The Foreign Service Journal, October 2003

58 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / O C T O B E R 2 0 0 3 he early morning was crisp in the way that only Delhi winters can be: a cold, easy fog enveloping the streets as the city awakens, rousing everyone with the smell of damp pollution and dust. I was hunkered down in the seat of the bus, keeping my head turned just enough to avoid inhaling the mildew on the curtains, sulking to myself but trying to smile and stave off fatigue. I glanced around in search of familiar faces and found only those of the family friends that were dragging me along on this excursion. The World Health Organization had asked for volunteers to aid in their drive to eradicate polio; my brief demonstration of curiosity had landed me a free seat on the bus. We had only been posted in New Delhi for a few months, but I had lived on the other side of the Line of Control in Islamabad, for years. The language had a ring of familiarity, the local dress could have been taken from either country, and the food had the comfortable taste of familiar spices. Nothing could faze me, I was sure. Now that I had survived the usual struggle of transition between international schools (nothing new), I was the tried-and-true poster child for “Foreign Service brats” everywhere. Or so I thought. But as we rambled down potholed roads toward the outskirts of Delhi on the rickety old bus that morning, I had to wonder whom I was kidding. After all, my experience in the medical field did not extend much beyond first aid. By the time we reached our assigned “village,” the orange glow of the sun was just peeking over the horizon, slowly warming the still-empty unpaved roads. A few of us set up shop in an empty schoolhouse. The concrete building trapped the chilly air; the kids who were already waiting in line danced and hopped back and forth to keep their bare toes warm. A kid with a distinctively disheveled mop of hair, whose eyes only came to about two inches above the table, looked briefly at me. But when I returned his gaze, curious to find out what would happen next, he looked away. The other volunteers and I struggled for almost 20 min- utes before innovation granted us a way to crack open the seals on the polio vaccines. Family after family trekked toward the schoolhouse, children under the age of 5 in tow. Bigger siblings carried younger ones because their parents were working; most of the time the older siblings were still young enough to need the vaccine. I did a double take at a girl with drooping pigtails who approached our table, her eyes cast toward to the ground — for she had already received a shot just moments before. She was not the only one to circle back, either: village myths held that if one dose was enough to prevent polio, two doses could surely make a child healthy. We quickly learned to watch for the purple stains on the fingernails that unmistak- ably say: you’ve seen this child before. Our translator, finishing his chai after a quick break, non- chalantly suggested we take a walk through the village. I asked him why, and he looked back at me and said matter- of-factly, “We must treat the children whose parents don’t believe in vaccinating them.” Step by step, I did my own kind of haphazard dance through the streets to dodge piles Sarah Taylor is the daughter of Betsy and Dr. Brooks Taylor, the regional medical officer in New Delhi. In addi- tion to winning a 2003 AFSA Merit Award, she was hon- ored by AFSA for submitting this essay, which was judged the best in this year’s competition. A graduate of the American Embassy School in New Delhi, she is now a freshman at Haverford College in Pennsylvania. B Y S ARAH T AYLOR T INCTURES FOR A G APING W OUND A VISIT TO AN I NDIAN VILLAGE HAS LASTING LESSONS FOR A SELF - DECLARED “F OREIGN S ERVICE BRAT .” T