A Real Christmas Story

While they were there the time came for her to give birth. She gave birth to a son, her firstborn. She wrapped him in blankets and laid him in a manger, because there was no room in the hostel. (Luke 2:6,7)

This year, I was meant to spend Christmas in Kumily, a hill station in Kerala famous for tea and spices. Instead, the host for the week could not accommodate our group. Even as we persisted, suggesting we find our own lodging in town, he said a visit would be impossible and told us to look elsewhere. We were officially turned away at the inn.

As the highlight stop on our 8-week trip, we took a hit. We felt the loss of the destination – we had been looking forward to the visit for some time. We got rejected, like we had been pushed aside for other priorities. Lastly, we felt the challenge of having been pushed out on a special occasion, a time when we just wanted to be near family and celebrate an important day. To be sure, this was the closest I’ve ever identified with the real Christmas story in my whole life.

With a week of time now available and with only one week to plan for it, we now had a unique opportunity. Nigel and I brought it to the group, suggesting each take some time to consider it and to try and search for what might be right for our Christmas.

To my surprise two people came up with the same idea: Pondicherry. The old French colonial city looked close on the map they had seen in their respective journals and both thought it might fit. As we had no other real leads, we took it on board. Curiously, a couple of hours later we got a phone call from the couple that would be joining us over the holidays – knowing our dilemma but not knowing the aforementioned conversation, they also suggested Pondicherry. A further call that night to two senior members of our team traveling in Gujarat gave rise to the same thought. It seemed more than a coincidence. We had found our star Star of Bethlehem and set to work on finding our way there.

The road would prove difficult. We took things into our own hands, knowing that we would have to exhaust very contact to find a place in the tourist destination in a holiday season. We had lots of secondary contacts through friends in South India so we began asking them to make calls on our behalf. From bankers and school teachers, to Catholic fathers and shop owners and even a few strangers, we mentioned the idea to everyone. Loads of phone calls went out across South India.

But nothing came back and the days started counting down. Our best contacts came up with little. Housing 11 people in one place seemed impossible. Beyond that, they couldn’t their seemed no rooms available in Pondicherry at a price that would suit us. Not by a lot. Most quotes came back at two to three times the money we had to spend and those were the reasonable rooms. Was our leading off base? Was Pondicherry just some happy dream we’d had that would disappear in a moment?

We persisted. A trip to a conference in Coimbatore brought some new options, but again, nothing came through. It started to get desperate and we settled in on a plan B. We would leave Salem early for our next town. Christmas, it seemed, would be in Coimbatore.

But something happened at that conference. My friend Nigel was sitting in the meeting hall and had a clear thought. “Francis, the professor from Dharmapuri will be the one who pulls through.” It seemed a far off possibility. We had met Francis on only two brief occasions a week earlier and he had little knowledge of who we were or what we did. But, he did live in Pondicherry and he was going home for the holidays. He seemed like out best shot and we held out hope for it.

We spoke to him two days before we would need to leave and nothing had come through. But on the eve of our departure (either for Pondicherry or Coimbatore), we were back in Salem and we got a call from Francis. Through a friend of his brother, he found a place that had 11 beds for us and right on our budget. Impossible we thought. No one had even sniffed anything near to this kind of offer. We brought it back to the team, setting out a clear understanding that this “to good to be true” offer, was certainly likely to be so. I told everyone to lower their expectations, thinking something must be off, but everyone agreed and we had a goodbye dinner in Salem before packing up for the beach.

It was a risk. The bus ride would be 7 hours and we didn’t know much about what was at the destination other than a promised hotel room and our new friend and lifesaver Francis. (And actually, he couldn’t get early leave from school to receive us, so we would be picked up by an Indian-Frenchman name Gerrard at the bus stand). Two legs later we rolled past the coconut trees and through the gates of the city. Opening the door onto the dusty platform of the bus stand, we felt the hot Southern heat pour down on us in the mid afternoon. “Well, I thought, we did our part. If this is a journey on faith, then we did it. We’re here.”

I turned to my phone and dialed up Gerrard’s number. He couldn’t understand much of what I said, but true to Francis’s word, he was at the stand and we quickly found each other. Within another few minutes we had boarded our 8-weeks of luggage into three auto-rickshaws and were onto the Raj Lodge.

We arrived at the inn. We waited. We waited some more. Lots of Tamil speaking brought up a lot of doubt in our minds. It seemed one room for four was available, but our other seven beds were out. End of the road. But then, the last Christmas miracle in this story. Somehow, through a bunch of phone calls and nudges, the rooms opened up. We had three guaranteed nights for the 11 fresh-arrivals. Incredible.

One big step of faith returned with one big grip of faithfulness.

We dropped our stuff and walked to the water, passing the normal sights that have become regular. The family of buffalo grazing on the local rubbish pile. The near-death flashes with out of control rickshaw drivers. The warm smile of the juice man. The desperate face of the beggar. Signs in Tamil and English started to include French. Basic Tamil architecture started to look more French colonial. Crossing a canal we got to the old French quarter. Tree-lined avenues and a big park for sitting. Feeling near the beach, I went to the head of the pack, eager to see the sea. We turned a final corner and saw the horizon.

In a strange euphoria, I whooped and starting running the final block to the water. As I ran I could feel that this was Virginia Beach – a fading sunset at my back heading into the coming dusk. It was a familiar run for me. I reached the edge of the sea and a massive promenade that rolled far down the water edge. I watched as the storm rocks broke the waves with the spray of high tide and welcomed the salt water on my clothes and face.

Fatigue

I collapsed today in the corner between a wall and the doorway to a church. Having taken up the place to relax my back while I scribbled in my book, my hand and brain ran out of energy after a few short paragraphs. With only a second thought, I nodded off in the warmth of the late afternoon sun.

When I woke up, I read over the words that preceded my nap. They communicated my clear fatigue.

For me, there is a difference between being tired and being fatigued. Tired is taking on a full day of yard work after a week of office work. Tired is after 2 days and two nights on an Indian train. It’s standing on your feet for three hours straight or pulling back to back all nighters.

Fatigue has much more to do with where one is emotionally and spiritually. The crushing blow came for me today when I officially recognized that, at the moment, I’m out of my depth in a few key ways. For one, I’m not taking on my usual position and responsibilities of program coordinator and project planner. Second, I’m working in a culture that doesn’t stress punctuality, which tends to stress out my group and me. Lastly, I’m working with a group that doesn’t process like me or manage itself in a way I understand well. To be sure, it’s not been easy to move these days.

I’m not using my best skills, so I’m challenged to adopt new methods and new tools. This process of adaptation requires incredible energy. Learning new techniques and struggling through the growing pains at 27 isn’t an easy task. Shouldn’t all things be a snap to me now? Instead I find myself taking on responsibilities for the personal development of my team and its individuals, a job for which I’m only harnessing my skills.

The key to all of this is that hard work and dedication only take on so much. They actually get in the way sometimes. For me, hard work can often be ego-driven. I can work hard because I think its impossible for me to not be capable of learning something. So the learning and doing process is more about me than about the people it’s meant to impact.

I’m developing two radical (okay, not radical and not even new) concepts for dealing with this fatigue.

Making myself available to a stronger force than myself. When the ego is clearly in the way, the challenge is to make room for something else to enter in to my thoughts and actions. It’s a process of realizing my own limitations and looking to tap into something much deeper, broader and exceedingly more wise and capable than my simple understandings and reactions. At some point, the ego becomes aware of its own fragility and demands to lean on an understanding much greater than its own.

Asking for help. In a similar vein, its seeking out the aid of others around me to help me with my development – to add insight where I’m blind, to lead the way when I need to follow and to encourage me when I stumble. This is terribly difficult for me. Afteral, it requires great humility. But somehow (perhaps the biggest surprise of the last 4 months), I’ve finally learned how to take feedback constructively and without defense, developed a sense of my own limitations and noticed the clear strengths of others in areas in which I’m deficient. It’s never easy to recognize one’s limits, we are, after all extremely complex beings with an innate God-sense that draws us to see ourselves as limitless. But whether we break an arm as a youngster and notice our own mortality or give thanks that some people like accounting when we can’t add up, limitations are powerful. They give us something to strive beyond while they also guide us to the people who can take us to the next level in partnership.

These thoughts have restored me from fatigue, but it’s the end of the day and I must rest. For now – I’m tired.

Majesty

That which stirs in us a profound sense of humility.

Today I saw something truly majestic. I’m not easily moved to such descriptions, never having seen a human-made structure that evoked the word. I’d apply it more often to a noble action or an incredible human feat achieved with grace. But of all possible usages, it’s only the natural world that ever truly moves me to this special kind of awe.

My understanding of majesty is limited to nature because it defies the human mind, having surpassed our own existence on into the billions of years – or is that billions of light years – its simply too huge for me to comprehend. And for that, I’m left with a sense of humility in the presence of majesty.

It’s not easy for 21^st century humans to consider their smallness. Especially in the west, especially in America, we are trained to consider our own projection as immortal – to consider ourselves without limitations. If you can dream it you can do it. You can be whatever you want to be when you grow up. Don’t let people tell you what you can’t do. These common messages surrounded me as a young person. And to much positive affect I might add. I am grateful that I’ve been in an environment that has supported the potential of my heart, mind and soul.

But on the flipside swells the ego: that critically important but highly volatile character. The ego, when told it is endless, so often pains at the sight of something so incredibly greater that it can be described as majestic. The endless doesn’t like to become aware of its limitations. Whether that be another person, an event or something great, its hard to welcome that which might make us feel small, humbled or limited.

It’s beginning to hurt me less. For so many years I looked at guitar players and thought I could out do him. Or criticized a book or essay believing I could add the extra that would make it great. I fooled myself by thinking that I had the talent, I just hadn’t yet invested the time. If I wanted to, I could. Afterall, I could do anything that I wanted to do.

However true this is, how far a combination of my natural talents and hard work could take me, today I realized that I’ve been missing the point entirely.

Majesty reminds us of our limits and does so in a way that doesn’t make us feel regret for them but humbly inspires us to use what we have in extraordinary ways.

Limitations are excellent instructors. They are boundaries to be pushed and at times broken. They also teach us discipline that can bring us to a much deeper understanding and realization of freedom. Most importantly, I feel limitations remind us that we exist in a world of relationships in which our variety adds great value to life. It’s far more productive and enjoyable to notice, appreciate and work with someone else’s skill or talent than to use it to stir the ego into an ill-advised tantrum.

Today I’m grateful for who I am and the road I’m on. The limitations that I’ve broken and will break in the future. Those that I respect and will guide me to understand myself better and work with others more cooperatively.

But above all, I’m clear that I want to be in relationship with majesty. To learn in the generous and graceful shadow of the truly inspiring. To work alongside majesty to pursue the extraordinary. And most importantly, to believe in majesty. Because with majesty, somehow, everything is possible.

The Reason for the Season

Chinese Joke – American Audience

Today, as I was waiting for our South Indian dinner plans to develop, my friend Yue told me a joke.

It’s important to know that Yue speaks excellent English and with a wonderful accent. But she’s also Chinese and I’m American and I’ve grown fond of our regular, natural and often humorous miscommunications. There are two other Mandarin speakers in our group (from Taiwan and Malaysia, respectively) and they feature here.

Yue: Do you want to hear a joke?

Chris: Is this a Chinese joke?

Y: Yes.

C: Definitely. Let’s hear it.

Y: What does a banana turn into while it’s falling out of a 100-story building?

C: What does it turn into? You mean anything?

Y: Like, what kind of fruit or vegetable does it turn into?

C: I don’t know, a banana split?

Y: (obvious confusion)

C: How about a mango?

Y: Mango? Why would I turn into a mango? That’s silly!

C: Yeah. I mean, I don’t know. I have no idea what you are…

Y: It turns into a cucumber! (hysterical laughter)

C: …(confusion leading into laughter because Yue is laughing so hard) Why does it turn into a cucumber?

Y: Because its green! (ongoing hysterical laughter)

C: …(still laughing, but trying to figure out what the hell is going on) Is that the color that Chinese people turn when they are scared?

Y: Of course! Now wait. What does it turn into when it hits the ground?

C: Um…Banana milkshake?

Y: No, it turns into a…hold on (checks with Chinese speaking friend #1)…it turns into a zucchini! (ongoing hysterical laughter)

C: (dazed confusion. At least I could find a way to explain a cucumber…but zucchini…I start laughing anyway at the general nature of the conversation) Zucchini?

Y: Yes! Zucchini!

C: Why does it turn into a zucchini? (laughing continues)

Z: Because its purple! Like a bruise! (laughter continues)

C: You mean a…

Y: Wait a second. (checks with Chinese-speaking friend #2) I mean an eggplant! It turns into an eggplant!

C: (with a laugh and a smile) Yes. Of course it does.

Glimpse of Tamil Countryside

We drove out to the countryside, passing by a thousand villager faces, bullock carts, goats, lunghis, sugar cane fields and coconut trees. Tropical greens, garland yellows, red bricks, white sumos. The roads deteriorated with each passing kilometer and we arrived at a small church along the way, some 20 kilometers from the closest town. We ate fish and biryani, papadams and chutneys. We navigated our way to a huge flood plain backed up by a rustic dam. Palm trees growing out of the water and children jumping of rocks and splashing in the liquid sea. I stood on the other side of the dam, thinking about the size and power of water. Walking past the buffalo underneath the mango tree, I arrived at a small temple in the shade. The local boys batted the cricket ball in a grove of gum trees as the sun poked through the green leaves to color my skin while soaking the unprotected valley in a powerful bright.

Unique Above the Rare

In a country as unpredictable as India, I’ve been surprised that over the past week I’ve found myself feeling locally acquainted with this country. Whether its a bull causing a traffic jam, a two hour wait for an appointment or a packing an auto rickshaw with 7 people, I’ve finally walked in the shoes of the sub-continent, head waggling my way through obstacle and joy alike.

At the moment I’m sitting in Salem, Tamil Nadu. Relative to Bangalore, it’s distinctively South Indian. It’s a smaller city with a stronger sense of pride – a true locals city. People grow up in Salem, live in Salem and die in Salem.

South Indians refer to South India as the real India. Unlike the north of India which has been invaded regularly and dominated by foreign rule for many centuries (Aryans, Mughals, British), the South kept an unbroken culture until the coastal arrival of the spice traders in the 1500s. Even then, it seems that the Southern cultures is dense enough to take welcome any newcomer into its fold, so long as they can take it (South India welcomed the arrival of Jews as far back as 2,000 years and the same for St. Thomas who arrived with the gospel in the first century.) This fact brings a strong sense of depth and an enormous pride to the people, the kind of pride you find in people who date their culture in the thousands of years, not the hundreds. I had a similar feeling in Rome and I’ve never felt it at home.

This is unmistakably different from my last trip to India. Instead of cruising among the light skinned and tall folk of the north, I’m with the shorter and darker neighbors down south. The written language no longer hangs from a line like Hindi, but rolls and rounds with the swooping curves of Tamil. Cold plains and Himalayas swapped in for jungles and hot afternoons. Meals served on banana leaves and not out of the tandoori oven. Trading in naan for rice, chai for coffee and mughal cuisine for epic thalis.

It’s sunset at the Salem Social Services Society. I’ve wrangled a plastic chair and perched on the roof (one of the absolute gems of Indian architecture is that most buildings have rooftop decks). Scattered clouds canvas the sky and gentle pastels add gentle flavors to the sky. Palm trees dot the skyline – their leaves nest into a dense thicket all around the third story of this building. My friends Martin and Kannan practice their kickboxing in the shadows; Tam takes her photographs off all four sides. The local church blasts Tamil devotional music through speakers collected in the apse. It’s time for 6pm mass. The boys below practice volleyball. Smoke rises from the coconut grove as earth and paper and plastics burn away. Sets of small, young, jagged mountains draw out the horizon and bask in the fading light. Evening will pass into night momentarily.

This corner of the earth, unique above the rare, blends with me.

Images from Bangalore

Miracleworkers of the 21st Century

For two weeks my team and I had the good fortune to deliver a 30-hour course at St. Joseph’s College in Bangalore. Formally titled “Leadership, Values and Action”, our class focused on understanding oneself (relationships, behaviors, values, etc) and seeing where a change is needed or desired. From there, we help them to develop a vision for action on those areas that have come to light.

But the kind of change we discuss is meant not only to bring a positive affect to one’s own life, but it’s the kind of change that brings real freedom in a life. When a life is lived with real freedom, the vision for that person grows and begins to include far more than himself. It extends to include many.

As part of our course, we took our students to a local boys home run by Don Bosco. From what I witnessed there, they are a group of people who have become free inside and thus available to work for a much broader vision.

Child abuse in India isn’t something you see in the open all the time, but its there. In the west, we typically think of child abuse as a drunk dad who whacks his kid now and again. Much of the time it is. It’s pathetic behavior that causes deep fears and insecurities. More common, I would think, is emotional abuse in which parents act as nothing more than grown up children, using their more sharpened mind to make immature power plays on emotions. It’s disturbing, but in a way, I understand it. It’s a function of broken relationships over generations and a difficult culture that can crush the human spirit.
This happens in India, but even this is not even remotely close to the underbelly of child abuse.

Perhaps what I see as the darkest thing in the whole world is organized child abuse. And its in India. And its not always hidden. In fact, sometimes it walks right up to you with a smile.

Throughout India there is human trafficking of children. Organized criminals partner with corrupt police, businessmen and politicians to use children to turn profit. Kidnapped children, swindled children and abandoned children are picked up off the streets in slums and trains stations and taken to situations of cruelty that are hard to stomach: Children sent out to beg in busy intersections and beaten unless they generate a certain return; Boys going to work in hotels where they work 20 hours days and are chained to the wall at night; Girls and boys working as slaves in brothels.

For a time I denied this kind of darkness in the world. I just couldn’t imagine a person falling so far away from love that they would destroy innocence. Sadly, I’ve come to accept it. But in that sadness emerges a possibility to change it. The people at Don Bosco have also seen this situation and they’ve gripped their faith and taken their hands to work in an effort to change it.

I sat in amazement as I heard the tragic stories of abused children and the lucky few who had been rescued and taken to centres for rehabilitation and education. The stories I heard made my stomach turn and stirred anger in my heart. By the end I was exhausted and in despair. Helpless. Even in the middle of the session, a 6-month old girl arrived at the centre, abandoned at the Bangalore City Bus Stop that very morning. The center averaged 6 or 7 new arrivals a day (In fact, a six-month old girl arrived while I was talking with Father Geo). And these were the lucky ones who were reported or divinely guided to safe hands. Many others would disappear, possibly forever of the streets each day.

I could hardly get down my puri curry at lunch. Even with all of their efforts, even Father Geo and Father Edward gave a sense of the size of the problem. The government refused to give them money to help address the issue, even after naming them the official government agency for missing children in the state of Karnataka. The roots of the crime dug so deep that even those on the “good” side of the law were entangled in the deadly web.

Still, a song rang out. It was a song of hope. A song that tells the story of one person who stands up for the marginalized and takes part in the redemption of the world.

With all the desperation and the tragedy of this situation, men and women were stepping up to counter it on the ground. With every reason to say “no, it can’t be done”, they were saying, “yes we can and yes we must”.

With a problem so big and entrenched that little can be done to affect root causes, a group stands in the gap to offer hope.

With a problem so huge, that group spoke in humility: We can not do it on our own. This is a work of faith. And it is only through faith that one can topple these walls. Our only answer is to face organized crime is with equally organized systems of justice. We must live out our answer with free and spontaneous acts of faith.

I left renewed. These were the miracle-workers of the 21st century: Restoring hope and faith to innocents. Giving them grace in human form. Life anew.

Afghanistan Really

There are many reasons I’m grateful for my job. One of them is that my journey through the world allows me to meet people who shatter my stereotypes and simple preconceptions by sharing with me a piece of their reality.

The first time I thought about Afghanistan was at my best friend Dwight’s house when we were growing up in Jersey. His Dad had the epic VHS collection and we found Rambo 3 in the midst of it. John Rambo’s run through the Afghani mountains fighting off Russian choppers with a bow and arrow still registers as classic 80’s action cinema.

It wasn’t until years later that Afghanistan took on any kind of real meaning for me and even then it was limited. Following 9-11 the world renewed its gaze on the country, learning about post-Soviet power struggles, the reign of the Taliban, Islamic extremism and the dope industry. But even with the news plastering headlines and the regular video rolling in, Afghanistan has always seemed a place that existed only in movies and in the television. Even a reading a recent National Geographic article about archeology in Afghanistan didn’t help bring it all into focus in real terms.

With this perception I arrived into my class on Leadership, Values and Action at St. Joseph’s College in Bangalore. I didn’t expect an Indian Catholic school to be so diverse. I met students from all parts of India and visiting students from Nepal, Kenya, Cote D’Ivoire and, yes, Afghanistan.

For reasons on which I’m still unclear, the class of 22 had 5 Afghanis, each articulate and eager to be key players in class discussions. Given their proportion and their single-mindedness on the issue of Afghanistan, I couldn’t help but begin to live into their experience. We had tea together and talked frequently after class ended each day. They were more than eager to share their experience of their country with those who had their ears available to listen. Given my country’s involvement in Afghanistan for the past 20+ years, I thought to get ready to receive a new dose of information.

The stories they shared about the past 30 years of civil war were heartbreaking. No one has been unaffected by the ongoing feuds between ethnic groups, religious ideologies and foreign power plays. I heard about the sights that no eyes should witness unfolding in front of a 10 year old. The sounds –a caucophony of suffering – aired for the ears of children. I was shocked to hear the students give an overview of their life from 0 to 18 as a steady downward slope (blamed entirely on the demise of his country), only redeemed by the opportunity to study in India. While many felt the strong urge to return to their countries and play a part in re-establishing Afghanistan, I felt an underlying despair for the situation at home. Three of them wanted to return and become politicians, when asked why, the salary and the stability seemed more enticing than the prospect of civil service.

The main national concern for them as men and women in their young 20’s is unity. The divided factions throughout the country are prey to the power-thirsty and unscrupulous. Hopelessness plays a major role in these divides. People tend to cling to those who can give them the smallest glimpse of an advantage, whether it be an empty promise or not. Even as they pointed out that Afghanistan has increased its national security (though it still suffers from the lawless tribal regions on the Afghani-Pakistani border) they said the biggest brewing conflict is over language – with major language groups squaring off over national language rights. Casually, they said, “another reason to fight.”

When asked about the US involvement, the answers I got were unsurprisingly muted. The nation that received the biggest criticism was Pakistan (not surprising for Afghanis studying in India. Note: Anti-Pakistan sentiment has completely inflamed in India since the Mumbai attacks. Tension continues to escalate along the line of control in Kashmir).

Last Sunday I received an invitation to spend the evening with them at their flat. Our host’s wife spent near on 9 hours preparing the meal and the gorgeous spread stoked our taste buds and inspired our stomachs. Over delicious and heaping servings of chicken, mutton and rice we discussed life in Afghanistan, a country full of real people doing things that all people do. Going to work each morning. Dealing with family problems. Cooking dinner together. Singing songs. As their faces and voices became more a part of my daily, their stories came closer to my heart. Just young people looking at their past, considering the present and moving into the future.

I walked out of the dinner with friends.

Lord Have Mercy! Catholic Mosquitoes in Bangalore

I’ve learned one interesting fact about mosquitoes this past month. It surprised me. Only female mosquitoes bite.

The point is not to make a case for what this says about females in general (pointing out generalizations in females is a topic I learned to avoid altogether many years ago), its all to say that I’m learning about mosquitoes because they are playing an increasingly important role in my life.

This may have started in 5th grade when I used a mosquito net for the first time and found it remarkably effective in protecting me from those mammoth beasts of New Hampshire. Or maybe its my friend Jeff and his doctoral work with mosquito genetics. Or at the very least the insufferable swarms that camp out at home during the summer in Va Beach. All said, I’ve made no friends of these bugs. I find them ruthless and senseless and have no issue giving them the squash. But in the land of karma, one could say that I just got bit…bad…

St Joseph’s college in Bangalore is a great spot. In fact, its one of the top 10 colleges in the country and I feel honored to be in residence here for two weeks delivering a course with my colleagues. But top colleges in India don’t look like the Swarthmores and Princetons of the US. This one looks great on the outside, but the inside is meager and my boarding space in the hostel is spartan. In fact, its meant to be a leg up (as I am a guest in the hostel). My friend Martin and I share a 10’x10’ space with a bathroom. It’s not bad for my standards, so we crashed in on Sunday night when we arrived. The few swirling mosquitoes seemed no problem.

Now I’d spent the last week hearing about malaria and anti-malaria medications and methods. Given my areas of travel, I decided on taking the “low-risk” of infection to the somewhat toxic anti-malaria drugs. But I did grab a mosquito net to bugger off anything that might come my way. Not surprisingly and to my subsequent regret, I was exhausted when I arrived into town, so I took one look at my bed and crashcd out.

It’s kind of hard to explain what happened to my face overnight. I actually didn’t even know until about midday Monday. I took one look in the mirror around lunchtime and noticed that my entire forehead was covered in red spots. It looked like a five year old had just learned how to make dots, found a red marker and used my head to test it out. I tried to look at it from every angle to see if it was as bad as I thought. It was and while the blankets had spared my body from the neck down, my friend Cheng confirmed that I received about 100 bites overnight. Somewhere between the thought and the actuality of that fact, I felt woozy. It didn’t help when I read back-to-back news articles, one about the rat fever currently in post-monsoon Bangalore, as well as the dangerously big packs of stray dogs in some sectors of town. Surely, I’d contacted some disease overnight – impossibly not. All these thoughts just in time for me to deliver the opening presentation at the college!

Despite the weakness, we delivered a crack workshop and I soon set to work on my battle plans for the evening showdown. Amazingly, I had my first experience in understanding excessive defense spending. When you’ve been burned and you think you got a method to deliver the knockout blow, you spend accordingly. Knowing that I couldn’t take another 10 bites, much less another hundred, I manifested my three-fold plan. First, seal all windows and doors and use a mosquito coil to smoke ‘em out. Second, acquire repellant and cover forehead vigorously with the highest DEET formula available (turned out to be high-quality Australian Bush DEET). And third, gerry-rig the mosquito net for ultimo protection. It took about 30 minutes to get everything right and I set off to bed feeling secure in my measures.

Amazingly, the plan worked to perfection. I woke up in the morning with my forehead still spattered like a Jackson Pollock painting, but no worse than the day before. I took my spotted forehead and headed out into a new morning.

Southbound

Getting on an Indian train is an experience I wish you all to have at some point in your life. It’s amazing really.

The train service is nationaliazed and is actually one of the biggest businesses in the whole world. It was made over by a corrupt minister from Bihar during his tenure as minister of the railway. Legally, he turned it into a massive money-making enterprise and by far the preferred method of travel for the large majority of Indians. To put it in perspective, it’s said that 2 million people are always traveling on Indian trains. 24 hours a day. 365 days a year. It’s a staggering figure.

That success in mind, it’s no perfect system. For one, the railway over books the trains. There are a couple of waiting list cars, but they attract few clients. Instead, those who have been waitlisted for “sleeper cars” often search out a spot to bunk, hoping that a properly ticketed customer won’t chase them off. More often, the ticket inspector accepts bribes from those with no tickets who just hop on for passage without paying for the fare. They tend to fill up the cabins and with corrupted authority, there is little that can be done to remedy a situation.

So with those two groups searching for any available room, space aboard the train is most precious. When the Mumbai-Bangalore showed up in Pune at 11:40, it was a hyper dash in.

It’s essential to get your luggage stowed and your seat properly accounted. Traveling with 6 neophyte Indian travelers was no picnic either, as I’ve only just honed my Indian traveling skills after 6 months and several train journeys across the subcontinent. We scrambled in, bashing our way through a crowd as dense as the polluted Pune air. All said and done (by miracle) we got all the luggage down and only struggled for 3 of the 9 seats (even with proper tickets, one gets smushed 4 into a 3 seater).

I smiled with satisfaction as we pulled out. There is nothing like the Indian train 2nd Class when it comes to traveling. Some might prefer the cushy AC 1st class, but for the real experience of India, you gots to ride with the real people. Everything from the open doors where you can hang your legs out the side and take in the passing farms, villages and sunsets to the stench of the latrine that lingers after 20 hours or so. It’s just a magical and raw place the Indian train.

The layout of the cars is simple. Each has eight six-person berths. Three sit on each side with a bunked bed on top. The bench will serve as a bed at night, as will an identical fold-down for the middle bed. At the foot of these beds is the walkway. On the other side are two more bunked beds.

This makes for exceptional theatre, as one finds that at least 8 people (up to 12) are focused in on the same spot at a time. Nothing goes unnoticed and everyone shares this experience of being together. It’s remarkable community and one can really see the genuine friendship and rapport that Indians build so well between each other. A train partner (s) can make or break a 30-hour journey. Indians almost always aim to establish the former.

My berth of 11 got very excited once I decided to start playing along after a couple of hours. I asked my neighbor about some snack being offered by one of the constant vendors patrolling the corridor. When I laid my 10 rupees down for the treat, I seemed to earn some street cred and it opened up a jovial hour on the train which included conversations on insurance, stealing water-wells (yes the things in the ground), Bush, the financial crisis and Obama. At one point we even discussed the differences between cricket and baseball. Here’s an idea of me trying to explain the differences between the two bats

“:You see, the baseball bat is about the same length, but skinnier, lighter and round. It makes hitting the ball a much more difficult job.”
“Yes,” my neighbor exclaimed, “I understand. But what you use for sport we give to the police to hit people with.”
Chuckling with the rest of the crowd, I admitted that it was true. But my neighbor wasn’t finished with his attempts at laugh.
“You can also use it to give your wife a good whack!”
I didn’t laugh, but everyone else did. I feared where this was going and tried to move off it.
“Yes, well,” I stumbled, “I think we can all agree that it’s best used for playing baeeball.”
Seeing my displeasure with his last comment, he concluded, mimicking the actions, “you can also use it to roll chipati (Indian flatbread)!”
Cue more uproarious laughter. You see what I mean. Theatre in the round

Station stops can be 5 to 35 minutes in length. It’s always enough time to hop off the train and survey the new station for a cup of chai, a new book or some travel grub. Typically one can find some puri (fried Indian flat bread) that comes along with a kind of spicy yellow dal or bhaji (buttered and grilled rolls with a red lentil masala). Both taste so good that you can’t resist. But you should unless you really believe in your iron gut. A bad bahjji can cost you on a long train journey. But a good cup of station chai can change the course of a day. Rolling on…

As I mentioned, there is also an omnipresent parade of people on the corridor. You name it – they show up. You’ve got your expected ticket inspector and occasional guard, but you also see any number of other randoms.

• The tea and chai-wallahs hawking their goods in unmistakably annoying tones
• The guy selling the random and lame toys parents buy to keep their kids quiet
• The kitchen man moving the train’s catering products up and down the corridor
• The dalit woman sweeping the floors hoping for a few rupees tip from her patrons
• A boy with no legs, using his hands to carry himself along the floor or ask for change.
• The blind man selling chains to lock up your luggage
• A boy with a painted on mustache, doing a stage show to collect a couple rupees for his owner
  

It’s raw India.

Another group you see on the train are those men, eunuchs or transgendered who dress up as women. Superstitiously thought to have magical powers, they are both loved and hated in Indian society. Loved because their wish can bring blessings on a child at a naming ceremony or hated because they can curse your existence and embarrass you in front of your loved ones. They clap up and down the train, bothering the men, who often toss them a few rupees just to go away. I tend to get away with playing the innocent bystander who doesn’t understand this culture (and its true, I don’t understand it, but I actually find them to be quite unshocking most of the time – I’ll save the shocking stories for another time). In fact, I had to laugh when I bumped into a couple on the way to the toilet. I asked if it was empty and they said yes. We even had a formal introduction of names when I came out – though I did move on rather quickly. The next morning, I went to the bathroom, first thing, with my eyes barely open. When I walked out, I saw them again.

“Good morning beautiful!” they shouted down the corridor.
“Good morning ladies,” I responded.
“We love you!” they replied with a laugh.
“Have a safe trip,” I said quickly heading back to my seat.
“You are leaving so soon?”
“I’m off at Bangalore.”
“Okay. Bye handsome!”

The action never ends. You can dream out the window for hours. Read heaps of a book. Talk about Indian current events. Meet a new friend. And on you go.

I’m off to Bangalore. And I’m looking forward to a couple more trains before this southern adventure wraps up.

India’s 9/11

I spoke with my family on Thanksgiving Day and they were eager to hear news of the events in Mumbai from the Indian perspective.

I showed them the headline from the Times of India, a highly circulated national newspaper.

“IT’S WAR ON MUMBAI”

The words read full across the whole page with a number of informative sub-headlines above the fold and the main headline.

Since I’m not in Mumbai, all of my reports have been either 2nd hand through conversation or through the newspaper. I’ve had no chance to watch any of it on television. They only time I’ve seen a television in the past week has been the New Zealand-Australia cricket match while I had my haircut Saturday afternoon.

But even in that flash of sport I heard the news advert interrupt and refer to this past week as “India’s 9/11”. It’s a country known for its sensationalized press (I’d say more so than the US), but the phrase rang true in many ways.

In a country fairly accustomed to bombings of public places in the name of politics or religion this event has stirred the social consciousness of the nation. It will being a change. It just a matter of when and how…

A few things I’ve noticed…

24-Hour Coverage. It’s been the first time (I believe) that India has live streamed this kind of event in their own country through their own television stations. Friends in Pune told me that people have been glued to their TV sets, even while at work, checking facts and seeing how the story would unfold. For most it’s been a harrowing experience to watch the tragedy come to life on camera, for others it has become violent entertainment, watched with the twisted curiosity that grows inside us when we see such things.

More Religious Conflict. On another level, there’s been an extremely angry response. Those who have not been shaken have often responded with anger. It’s a potentially disastrous cocktail. With Muslims claiming responsibility for the assault, it has injected those predisposed to religious conflict (which is quite a few) with a dose of unneeded adrenaline. Other’s I’ve spoken with have said that their quite ecumenical work colleagues have spoken about taking arms to fight in the battle. It’s a strange but, to some degree, an understandable comment with only a remote chance of manifestation. The problem would be (as has happened in the past) if the violent wing of the Hindu Nationalist ideology responds to this violence against innocents with equal violence towards innocents. Given that the country looks on this as a national tragedy, I would hope it’s a time when Indians stand together. We’ll see…

India-Pakistan. Whether it was intended or not (and reports have been very disparate so far) the violence occurred during a recent warming of relations between India and Pakistan, longtime rivals (and recently nuclear armed rivals) still quarreling over a number of issues, particularly the disputed territory of Kashmir. Recently, the new Prime Minister of Pakistan had made some important concessions regarding a “no first” nuclear policy – which means his government would not fire the first nuclear missile in a military conflict. He also made some statements about the rights of the Kashmiri people to their own government. These bold strides were received well in Delhi and on Tuesday the Home Ministers of each country had met to continue the quickly-thawing conversation. Those talks are now iced, with many pointing the finger at Pakistan as the origin for the militants.

Where Next? The US and the UK responded dramatically to major terrorist attacks on their home soil. How will India respond? With major international conflicts already underway in Iraq and Afghanistan, will India decide to make a bold move on the global level? Will the government seek to centralize power and tighten their authority and security over India (which happened once in the 70’s when martial law left all authority in Indira Gandhi’s hands during The Emergency)? Indian politicians have condemned the violence, but where will they lead the country?

I received this email from a supporter of Action for Life:

“Being born and brought up in Mumbai, what is happening there now has left me benumbed. I am saddened and aghast at the heedless violence, unprovoked and uncalled for. Life in Mumbai is no longer safe, as it used to be when I grew up. I am afraid now to move out in public, to mix with strangers or to trust people.”

It’s a different time in India. Some say this is a watershed moment from which Indians will mark time, like 9-11. But from the looks of Bangalore, nothing seems different on the street and aside from tonight’s candle light vigil at the local college, I haven’t seen the impact change life in the street. It’s wait and see here…

I myself have little to say on the events. I’ve been nervous, knowing I’m responsible for a number of people traveling throughout the country, but more than anything I’ve had a deep sadness.

I’ve also felt a strange desire to pray not only for the situation, the victims and families and the greater repercussions of these acts, but also for the militants themselves. It’s a profoundly disturbing moment when a young man loses his soul. All I can do is ask for a miracle to return hope, truth and love to that void of despair.

I ask you, please keep India in your prayers.

Safe

I've been moved by your many phone calls and queries about my safety in India. I'm many miles from there and feeling safe where I am in the south of India.

What's happened in Mumbai is tragic. I ask that you keep the situation and those affected in your prayers. I plan to write more about it in the coming days.

With love,

Chris

“Now That’s the Thanksgiving Spirit”

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday of the year for 4 specific reasons

1. The entire point of the holiday is to be grateful for what you have
   
2. The entire holiday is centered around family, food and hanging out
   
3. There is no stress of shopping for gifts
4. Football, parades and getting excited for Christmas
   

The only thing missing from Thanksgiving is music and for all the crappy music Americans are capable of writing, performing and producing, I’m still shocked that Thanksgiving still remains carol-less. It maybe be something I need to change someday.

Regardless, of all the times I really miss home when I’m traveling abroad, the first is Thanksgiving and the second is Christmas. They are sad days to be away from the family – especially all the tradition that is Breitenberg holidays. And you best believe that my family loves it some tradition (ask my mom about the time she tried to change the recipe for the stuffing). I even had to fight a bit to bring in Cousin’s Chris’ Famous Pumpkin Bisque onto the menu.

Anyway, I digress. Obviously I love Thanksgiving, so I’ve been planning my Thanksgiving feast in India almost 6 weeks in advance of the holiday itself. There are three young women at Asia Plateau that coordinate the interns here, so we decided to get the AfL core team together to dinner with them. I suggested Thanksgiving. It turned out we would need to go out a week in advance. Celebrate Turkey Day twice…don’t torture me!

So we set off for Rainforest, a kiff place tucked into the plateau-side. Peerless view. My surrogate parents here, Leena and Suresh, and I ordered an epic spread. Chicken and mutton curries, tandoori chicken, chala masala, paneer tikka, mutter paneer and more garlic butter naan than you could ever want. Topped off with a round of fresh lime sodas

Before we devoured, I made sure to slow everyone down to share on the Breitenberg family tradition of passing the thanks around the table. As we gave thanks I found myself overwhelmed with gratitude for the support of my family and friends while I’m on AfL. I feel an incredible joy when I think of you all. I also feel incredibly thankful to be in a place where I can do important work for people while using my skills and natural talents. Thankful too for all of the money received by AfL. We’ve covered over 80% of our budget and are in good position to cover our needs by May. Lastly, I feel hugely grateful for the chance to be working with and around people who live their lives with faith and integrity. It’s an indescribable blessing.

After we gave thanks we dove in and I just sat in awe of the glory that is Thanksgiving (no matter where you have it in the world). People you love eating more food than they should, laughing and enjoying each other. Everyday should be thanksgiving! The conversation opened up for me to speak about the holiday, I limited the history of “Pilgrims and Indians” to focus on “The Thanksgiving Spirit”.

So much of the rest of the night turned into a judiciary review of whether actions or words were either full of “The Thanksgiving Spirit” or not. It turned out to be a really fun exercise. For instance, saying that one is “too full to eat anymore” is not in “The Thanksgiving Spirit”. While quietly taking an extra scoop of curry is. Turning down a piece of butter naan is not in “The Thanksgiving Spirit” while using your finger to scrape up the leftover minced garlic and butter is. Saying something like “I could stay here all night” is in “The Thanksgiving Spirit” while talking about responsibilities you have after the meal is not. Picking at the last spice on the tandoori chicken bone is in “The Thanksgiving Spirit” and talking about dessert when you’re stuffed and still eating the main course is too.

After the meal (10 people aching-full on good food for $30 [I’m also thankful for Indian cost of living and the strong dollar]), we went back to Panchgani town and got ice cream (definitely in “The Thanksgiving Spirit”) and went to work. I even tried green chili ice cream, which is an absolutely stunning culinary treat (also in “The Thanksgiving Spirit”). It heats your tongue but cools your throat and tastes of smoky chili and sweet milk. Impressive. I only sampled it before heading on to my favorite Hilltop combo of peppermint and choco chips (which is what Indians call chocolate chocolate chip).
Bellies overwhelmed, we arrived back at AP just in time to see the whole community cranking out a dance party. Folk dances from all over the world (probably some 35 countries represented here). What an event!

But wait…what to do? The most unbelievable of Thanksgiving Spirit dilemmas: Is dancing after being totally stuffed (to the point of pain) at the Thanksgiving dinner table in “The Thanksgiving Spirit” or not?

Ukrainian folk dancing in India on Thanksgiving with 60 people from all over the world. Seriously, is there anything more in “The Thanksgiving Spirit”?

And what a dance it was…

Talkin' Toilets: Discovering My Voice Regarding Sanitation Issues in India

Did you think I was kidding?

There are a number of benefits that come along with living at a conference centre that’s been operating in the area for the past 40 years. One is that the people here have a million connections and now and again they work out to provide us with some unforgettable memories. Enter 2008 Toilets 2008.

We organized half of the group here to visit a couple of villages last week. The state of Maharashtra has actually done admirable work in developing the rural parts of the state. Loads of money gets poured into rural infrastructure giving some locals access to everything from decent roads and sanitation to clean water systems and telecom. Our first visit, quite brief gave us a clear a good image of a tiny and ideal strawberry farming village on the plateau ridge, home to only 40 families. Remarkably picturesque and a sparkling example of leadership. The village council (known as the Panchyat) has used seemingly every government break to boost their condition.

This trip whetted the appetite to spend more time out in the countryside. The next morning we bolted Panchgani and drove down to Wai in the Krishna Valley. On the outskirts of the small town we entered a village of almost 300 families and about 3000 people.

The pomp and circumstance of a VIP arrival in India equates to that of a college commencement processional. We arrive and are seated on freshly unfolded mats. Everyone in the group receives a garland and a coconut. In India, “Guest is God” and one can almost feel embarrassed by the amount of attention and gushing given to visitors. To be honest, it didn’t take me long to get used to this cultural beauty. On one level, I do feel that it’s undeserved, but on another, is their any reason at all to try and deny a host? I think not. And to be honest, it’s even better if you are a son. So instead of fighting any urge to shoo away this “Guest as God” business, I openly embrace and just give gracious thanks. Hey, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Fortunately, we had a chance to give back to the community by helping with a village cleanup. Litter is one of India’s black-eyes. Actually, coming from the States, the issue is shocking and pervasive. City to farming village, plastic wrappers and pieces of paper turn the serene landscapes into ugly sties of humanity. Its by far one of the things I find most frustrating here, so I leapt at the chance to lend a hand. We did well, using Indian style brooms to pile up the rubbish before lighting it all on fire. Some villagers joined in the effort and we took some encouragement from their engagement in the process.

After the warm morning and even spicier lunch, we took a needed Indian post-lunch siesta and awoke to a new task from the Panchyat. We were to become ambassadors. No, not for our countries or for the values and community we work with as AfL, but for something far more practical. We would become the spokespeople of sanitation. The fellows of flush. The experts on excrement. The idea, in brief, was to tour the village and speak to them all about the ned for toilets. The state had just imposed a law that all village homes must have a toilet facility and this village aimed to win the prize which would insure statewide recognition and some million rupees for the coffers. Un surprisingly, the Panchyat saw in us a chance and they leapt at it.

So we went on 2008 Toilets 2008. It started with disaster, as they led us (now a group of about 25) to an old woman’s home. Our fixer grabbed my Ukranian friend, Yulia, placed her in front of the old woman (bewildered and reasonably unhappy about the attention) and told her to tell the woman about why she needed a toilet. With good reason this made the group fairly uncomfortable and I immediately approached our fixer friend and said we’d need to take a different tack on our sanitation persuasion tour. He read the group’s morale completely – depleted after the first encounter – and assured me that the rest of the tour would be done “our way”. With no other choice but to trust him, most of set off again.

“Our way” turned out to be brilliant. We ended up just getting the local tour of the village of about 3,000. I’ve now probably seen every kind of village toilet available and in every stage of construction. It was most excellent to be introduced as VIP and then shown into the villager homes (very modest) and then have the village council show off their people and their wonderful toilets. I was interested, they were proud and all in all it was more or less incredible sanitation circus of good times. Not used to foreign visitors, a pack of village kids started walking with us and our processional topped out around 75 people. What an experience.

Now I know, you must ask. Did I use one of these toilets? Sad to say, I actually did not. For one, I didn’t need to go. For two, I think it would have been strange to walk into someone’s home and ask to use their toilet, especially when public toilets were available. So I missed my chance. I know this will bring a big sigh for all you epicures out there…

As our entourage returned to the main square, we were seated on the village stage and were the honored guests at a stunning cultural performance. The kids put on a major dance performance that lasted about 30-minutes (a serious workout) which explained a lot about the length of Bollywood movies (get them hooked into excessive dance at a young age) and then the real coup: sitting directly outside a circle of the village elders jamming an epic groove with tablas, a harmonium, small cymbals and a chorus of call and response. Noted throughout the region, they played for a solid 30 minutes and I soaked in every minute.

If that wasn’t enough, they gave us more coconuts and gifts before we put on a short presentation for them. It seemed the very least our weary souls could do for them.

Factory Visit

Last week I visited a factory in Pune called Forbes-Marshall. It's a respected industrial house in India and they are major manufacturer and exporter of boilers and pressure gauges (among her related products). As far as factory visits go, its wasn't the most stimulating (I've much preferred other visits to the Tata Truck factory and the Crayola Crayon factory in Easton, PA), but every factory interests me, regardless of its final product.

I've identified this interest in the very basic concept of what a factory accomplishes. Its takes elements and puts them together in specific way to create a new and more highly refined element. It takes a bunch of little parts and creates something new by adding unique. Not only that, but it all happens in the physical realm. I'm sometimes discouraged working in the "ideas" market where the results of my work can't always be seen. I'm often envious of those who work with materials. Who can see there product being developed in tangible ways. It's exactly this reality that made my short stint building a house in Va Beach so rewarding.

Factories also have a really interesting sense of the asthetic, and I've take a couple photos to show you here what I mean.

Aside from production, Indian factories have their own little qualities that add a little spice. I found one such quality in the safety posters printed on the walls of the factory floor. Most workers communicate in the native Maharashtran language of Marathi. I can't read a word of the script, so it gave me the chance to have some fun developing my own captions for these gems.

#1

Just keep yelling at everyone and point your finger at them angrily. This will help get your questions answered with excitement!












#2

When you talk to the fork-lift driver, be sure to use hand gestures. This will make him happy. But don't do the one where you raise both hands over your head. This will cause a disaster!









#3

When cooking tomato soup, be sure to use an oversized vacuum cleaner or else you will turn into a cross between Papa Smurf and Gargamel!












Your captions are very much welcomed to these photos as well.

All in all it was another educational experience in India. Next entry even more so... Talkin' Toilets: Discovering My Voice Regarding Sanitation Issues in India.

A New Hope

40 people cheered today when I said two words: “Obama won.”

I didn’t shout it. It was more matter-of-fact, but 40 people, of all ages, from over 20 different countries, in India, started to clap and holler the moment I spoke.

It threw me a bit. I knew that people here wanted Obama to win the election, but the look of delight and excitement that spread through the room rushed at me. I glowed.

I heard two really fascinating comments throughout the course of this auspicious day.

The first came from my international crew in Panchgani. The most common thing I heard from them was “congratulations”. Seemed a strange word to hear from those in the community here. Some knew that I supported Obama, but this wasn’t a congratulations given to me because my candidate won the election. This congratulations had a different tone. It was the congratulations you give someone when they are part of something that has gone right. The kind you might give to a family member when the first kid graduates high school. Or maybe that you would give to Godfather at his Godson’s christening. The congratulations of communal goodwill. The congratulations of a step that symbolizes much more than a singular accomplishment, but also the many steps of the many wo supported it and paved the way to make it possible. It’s the congratulations you give when you admire something that resonates deep within, even if you don’t know why. It’s the congratulations of a new day and the hope that comes with it. It’s the congratulations given to the courageous, the changemakers and the group that has moved towards realizing their potential.

The second refrain I heard in different forms from those at home came out like this: “I’m proud of America and I’m proud to be an American.” It’s almost unfathomable to me that I could hear that statement from people in my generation. My parents and grandparents? Sure. But my peeps? Not in a million years…until today. Hearing those words demonstrated to me that something of serious consequence happened today. I’m still stunned at this comment.

I spent the afternoon working and patiently waiting for the acceptance speech to stream (a tall task in Panchgani). Above this massive outpouring of emotion and excitement I heard the voice cut through. There is work to do. Yes we can do it. A leader who asks sacrifices of his people would be a complete revolution in this era of US politics. It’s a trait of citizens in days gone that I’ve always admired. I’m on board and ready to go. In fact, I’ve been ready and working and now the ship has a new course.

Today a dream was fulfilled and I had a healthy dose of hope restored. It’s hard to know what the future holds and what the “change” will look like, but I do know that change is necessary. It’s my earnest prayer that wisdom will prevail in this administration and we will begin to build the country into something exceptional. If that happens…well then there will be even more reason for congratulations.

Something great has been achieved today. And there is a kind of purity in the air. The kind of purity that only exists alongside the promise of a new day. I’m embracing.

Election Overnight

Over dinner my Tibetan friend, Jordhen, said to me, “Today is Judgment Day in America. That makes it Judgment Night for you!”

Sure enough, here we are on the edge of political change in the States – you can’t believe the kind of attention this is grabbing over here. Every day the Times of India posts a photo of one of the candidates and puts a leader above the fold. This takes the reader to about a page of coverage on the election alone. It’s laughably biased coverage. On Sunday, there were 8 articles about the election – 5 positive on Obama, 1 negative; 1 positive on McCain, 1 negative (this excludes two editorials).

But its no real surprise, as I read a recent poll that suggested that 4 in 5 international citizens would vote for Obama over McCain. Whether they consider the repercussions of such a presidency in terms of policy is another story. But what stands fast is that Obama represents a change the world is looking for from the US.

It’s exciting to be an American in India these days. It’s almost as if people I meet are realizing what America can do and be when it’s at its best. It’s not an understatement to say that the last 8 years of policy have left the international community foggy. You might be surprised, but form my interactions I think a lot of people actually like America and believe in America. I can’t imagine what it would do for the US if Obama won this election. People come up to me pleading that I vote and for Obama. It’s a far cry from when I was here three years ago and taking endless heat for the Bush presidency and the 2004 election.

From the businessman to the nun, the teacher to the engineer, Obama has generated unbelievable enthusiasm in India. From my conversations in Pune this past week, I am sure that the US election generates more excitement than the current events of Indian politics. It’s hot and people are taking notice. I’ve heard a number of times from citizens of many countries that the world hasn’t watched a US election like this in years, maybe in history (which might not be a stretch given the availability of information in the digital age).

One way or the other, I’m breathing a sigh of relief that America is looking forward from the past eight years. I believe both candidates are capable and can lead America in positive ways. I think both will be an improvement to their predecessor in terms of quality. Still, I can’t help but feel the possibility and potential of an Obama presidency. It sounds as though there is a huge swell of optimism in the States for the change he could bring. I can only tell you that I think that hope multiplies across the pond where people are drawn to the promise of the lean man from Chicago.

If he wins, the pressure will be full on. I can only pray that he would use the unbelievable good will he’ll receive from the international community to build something new and important for the 21st century. A world vision that’s forward looking in terms of economy and environment, interdependence and real human security.

At press, the election is in the hands of the people. I’m off to bed ready to wake up tomorrow like a kid on Christmas, eager to see what’s under the tree.

Festival of Lights

I’ve only ever imagined war zones, but I am hearing what I can only imagine one sounds like. Massive booms, crackling pops, epic blasts. The night air rattles with a constant crash. It’s Diwali (Dee-vaal-ee), the Hindu festival of light. And do they ever know how to do light. Without the restrictions of government, all order of fireworks are available to the everyman, who spends four nights using the street as his personal launch pad for flare. The festival explodes with excitement.

But it is the end of a long day, the last and most celebrated of Diwali. It started in Aundh, a booming neighborhood west of downtown.

******************************************************

My second Diwali trounced my first one – and my first was really good. Recently, arrived in Mumbai from DC I woke up and took off for the island of Elefanta. The atoll houses ancient temples carved directly from the island rock. A beautiful spectacle evoked in me some awe, adventure and archeology. Indiana Jones fantasies. After exploring the island, I hopped the boat ride back. As the sun faded behind the Mumbai haze and night took over, a blast of fireworks roared over the city. An absolute magnificence.

This morning started different. No jet lag and in Pune, not Mumbai. After meeting her a month ago in Panchgani, we had arranged to take the crew to meet Sister Lucy, a nun working with orphans and destitute women around Maharashtra. We piled back into a Sumo and cruised across Pune to find her there.

We lost our way on the country roads and ambled by village and bullock-cart in search of Maher, Hindi for “Mother’s Home”. When we finally arrived, a group of women and children in holiday best, lined up to welcome us. Custom in India says that “Guest is God” and we undeservedly (at least in my eyes) incurred the loving the warmth of the souls being cared for by Sister Lucy and her gang. They were not an easy crowd to love or look at. They were mentally disturbed women, exiled from their homes and considered to be carrying demon spirits. Most had been tossed out on the street by husbands or families who considered their mental problem shameful. Other has been victims of domestic violence. The children were mostly street children, taken from busy Pune intersections and given a new chance to live in the village compound.

I walked down the sari-lined path to the main building on the campus. They showered rice on me and one lady gave me a fresh-made garland of marigold flowers and betel leaves. Bedazzled by the event, I focused carefully on each woman I passed, many just reaching out their hands to me to say hello and wish me “Happy Diwali”. I devoted energy into each “namaste” with an affection I don’t ever recall. I felt to trust each utterance as the only thing I might be able to do for these women in my life and I honored the responsibility with full heart. When the procession concluded, I walked in to spend more time with the residents there.

The story of Sister Lucy deserves more attention and I hope to give it some later on. My days in India will be filled with stories of incredible people who change society for the better, sometimes on mere faith alone. She started her work with 20 rupees (fiddy cent) and now runs 19 rehabilitation homes and vocational training centers. It’s an inspiring and challenging story.

After meals we left to celebrate Diwali with presents and treats in a nearby slum, a short visit in the heat of day to offer something to the kids there. We then passed through the dusty outskirt street to arrive in the first home of Maher where we briefly surveyed the home that started it all. But I was restless and tired, cooked from the heat, I couldn’t take it anymore and left the hall to see the kids playing outside. We made quick friends and after trying my hand at some Maher version of tennis (played with two pink rackets and a hollow plastic ball) I was invited for the most important of all games in India: Cricket.

I liken my Diwali cricket experience to playing football on Thanksgiving Day. It’s more than a game, its tradition.

As a sports enthusiast, I’ve tried my hand at almost every sport and found success with some (baseball, soccer, wiffle ball, bocce [yes, that’s a jab at Papa and Dad]), little with others (basketball, wrestling, swimming) and for some the verdict is still out. Cricket fits in the last category. It should match up well with the old baseball skills, but with the ball bouncing and the game often defensive minded, well, I do what I can.

Despite my warnings, the captain picked me first calling “Uncle!” loudly to razz his rival. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he had picked the guy with the most power, but the least accuracy. No matter, they handed me the bat and set me to the stump to give a go. The bowler, an Indian bloke of similar age stared me down. His spin bowling didn’t hold up on the surface and I sent his first offering for a six, which is the equivalent of a homerun. This had never happened before. Usually, I just miss everything and make an out right away. Instead, I launched this ball (the way I used to swat tennis balls in Princeton Oaks straight out of the tennis court with my tennis racquet and shout “home run!”). My young teammates, all 10 and under, went wild, the way one does when Uncle scores big. Confused at my own feat, I slapped their hands and returned to the stump. My glory would be short-lived however, as I bounced out on the next bowl. But by that point I had already won their loving approval and I basked in the joyous ritual that is village boy cricket. It’s the purest sporting event on the planet.

The dinner bell rang and we transported back to the main site. I carried my 6-year old teammate who’s bum toe disabled him in the latter half of the tie. Our good spirits arrived to offer the Pooja to Laxmi, the goddess of wealth. We lit lamps and placed about 50 in the dining hall before we read scriptures. Sister Lucy does not seek to convert her patrons and she welcomes all religions to be practiced in her houses, despite her vow to Catholicism. It’s a beautiful freedom she has and many were moved by the reading from Gita, Bible, Koran and Buddha’s teachings.

At somepoint, the post-sunset light hung glorious blues and yellow in the sky and my bare feet walked along the tiled terrace while I carried a bowl of soup. The dry air coupled with the perfect evening temperatures reminiscent of southern California in the late summer. Basking in glory, I smiled knowing full well that I had stumbled upon another one of those moments when life feels full beyond measure.

After dinner, the whole event went to romper room. We danced and played and sang with everyone present. A huge Diwali party. When dark fully set in the fireworks began and sent us home on our way. My heart went out for them. A couple cried as we left, including my main mate from the cricket ground. Orphaned, he struggles with abandonment and I could do little to console him, knowing I couldn’t fulfill any promises I might want to make. We embraced and I got in the Sumo, struggling with the moment.

The drive home memorized. Rolling through the crowded streets seemingly exploding on their own. Massive blasts pummeled the side of the jeep with thunderous bolts of sound while light filled the sky in epic fluorescent explosions. Our packed jeep seemed to be running the gauntlet of Diwali. I lapped up my view from the front seat, watching as it all unfolded in front of me.

Diwali: the festival of lights. The celebration of light overtaking darkness.

Indian Road Trip

Panchgani slowly disappears into the rearview. The Hindi radio station drops a road trip beat in the background and the Sumo creeps down the mountain announcing our descent by horn. With dusk an hour off, we’ve captured my favorite time to drive to a new destination. The Maharashtran sunset serenading a soundtrack for our evening expedition.

For the first two months of my time in India I’ve spent most of my weeks in Panchgani, a small hill station in the Deccan. Even there, I’ve taken most of my days at Asia Plateau, the conference centre that hosts AfL. But with a month of the program behind us, the time had full come for some serious time away from the mountain. I couldn’t be more ready for a road trip.

It would be hard to describe to you my sense of freedom, flying down the hill towards the valley. A full release that only the road can offer. I chat with my friend Nigel as we survey the countryside. Smoke from the sheathed sugar cane stalks, burning in the fields rises skyward. A pack of goats bob along the road in front of their goatherd. We speed by a man on a bicycle stacked with gas cylinders. A group of men swap stories in the paan shop. Children grip their mother’s hands tightly amidst the confusion of the Indian traffic system on the way to the highway from the provencial town of Wai.

We stop at a toll booth and attract the attention of a number of hawkers in the queue. Grilled corn, dried nuts and fruits, even mango and cucumber spiced with masala. Its available. Despite the tempting treats, we pay a toll and steam on, The interstate allows us to increase speed and we bolt north to the metropolis. Pune, our destination, boasts almost 4 million in population and is one of the fastest growing cities in India. Unlike Bangalore, one of its main competitors in the south, Pune’s leadership has developed the 7th biggest city in the country into a crowded but fairly well run boomtown.
Night falls and we make a switch just on the outskirts of our city. My aforementioned guru, Prabhakar trades his carload of people into our truck. He will head off to see his family while we head in to meet some friends in town. Unsurprisingly, the exchange takes longer than usual, but we manage and pile in, now an India-comfortable nine of us in the truck. Passing the outer neighborhoods, we begin our circle along the south border of the city and eventually trade the dry flats of the country for the tall trees of Aundh, a well-established neighborhood on West side.

Patting our friendly driver Pradeep on the back, we ascend the steps of the non-descript apartment building. The night air cool and noticeably crisp for the packed city. Noise begins to fill it. We’ve arrived for the Diwali festival. The Hindu festival of lights. Fricrackers shatter the silence and fireworks shower the sky in color. A month removed from the spectacle of Ganpati, India still swaggers in the festival season. Up the stairs our friendly host welcomes us in. A giant hot pot of chicken biryani waits to fill our hungry stomach. We sit down to commence our feast and welcome in the first night of our week in the city.

Gift

It’s nice to live in a community. I’m around a strange and wonderful collection of people ranging from a 66-year old Zambian to a 20-year old Fijian. On Saturday I sat under the starry Maharashtran sky by a fire with the men. It flowed with the soul-feeding spirit that arrives when sharing stories about families, fathers and the often hilarious stories that accompany one’s own coming-of-age.

I told one of my favorite stories. The time when I received a gift that changed my life.

The September of my senior year in high school, my parents and I rolled up the Delaware River on Route 29 for a reason I can’t recall, perhaps a Grandparent visit or something like that. The fall air still a couple weeks off, we strolled through the relaxed town of Lambertville on our way across the bridge to New Hope.

Along the way I spotted a music shop and pressed my father to come upstairs with me to check out the guitar selection. My interest in guitar had just reached its first peak. I’d recently played my first songs in front of audiences and even had won some money with my friend Jeff at a WWPHS showcase. An early love of James Taylor’s style had turned into a study of Ben Harper and Dave Matthews and I’d been prepping my chops along with attending as many concerts as possible. When we walked into the music store, my eyes leapt at the lines of finely crafted maple, rosewood and alder.

I carefully surveyed the racks, taking in each guitar before coming across a line of Takamine acoustics. I skipped past the simpler models until I gasped at a pure beauty. Like a Van Gogh hanging on the gallery wall, the guitar reflected the warmth of my eyes, radiating in the presence of something wonderful. I gripped it. The gorgeous cutaway, the deep brown neck, the pearl inlay, top-end pre-amp and smooth action. A pick and a few strums and I melted away in 17-year old dream of music.

In my own world, I can only assume that my father watched me with interest, more interested in my renewed passion for music than anything else in the store. After a few minutes, he broke my hypnosis.

“She’s a beauty.”
“Yeah,” I gushed. “This is my dream guitar.”
“How much is it?”
“A lot,” I replied with a sigh and hung the guitar back up, taking the time to look a the price tag. Way over budget. Alarmingly over budget. The kind of price you might attach to “dream guitar”. But I had known it already and I walked away from it knowing that I would have to be content with keeping it my dreams and strumming on my trustworthy Washburn.

We walked out of the store and cruised to Pennsylvania.

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Four months later I walked downstairs in early morning anticipation. Manheim Steamroller backing my steps. Turning the corner I collapsed, unable to draw the line between dream time and real time. I recovered to walk over and tough what I had seen. The guitar backed by pine and needles and basking in the gentle glow of Christmas tree lights.