Chennai

I lay on the hard bed and try to reshape the pillow into something resembling head support. The fan overhead groans and creaks as though it will dislodge from the ceiling at any moment. The tree outside the window reaches towards me as it sways gently, making me feel as though I am berthed on a ship rolling in high seas, rather than laying in a drab-room at the YWCA in Chennai, India.

We arrived here around midnight last night: as soon as the plane pulled up to the terminal, I knew we had landed in a place unlike any other I have ever been before. The passengers, all standing and surging to the front of the plane even before it has come to a stop, the smells, the heat, I brace myself for an adventure of a lifetime.

The dingy airport was filled with such new smells, sights and sounds that hit me in the face as I disembarked. After finally getting through the long lines at immigration and customs we rolled our luggage in procession outside to be greated by the sight of thousands of brown staring faces - then our senses were jarred by the din of cars, horns, yelling, whistling and more unfamiliar and many unwelcome smells.

As we walked through the parking lot, Robyn yelled "Keep up", and we pushed our way through the swaying crowds of people going in the opposite direction, desperate to keep the rest of the group in sight. We passed people sleeping on the ground, standing and waiting for loved ones, motorcycles whizzing through the traffic jam with women in colourful clothing riding side-saddle behind their men.

Squeezing into a minivan - we hoped our luggage made it in too - we were soon a part of a noisy traffic jam heading for the airport's exit. We merged onto a highway, the driver did not even turn to look back at oncoming traffic as he accelerated ahead. Trucks, cars and motorbikes bore down on us on every side.


The bright overhead lights illuminating us all to the curious passers-by. I reached up and switched off the light, feeling self concious. "That's better", said Robyn, "now I don't feel as though I'm riding in a fish bowl!".The poverty here is immediately apparent - corrugated iron, cardboard and cloth serve as walls, shop fronts, and street-level shelters.



Leanne points out a body, lying motionless near the centre of the road. Face down, it is surrounded by blood, as the unrelenting traffic surges by - we stare ahead each lost in our own thoughts.

It was almost midnight here, and yet there were people, cars and motorbikes everywhere! The horn was used by motorists as indicator, brake lights, and any other form of communication you can think of for the road. Lane lines do not appear to have any significance here.
We finally pulled into the YWCA and went up to our rooms. They were fairly clean, but most importantly had beds and air-conditioning!

This morning we went downstairs to the dining hall, where we had an English/Indian fusion breakfast, including toast, eggs, tea, spicy noodles, papaya and spicy fried donuts of some kind, with chillis in them. In the heat and humidity the women in our group are wearing long tops, scarves and jeans, and the men are in button-up shirts and long pants, as a sign of respect to the local culture. We are all glistening with sweat as we sip our sweet milky tea and coffee at the breakfast table.

Piling into the tiny yellow taxis that have replaced the traditional rickshaw as a means of transportation in India, called 'autos' (short for auto-rickshaw), we head off to the Powerhouse church, which meets in a movie theatre nearby.

The church is westernised and quite wealthy. As we walk in, the band is playing "How Great is our God", and we feel instantly at home here. Eric and I perform a few songs together, and John preaches, then we all go to a local restaurant called 'Sparky's'. It is an American diner, run by an American, as part of the YWAM ministry. All proceeds go to support local ministries.

Eric is excited to see 'Buffalo Chicken Wings' on the menu - he can't believe his luck. He says, 'I had to come all the way to India to get some Hot Wings!'. Then we taste them - oh well, we politely eat each one, regretting the purchase more with each bite. Not quite the real thing.
The people we meet at Powerhouse church are all lovely, welcoming, and very westernised - they seem to represent an Indian middle class, unlike the swarms of Indians we saw in the streets on the way here.

After lunch, most of us venture to Spencer Plaza shopping centre to do some shopping. I buy a long cotton top and two beautiful, colourful table runners. I embrace the bartering culture and get them for a good deal, much to Jenny's chagrin - she is adamant that if we pay the retailer more for the items, we will be helping raise the wage of the labourers who make them. Maybe she's right - but it seems unlikely.


The Plaza is fun: full of different people, colours, sights and smells. Hawkers try to get us into their shops as we stroll by, shouting 'Madam, madam!'. One, from a leather store, even follows Louise through several other shops trying to convince her to buy a leather jacket.

Today I was able to see through the obvious poverty that overwhelms you the moment you arrive, and look more closely at the people crossing the street, driving by, shopping side by side with us. There is a new wealth growing in Chennai. The city is buzzing with industry, the young people here are starting to dress in western clothes (mostly the men) and are leaving the traditions of their parents behind. India is changing, as I watch.