Smell that? It's not urine.

Plane has landed safely. Acrid aromas fill my nose: This is what New Delhi smells like. Urine, decay and heat. The bitterness wears off after awhile and as we dodge cyclists and dogs in the car on the way to the hostel, I feel safe in the care of an aggressively confident motorist; if he can anticipate the swerving, we might just arrive.

Since then, I have gotten very little sleep, and woken up to a land of, you guessed it, contrast. Beneath world class sky scrapers lie families living in abandoned lots, cooking over scrap wood. Walking around, my two companions and I--a woman from Germany and a tall man from California--get alot of stares. The hardest part is wanting to stare back, to look into the lives of these people, but being afraid to. Or, knowing if I look that street child in the eye he won't stop asking for money or food until I give in and hand out. We find a garden that wipes completely the smell of the city out of my nose.

With the pressure and the heat--97 F-- it is enough after 2 hours to head back to the comfort of the rooms. More volunteers arrive, some depart, and we eat delicious lunch. I have found a travelling companion, and look forward to the next few weeks here. It's going to be alright.