like coffee, though our choice is limited to Nescafe…

A game of rotten badminton by me and a late dinner with the Henrys and I’m finishing this blog. Tomorrow begins the long talks with the senior Henrys that will lead to the production of their book. It’ll be good fun and I’m sure there will be more time in the wards, exam rooms and the ER as Anil invites.

Peace.

My United Airlines (Skywest) twin prop about to depart Portland for Seattle.

Well, I’m safe and sound and a little more awake than I should be at 11:45 pm IST (11:15 am PST) after the flight to Mumbai. Everything was on schedule and the flight went as expected.

Had almost forgotten the meal choices in India – “veg or not veg” is a common refrain. Non-veg generally means with chicken or eggs. Food was basic international fare, not bad, not great. But to my dismay, United no longer offers a complimentary alcoholic beverage to international coach passengers. Maybe it’s just flights to India, but that curry-chick pea-veggie-rice dish would have gone down smoother with a glass of red wine… Or a little vodka… Or both… Lame.

Watched Ben Affleck’s “Argo” prior to dinner and then listened to a bit of music before popping an ambien in an effort to reset my clock. Seven unconscious hours later I was awake with about 2500 miles left in the flight. Perfect timing to wash up and get ready for the breakfast service prior to landing.

The flight landed a bit early and the smells and heat of Mumbai were upon me as soon as I exited the plane and entered the jetway. The smells aren’t all bad, just different than we are used to in the US. Hard to describe, but unmistakable if you’ve been here and have the memories.

At 9pm the temperature sat around 85 F. It is the hot season, prior to the rains, in most of India and I’ll expect temperatures in the 90-105 F range my entire three-week stay.

Gathering luggage in Mumbai.

There must have been a lot of baggage on the plane because while waiting for my bag it stopped and started at least five times. Each time it started again, a loudspeaker would announce in English, Hindi and Arabic, “Caution, the luggage belt is about to move in a fashion.”

What sort of fashion? A rapid or abrupt fashion? A slow fashion? This is a constant reminder about international travel – some things just don’t translate…

Immigration control and customs clearance went well. A little hang-up with the customs inspector as my bag made it through the x-ray machine. “How many lenses do you have?” Two – one is on the camera… “What is that thing?” It’s a small consumer video camera… “And what is this thing?” It’s a small tripod; it fits in my suitcase.

But after these questions it was on to exchange some cash and out to find my driver. On my second trip around the bullpen separating travelers from drivers I found a young boy holding a sign that read, “Mr. Gregg Dean.” Well, they must have looked at my travel information and used my middle name instead of my last name. The hotel name was correct, the Daisy Residency, so I signaled to him that I was Mr. Gregg Dean and off we went to wait in the drive-up area for cars.

I tried several times to find out the boy’s name, but he wasn’t really interested in the exchange – he doesn’t speak much English and I don’t speak much Hindi, but I thought it was worth a shot.

The driver showed up a few moments later in a MINI-mini-van (I think they call them buses here) and we headed out to the Daisy through the evening sights of Mumbai.

I’m sure the scene will be different in the morning when I head out for my 7:10 am flight, but the city was filled with people. Many shops and roadside stands were still open, though it looked like the stands were getting ready to close down as it approached 10 pm.

The Daisy Residency is ok. I have a private bath with shower and heated water, air conditioning and there is free WiFi in the lobby that is allowing me to type this blog entry, chat with folks in the US and email a picture off my phone. I probably wouldn’t recommend this hotel as a spot for western tourists, but I had a refreshing shower and it’ll do just fine as a layover spot for the five hours of rest I’m about to get here.

I’m not big on taking photos on airplanes or in airports, so the prop and conveyer belt are all you get for today. I promise more images tomorrow!

I was approached in November 2012 with the possibility of writing a book about Dr. Veeru Henry and Nancy (Lott) Henry and their 50-years of medical mission service in India’s northeastern interior.

Dr. Anil Henry shares a laugh with a recent amputee.

Two years ago I visited the Henrys in India with a contingent of people from Avon Lake (Ohio) United Church of Christ, the church where Nancy Lott was commissioned as a missionary nurse in 1960. Forty-five years later, her son and daughter-in-law, Drs. Anil and Theresa Henry, would be commissioned at the same church as medical missionaries for Global Ministries, the joint international mission agency of the UCC and Disciples of Christ.

The book will be a biography of the amazing work this family has accomplished in the last half-century in bringing advanced medical care facilities, primary and secondary education, nursing schools, rural nursing outreach, and many more social services to rural and tribal areas of India.

So what began as a few emails, an estimate of the work to be completed, and discernment among those concerned has come full circle with fundraising for the project and me finally getting on the flight.

Along the way though, timing and bureaucracy has caused some heartaches. Timing is mixed in with other projects I have underway and a move to Portland, Oregon, scheduled for July.

Things got interesting after purchasing my flight and making arrangements for travel within India nearly two months prior to the scheduled departure, I applied for my visa.

What should have been a several day process of document exchange and visa approval became a three month ordeal of wrestling with the Indian consulate in New York City.

I had previously gone to India as a Journalist, but (unknown to me) with the special exception of being a journalist traveling for tourist purposes only. India is unique in the visa game in that if you work in a field that even sounds journalistic – like editor, writer, photographer – you are required to obtain a journalist visa. You could be an editor for advertising copy, you could write children’s books, or you could be a wedding photographer and it is likely that India would require you to register as a journalist.

Applying for my visa at the same time I purchased tickets I assumed there would be no problem getting my visa in time – but that assumption was soon challenged as requests were made for more documentation prior to submission to the consulate. I clearly outlined the project I was working on and received an endorsement of the project for validity and submitted it.

Then a second request came, this time from the consulate, asking for a detailed itinerary while I was in India. I submitted this information the day it was requested and assumed all was moving along smoothly.

I waited and waited, and waited some more. After my visa application had been at the consulate for a month – with only two weeks until my trip – I started to call the visa outsourcing company nearly daily. They were unable to assist as the decision was in the hands of the consulate.

As the week before my departure arrived I began calling the consulate and finally on Friday, one business day before my Monday, April 8, departure, got news that my visa would not make it to me in time for my departure.

It was a painful experience to put the brakes on the trip after so much planning – but mostly because of all the planning that had happened in India by the Henry family.

After requested my visa back, putting my travel on hold, and strategizing new dates, I reapplied for my visa – this time as a journalist traveling for tourism purposes.

Lindsay and Gregg with freshly refinished hardwood floors in PDX!

Back to the trip – I decided to visit my fiancé Lindsay in Portland prior to leaving for India, not knowing if the visa would be granted and a mid-May departure would be possible. I had planned on going to Portland following the India trip. We are remodeling a duplex and friends had a wedding, so the stopover seemed a good way to regroup after being overseas for nearly a month.

Fortunately my visa was granted within two weeks and a new departure date of May 14 was set after confirming with the Henrys in India and rebooking my flight. My visa states that I may engage in “no professional journalistic activities.” Not to worry, I may record video and audio of conversations with friends, scan historic pictures, take thousands of photos, and speak with people the Henrys knew throughout their ministry – but I will keep it completely unprofessional…

Leaving Portland this morning on a twin-prop puddle jumper to Seattle, I transferred to a trans-continental flight to Newark before my impending 16 hours in the air to Mumbai.

In addition to the book, I may work on – er, I may talk to friends about – the state of HIV/AIDS care and prevention in these rural areas of India. On my last visit we witnessed several cases where the hospital had worked to prevent mother-to-child transmission and had provided prevention education. I’m interested to see the ways in which these efforts developed since that time.

I look forward to posting regular updates on the progress of the project, including photos and video of the wonderful people I am sure to meet along the way.

Peace.

A welder attaches support rails to the undergird structure of a 166 meter velodrome in Cleveland, OH.

During the summer of 2012 I was asked to chronicle the construction of a bicycle racing track (a velodrome) in the Cleveland, Ohio, community of Slavic Village.

Over the previous five years a dedicated group of volunteers and board members had worked toward the construction, fundraising, site selection and promotion of this exciting bicycle racing and recreation pursuit in Cleveland.

At the turn of the 20th century velodromes were a popular and fast paced feature of sport viewing and waging in American cities. As other sports gained popularity, the velodrome’s popularity declined and the discipline was nearly extinct by the 1950s.

But as a popular worldwide and Olympic sport, velodrome racing continues to gain popularity as cyclists look for ways to stay in shape and have fun in a very different type of sport.

As owner of SixView Studios, I also produced a promotional video that featured the phases of the velodrome’s construction and interviews with three of the key people involved in fundraising and construction. Ultimately the velodrome belongs to the community of Cleveland, the cycling enthusiasts and all those who are able to participate in the fun that is involved in track racing.

Haitian reggae singer Wyclef Jean pauses during his music set at the kickoff rally for the 2012 International AIDS Conference in Washington, DC.

When I count my amazing experiences as a journalist, especially as a photojournalists, this rally and day will go down as one of them.

Several hundred thousand people gathered near the Washington Memorial for a day of music, speeches and calls to action prior to a massive march to the White House.

One of the featured performers of the day was Haitian reggae singer Wyclef Jean. His performance was pretty spectacular and energy filled – and at one point included him calling dozens of women (and a few men) on stage to dance with him. He was electric, had a message speaking to the justice priorities of the AIDS Conference – and the crowd responded.

Given press credentials by the AIDS Conference, but not the rally, I found my way backstage and then made nice with the stage manager and was allowed up to the platform. I continued to make smalltalk and banter with the stage hands, celebrity handlers and the celebrities themselves including Margaret Cho (who handed me a bottle of water), Al Sharpton, Tavis Smiley, Cornell West, Andrew Young and Wyclef himself.

At one point, during the mayhem of the dozens of dancers on stage, Wycelf’s handler was pulling journalists out of the crowd and sending them down. But not me! I was really fortunate to have been seen as talking and laughing with the talent – and was given full reign of the stage including the curtain in front of the performers (15 foot drop…) that allowed me to get shots like the one above.

Fun? Yep. Memorable? Definitely.

And here are a few more Wyclef shots that made news and the pages of papers and magazines around the world…

Wyclef Jean with dozens of dancers called on stage during the 2012 International AIDS Conference in Washington, D.C. (Photo Gregg Brekke/EAA)

Wyclef Jean singing in the shadow of the Washington Monument at the Keep the Promise on AIDS rally and march during the 2012 International AIDS Conference in Washington, D.C. (Photo Gregg Brekke/EAA)

Wyclef Jean leaps in the air, signing off to the crowd, at the Keep the Promise on AIDS rally and march during the 2012 International AIDS Conference in Washington, D.C. (Photo Gregg Brekke/EAA)

And a photo taken of me “in action” on stage by fellow EAA journalist Paul Jeffrey:

Gregg Brekke photographing Wyclef Jean on stage with dozens of female audience members during the Keep the Promise on AIDS rally and march during the 2012 International AIDS Conference in Washington, D.C. (Photo Paul Jeffrey/EAA)

Frank Schaeffer (son of Moral Majority braintrust Francis Schaeffer) and Jay Bakker (son of televangelists Jim and Tammy Faye Baker) speak together at Jay’s “Revolution Church” in Brooklyn, NYC – October 2012.

I had the pleasure to be on assignment with good friend Scott Griessel of Creatista Studio to interview Frank Schaeffer, Jay Bakker and Vince Anderson in cooperation with Living the Questions.

We filmed and photographed at many venues including Frank’s hand-renovated historic home on the shores north of Boston, The Candy Store (a Brooklyn bar where Revolution Church meets), and Union Pool in Brooklyn where the Rev. Vince Anderson and his Love Choir play a rousing gospel set every Monday night.

Getting Frank and Jay – these two “prodigal sons” of the religious right, moral majority, fundamental Christian movement – together for an evening of dialog at Revolution Church was definitely one of the highlights of the trip. Both have left the structure (and stricture) of fundamentalism behind and are operating in a more progressive and grace oriented Christian sphere.

But there is baggage associated with their pasts. Frank has to live down the fact that he and his father were major orchestrators of the religious right and the moral majority – a leading conservative movement that has opposed everything from gay marriage, to abortion. Jay has to live with the legacy of his parents’ astronomical rise and catastrophic fall, embroiled in financial and ethical scandal, from the heights of the televangelist world.

Still, I had the feeling that both are thoughtfully and fervently trying to reframe their pasts and move forward with new theologies and understandings of the human condition and a loving God’s response.

Volunteers were needed beneath large sections of the AIDS Quilt to support it at an unveiling ceremony July 21, 2012, as part of the International AIDS Conference. (Photo Gregg Brekke/EAA)

As drizzle, and later rain, descended on the National Mall in Washington, DC, hundreds of volunteers processed with huge sections of the AIDS Quilt toward a stage and rally, carefully keeping it off the drenched plastic tarps below.

Hundreds of people gathered to see the largest display of the AIDS Quilt in a decade during the International AIDS Conference I was covering for the Ecumenical Advocacy Alliance as part of their media team.

Emotions ran high as friends and family members of those who had died of AIDS found quilt sections with their loved ones’ names. Speakers included Eurythmics front woman Annie Lennox and UNAIDS Executive Director Michel Sidibé and many others.

Crawling between the legs of those surrounding the quilt sections and underneath where children were deployed to keep the quilt from sagging to the ground, I captured this and other images of those who came to offer their support (literally) and care for the millions of people worldwide who have been devastated by HIV and AIDS.

Other photos of the 2012 International AIDS Conference by me and Paul Jeffrey are available at EAA’s Flickr Photostream.