Two Rivers

written by Nathan

A Brief history of related lives of Shroyers and Humes

I.

In 1830, several families set out from the Monoghahalia valley in far western Pennsylvania. They were walking to a new frontier where no villages had yet settled. With them they brought all the necessary belongings in ox-carts and horse and buggy. Sheep and cows were herded beside the caravan.

The carriages were full, so the families walked. They brought their livestock of cows, pigs, goats, chickens, and squab. They brought seeds to plant. When they arrived at their new location in tiny Selma, Indiana six weeks later the families had to stay in in the ox-carts and carriages for the winter as the houses they began constructing that Autumn were far from complete. Temperatures that winter dropped below freezing for many weeks on end. They had to rely on hard work and help one another.

Before reaching western Pennsylvania from which this Shroyer journey sprung, generations of families - Jones, Hopkins, Euwellen, and Shroyer - had already lived, married, and settled together. They had bonds of family and belief. These were very pious people with trusted leadership who helped one another.

In the late 1800's, the Shroyer's migrated a third time to South Dakota. After half a generation, they returned to Muncie, Indiana before making another migration to Crockett, Texas where my grandfather and father were born and raised.

In my own childhood of the 1970's, my Shroyer grandparents lived in such faraway places as Abu Dhabi, South Africa, London, Malta, and Netherlands (interesting and confusingly another family name).

I am indebted to my Shroyer ancestors for giving me the confidence to start new beginnings

II.

In the 1830's many of my Hume family ancestors (another family which had immigrated to the United States before the Revolutionary War with Britain) answered a call for missionaries to go into the world and serve. They asked and got congregational support for following the word of God because their faith demanded that they share God's love.

The Hume family's America Mission, while dedicated to spreading Christianity in India, was to serve a  humanitarian mission. They would sail off to India three months at a time to get back and forth to the USA (not including several long stops). Here, in far away lands on the other side of the globe, they would live for three generations. Once they reached Bombay, they had to live on board their boat several months to gain permission to land. The East India Company (which was running business in India) forbade all missionaries from entering India. After appeals for their mission reached parliament in England, special permission was given.

After being raised in Bombay (now Mumbai), India, my great grandfather Edward Hicks Hume went back to the USA for education and became a doctor. He joined up with some college classmates and left for a new

mission to China. On the way, he and his new wife Lotta stopped over in Bombay for a year to volunteer as doctor and nurse at missions his parents and grandparents had begun 60 years prior. Because of my Hume

ancestors fierce dedication to service, I grew up with a grandmother who spoke Chinese and had stories of narrowly escaping the violence of revolutionary wars in China.

III.

When I first came to India, my mother insisted that I understand how our family histories are imperfect. My family's risks, their adventures, their service had not been without mistakes and suffering. In the case of my missionary ancestors, their insistence on introducing western ideas and politics in China and India had likely

caused untold rippling effects that were lasting through to today. 

Similarly, when my Shroyer family migrated to Indiana, South Dakota, and Texas they settled on indigenous land belonging to others. They had land grants; but the use of these grants displaced

None of these families were perfect. Each family had 'black sheep' and hidden sin (for whom they assigned their forgiveness, banishment, or reconciliation - over often extended periods of time). Nor was any family life easy. There were conflicts. They had trouble with other families, settlers, religions, or native peoples.

As our world 'flattens,' as distances become smaller, as travel and migrations are recognized and normal, as our economic participation and advantages muddy in streams of global economies - recognizing the gifts and privileges afforded us today, thanks belong to these ancestors.

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We Do Not Know Ethiopia: Bahir Dar

We do not know Ethiopia. We have been here but a few days, and we only have some small impression. This is a kind place, friendly smiles are everywhere. As our journey progresses, we will have a fuller impression. Thus far, we have left Addis Ababa and traveled north, staying one night in Debre Markos (Church of St Mark) and spent thee days in Bahir Dar on Lake Tana.

Impressions are useful and hard to get over. There useful side can provide comfort (people in Ethiopia are honest and friendly). The hard to get over aspect of impressions are mostly negative. Ethiopia in my lifetime came into focus as a mass starvation of the 1980’s. Apparently, this is when it came to the world’s attention also. The millions who died in then Ethiopian famine left a legacy which is hard for us to face. Yet, this legacy is pervasive in the identity of what we see in Ethiopia today.

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Public art in Mumbai

written by nathan 

Lively, vivacious Bombay - the heartbeat of India.

Public art and public-ness are everywhere in Mumbai (Bombay). Mumbai is a city which mirrors our modern times. Even its name is a willingness for change. Mumbai is Bombay.

In Mumbai, we stumbled upon the School of Art near V.T. station in downtown. Here they have mural art and spray can (graffiti art) covering the public walls. These canvasses are painted by some great students.

One of the pieces I really love is a graffiti collage of murals in which a character from one mural gently reaches around the corner and pinches a car in an adjoining mural. It symbolized for me an often playful and communal character at work in public art.

Our friends Jenny and Hank Sultan of San Francisco would love the murals of Bombay. They are longtime supporters of public art. Jenny and Hank are some of our favorite friends to think of when we stumble

upon great public art. Hank has been a long time supporter of Precita Eyes, in the Mission District of San Francisco whose mission it is to produce and preserve mural arts. Jenny and Hank would love the murals

surrounding the large campus courtyard at the Arts University in Mumbai. Even more than this, they would love the kilometers of murals painted on the walls running beside train tracks around Mumbai.

What can we each do to preserve and promote more public arts in our community?

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Namaste

Today is our last day in India....six weeks have passed so quickly!

It has been an incredible journey, we promise to fill in the details soon.

However, due to a big computer issue (did you realize that window can just "suddenly become corrupt" with virtually no reason?), our blogs will not be updated today....and probably not tomorrow.

For at 5AM (on the 25th) we leave for Ethiopia.

Stay tuned.

Much love and Namaste.

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The Validity of Work and Rose Milk

I write this piece in a place of utter honesty: The Sevagram Ashram. This Ashram was established by Ghandi in 1936 to progress rural sustainability and service work. Our journey has led us here.

To tell the truth, the last month in India has been a struggle for me. I have felt uncomfortable and ill at ease here. I have wished that our departure was closer. I have despaired of my feelings and sentiments, which has only increased my discomfort. I am perpetually exhausted: my dreams are filled with anxiety and attackers and price negotiations and strife and struggle. I awake despondent and low. I yearn for peace.

I wanted so much to love this country: India had been on my “places to visit” list since I was a teenager, and I anticipated a country that would be easy for me to adore. I can pick out a list of things in India that I do love - rose milk, amazing textiles, lovely countryside, chai tea with cardamom, vegetarian food, the Chauhan’s, free-roaming and happy cows in the streets, beautiful women wearing intricate gold jewelry, sweet curd, the word “Namaste” and the prayer-like action that accompanies it, holy men in the midst of society, friends in Hindmotor - but the overall sentiment has not been a positive one. I cannot say that I have enjoyed the entirety of India.

A large part of my struggle has been our service, or lack thereof. Our goal for this “Honey Service Year” was ambitious and boldly stated, and although I believe strongly in our efforts, the responsibility of following our intent causes me anxiety. So many of our friends and family and acquaintances supported our mission both in spirit and in wallet; sometimes I feel that we are letting everyone down. Especially here in India, where our service has, thus far, been so absent.

But, in this heavy afternoon air, the hot Indian sunshine threatening to burst the clay walls of our Ashram guestroom, I understand. I realize why India has been so difficult. I realize how difficult our work has been, especially for me. I cry with the realization and the epiphany and the appreciation of us both.

For here, in Ghandi’s place, our journey makes sense. Our daily work seems real and valid and more poignant that I have understood.

This morning we joined seven other Ashramites before dawn, and sat upon the simple clay verandah of Ghandi’s hut. I listened to chanting and singing in Hindu, following the intonations and tones and rhythm, while understanding nothing of the words. Suddenly, to my thus-uncomprehending ears, issued forth an English version of the “Lord’s Prayer.” I could join in, my voice melding with gentle voices in the crispness that only lives in the air before sunrise.

After breakfast, we reported for service work: sunscreen applied and flip-flops ready for action. We were given the task of sweeping the cow paddock, using bundled branches as brooms, and working our way through the hulking, cud-chewing cows. One young cow followed me throughout my task, bumping her milky head against my body, seeking a caress. We swept the pasture clear of hay and branches, working around the mounds of manure. Then, the manure was picked up with our bare hands, and loaded into a large pit, where it is eventually gleaned of methane gas to fuel the kitchen.

While we worked, Indians passed: many people visit the Ashram to learn about and remember Ghandi. Soon there was a crowd of ten men standing in front of the paddock, watching the foreigners picking up manure with their bare hands. Although I was aware of their presence, I was mostly lost in my work, relishing the dust and the heat and the fragrance of cows that surrounded me. People were talking and taking pictures.

How can I explain, to all of you so far away, how monumental was our service in the cow paddock? India is built on caste levels that a person is born into, and that prohibit movement to higher or lower or different caste/class levels. In a land where classism and caste-ism dictate Indian culture, our work in that pasture, in front of a group of Indians, was profound. It was so much more than the physical act of sweeping a pasture. It was so much more than helping to fuel the stove that would cook our lunch and dinner. Our work was much larger than the act itself. It was a statement. It was a clear and literal act of Ghandi’s message and principles.

It wasn’t until we arrived here, at the Ashram, and I re-read Ghandi’s words and his mission and his beliefs, that our service work suddenly made sense. In the way that we present ourselves and how we experience India has resulted in daily work that questions and shows our disregard for a discriminatory and classist structure. Being here, in Ghandi’s home, I realize our work in India has been this, every day, every moment. Every day that we strive to see the world from the eyes of the common, the poor, the regular, the local, the “walas,” we say something about ourselves and the place that we are from. We have been acting out Ghandi’s message every day that we have been in India. I just didn’t realize the impact of our work, or understand how dramatic a statement our daily activities have been. Here in India, people like “us” don’t walk in the streets among the dust and the dirt and the urine. And they don’t eat street food. And they don’t have conversations with people of a lower caste. And they certainly don’t pick up cow shit with their bare hands.

I also now understand why India hurts me so, and why I continue to allow myself to be hurt. Because it is bigger than me.

Traveling through India is more intense and uncomfortable for me than it is for Nathan, although I know that my discomfort causes him, in turn, great discomfort. But it’s been truly awful. In a male-dominated society, filled with extreme sexual repression, I am ogled and oggled and leered at and the subject of unrelenting stares from the male population. It makes me feel vulnerable and objectified and uncomfortable and awful about who I am. I have been seriously considering a burka, no joke. It’s difficult to be caught in the middle: I can’t be who I am here, and I certainly can’t pose as an Indian, no matter how elaborate the saree or henna or tanning cream. And I have just wanted to disappear under a heavy burka and be an ostrich. But something has prevented me, and it’s been more than the reluctance to cover my body with dark cloth in such a hot land. It’s because the moment that I hide myself, I cease to deliver my statement about my view of the world and the role of women within it. We are not here to be oggled in a way that makes us feel self-conscious and uncomfortable. We are not here to be objectified. Just because my skin is fair, my clothing different, and my eyes a lighter color doesn’t mean that I don’t walk the streets instead of taking rickshaws, or eat at Thali food stands on the street instead of an indoor restaurant, wash my laundry by hand instead of sending it out. We are people, no matter what we look like or where we come from.

And it’s hard work, each day. Harder than you could imagine, but suddenly, I understand the work. And I will continue to work, though it makes me cry and feel awful. It’s the hardest work I think that I have ever done. But, again, it‘s bigger than me. And the feeling of being part of something larger makes me feel less vulnerable, less alone, part of something larger.

What a tremendous feeling.

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The Chauhan Family and Civil Rights

We are always thankful for balance that friends give us. We share joys, our sadness, our hopes. We share our common inspirations and our values. Because of friends we have the ability to change our lives, our work, our world. We cannot know exactly what brings us together except good fortune and ancestors.

My friend Sara Chauhan, I have known since I was eighteen years old. We met at Loyola University in New Orleans. We have many memories together and much in common. But, here in her ancestral home of Jabalpur, I have learned so much more about our shared family histories. And, again, I learn to not question what brings people together, to not wonder how we learn to be friends with one another.

Our grandparents would have been fast friends also.

Sara’s grandmother is memorialized by a lovely statue outside of the government center here in Jabalpur. She is known across India for her revolutionary poetry which she wrote during her work for the Congress Party - the party of Ghandi and Nehru which gained India‘s independence from England in 1947.

When we visited the park with Grandma Chauhan’s statue, workers were enjoying lunch and tea under shady groves. A cow chewed his cud peacefully in the driveway. Flowers were in bloom. There was peace.

The Congress Party in India, which Grandma Chauhan belonged to, was founded by an A.O. Hume, (surely some connection with my own Hume ancestors who lived in Bombay (Mumbai) for nearly 100 years - three generations!). When Ba & Bapu Ghandi visited Jabalpur, Grandma Chauhan hosted them.

When great-grandfathers Hume raised human rights issues in India, they were starting with backgrounds in abolitionist human rights campaigns of the middle nineteenth century in the United States. The deserved rights for Indians were very closely related to the struggles for freedom of African slaves working in the Americas. The success Revs Hume had in Bombay fighting for rights of people without castes (‘untouchables’ or dahlits), were directly tied to corresponding human rights work of the USA.

So, our ancestors were influenced by similar world events. The work of early human rights efforts, (abolitionists in the USA - anti-British revolutionaries on India), influenced my grandfather in India in the 1840’s, Sara Chauhan’s grandmother in the 1920’s, my grandfather Shroyer in the 1930’s, my own parents in the 1960’s. These triumphant human endeavors shapes our lives and future of our world today.

When my father was younger than I, his grandmother was once presented with her morning paper. The front page lead article cut was out. As she later discovered, my Aunt Ines had cut out the photo of my father being clubbed by a police officer in Houston, Texas. Working on what you believe and changing the world does not always happen without a few extra whacks! But, my father’s Grandmother Shroyer knew that the family values raised up in her grandson were strong and supported him. She was proud of him. My father practiced non-violent protest in the Civil Rights movement which was influenced by Ghandi.

I think of Sara, many friends and family, often. As they all know about me, I am always concocting ways to spend more time together, to find more common paths, and to combine our work. Sara Chauhan has always been this type of friend. She allows her friends to share her confidence in themselves. She allows us to dream. She reminds us that we are supposed to she and challenge our world beliefs. She reminds us of the importance of work, responsibility, and dignity.

We had the same experience of friendship with Sara’s nephew Ishan Chauhan. Ishan is 12 years old. He lives in Jabalpur. But, he visit’s a Shriners facility in the United States once per year for several months. Ishan was good enough to go with us to Kanha National Park. Kanha is a magical jungle where one of our recent heroes from The Snow Leopard, George Schaller, the celebrated biologist, researched tigers and was the residence and inspiration for Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book. We had such a great time with Ishan. He is a new BFF (Best Friend Forever) - translator, navigator, negotiator, and gentleman - at 12!

Traveling with Ishan reminded me of early journeys in my life: hitchhiking the USA with my father and as a young man, childhood in the woods of my grandparents in Texas and our farm house in Mississippi, hiking the Rocky Mountains and the Brooks Range. Ishan helped me appreciate many roles of friends. It is important for me to remember who has come before that make me who I am. Friends remind me who my base is, who has my back, who my friends are - Ishan Chauhan, at 12, has all these great qualities.

Luckily, family is a certain base in my life too. Looking back over my own family history, my grandfather Shroyer’s work in human rights in East Texas, my great grandfathers Humes’ mutual work in India, my grandmother Freeman’s passion for human rights into her late 80’s; it is no surprise to me that I am so interested in the world and taking stewardship for it. More important, it is so right to know from where I am now, how pleased my ancestors are with their good efforts shining onto me.

Even far away, friends give such support. Brittany and I are incredibly lucky to be on our round-the-world ‘honeyserviceyear.’ We are inspired everyday to learn, share, exchange. We are that much luckier to be following in the steps of our forbearers and to have to kind and generous support of family and friends.

I often reference ideas which change my world view while traveling. One of these is ‘Six-Degrees of Separation.’ You are never more than six degrees separated form any person in this world. It is true. Whether it is the Chauhans in India or my friends back home, we are all just degrees removed from presidents of nations and presidents of corporations, from Yak herders of the Mongolian steppes to goat herders at the furthest reach of the Andes.

You are too.

How we shape, change, and influence a better world helps us all realize wondrous connectivity. Awareness of our habitation in the world makes for living better, fuller days!

All my adult life I have remembered famous thoughts of Aristotle on Friendship. Aristotle believed in keeping a happy mean in all that we do. He said to not live life with too much or too little of anything: Not to be too drunk or straight, neither too happy nor too sad. Aristotle said that we should only have as many enemies as we have friends. While the statement may sound crude, I believe in its truth.

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India for Travelers

We spent six weeks in India (February - March 2010), flying to Kolkata, then to Delhi, and departing from Mumbai. The following blog posting is a list of our experiences and takeaways. Please note that this is not intended to be a comprehensive travel guide, but is limited to our experiences and some tips that we think might be helpful for travelers.

We have very different opinions of India, most of which is directly influenced by our genders. Brittany found India to be overwhelming and male-dominated, which brought with it objectification and feelings of vulnerability because of being a woman. Wearing a headscarf helped to lessen the oggles and leers, but it was still a difficult land in which to travel. As a man, Nathan found the experience to be very different and much more enjoyable, but Brittany’s difficulties made him uncomfortable also. But India is wonderful and incredibly diverse and filled with delicious food, rich history, and kind people. But Indians are also very inclined to “fleece” foreigners at nearly every opportunity; it’s just part of travel there. The sooner you accept it, the easier your trip will be.

If you are traveling to Africa (specifically in our case, Ethiopia) stock up on gold bangles and other gold jewelry…the replicas of course. They are so incredibly cheap in India, but the women in Ethiopia were ga-ga for them, even when they knew that they were fake gold. I had so many offers to trade lovely silver jewelry, artwork, etc. for my bangles, I wished that I had brought more that the ones I wear daily.

For the ladies: there are special “ladies compartments” on the city trains in India. Take them. Don’t even hesitate. In such a male-dominated country, it’s a real treat to be in the midst of such beautiful and brightly attired women; they will be happy to see you! Plus, the other compartments are uncomfortable and occasionally involve inappropriate touching that is difficult to prevent when packed into the steel car like sardines. If you are traveling with a guy, just make sure that you both know how many stops until you get off - sometimes you are so crowded that you cannot see the signs, you can only count the times that the trains stop.

Embrace the veg! You will most likely never miss meat, and if you do, head to a Muslim neighborhood for some cow.

Gandhi Ashram: Seagram. A wonderful place to stay and learn and contribute. Our experience here truly shaped our journey to India. However, accommodations are not free: 120 rupees/night + 40 rupees/day/food. A fantastic price, but better to be informed about the cost beforehand.

Hakman’s Grand Hotel: Mussoorie. Halfway down the mall, with views that overlook the Dun Valley. Rather outdated and slightly run-down hotel that was surely once a great lodge. Rooms have private baths and cable. 450 rupees off season and negotiation always an option. Keep your bathroom door closed…the monkeys like to come in and play!

Padni Nivas: Mussoorie. Much more expensive than the LP describes, but appears to be well worth the money. Sweet rooms and a lovely main building, Nivas is a historic hotel halfway down the mall with incredible views of Dun Valley. The best spot is a small and private cottage partway up the hill. Sprawling with well-kept gardens, pleasant staff, main building has dining room with lodge-style design (mounted heads and oversized wooden furniture). 1,000-2,500 rupees/night.

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India Is Dusty

India is dusty.

That’s a bit of an understatement.

India is dirty and crowded and dusty and desperate.

I haven’t yet found a way to explore India with my heart intact. I feel exhausted and raw at the end of each day here. I feel embarrassed by my fair skin and sensitivity. The poverty and human struggle is constant and all-pervasive and stunning. At times, the images of India are overwhelming, and too much for the human eye, soul, and heart to bear.

The eyes seek oases on which to rest.

Against the dull background of India, where every surface is covered with uniform layers of dust, bright colors seem cartoonish. They seem to have a life of their own, and dance in my vision as does a mirage on the horizon to a parched traveler.

Heaping piles of fragrant flowers are strung into garlands to adorn cows that sit contentedly in the middle of crowded streets and lumber through train stations.

The whisper of bright sarees conceal belled ankles, flashing smiles, and dark hair glowing with henna.

Shop doorways are curtained with textiles in glowing hues, patterns highlighted with sequins and fine embroidery.

Oases for the eyes and soul.

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Service and Exchange on our round-the-world honeymoon

What is service? Service and exchange are two terms that we use to describe the practical side of our travel this year. But, how one becomes of service is a journey, far different from travel alone. I use a lose definition of service and combine it with the ideas of exchange, (idea exchange, economic exchange, cultural and political exchange, service exchange). The best way to be in service while a traveler is to indulge in regular interactions. These actions can be as light-footed as our presence in an unexpected place, or, as meaningfully complex as intellectual exchange about current affairs.

What comes naturally to us is the exchange of ideas. The construction, repetition, and/or building on philosophies, values, civic mindedness, even science and of life and our current world affairs.

Travel necessitates a willingness to indulge in new ideas, to try new things, to meet new peoples. Realizing how exchange becomes service is a different act. To be in service is to be at once open to influence of others and consciously encouraging critical and new ideas to emerge in the communities we engage with. While it is easier, and normally to be more productive, to exchange with folks who have similar educational or intellectual backgrounds, we cannot limit ourselves to what is easiest in India.

We are constantly approached for two-minute street interviews. Whether testing simple English, or from a desire to know how in the world a pair of funny looking foreigners made it to Jabalpur, Nagpur, Hindmost (or even more commonly visited places like Delhi, Kolkata, or Mussoorie) our smiles, friendly gestures, or backgrounds introduction beaks down common assumptions and makes the world smaller for all of us. Yet, sometimes, a larger gift is exchanged. People are interested in international relations.

Headlines in India recently focused on poor treatments of recent Indian immigrant communities in places as far away as Australia and France. We are able to use these examples to broaden perspective on modern Indian social dilemmas such as domestic terrorism, tensions with Pakistan, or interfaith biases that are common in daily news and conversation. 

Yesterday, at an ice-cream stand in the market here in Jabalpur, a young man approached us. He explained that he was interested in using a system which a movie star here promoted about engaging visitors to India and being a good ambassador for his country. However, when the conversation turned from India families being prejudiced against abroad to the conflicts between Hindus and Muslims in within India, we were able to draw his attention to how economic disparity, globalized markets, international migrations, and race and religious discrimination are work which we must take seriously at home and abroad. Small lights of understanding seemed to go off that in order to protect our human dignity and rights we must treat people fairly and equitably, and how our respect earns respect. The better we practice engaging in service in our daily lives the more we become natural teachers and propagators of conscious change taking place

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A Pledge Against Plastic

Mussoorie, India is a ‘hill station’ in India, set up by India and the British as an outpost for military encampments, and, during the hot season, as a cool place for rest. It has been in regular use as a honeymoon destination for 150 years. During our low-season visit, a chill is still in the air, and the weekdays are peaceful and bereft of many tourists. However, the weekend brings many newlyweds, feet still adorned with lingering henna dye, many posing for photographs against the dramatic Himalayan backdrop.

The winding mountain road that leads to Mussoorie is flanked by signs that iterate the importance of planting, raising, and preserving trees. People want to keep this peaceful hill station a green and relaxing place.

But, Mussoorie (and the entire state of Uttarakhand) have done something special. Something a little extra to make sure a clean, green, verdant environment greets the honeymooners who flock here from across India each summer, escaping the humid heat of the urban centers. The people of Mussoorie and the state of Uttarakhand have pledged not to use plastic bags as a way to save the environment, clearly stated by a large billboard covered with signatures.

Plastics, the people here recognize, do not biodegrade, Plastic bags blow around on windswept mountainsides and get stuck high in trees or on mountain bushes. They get stuck in fences and are strewn about by hungry monkeys and bored cows.

However, sometimes a billboard, even with many signatures, is not enough. Mussoorie has not yet defeated the plastic bag. Around town, we have encountered several unmitigated dumping areas, mostly filled with plastics. Shopkeepers still dispense in bags. But, when we bring Tupperware for fresh yogurt the man is pleased and happy to oblige. Although some new bags are still being added, the recirculation of bags here is strong; people reuse plastic bags until they disintegrate.

India definitely recycles. Indian recycling happens through individual family efforts to make a living and feed themselves. Across the continent of Asia, existing almost entirely on poverty, recycling ‘wala’ workers begin a process which is needed. It is near complete. Small residuals of plastics and items part plastic do disappear into landfills.

But, with hope that springs from pledges not to use plastic, our world takes a turn for the better.India needs a clean-up campaign. It will benefit the whole planet if we find models in all our countries to clean up and value the stewardship role we can play for our planet. Replacing plastics with biodegradable/reusable products is a great way to begin to see this role functioning more effectively.

Can we make pledges not to use plastic and plastic bags?

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No Hiltons for us, Please!

Although many people, perhaps yourself included, profess a love of travel. What is travel? Is travel defined as going to a location that is foreign? Or going to a location where you, yourself are foreign? Which is more memorable? Which is more fun? Which is likely to transform your life forever?

There are incredible aspects of traveling, and the joy for me on this trip is just as much the journey as the destination. I thrive on the challenges and the newness, which isn’t to say that travel is always comfortable. In fact, it is oftentimes uncomfortable, especially the way that we travel.

No Hiltons for us please! But please, can I at least get a local map of the public toilets?

We usually try to experience a culture and a community as ordinary people do (though this is obviously impossible, as we arrive with such privilege, and wealth that is evident in our ability to be traveling at all). This means taking the regular buses, and eating the normal street-thali, and finding a basic hotel upon our arrival in a new place. And we always negotiate the price, or at least ask for a discount (N is much better at this than I am). We choose to wander the neighborhoods, rather than taking rickshaws or taxis; most Indians are absolutely alarmed by our actions: the wealthy and fair-skinned do not walk. But we enjoy getting lost, and the sense of victory and accomplishment we feel when we find our way home again.

Our kind of travel is not for everyone, that is certain. But it suits us.

As we tell our kind couch surfing hosts, “of course we have the money and the privilege and the wherewithal to stay in nice, comfortable places with great ease. But that is boooring and just too easy.” We choose to stay with couch surfing hosts not because it is cheaper, but because it gives us the opportunity to learn more, exchange more, and have a richer experience. Challenges deepen the experience, especially when the final outcome is accompanied by personal self-satisfaction.

However, there are certainly parts of this journey that are not comfortable, that are disconcerting, that generate anxiety. Acclimation to new foods and climates can be difficult, and sometimes downright painful. Uncertainty related to customs and attire and etiquette leads to embarrassment and feeling foolish. Being different in color and shape can be uncomfortable: I receive all types of smiles, stares, and glares. The truth is that it’s hard not to internalize these interactions, especially when my intent is to be an ambassador, and a representative of my gender, my culture, and my nationality.

Travel can be frightening. But very rarely can this fear be attributed to sleazy hotels, terrorists, or a flying phobia. The deeper fear lies in discomfort associated with opening the mind and heart to new experiences and sights and sounds and smells and tastes and people and communities. The newness and the differences can be disconcerting. It is the fear of not belonging, or being “out of your element,” of being foreign yourself. It’s scary to learn new things; it’s uncomfortable to make mistakes and to not know the answers; it’s alarming to be faced with things that force you to question your life, your actions, your intent, and even your existence. It’s disconcerting to be faced with your own inherent privilege, and to recognize the elitism and superiority that perhaps you don’t think you have, but which is part of the culture you are from. And these feelings don’t necessarily feel good or comfortable, but they make you think, they make you feel. They give you a greater awareness.

But the benefits of travel far, far outweigh the fears and the uncertainties. What a gift to have the opportunity to question your beliefs and your static concepts of ordinary, normal, and expected! I am lucky to have an amazing travel (among many other things) partner in Nathan. I can’t imagine traveling through India as a single woman; along with the discomfort, I know that I would miss out on many things. But I applaud any woman who has the courage and strength to do so, especially in this male-centric country.

I watched a silly tattoo show on television last night (the few in English are welcomed, though the content is oftentimes questionable). A woman was getting a frog permanently etched onto her left calf. Above the frog was a banner, on which read the words “Fear is Just a Feeling.” Just like sadness or guilt or happiness, fear is simply a sensation; it’s the action and intent that transforms these feelings into something deeper.

We have a few different mottos/mantras that we use as we travel:
1. When the path appears to end and the directional signs cease, this is when your adventure begins; keep going.

2. If faced with a choice between luck and skill, choose luck every time.

3. “What Would (insert name) Do/Say?” We think of our friends and mentors and teachers throughout our journey, and think about what their advice or response might be. Some favorite people used in this quote include Diana Dunn, Rajib Roy, Guruji, and Clem.

There are new and great tools to be a virtual traveler and to assist those who travel along with us. Become our friend on facebook.com, see our photos from the trip on our photo site (to be updated with photos from India when we someday achieve a real internet connection), or join couchsurfing.org to meet new friends and gain new experiences and perspective.

Best of all, we know you are reading our blog. Keep reading, share, respond.

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Guruji Paints!

After only one night in the Ashram, we felt a pull from the north, especially after spending the day unsuccessfully finding a hotel in Rishikesh. Although a magnificent and holy place, Rishikesh happened to be in the midst of a one-week International Yoga and Mediation conference and the city was packed with pilgrims and foreigners. 

Before we departed, Swamiji said that Guruji would be happy to answer any questions we might have. Once again, I entered the greeting chamber where Guruji welcomes and speaks with disciples, devotees, travelers, and pilgrims.

I asked Guruji, “what is time?” 

He smiled. He might have even chuckled a bit. 

He replied that time is one of the universal qualities of God which we come to know on the earth. We know it a sunrise and sunset, and in the human form of past, present, and future. Time in its universal form occurs in the present. God the universe is all time.

 

He also spoke to me of health and of actions.

 

 Guruji said that we should use our mouths with great caution. A wise person thinks twice about what he drinks, twice about what he eats, and twice about what he speaks. 

He also spoke about how the body is constructed of three parts: the head, the hands, the heart. The way that we use each part can determine how we live our lives. In conversation, when we use the head, we react. When we use the hands, we retaliate. When we use the heart, we respond. The correct and most valuable action always comes from the heart.

“Where are you going now?” Guruji asked. Clearly he was happy to help guide our trip.

“We do not know yet,” I responded.

“Well, it is better to have some idea of where you are going before setting off somewhere,” he replied. “Have you no idea where you might want to go next?”

“Yes, Guruji, we were thinking of going to Mussoorie,” I answered.

He thought Mussoorie a good decision and provided very accurate travel information that saved us from the constant “fleecing” that follows us throughout India. We packed our bags and stopped by for a final goodbye.

There we found Guruji, standing in the dining area with a large paintbrush in one hand, and a small transistor radio and a cell phone in the other. His four meter long locks draped casually upon his forearm. His paintbrush moved in long strokes along the pale yellow walls. 

“It is so nice to see that you are a painter as well as a guru,” I said to him. “We love to paint. We spend a lot of time painting.” 

“I love to work. I love to paint, to construct,” he replied.
 

And we waved goodbye, leaving the Guru, paintbrush in hand, looking out across the expansive Ganges river.

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An Incomplete Address

***written by nathan

While exploring Old Delhi one day, I met an unemployed school teacher at the fancy restaurant Haldriman’s. I bought him a chai, and he scribbled down the address for an Ashram in Rishikesh. He said that unlike many Indian Ashrams, this one would host foreigners. Ashrams are places where pilgrims gather, rest, meditate, sing and dance. 

However, the address written down on the small scrap of paper was incomplete, a fact that was rather evident as we repeatedly asked for directions along the winding streets of Rishikesh. We finally reached the ashram, thanks to the help of several other holy men of other nearby ashrams.

This is how we found Guruji. The Guru.

Upon our arrival, we spoke with several disciples, who politely asked us to rest while they spoke with Guruji. After just a few moments, we were asked to enter Guruji’s waiting room. While he listened to our story, and how we arrived at his Ashram, Guruji arranged himself. The long hair dread that was piled in a mound on our arrival was slowly wound atop his head in a knot. He wore a saffron-colored length of silk fabric wrapped around his body, which he adjusted to a snug fit over his round belly. Guruji remained (except when seated) at all times perched upon wooden sandals that had platform pieces to ensure that his feet did not touch the ground. His beard was long and grey. His eyes were kind and wise. His age was absolutely uncertain. He listened to our responses with closed eyes and deep thought.

Guruji offered us a room in his ashram to stay in. After our backpacks were stowed in a dormitory-style room, we were asked to join the Ashram members for meditation. Forty-five minutes of sing-song chanting whizzed by in an instant, and afterwards, we shared sweet treats. Guruji seems to have a penchant for sweets.

Guriji has devotees all across the world. At the time of our visit, seven were living at the Ashram, while others visited during the day. Devotees who live in the ashram eat meals together (consisting of ’harmless food’: food that is not heavily flavored or spiced and does only good for the body and mind), meditate daily, work and sing. Guriji and his devotees take long walks along the Ganges river, along which many Ashram‘s are located. Every year on both Guruji’s birthday and on a 9 Day Festival for Universal Goddess devotees travel from around the world. Many stay at the ashram. They pray, meditate, sing.

‘Swamiji’ is Guruji’s disciple. He used to work for government offices in Delhi and has three sons: two are doctors and one computer engineer. All live in the United States. Swamiji was our guide to the Ashram and told us many stories and provided countless insights into an environment which, for us, was very new.

“It is hard finding a Guru who is a true Yogi.” He told us.

Swamiji shared with us the story of Guruji and his path to perfection. Guriji had gone to the source of the Ganges river, and for fourteen years, lived in a cave. Alone. He prayed, singing chants every evening and morning. He wore no clothes. He meditated. After fourteen years, Swamiji and others followed him. People traveled from across the Himalayas, from across India, from China Nepal, Bhutan and Tibet to meet him and worship with him, high up in the Himalayas.

“He never needed food,” Swamiji told us, Whatever he needed, God provided him. “To be a true yogi” Swamiji said, “you must live like this in these mountains, you meditate and pray to God.”

The tallest mountains in the world connect by way of mountain passes. Passes are very high passageways through mountain ranges that attach two or more valleys. Passes have been used by travelers (and special guides of the Himalaya mountains called sherpas) for thousands of years. Ashrams often connect the passes offering pilgrims a place to stay.

Some gentler passes have roads. Other, lower passes can be used by special horses, cows, sheep and goats who are herded to markets and to graze meadows.. Most passes are so high they only used by people walking to cross the mountains. Sometimes these perilous crossings are razor thin, dropping off to steep cliffs and gorges on either side. Oftentimes, such as in the Himalayan passes, the snow is so deep as to be impassable for most of the year.

Guruji and Swamiji never took roads to the mountains. They walked.

All across India, pilgrims are walking, making sacred pilgrimages between places where gods are worshipped. These places are sometimes rivers or mountains or lakes. Sometimes these sacred places are marked by temples. A small temple marks a place where the great Ganges River begins in the Himalayan Mountains of India. The Ganges is very small here and pours gently out of a cave.

Far from perfection ourselves, we were unable to traverse into the great Himalayas. Instead, we learned about their fierceness from Guruji and his devotees.

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Holy Holi!!

As we travel, our luck continues. After four days in Delhi, we decided to head north, towards the Himalayas. First destination: Haridwar, a four hour train ride from Delhi, and one of the most sacred cities in India for Hindus. Holi was a festival to end all festivals, and reminded us both of Mardi Gras, and of Blancos y Negros in Pasto, Colombia. Although we knew from our ten year old Lonely Planet India that the Haridwar Kumbh Mela (celebrated in Haridwar once every twelve years) would be taking place during our visit, we didn‘t realize that the important Hindu holiday of Holi would also be occurring. Kumbh Mela  happens every three years but is spread between four small  cities, including Haridwar. Without discrimination for any creed or caste, Kumbh Mela celebrates an important story from Hindu religion: the gods and demons once fought a great battle for a pitcher that contained the nectar of immortality. The God Vishnu was the victor, but in his escape, four drops of nectar spilled onto the earth in four locations. These locations are sacred cities in India, one of which is Haridwar. 

We arrived in Haridwar on the eve of Holi, just a few minutes after sunset, and were immediately accosted by rickshaw drivers, porters, hotel representatives, and even a drunk policeman. As per our usual style, we discarded all offers of assistance and trudged off down the street towards the river Ganges. As we wandered down the streets of Haridwar, we once again proved to be a delight for the revelers who found our ginormous backpacks hilarious (as do we….until we are carrying them to an unknown and potentially distant destination). We passed pyres erected in the middle of the streets, lovingly strung with strings of flowers and garlands of dried cow pies, and draped with lavish and brightly colored scraps of fabric. We passed people dancing on the streets, and people smeared with bright colored paint. “Just wait,” we responded to the many offers to join in the party, “we’ll be right back!” After unceremoniously dumping our bags as a basic hotel, we headed back into the fray, ready to join the celebration and learn more about the town in which we had arrived.

Retracing our steps from the train station, we passed a still-smoldering pyre; the people who had beckoned us earlier had moved inside into an ashram. As we paused on the street to listen to the great din emanating from within the deep recesses of a kind of place that is sometimes unavailable to foreigners or non-Hindu‘s, an older gentleman gestured for us to enter, to join the party. And of course, lovers of parties as we are, we leapt through the grand archway and straight into a Holi celebration.  We were ushered into the dancing crowds with hundreds of friendly hands, and indoctrinated into the celebration by countless handfuls of colored powder pressed to our cheeks, our heads, our necks, and any other exposed skin. It was a multi-colored medley of joy - people dancing and singing and clapping and laughing and delighting in the convergence of a great family. Within our first ten minutes, we were introduced to the bishop himself, who sat in a folding lawn chair in the center of the room laughing and singing profusely, giving blessings, conducting the dance, and having a grand old time. The bishop covered our foreheads in more sacred anointment and we were encouraged to dance, sing, eat, and become family the whole night through.

 

As have many of our far-flung destinations, Haridwar again proves to us the strength and power of human harmony, the generosity of our hosts, and the ultimate privilege of being ’honored guests.’ We are guests and ambassadors to all the countries we visit, the families we enter, the cultures and economies we touch. We perpetually thank our lucky stars for these opportunities of exchange and sharing and friendship.

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