Time to Rally

The few days in Jodhpur were for preparation-sorting the medical supplies and packing them into Rajastani metal trunks or pink and orange burlap packs that were stamped with curling Hindi lettering, apparently the logo and name of a tea farm. Cell phone cards were purchased and distributed, Rally for Health T shirts were allocated. Our team became complete once the Indian doctors all arrived to the guest house; their trains had been delayed and overbooked due to the Eid holiday.

Perhaps most significant was that the rickshaws arrived! We went to an open cricket field and took our first go at driving, working the hand clutch and feeling out the break. The steering was rather sensitive, a small adjustment and these glorified golf carts will pitch left or right, causing the backseat passengers to cling to the ornamental side bars or roof tops. We practiced carving tire track arcs into the dust, as the rickshaw owners nervously reached over our arms to grab the handle bars and initiate corrections. Their faces were unsmiling and we could tell they were skeptical, if not full of consternation, as to why these Americans and dignified metropolitan Indians would choose and insist on transporting across northern India in street carts with a max speed of 35k. From the edge of the field where the dust clouds merged with the sunset, school children giggled, and a lone cow regarded the entire scene with unblinking eyes.  At the end of the day, we assured the rickshaw owners that we would guard their taxi vehicles like family. We parted with instructions that by tomorrow morning all rickshaws MUST have functioning horns, headlights, and be equipped with one spare tire each. We knew these vehicles were a lone source of livelihood for these drivers and their families. We provided deposits and shook hands. Ok? Ok. Danney What—Thank you.

The next morning we were up early, crowded in the narrow alley outside the guest house entrance. It was time to go. We packed the rickshaws with supplies and began to decorate them for the launch. Each vehicle was adorned with an Indian and American flag, Rally for Health logo stickers, sari silk and garlands of marigolds. Like small children excited over a first Christmas tree, we dashed about, admiring our work, pleased with last minute additions of a trumpet horn, Rajastani embroidered umbrellas, prayer flags and hindi dieties, and cellophane flowers. Shop keepers and passersby gathered to watch the spectacle. Finally, the command "Challo Chellie" circulated. We piled into our assigned carts, and spiraled through the streets of Jodhpur, reached the red highway, and headed northeast for the desert town of Osian, our first clinic site.  

Three hours and two roadside chai stops later, we arrived at the estate of our sponsor and host. Bom Sah’s staff greeted us with flower garlands and blessed us with tikka and rice, the red thumb print between the eye brows. We were welcomed with speeches, more chai, shown our dorm style housing, and ushered into a stadium like courtyard that would be the site of tomorrow’s clinic. We were made aware that Bom Sah would visit us tomorrow, and that we could expect between 1,800 to 2,000 patients to attend. We surveyed the many bags and boxes of medical supplies arriving, to supplement the small lot we were transporting, and began to run through plans for the next day.

As I took my bucket bath, a cool breeze surprised me with goose bumps for the first time since exiting the airport 2 days ago. Night time dropped its curtain, and the sand lost it's radiant heat. I peered through the grated window and saw copper cauldrons of dhal and rice being carried from cook fires by men with creased leather faces and inky eyes. It seemed that all the women were tucked away in this town, and I wondered what they thought of me, with my uncovered hair and eyes, lifting luggage and bags of medicine, gently but firmly giving direction. I found it difficult to avert my gaze, and realized that I was somewhere between amusing and unsettling them, as it seemed I so frequently allowed my voice to be heard.