We were breakfast. We were sitting in Bangalore airport, waiting for our final flight. We had arrived at 11-ish, and we got our bags at 1-ish. We had a few hours to catch shallow naps and be munched on by mosquitoes. Welcome to India.
When we arrived, a seemingly helpful group of airport staff took our bags to our waiting area. Upon arrival they demanded a tip. "$20." We gave them 10.
Maybe if I tipped all the mosquitoes they'd go away. Maybe not.
We spent the night in the airport. Our flight to Mangalore got listed on the board around 8:00 a.m. Nearly an hour later, we were free. Free to fly on another, smaller plane.
We pushed our way out of the plane and entered Mangalore airport, a cute little thing. We weren't quite sure how we would identify our contact. We collected our luggage, headed for the exit and walked to the man holding the cardboard sign with "Miles" written on it. That works.
We shoved all our luggage into a reasonably compact car and sealed ourselves in for the ride. Babu, a teacher at the seminary welcomed us as the driver introduced us to Indian driving.
He would drive on the left side of the road and cross over to pass slow-moving rickshaws. The ability to do so without colliding with oncoming traffic impressed me. More impressive is the fact that even slowing down seemed a last resort. Good driving.
As we drove down narrow windy roads and my ears were still popping from the flight, Beka and Alexa asked Babu some good questions. We saw big and small buildings next to each other. Were they houses?
Babu said that yes, they are. The rich and poor share neighborhoods.
The miles and miles of area we covered between the airport and Priority One India is fairly rural. We saw palm trees, cattle and wonderful, sweet grass. Green is so my favorite color.
We stopped at a restaurant for lunch about halfway there. We chatted with Babu while we ate for several minutes before we noticed something unusual. We all used silverware.
"Don't you use your hands to eat?"
"Yes, we like to," Babu answered.
He put the fork and the knife aside, and we tried to follow suit. The waiter seemed especially amused with my attempts and offered me a spoon. I smiled sheepishly and tried using my hands anyway. Eventually I cleaned my plate.
We rinsed our hands in bowls filled with warm water. There were lemons in there, either to help clean or to avoid dishpan hands. I'm not sure which.
During the last leg of our journey we saw a tent village. We saw kids standing out front, and I caught a glimpse of some older people as well. My stomach sank.
We arrived at Priority One and met Dr. Roy. He led us to the Windham House, the place we stayed in for the week. At first we were surprised to see marble floors. Was this a ministry? We found out later that marble is much cheaper in India.
We took naps, enjoyed some delicious spicy fish, curry, and pita-style bread for supper, then slept some more.
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