Longtime townie Jeff Brunell finally returned to school just before turning thirty. He’s in southern India, completing his graduate field work and taking stock. These are his findings. To see the entire series start here.
Bus Strike Tuesday on my walk to the opthamologist. I had to route along the railway tracks, under the highway, so that I wouldn’t be crossing the strike line. But I had to sit down with an expert. It was my second from last day in Kerala and there was something in my right eye – it turned out to be a freaking tiny thorn – that hadn’t budged in a week. We met while I was riding a rented scooter – immediately after I thought, I haven’t crashed yet and should probably quit while I’m ahead. A cloud of dust – it was in there somewhere – and then a week of drops, ointment, the sensation of twisting rope. It seems incredible to find a good eye doctor after 6pm. Thanks.
Out on M.G. Road. I think this is some kind of civic building in the midst of renovations.
Highway shoulder restaurant between Edapally and Kakkanad. The water in the pitchers is boiled for safety.
As you walk on through this crazy life, don’t you dare forget your GeePas.
The bus is leaving in five minutes. And in five minutes, the bus is leaving in ten minutes. And in twenty minutes, etc.
Full moon over our town, November 17th. Breaking curfew like a troubled teen.
Le rêve de vaches à la mer.
There are tons of condos being built in Kerala, too. But they don’t seem to all sit vacant.
Traffic near Ernakulam North railway station. Note the KSRTC bus at midframe and the Metro dig on the left.
Gardens beside the Children’s Park and Ernakulam Boat Jetty.
Malayalam graffiti feat. crows, mystery cup, and fish nose.
Kind of makes me want to be like, relaxed and real cool.
11/21, 5:10am
31 minutes of power left on the laptop. That was sloppy planning, me.
I made it to the gate, but only after a desperate 3am phone call to Mr. Rahul. Outside, reaching the airport, I’d found the emergency contact sheet beside my boarding pass, map of Paris, and other key documents. I was about to throw it out – here on, it’s all about dropping weight, however minute the difference – but I didn’t, just in case.
And then, the officious squat man in the plaid casuals is really interested in my passport, and tells the ladies to make sure of such and such as regards me. I assume the best, and thank him. I hit customs – and they say, where are your registration documents? Where is your exit permit?
I already wept today, repeatedly. We left, or we’re in the process. We’re not a we now. After five months of being kind of like a single entity, the students from my U.S. school have all shot off in different directions. I was the last on campus, out on the empty deck, eerily silent but for the dispirited humming of old fans. Out there because my dormitory has a ten o’clock curfew, and between then and 5:30am, everyone’s locked in, or out. So I sat outside with my still-too-big-for-Easyjet bags, sweating horrific one last time.
Left my room in Kerala like a clean hostel, like I found it. I detailed the toilet and floors, even though my final shower silted the whole rig up again. I threw it all in a bag – or, I sent some of it home in a mildewed, third-generation box that I bought from a disdainful antiques shopkeeper and had to wrap in anonymous brown paper by order of the Ernakulam post office; I left some of it on the built-in cement shelf. I left some books, some second-generation suntan lotion, the kicked-down boiling water miracle machine, my dhoti, a tourist road atlas of Rajasthan.
I threw the rest in a bag, and Kuwait Airlines says that bag is still too heavy.
Rahul answered the phone at 3am because he’s the sort of person whose kindness and sense of duty absolutely blow my mind, redefine the parameters of what those qualities mean. And that’s what did it this afternoon, when the sudden flood hit – at our informal summary presentation, basically unexpected, and non-negotiable, like the customs agent said was the case of my non-travel eligibility.
Because I’ve been thinking about it all month, you know – I’ve been processing it, because I believe in that kind of thing and I’m studying that kind of thing. And because I’m morbid – if there’s an abyss coming up, I’m going to be transfixed. So where did it come from? Because I lost it like I haven’t since Celly said she was done; like I hadn’t before that since 2003, when my uncle died.
And it was joy, or something nearer to it than to grief, anyway. Like when a few tears jumped me on the flight out of DC, over the Atlantic – this overwhelming sense of being so fucking lucky and surrounded by such love and support.
Well, it’s dopey, I realize.
But I wasn’t alone in it, though I think that my histrionics were most markedly out of proportion versus my usual cowboy surgical composure. Looking around that room, students I’ve spent an intimate half-year with and the professors who have taught and advised us, I realized viscerally what I’d intellectualized all month: this was some kind of powerful thing that I had wandered into.
I got through my Power Point; then, bit my lip and fist while the teachers spoke of their pride in us and as my peers spoke so glowingly of each other.
The meeting adjourned for high tea.
I excused myself, to set down the transit paperwork I’d been printing out before the presentations. I went back to my room and fell heavily against the door as I closed it behind me. Heaving. Made it to the bathroom and crumpled to the ground, no longer making any effort to hold it together.
After wondering since June if my nightly guitar – 8:45 ‘til 10:00pm, worst – disturbed my neighbors, I let it rip and wailed like the kids at the daycare center downstairs. Fucking howled. Like something was getting ripped out.
Which is weird, right, because I’ve been telling myself that I’ve –
More building underway near Chakkaraparambu Junction bus stop.
Spooning with my pack, upper berth on the overnight train.
Glamorous conduct, Baga beach.
Say goodbye to Mollywood.
Long-distance trucks outside the local bar, Kalamassery.
A desert-themed hookah bar and known hot spot. Late o’clock, our last night in Kochi.
12/4, 5:30am
The power cut out, because I’d left my charger back on that campus deck. I was trying to post the last of those songs, and I was quarreling online with my best friend for nothing but sloppy discharge of dumb anxiety.
I was training for a job waiting tables, one which I ultimately kept for less than a week, back around 2002. It was lunchtime, and the bartender I was shadowing said, “Look, it’s about to get crazy in here and I won’t really be able to stop and talk to you for the next couple of hours. If you’re overwhelmed, just wave the tables off to me. One thing – the busier you are, the slower you have to go.”
That’s fucking great advice, alright. And I didn’t heed it, vis-à-vis the power supply.
I’m in Switzerland. My last night here with three of my favorite people, friends I’ve known for years. Feeling lucky and humbled and overwhelmed that I’m about to turn thirty-one and that I have this chance to poke around Europe for the first time. On my way back West, on the money I saved by living without rent, auto, or food budgets for the last five months. On another echo of the unfathomable generosity of India.
So I’m not going to try to finish that sentence left hanging when my computer – another gift; thanks for the surfboard, world – powered down back in Kochi airport. Because the point was to write everyday and now, weeks later, I haven’t been writing, and the mood is different, and I don’t want to contort myself for some approximation of what was pretty obviously a raw kind of day. Since the only thing perhaps tackier than blasting that sort of business all over the place is trying to pull out a nose hair and feign it later.
I’m relieved to be through this exercise. Thanks for the platform, What Weekly. And to anyone still reading, thanks for peering deep into my belly button with me over these last few months. If you’re wondering why I never got to the details of the work we were doing – I realized as soon as I took on this project that it’s too dodgy a thing, talking about clients and host organizations and colleagues in a public forum like this. So I erred, heavily, on the side of omission. Know this: it’s been an overwhelmingly positive experience; if not for confidentiality and ethics, I’d mostly gush, anyway; and I did more than just hang out with spellbinding goats and ride buses between June and today.
But God, such goats and buses.
Life full of life.
Fun enthusiasts.
Epic trash fire, 2013.
Bored restauranteur, Ft. Kochi.
Sunset just off campus, my last night in Kerala.
Night four in love with a dinged-up Honda scooter.
MiND Killer PeaCock.
I should have made a note of whatever it was somebody wrote in that dust.
Great Kochi graffiti – going out to Inky the dog, wherever you are!
There aren’t a lot of NO PARKING signs around here.
Last walk out to the bus.
Follow @whatweekly
