rude boy’z

We were first bused to Durshet, a nature camp two-hours in some direction from Mumbai. We wouldn’t know whether it was South or West, East or North; the landscape changes but is somehow all very much the same. It’s very dry, very brown. Like the old beige leather on your grandmothers handbag.

Durshet welcomed us with pink-blossomed trees growing out of deep red clay. Each cabin had a hammock on the porch, allowing you to either swing to the rhythm of the cows on the right or to the song of the singing Girl Guides (Indian version of Girl Scouts) in the courtyard straight ahead. Those Girl Guides put us all to shame with their teeth-gritting games and late night concerts. Durshet was a three day orientation: how to eat, how to speak, how to travel. I thought of it as our first baby step in India; but really, we were just learning how to crawl. The lack of telephone or internet communication was novel in the rural setting of Durshet. As I write this entry offline, sitting next to my zero-rupee balance phone, it’s not so novel anymore.  

As it turns out, Pune has a little more to move to than Girl Guides and cows. Like oncoming traffic and street dogs. There are as many stray dogs as there are slots of time allotted to the taking of tea. Which is good because I really can’t get enough of the tea (only 8 rupees a cup!). Taking in Pune from the back of a two-wheeler, I saw two things: my life flashing before my eyes as my face came two inches from oncoming traffic, and a little man wearing a leather jacket that read “rude boy’z” as he weaved his way through a cluster of rickshaws. I love it here.