Category: Chapters

I thought the only way to describe my Engineers Without Borders experience in rural India was to just describe one day in detail. Here goes nothing.

“One! One!”

630am: Dave’s alarm goes off, we talk about Lonely Planet induced plans as we walk through Pathways to our early morning Yoga class. We are staying free of charge at Pathways, an IB school for international students that has a campus larger than Case’s. Beautifully manicured lawns lie between English styled buildings, and you can almost convince yourself you’re at an English boarding school. In reality, we’re a very dusty two and a half hour drive from Delhi. Yoga reminds me of each and every part of my body that is weak. The instructor asks us to help him apply for a PhD in Physical Education in the US. Afterwards we have breakfast in the Pathways cafeteria, the 15 or so of us eating potato cakes, cereal and handmade hot chocolate milk.

915am: We load into our bus to Abheypur. It takes an hour or so depending on random back roads village traffic. I mostly sleep, outside of the massive speed bumps.

1030am: Arrive in Abheypur, a small farming village of about 750 people. It’s on the edge of some very rocky hills, and in the fields they mostly farm Mustard seeds, Rice and Wheat. The girls school we are working on is in session, and we get many stares from the grades 1-3 students as they sit in open air classrooms in neat little rows. I’m to go with two students from Hartford University to the shopping district of the nearby town of Sohna, where we are to get PCV couplings, metal pipe and bleach.

Running of the Americans
(or Dave)

1100am: Head to Sohna, listening to our translator Nishant’s tales of going to school in Scotland and his companies deal that lets him have the day off to translate for us. He’s quite happy to help, as according to him “no one likes their jobs”. He talks of wanting to move out of Delhi into the countryside. We drive along harrowing roads, avoiding head on collisions and severely overloaded rickshaws.

1130am: Arrive in Sohna. The people we work with in Abeypur are mostly used to us being there by now, but our white skin and foreign clothing gives us many stares in Sohna. Crowded market streets, wandering cows holding up rickshaws and cabs, trash everywhere. We go to the hardware store and are sat down on an embroidered bench by the owner. Through Nishant we communicate broad descriptions of the fittings and other items we need. He mostly understands, but tries to tell us we need metal fittings for our metal pipes. It is apparently impossible to explain what we are actually using the pipes for; we need to cut holes in PVC pipe without a drill, so we’re planning on heating up the metal pipes in cow-poop fires (the main Indian fire fuel it seems) and then use it to burn the holes. The hardware store sends out a worker missing at least one finger for what we assume are our supplies, but he comes back with snacks and chai. We eat and drink in the midst of the small crowd that’s gathered. Another worker coils wire for us as I eat what appear to be carrot brownies. We load up and head out, avoiding more cows and curious onlookers.

“Sam, a third year
engineering students …”

130pm: We arrive back to find an Indian journalist team from the Indian borough of the Associated Press interviewing the team. Our Hartford University professors are gone, and Dave’s on the phone with them and trying to stall the journalists until they get back. We eat our lunch, croissants filled with potato curry and an apple. The main journalist wants to know if Engineers Without Borders does work in Pakistan.

“We don’t do work in countries that the US government has travel advisories in,” Dave explains.
“So no Pakistan?”.
“No Pakistan, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, North Korea …”
The journalist says something about Muslim countries, followed by “So no Pakistan.”

300pm: School lets out. The two hundred or so schoolgirls who had been sitting (mostly) dutifully doing school work (and singing multiplication table songs) all start mobbing for my camera. All the kids have figured out the system. Hold up your pointer finger and say “One!” repeatedly, then when the cameraman (me) finally breaks down and takes a picture, they all giddily rush over to see what they look like. Rinse and repeat, with slight variations and interruptions until we leave each day. The other (mainly boy) activity is the Running of the Americans. The pushy boys will come up to you and start repeating “Go!” while pointing down the yard. If you start running you’ll have 20-30 boys chasing you, screaming, until enough latch onto your shirt or limbs that they pull you down to the ground. There were enough of us that we could keep rotation going that kept them occupied for a while, but there seems to be an unlimited amount of energy contained in a 7 year old Indian boy.

Smog in the countryside

400pm: We go on a children led hike up the hill near town. 10 of us, our translator Nishant and 40-50 kids scramble up rocks as seven different kids try to be path finder. We watch some peacocks attempting to mate, scare off some monkeys and break up a game of “I’m braver than you because I won’t dodge the rocks you throw at me from across the valley”. At the top we can see over the trees to the somewhat fertile valley below. We see some goatherds burning cow poop over the hill. Amid more demands for “One!”, we make the hike back to the school.

600pm: The non-hikers have finished the connections of PVC, we enjoy some more Running of the Americans, and eventually load into our bus. I split a pair of iPod headphones with Constanza, the only girl I’ve ever met who independently knew of the band Mr. Bungle.

730pm: We make it back to Pathways and rush to dinner before the school children eat dinner. We talk about our planned day trip into Delhi the next day, where we’ll visit some ruins, the Ba’hai Lotus Temple, the Indian Institute of Technology for an industrial design meet and greet, and have dinner at a rich businessman’s house.

1000pm: We smoke cigarillos on our dorm patio, talking of life, religion and India. The sign outside the Pathways school says “Learn. Work. Play. Think. Live.”

I sleep like a baby.

Many of the larger trips I’ve taken have had a somewhat smooth mental transition between the “Non-Trip” mode and the “Trip” mode. For example, about a week before the month long road trip I took this summer with Mark, I had already begun the process of mentally checking out, of distancing myself from work and DC and slowly entering the nomad mindset. Once we finally got around to actually leaving, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

This time, not so much. Not being able (or wanting, for that matter) to take my work laptop meant having to finish 8 weeks of work before I hopped on the plane. Though I was certainly capable of the task (</flex>), it followed my normal work speed progression. 10 days left, 25 things to do (2.5 per day). 8 days left, 22 things to do (2.75 per day), 6 days left, 18 things to do (3 per day), and so on, all the way up to 1 day left, 6 things to do (…). Starting slow and finishing at what can only be considered a heroic pace. I managed to squeak it out in the end, but it wasn’t very pretty.
 
Since mine is a primarily mental job where my productivity is based on how well I can concentrate, having to increase my work speed means continually ramping up my concentration to the point where I enter a world solely populated by weird philosophical, legal and technical concepts for 12 hours a day. Reality takes a backseat to this fantasy land of patents. Normally I leave myself a couple of days for decompression, but not this time. I was running at full speed ahead through my fantasy land for so close up until my plane flight that I barely had time to mentally grab my bag as I flew out the door.

And then it was done. I was on a plane. No laptop. No responsibility. Not much of an actual, concrete plan. Three pairs of underwear. Eight weeks.

I feel dizzy.

(posted in Amsterdam)

Salt Lake City is home to a number of famous institutions, though many aren’t famous for the same reasons. The Church of the Later Day Saints (Mormons) is headquartered at the intersection of Temple St. and State St., where it oversees a global religion of 13 million adherents. The SCO Group, famous for claiming that Linux violated its copyrights and demanding license payments from all users, is located in a non-descript building in Lindon.

But perhaps the most important institution, the bedrock of what keeps me coming back again and again (aside from my family), is the bountiful and beautiful snow capped Wasatch mountain range.

Skiing is a way of life in the winter. We normally leave the house at around 8:30, make the 20 minute drive up to Snowbird, ski until we’re tired and make it home by 4:00. We play cards at lunch, drink juice packs, eat the occasional chili cheese fries, and generally have a relaxing day on the double black diamonds. Snowbird lies at the top of Little Cottonwood Canyon, a steep, twisting drive up into the heart of the Wasatch Range. Most of the road is only two lanes wide with the occasional passing lane, with one side being a mountain and the other being a quick drop into a cliff or stream.

One notable day several years ago, I had what alcoholics refer to as a ‘moment of clarity’. I was in the passenger seat as we snaked up through the valley on our way to ski, and I was paying attention to the line of cars we had found ourselves intermingled with. Not everyone drives the same speed, and not everyone takes this fact pragmatically.

Several cars behind us was a big, impatient SUV. He was hugging the car in front of him, and whenever even a small stretch of road appeared he would make a move to pass. Slowly he worked his way up to our car, and started to wait for another opening in the road.

Other cars would pass us coming down the mountain at irregular intervals, but it seems that such was the need to keep moving that the SUV decided to pass on a nearly blind turn. I instinctively grabbed my armrests as the SUV roared by us, achieving a probable 3 miles-per-gallon on a push that saw it miss an oncoming sedan by no more than a three second margin. Further acts of automobile heroism saw him inch up, car by car, until he was out of sight.

Approximately five minutes later, when we pulled into the parking lot, I spotted the SUV about 8 cars to our right. The SUV that had risked death and atmospheric insurance premiums to forge ahead of us was only about 25 seconds walking closer to the lift than we were. We put on our ski clothes, grabbed our gear and started the short hike. As we passed, I saw the two passengers standing next to the SUV’s side door, finishing their coffees. By the time I had lost sight of them they still hadn’t even gotten their skis out.

Between the ages of 20 and 22, I received four speeding tickets that cost me a total of about $600, not counting increased insurance premiums. In retrospect, only one of them wasn’t strictly deserved (I swear the school zone blinker wasn’t on), and all of them were in situations where I wasn’t even in a hurry. I’ve never been in a bad car accident, but watching the SUV take the blind turn scared me in a deep, primal way.

Every time I find myself driving fast, I think back to walking by those SUV drivers, their coffee, and the 25 extra seconds of contemplation, and ask myself, “Why?”

It’s sometime past “late” and before “really late”, but apparently not yet “late enough”.

The Internet dances and sings to me through blog posts, YouTube clips of political gaffes and rambling counter arguments. I read narrow-minded opinions regarding things I don’t care about. reddit.com hasn’t changed at all in the last fifteen refreshes, not that it really ever does anymore. The computer games are boring, the book I’m reading is in a dull spot, and my buddy list is filled with idle icons.

Eventually I try again. I pause the music, close the lid to my laptop, turn off the lights and lay down on my bed. The memories of the momentary distractions fade away until my bedroom grows quiet. It’s just me, the darkness and the absolutely insanity that occasionally roars inside my brain.

It’s not always the same insanity, and it’s not always there. It seems to come and go with the moon, or some other celestial body of insanity. Sometimes I worry about the heat death of the universe. The distinct possibility of nuclear war and the shortsightedness of our foreign relations. Other times I can’t stop thinking about what happens when you die. About whether or not I’m a failure in some ‘meaning of life’ sense. The normal methods to change the channel rarely work once the lights are out. The insanity is enough to keep me awake, and I lay there until a miracle happens and I actually fall asleep.

I used to think the 3AM doldrums only struck when you were alone. Once in college I was asleep on my futon, my girlfriend snuggled up on my arm, and for the absolute life of me I could not mentally get past the meaninglessness of existence. I’d try to think about other things, about school, or work, or her, but I kept coming back to the idea that we’re all pushing around dirt on a poisoned planet that will be gobbled up by a supernova long after we’re all dead.

Eventually I woke her up and asked her to tell me a story. She looked at me for a moment, but must have understood the scared look on my face. I don’t remember what she said or what story she told, but I remember laughing and falling asleep.

I don’t chalk it up to actual insanity. We all have demons or thoughts that inhabit the dark corners of our brain. The insecurities and fears that lurk just beneath our conscious thoughts, just waiting for that quiet hour of the night when there’s absolutely nothing left to defend against them.

Being alone with nothing but your own insanity is important from time to time. All the little ways we hide start to fail, and we’re forced to confront what we’re really worried about. When I worry about the meaninglessness of existence I’m occasionally worrying about why I can’t find much meaning in my existence. Sometimes it’s simply related to having a shitty day.

Some people watch movies or TV to escape the 3AM hour. Some drink until they pass out. Some stay up playing games or reading on the internet until their brain just shuts off. Others refuse to ever let themselves be alone in a bed, reason and good taste be damned.

It’s useful to find some peace within yourself, because you can’t hide forever; everyone’s alone at 3AM.

At many points during my road trip this summer I had the opportunity to lie on my back and stare at the unpolluted stars. After spending a minute to find the Big Dipper and follow its handle to the northern star, Polaris, I realized I had never seen the southern star (some punk upstart named Sigma Octantis). For that matter, I hadn’t seen an entire portion of the night sky, merely by virtue of being a resident of the Northern Hemisphere.

Assuming a clear night and an unobstructed view to the horizon, you can see half the sky at night. Part of that sky doesn’t always change depending on what time of year it is (Earth revolves around the sun on a fixed rotational axis), and for us Northern Hemisphere dwellers that includes Polaris.

If I’ve spent my life in the Northern Hemisphere, how much of the sky have I never actually seen?

The answer works itself out nicely if you abstract the nights sky to the inside of a near infinite sphere and calculate the surface area of the cap of the cone carved by your horizon over the course of a year. If that explanation isn’t clear, just spend a little time staring at my diagram and equations. It’ll come to you.

The equation to calculate the portion of the night sky you’ve never seen is on the bottom right, with the only input being your latitude.

That is, to calculate the percentage of the night sky that has remained forever hidden to you by Earth’s mighty bulk, plug your latitude in for theta and get ( 1 – cos ( latitude ) ) / 2. If you prefer Lisp notation, (/ 2 (- 1 (cos latitude))).

The closest I’ve ever lived to the equator for more than a year was hurricane prone Galveston, Texas (latitude 29.28). That means the percentage of the sky that remains unseen to me is (1 – cos(29.28 degrees))/2, or a tiny 6.4%.

A lifelong resident of Wasilla, Alaska(latitude 61.58) who only got their passport last year would have missed out on a full 26.2% of the night sky.

You can use the handy dandy form below to calculate just how much of life you’re missing (needs javascript):

There are a lot of reasons to travel around the world, but up until that night of looking up at the cosmos it had never occurred to me that stargazing could be one of them.