The Rules:

No computer
No camera
No phone
No music
No reading
No writing
No eating after 12 noon
No killing (i.e. vegetarian diet)
No exercising (only walking)
No talking

Aren’t you scared to travel alone in India? I suppose I am. I try to find a woman to sit next to on the train. I keep my passport close at hand. I walk quickly in dark deserted roads. I hide my money. My heart beats a little faster in each new, unfamiliar, and unpredictable situation.

It’s the same feeling that led me to keep bearspray within reach when random camping near the US/Mexico border (for the murderous villains surely stalking the tent) or my hiking boots on while sleeping on a volcano in Hawaii (in case I needed to run away in the middle of the night, again from those murderous villains).

And it’s the same feeling that made me check for monsters under my bed. It’s the fear of the unknown.

I used to always take my rolls of film to Safeway to be developed. Premium Kodak paper, and it only look three days. One day, expecting the usual photos of my dog, some flowers, and stuffed animals, I ripped open the envelope on our way out of the store. My nine year-old eyes struggled to comprehend the set of photos: a man in his casket – apparent photos to remember a funeral.

A bizarre mixup, and my closest encounter with human death at that point in my life.

I didn’t know how to react at the time. It seemed like one of those things a person should be shocked at, disturbed by. Maybe I should have cried. I didn’t know.

Wash your hands often.

Brush your teeth with bottled water.

Bring hand sanitizer (lots).

Don’t touch the dogs.

Don’t touch the cows.

Don’t touch the goats.

I got a gentle toe wiggle at 6:30 this morning from my roommate. “It’s time,” she said, “you’re not still going are you?”

I listened to the rain. 14 straight hours of monsoon at that point, and it had also rained (hard) two nights before. I got up and looked out the door, a feeling of defeat washing over me. The rain was not fathomable. It was still a downpour. I laid back down in bed, my plans of meeting another Canadian girl to go with her to the missionary where she volunteered for the morning were dashed, as were my hopes to maybe bike to a temple town outside Varanasi, Sarnath, later in the afternoon. I felt like a caged housecat. I went back to bed.

It’s been a month without my own wheels and I can’t take it anymore.

Getting a bike here has been easy. Mention the idea to Ashish (we live on his family’s rooftop), he brings by old bikes for me to try out, or goes to check them out himself, because if I go with him, “they give no indian price.”