Visakhapatnam looks much more like the India I expected.
I've heard, of course, of India with her 1.2 billion (yes, billion) people. I've heard that it is an amazing place, and as I see it for myself, I can confirm wholeheartedly that it is true. I'm so blessed.
Today I spent the entire day at an orphanage, putting on a program for forty pairs of the brightest eyes I've ever seen. Eyes can say so much, can't they?
As we arrived, we walked into a rectangular room where the kids sat in seven rows, with a split down the center dividing the boys and the girls. It is alternately the children's classroom, sewing room, play room, dining room, and bedroom. Leaving our shoes at the door, we made our way to our chairs at the front, mimicking, as we walked, the children's greeting, common for the few Christians living in the area: hands pressed together at chest level and the words, “Praise the Lord!”
They sang to us – a somewhat mixed-up (but adorable) rendition of “Trading My Sorrows,” and a song in Telugu (the local language) which lasted forever, during which the children closed their eyes and sang with every bit of passion and volume they could muster. Our program was by no means as nice as their songs, but we tried, with songs, a drama, a Bible story, and an explanation of the ship complete with costumes for them to try on. So little expense on our part, but they paid rapt attention.
Then lunch – spicy but delicious – and activities: origami hats and cranes on my side of the room, knot-tying and jumprope on the other side. A final song, gifts (one puzzle book and stuffed animal per child), prayer, and a parade to escort our team out to our tuk-tuk. The children clustered in the road, waving, until we were out of sight.
The travel was almost as interesting as the rest of the day. Although this is not my first day in India, our first port, Kochi, felt much more like a Western city. Visakhapatnam is so different. It is located in a valley, with mountains every direction. They appear old mountains, rounded on top and covered in tropical green. Poverty is inescapable, and much of the city seems old and somewhat dingy.
Fruit and vegetable stands line the street, displaying their wares – cucumbers, pomegranates, lemons, tomatoes, carrots. Everywhere are vendors with large carts piled high with young, green coconuts. Some have customers nearby, drinking from the coconuts with a straw. In Sri Lanka, I tried coconut water this way and it was incredible – so fresh and sweet.
A man lies on his side in the road – not quite in the middle, but definitely not on the side. Is he drunk? Dead? Severely injured? Around the corner, an awful-looking man crouches with eager, outstretched palm. His hands and feet are swathed in thick bandages, with two or three appendages emerging from each. Were his other fingers taken by a horrible disease, or carefully hidden inside the bandage? The amputees are at least less disputable, although I have heard of addicts laying an arm or leg across train tracks, knowing that their begging will yield more if they sacrifice their body.
Driving past all the faded signs and small shops, many of which seem to be related to mechanics in some way, the general effect is quite grey, but the drabness is accentuated by scattered punches of color: the gorgeous, expertly draped saris on many of the women, and the incredibly frequent Hindu shrines in all shapes and sizes, from closet-sized cages to massive temples – much better maintained than the businesses next door. Some boasted enormous statues in the front. Once I looked out from my seat in the middle of the tuk-tuk, and all I could see were the feet and tail of a huge statue of the monkey god. At the shrines, bright colors abound – yellow, blue, orange – they have a certain cartoonish appeal, but how can I forget that people sell their souls inside these brightly-colored cages? Every day they bathe and dress the statues, drinking the leftover “holy water” to receive the blessings they believe it holds. It makes me sad.
