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As I stood in the shower this morning down the hall, I watched a long line of ants march their way up to the rusty shower head. They were tiny and I marveled at their organization. They exited through a small hole in the concrete just below the shower head that jutted out of the wall near the ceiling. I cherished my daily showers. For a few minutes I fought back the blanket of heat, and the wall of filth that enveloped the cities and towns. With my bar of soap in hand and a cold, steady stream of water shooting out of the wall, I thought of my family. My twin sister Dana would certainly scream and leap out of the shower at such a sight. I, however, reveled in the fact that I could support such a crude environment. After only a week in India, I could now comfortably share a cramped shower with a long trail of ants. I didn\'t mind their company and they certainly didn\'t seem bothered by my constant gaze. I was never a big fan of insects, but a week in India changed my outlook. Apathy replaced fear. Roaches, ants and tiny lizards crossed my path daily and I no longer cared. I barely blinked an eye. "Keith, are you sure you\'re ok?" my mother would certainly inquire. "Yes, mom, it was just a line of ants, nothing to worry about." We left our guest house at 7:15 and walked to the train station with our heavy backpacks. The sky was dark and menacing clouds hung over the city as we lumbered the short distance to the station. Within a few steps, my feet were already sprinkled with mud from the busy street. Sweat began to ring my waist area, where a large, black belt anchored the metal frame to my back. I was ready for another shower. We arrived at the train station and I marched towards the ticket and information window, which was mobbed by a small army of about 10 Indians, all shouting at a thin man standing behind a barred window. The man had a large ledger opened in front of him. Hands flailed and bodies squirmed as the gathered Indians competed for the attention of the information officer. The scene was chaotic. After about ten minutes, I finally moved into position in front of the window. Indians pressed me from behind and pushed at my sides. Veronique stood out of the madness a few feet away. "Gwalior!" I shouted at the man. He tilted his head, which I took as a signal that the information I had just bellowed was understood. I gazed beyond the small thin frame of the clerk in front of me and saw a few men sipping tea near the back of the cramped office. The clerk then turned a few pages in the monstrous ledger in front of him and looked back at me. He pointed to his watch, tapping it a few times. "Late!" he shouted back. "How late!" I yelled, simultaneously pushing a pesky Indian man that was trying to take my coveted space in front of the window. Again, the worker paused and looked back at his two colleagues in the back of the office. They exchanged a few phrases in Hindi. The whole process was maddeningly slow and I started to become a little frustrated. "EEE-LEV-EN-DIRTY!" Turning my head to Veronique, I said, "The train is three-and-a-half hours late," I struggled to hold my position in front of the window as more Indians converged around me. Now, I was plain disgusted. Why couldn\'t they line up in an orderly manner? "OkTWO TICKETS PLEASE." The Indian man tilted his head. "No TEEKETS!" "WHY?" Again, he tilted his head and glanced down at his ledger. Now, I was glad there were bars separating us because I felt an urge to jump over the counter and tackle him. "TEEKETS OVER DERE!" He pointed to another barred window on the other side of the platform. The sign above the window in front of me was sloppily etched with: "TICKETS/INFORMATION." "SIGN SAYS TICKETS!" I screamed. My growing rage had no effect on the officer. "NO TEEKETS!" He tilted his head again. The roar of the crowd around me was now approaching a deafening level. I shook my head in disappoint and resignation. I was exhausted. I held my position for a few more seconds, contemplating my next move. To continue my fruitless dialogue with this man was a waste of time. Soaked in sweat, I decided to step aside. My window position was instantly swallowed up as I bullied my way past the riotous crowd to the relative serenity of the concrete interior of the station alongside Veronique. We walked across the spacious interior of the station and purchased our tickets at another window. During my first week in India, my patience was constantly tested. Most often, it was the lack of organization and infrastructure in the basic services provided by the cities that drove me to brink of madness. Simple signs marked "INFORMATION" at many train stations were blatant misnomers. Instead of dispensing information, neatly dressed clerks leafed through monstrous-sized ledgers and chatted incessantly with their colleagues. As ceiling fans whirred overhead and Indians screamed in an attempt to attract attention, the clerks sipped tea and tilted their heads. Purchasing a stamp, exchanging money and buying train tickets-all simple tasks in the West, were complex procedures here. 7/31/94 - Finally departed at 11:30 am and arrived in Gwalior at about 1:45pm.It is a bit smaller than Agra, markedly calmer with less tourists. In fact, I never saw any other Westerners here. We got plenty of looks however. Upon our arrival in Gwalior, we found a guest house near the train station and took an auto rickshaw to the center of town under a blazing Indian sun. The heat comes and goes in waves. During the frequent monsoon showers, the temperatures are quite comfortable, although the thick, blanket-like humidity is still quite evident. As soon as the rain stops and the sun peeks through clouds, the temperature skyrockets and the oven-like air begins its assault on the body. We wandered around the center of the city for much of the afternoon, browsing through the multitude of stores that lined the busy streets. The roads were congested, but unlike Delhi, I wasn\'t as intimidated here. The suffocating crowds were growing on me. I steered my way through the chaotic streets with greater ease. From the shadow of the Himalayas in the North to the city of Kanniyakumari at the continent\'s southernmost tip, the people move and sway, like a giant undulating wave. My fear of being swallowed up by this powerful wave of humanity
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