I had a friend, once upon a time ago, who always used to tell me “Sweetie, learn to wear life like a loose garment.” It’s an old expression, and one that I have spent countless hours of my life and spiritual practice trying to learn. Of course, all of that striving really defeated the purpose of the expression to begin with.
These days, I am at a place in my life where I understand what that expression means and feel as though, without boasting or feeling proud, that I am able to live it. Arriving in this place has less to do with me than with the God that I understand as operative in my life. I am always reminded of the saying of Jesus, “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly of heart and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
These words, for me, work as a gentle reminder of my place in the life of God - a place of gentle surrender and trust - knowing that God, ultimately, is my place of rest. Those things that I am capable of striving and struggling to achieve don’t matter so much when I allow myself to rest completely and confidently in the presence of the One. As I like to say “resting in the Swift Sure Hand of God.”
I look around me today, in the lives of my closest companions, in the lives of family, and in the faces of strangers, the struggles so apparent in our lives. Fears for our security in an uncertain economy. Fears for our health in the face of skyrocketing costs. I see it in the faces of my LGBT brothers and sisters - the fear for our rights or the lack of them - and what that means for our future or the futures of our families. I see it in the faces of my fellow church members as the Anglican Communion threatens to fly apart at he seams, as the numbers of folks in the pews dwindles, and as the face of intolerant right-wing extremism plays the dominant role of the Christian faith in the public sphere.
Our fears can consume us well before they motivate us to action. Fear can paralyze. And likewise restlessness, struggle, doubt, and uncertainty can rear their heads and rob us of our humanity as we spend our time trying to break even or get ahead, or even in trying to cope.
That is a life of patterns that I, too, can easily fall back into. But it is not a life that I consciously choose. I find myself having chosen it when I allow doubt and fear to rule rather than faith and love. A faith and a love that, by my OWN experience, has proven to me time and again that I need not fear. All will be well.
So, I have finally accepted for myself a life of rest. A life of trust in the God of my understanding. And the results in my life are startling. Not because I have everything I want - which, by the way, I don’t. But I do have everything I need and enough to share with others. Not because there is economic certainty about the future - which there isn’t. Not because there isn’t sorrow and sadness in my life at present and certainly in my future.
But because I am resting from the fear and worry about these things. Resting now so that when future challenge comes along, my God will be there in the midst of it with me giving me a strength forged in the deep silence of my heart where - for so long now - we have enjoyed sitting in one another’s company.
I am resting from self-doubt and judgment. Not because I do not have flaws, but because they do not ultimately matter. I have struggled with my greater demons and overcome them by the grace of God, and now I simply swat at flies which, while not inconsequential, are not earth shattering or monstrous. Merely distracting.
I am resting from pride and greed and lust and anger other false idols that I have, in the past, put in the place of God. It is not that these things are not present in my life, but simply that I know their names, and I know their faces, and I know their hunger, and I choose not to feed them. Because I have learned that when these gods, however false, fail to live up to the expectation of reward, that the experience compromises our ability to trust in the God that truly matters to us.
The sages and the mages have it right when they tell you that perseverance is the key to spiritual peace. For while we work and wait upon the world to change, while we toil in the Garden of our spirits trying to clear a space - then we discover that, when we thought we were waiting for God, God was already there waiting for us (and secretly doing most of the heavy lifting). Waiting for us to notice and smile and take a breather.
So that is what I’m doing these days. Taking a breather, with an ice cold lemonade, wearing my loose garment and laying in a hammock in the Garden with God. And I am resting.
It occurs to me that an unfortunate consequence of the “I’m OK, you’re OK,” new-age, self-help, positive affirmation movement of the last twenty years is a seemingly deep aversion in the modern church to talking about repentance and sin.
This seems particularly true among communities made up of persecuted and oppressed minorities like my own LGBTQ brothers and sisters who, after lifetimes of building their self-confidence and learning to accept that God loves them as they are, feel deeply uncomfortable with seasons like Lent that emphasize our fallenness and our need for penitence.
I remember well the sermon of a friend, a wonderful priest, many years ago that tried to blast that notion out of the water by starting her sermon with the words “HOW DARE YOU absolve yourself from the responsibility for your own sin simply because you have been hurt by the sin of oppression.” You could hear an audible gasp as the words settled in the air.
I deeply empathize with those for whom sin is an uncomfortable reminder that we are not perfect. No one, oppressed or not, is comfortable looking at where we fall short. No one cares to admit the sins of our own hearts. But, too often, when the church looks at us as nothing more than the sum totality of our sexual lives rather than in the fullness of our humanity - no wonder we who so deeply internalize this homophobia cannot break free and separate our sexuality from the notion of sin when the word rears its head during Lent.
The glory for me of the Gospel is the fact that, deep down, I know I am not perfect. I do not always do what I ought and sometimes do what I ought not to do. And this is sin. But I cannot forget that along with sin also comes forgiveness. And that forgiveness is the entire point of even looking at sin to begin with. I have the capacity to make moral choices and that is the gift of being fully human. To choose to do for others than for myself, to choose not to harm, to choose love rather than hatred. And even when I fall short, forgiveness is there freely.
And what tremendous liberation is there in freely accepting the knowledge that I am not and will never be perfect. To accept that I sin is to be truly free. Not that I need not try to overcome it. But that by acknowledging it, I recognize that the grace of God is there, freely offered, to help me become a better person and to recognize that I am loved and forgiven even when I fall short.
For those of my brothers and sisters who struggle with the very idea of sin, I say be free. For it is not God’s judgement that we thrash against, but our own. Lent is an opportunity for us to open our hearts to the unconditional love of God by acknowledging our need for repentance. Not because we are gay…
“The kingdom of God is not coming with things that can be observed; nor will they say, ‘Look, here it is!’ or ‘There it is!’ For, in fact, the kingdom of God is among you.” - from the Gospel according to Luke
Tomorrow marks the beginning of the holy season of Lent. Throughout the Christian community, members of the Church will receive the imposition of ashes to mark their acceptance of their mortality and to be reminded that death awaits all of us - whether we would like to be reminded or not.
I, however, subscribe to a slightly different interpretation of the beginning of this holy season and what it means for those of us who follow the Christ hoping to discover the Realm of God. I believe that we are supposed to be reminded not of death but of life! Particularly, we are called in Lent to remember our life in the Realm as differentiated from our life in the mundane, secular world which surrounds us.
To focus on death inevitably leads us to penance, the taking on of disciplines of sacrifice, and atonement. These all, of course, have their proper place in our spiritual lives. But too much focus on these things keeps us focused on ourselves rather than on God. And they can cause us to operate from a place of spiritual pride and self-satisfaction at our successful “laying down” of something we enjoy for the sake of Lenten discipline.
As Christ-followers, we would do better to remember life, particularly our life in the Realm which is already among us. What does it mean to look at your life and your daily experience through the lens of ALREADY living in the Realm of God - that place in which all are welcome; in which every thing we have is a gift to be used for the building of the Realm; and where action we take in the course of a day or a moment is intended to lead to an opportunity to work with God in the healing of the world?
We religious brothers and sisters have an expression - to be “in the world, but not of the world.” It signifies our recognition that, as baptized people living out our promises in witness to God, we are already living in the Realm of God and our actions, choices, motives, and thankfulness should be oriented to that fact.
And, so - as we enter into this period of Lenten reflection - I encourage you to pick up rather than put down. I encourage you to replace sacrifice with gift. I encourage you to choose a focus on immortality rather than our mortality. Each day in Lent, ask yourself the following:
How shall I serve the Realm of God today?
What will I do differently today, knowing that it is already here and I am called, as a follower of Christ, to make it manifest?
Who am I unintentionally excluding from God’s Realm and how can I invite them to sit at the banquet table?
What parts of my life have I unintentionally kept separate from the Kingdom and how can I see them as a part of the Realm of God?
None of us can live in two worlds at once. So, the question is - can Lent be an opportunity to step completely into the fully realized Realm of God and let it change the way we live?
I bid you peace from that place where all is a gift to be used to the building up of God’s purpose, and to the fulfillment of God’s holy reign on earth; from that place where no one is excluded and each person has a unique contribution to make to the healing of the world.
This is a repost of our trip to Zimbabwe in 2007. I am reposting it for archival purposes, but some may find it an interesting read. It is about our trip through the Recycled AIDS Medicine Program to deliver medicines to the clinics we support there.
Africa Journal
HARARE CLINIC: DAY ONE
This morning we arrived in Harare. I can’t believe the smell of the fresh air after stepping out of the airport. We’ve been on planes and in airports for nearly 27 hours.
Africa looks remarkably like I always imagined. Grasslands, mountains, lush vegetation and green hills. It’s so lovely. I immediately notice that the street signs are different. “Give way,” says one of them. Remnants of British colonial rule are still everywhere.
We arrive at 7AM. Check through customs and immigration. We give brenda $100 US to change for us. There’s a bus waiting outside to take us to the hotel and the B&B that some of us are staying at. There’s some question about the bed and breakfast being out of power. Seems this is a frequent occurrence in much of the country. Rolling blackouts.
We pack our luggage on two pickup trucks after narrowly missing getting stopped by customs. What happens if we get searched with several suitcases filled with HIV medications? A suitcase full of new shoes and socks? So much gets confiscated every day by guards who can sell things on the black market for a good deal of money. The bus is a welcome sight. We have only a short amount of time to get to the hotel, clean up and go. We have an open clinic today in Harare.
Anthony, Howard and I are staying at a place called the Baobab. It is an absolutely lovely little place across the highway from the hotel where most of us are staying. We were adventurous, most choosing not to stay here since hearing there was likely no electricity. Upon arrival, the gate slides open and the beautiful grounds come into view. We meet Katherine, Flora and Lois, the staff; Lamech, the watchman; and Michael, the gardener. They are all lovely to us and show us around the grounds and to our house in the back of the main building. I notice immediately how physically beautiful the Shona are.
Harare is a strange place. The infrastructure is terrible. We pass by so many run down government buildings on the way to clinic. Ministry of Health, Ministry of Science. I look for the Ministry of Curious Things. There is the giant imposing wall guarded by men with machine guns… Mugabe’s palace. We hear he no longer lives there. He’s built a better place in the suburbs. Armed guards to keep angry mobs from reclaiming the property. Everything is shabby and dilapidated.
We arrive at the clinic. Down a dirt road, into a gated building. There are a couple hundred people gathered on the lawn in front of the one story complex. It’s smaller than I imagined. I am surprised… several dozen people jump to their feet and come over to greet the bus. When we step off there are people waiting to hug me that I’ve never met. The people of Zimbabwe, I come to discover, are not shy or reserved about expressing their affection. I will come to be hugged many hundreds of times over the next several days. It will teach me so much. I am generally a deeply affectionate person with those I know and love. But the hugs and indeed the many kisses that will be generously bestowed upon me by the Shona people will teach me much more about love and kindness than anything I’ve ever experienced.
At the clinic, everyone knows who we are. The first patient today has been waiting since 4 in the morning this morning. Some of the clients have walked many hours to get here. They know why we are there and what we bring and they will express their gratitude many times throughout the day. It gives me a deeper understanding of the work we do and why we do it. We set up three rooms in the clinic for the doctors. Outside in a gated patio, we set up the dispensary. We pack the suitcases off the bus and open them to retrieve several hundred plastic bags of pre-sorted medications. Each bag holds enough for one person for three months. These medications are all collected through our organization from individuals who can no longer use them. We collect them to keep them from being thrown away. This medication is cast off… our waste. Here it saves lives.
Penny, a minister who is with us on this journey, reminds me of the scripture “the stone which the builders rejected, has become the cornerstone.” These medications are like that. In our abundance we see no use for them. Here, they become the lynch pin of a treatment regimen for someone who has no other options. Better than 80% of the meds brought here this week have come through our organization, the Recycled AIDS Medicine Program.
The dispensary is set up. We have several ARV’s (anti- retroviral medications), protease inhibitors, anti-virals, antibiotics, creams, ibuprofen and pain relievers and several hundred bags of multi-vitamins to help the overall health of the clients who are here. There are many hundred bags and boxes of medications. Some of these are bought from Africa, India or Brazil as generics. We hear that one of the drivers who was supposed to deliver a supply of meds has disappeared. We are not sure if he was detained at the border of Botswana bringing our meds here, or whether something else has happened. Perhaps he decided to sell them on the black market himself. Generics are a good option when you can get them. One thousand US dollars will buy nearly enough medication to supply five people with ARV’s for a year.
Just a little perspective on cost. The US dollar is worth, on the official market, $258 Zims or Zimbabwean Dollars. On the parallel market, however, dollars go for $5000 Zims. Actually, that was the case two days before we got here. Later we will be surprised when Brenda gives us $800,000 Zims in bundles we can barely wrap our hands around. When we arrived the exchange was $8000 per one US dollar. We hear on some markets they are even going for $12000. Here are some facts that make things clear:
* The average salary for an entry level doctor in Zimbabwe is $85,000 Zims per month. This is about $11 US.
* A tube of tooth paste here costs $15,000 zims.
* At approximately $250 US per year for ARV’s, you are talking two years salary if you are a doctor.
* Zimbabwe has an unemployment rate of 80%
* Best statistics indicate that about 30% of the adult population here is HIV positive.
Over the course of the first day, we see nearly two hundred patients. The first patient was relieved to get her medications. Her record indicates that her health is vastly improved since she was first seen at this clinic by Dr. Scott last year. Because we have three doctors with us instead of the one that customarily comes every three months, we are able to see everyone who showed up this morning. This is good news. one by one, all of the folks waiting in the yard get their medications for the next three months. In some cases, we are able to treat fungal infections, eczema, pink eye, neuropathy, and provide pain relief for a variety of people. We have a lot of help here, with some of our friends from Harare, Stanley and Admire and Elizabeth, spending the day with us to translate, explain medications to clients, and make us smile.
Many of the clients are here in families, each with their own record. Mother, father and children. In some cases relatives with children who they care for since their parents died. I am amazed at how willing people are to talk about themselves and their conditions. The expressions of gratitude throughout the day are humbling to say the least. I am in my habit and many people stop me to ask whether I am catholic. When I tell them that I am Anglican (more understandable in this context than Episcopalian) they immediately respond: “ah yes… catholic!” I laugh and agree. Everyone wants to touch my rosary. Many kiss it. This will prove to be a much more faith filled journey than I initially thought and it will make all the difference.
The staff at the clinic prepares a lovely lunch for us. We are all short on water since we didn’t have time to buy any before we left this morning. We are all quite dehydrated after the flight this morning and, of course, only bottled water is an option for us here. We take turns sitting down when the chance comes. We are exhausted by midday. Lunch is a welcome rest. The kitchen staff here provides us with a menu we will come to know intimately during our stay. Chicken, kale, rice, peanut butter sauce… all delicious and gratefully enjoyed after a busy morning.
The day will be exhausting beyond measure, spiritually, physically and emotionally. We return to the hotel and have enough time to clean up before dinner. It will be the first time may of us will get to know each other and find out what part each of us plays in the time we’re here. Here is a bit about our group:
We have three doctors, one specializing in infectious diseases, one in emergency room care, another general medicine. There is David, who will be our coordinator and nurse and Brenda who among other things helps corral all of us and provides logistical support for our trip. We enjoy the company of a catholic priest and a pastor for MCC, the only other clergy types besides me, a religious in the Episcopal Church. I am here with my partner and the ID doctor as representatives of the Recycled AIDS Medicine Program. We provide medications to Zimbabwe AIDS Relief, the primary group behind this trip coordinated by Dr. Robert Scott, one of the doctors mentioned above.
One young woman in our party is pursuing her graduate work in the psycho-social component of HIV in the developing world. We have a photo journalist among us as well as several individuals who fundraise for the Mother of Peace and for Chinzanga Primary School in Mutoko - our destination tomorrow. There is even a sales rep from a pharmaceutical firm with us who comes because he wants to and because he loves the kids.
We enjoy a strangely sumptuous dinner while we talk. The hotel is one of the only places in Harare guaranteed to have electricity most of the time. The Baobab managed a generator so we at least have electricity for a couple of hours a day. It will count more, I suppose, once we return to stay there in a couple of days. Tonight, electricity won’t matter. We’re so tired that I imagine we’ll be asleep before 8PM.
Dinner is much needed. It’s the first time I taste sodza, a rather peculiar dish here. More about it later. It’s easy to see that everyone is tired and truly looking forward to our journey tomorrow. We must be up and out by 7AM. The bus will take us to Mother of Peace first thing in the morning. We are encouraged to pack lightly as we will need to transport medications as well as articles to be distributed to the kids. We hit the ground running here. it will be a couple of days before it slows down.
MOTHER OF PEACE
We gather at 7AM for our departure. I am surprised that, even with recommendations that we pare down our personal luggage to a bare minimum, we still need an extra truck to transport everything to Mother of Peace. We are quick to pack and start on our way. It’s two hours to Mutoko in the north eastern highlands. Malaria precautions will now be much more important.
Once outside of Harare, it becomes much more obvious that we are arguably in the most beautiful country in Africa. The landscape begins to unravel in a spiral of granite hilltops and lush green valleys. There is little between Harare and Mutoko save for beautiful vistas occasionally dotted by traditional Shona houses. These consist of round buildings topped with pointed thatched roofs surrounded by two or more square buildings with flat roofs. The pointed buildings, we are informed, are kitchens. The others are meant for sleeping. Courtyards in the center of these compounds are generally for socializing. Some compounds we notice have farm buildings for chickens and other livestock. We occasionally see oxen drawn carts slowly making their ways down dirt paths and, less frequently, actual paved roads.
Mutoko is a smallish town. There are several shops in a town square. In an adjacent lot there is a large outdoor market. Stalls jammed together are filled with various things that residents may wish to buy or trade. Many more ox-drawn carts seem to jam the roadways and there is a great bustle of people in the market. At one point, we come across a group of cattle trying to cross the road. The pace is slow and, strangely, none of us seem bothered by it. Why can’t we exercise this kind of patience at home, I wonder.
Mother of Peace orphanage is just another ten minutes or so down a dirt road from down town Mutoko. On the way, we must drive by Chinzanga Primary School. It is another project partly funded by some of our traveling party. The schools here are a major expense for parents. Fees, uniforms (which are required), textbooks and supplies all conspire to cost enough to jeopardize the education of many children in Zimbabwe. Some parents or relatives simply cannot afford to send their children to school. We will visit here some day this week.
Arrival at Mother of Peace is one of the most powerful and visceral experiences of my life to date. We pass a dairy farm populated with cattle from the Heifer International Project. Several buildings come into view. There is a bakery, the clinic, the guesthouse. Several nursery buildings and sleeping quarters for the children dot the complex as well as trailers that house some of the staff. I understand that the whole complex covers about 250-300 acres.
Looming in the background is Mutemwa, a giant rock hill that towers above Mother of Peace. Mutemwa means “separated” and the name hails from the days when this location housed a leper colony. The colony is still just a stones throw from here and still populated although not with folks with active leprosy any more. Given then collapsed infrastructure in Zimbabwe, this could change any day.
We pull past the gate in the bus and it becomes immediately apparent that our arrival has been noticed. Streams of women and little children start to descend on the bus from all directions. You can see them running and the air suddenly becomes alive. My excitement builds. I can’t believe that their singing. It’s a welcome song. They gather around the bus on both sides, their hands clapping and their song getting louder. They gather around and guide the bus slowly to the guesthouse. I try to video tape it before I realize that in trying to capture the experience I’m going to end up missing it. I stop and listen and watch as I see the faces of countless children outside the bus smiling and waving because Dr. Scott has arrived and brought his friends.
The door to the bus opens and in two seconds I have the first of many children a few inches from my face begging to have his picture taken with a smile as big as Mars. His name is James and he will become my good friend over the next three days. Outside, they jumped as high as they could to see inside the bus. Once we stepped off, we entered what Penny called the “swirling vortex of unconditional love.” I know why.
Within minutes, I had as many kids hanging on to my hands as I had fingers. They grabbed and kissed my cross, kissed me and leaped into my arms. Within minutes, several of them had already learned to call me “brother” with that characteristic East African accent that was part British and part Shona. I would come to be known as “Brudah Cake” as the days went on, “cake” being pronounced like “cakie” and after a time my name was followed by “yo yo yo,” a playful call they picked up from Anthony when he couldn’t get my attention one afternoon.
Mama Stella, one of the matriarchs of the community, greets us with several of the kitchen staff and escorts us to our rooms at the guesthouse. After some brief moments to settle in and wash the dirt from our faces, we are off to the clinic. There are already people waiting outside, some of whom walked many miles to be here for their appointments. We schedule the next clinic at this one, already looking three months ahead to ensure folks have their medications in time. Even a couple of days lag time can have bad effects on treatment.
We are joined at the clinic by several HIV workers in Zimbabwe, four medical students from Harare and our friend Elizabeth who joined us in Harare and who runs another clinic in Zimbabwe. She will record much information in patient records for us this week. We are also joined by Dr. Reed who runds an infectious diseases clinic in Harare. Our other new friends are here as well, Isiah, Admire, and Osmond who would also come to be my friend and who says he wants to be a Gregorian. For now, he is content to live according to Benedict’s Rule.
Throughout the day we would hear stories and see firsthand the improvements in the health of the patients. We meet Charity, Patient One in Mutoko, who now works for the clinic here and whose health is wonderfully robust. We manage to see everyone who showed up today and even take on several new patients, assigning their intake to the medical students to give them firsthand experience in clinical diagnosis and treatment.
Anthony and I work the first half of the day and, near exhaustion, take the second half of the day to meet and play with the kids and to decompress among the Mother of Peace Community. Tomorrow, the children will be seen in the clinic and their health monitored for changes and, hopefully, improvements.
THE CHILDREN
Who knew that in those first few moments that I would meet so many of the children whose faces would bring me so much joy and pain in the next several days. Is it possible to fall in love with so many children so quickly? Perhaps. These are the children, with the exception of one very particular child I will talk about later, who would fill my heart with joy that I suspect will last the rest of my life:
James was the first, the one on the bus, who wanted his picture taken and who wanted to see the results on the digital camera with as much enthusiasm. We would become very attached over the next few days culminating with the day he put my hand on his chest and said “Cake… my friend” and made me cry. He, as many of the others, constantly sought one on one attention and the affection that was necessarily unavailable when so many children are cared for by so few people. James’ smile and unsolicited affection startled me at every turn.
In those first moments of frenetic grabbing hands and hugs, little people jockeying for attention, we met Abigail and Prince, John, Ivan, Joachim, Lucy, Mercy, Ruthie, Stephen and Leonard; we met Cephas, Shalom, Cecilia, Gerald and many others. In one way or another, each of these names for us will now be endowed with particular characteristics, each associated with a particular smile and story and a particular and individual affection reserved just for them.
There are about 135 children at Mother of Peace, up slightly from last year. Not all of them are technically orphans. Some are abandoned by families that can no longer afford them, some left here by relatives who trust that the community will be better able to care for them than they can themselves. many of them are orphaned by AIDS or other circumstances particular to the underdeveloped world.
The community here strives to reintegrate these children with their families when possible, committing to provide financially to their families for their support and education. This approach, while optimal for the children, places tremendous financial burden upon the Mother of Peace Community. They are constantly striving to keep up with the increasing financial demands.
Over two days, our clinics see over 400 people, providing clinical monitoring and medications which nearly exhaust the supply we brought with us. It was a good work, well done, and now we get to spend some time seeing and experiencing what brought us here.
We spend the afternoon playing with the children and talking with the staff, learning much about how Mother of Peace functions. We have dinner and collapse exhausted into bed by 8:30PM.
SUNDAY MORNING
My internal clock is very weird. I notice it when I wake up at 4AM, wide awake and ready to go. We’ve crossed so many time zones since we left San Francisco and that, combined with the physical and emotional exhaustion of the clinics, has conspired to make time seem surreal.
After Morning Prayer, I try to capture an African sunrise with the camera. It’s not so easy, but I get to experience for the first time in my life a full moon clearly visible on one side of the horizon with a sunrise on the other, two giant orbs filling the sky with two kinds of light simultaneously. This is a magical place and I’m sure my internal clock only adds to the magic.
Sister Ruvacliki, which means “Little Flower” in Shona, makes us coffee — quite an unexpected and extravagant delight given our circumstances. Sister is a member of a Carmelite offshoot called the Sisters of the Divine Child. She is a beautiful is somewhat severe African woman of about 24 years of age. She wears a gray habit with a skirt of modest length and a white whimple and veil reminiscent of a nurses cap. She doesn’t smile much unless provoked and then breaks into a full and lovely smile which she then tries to cover with her hand, embarrassed for having let go.
She finds me very curious for saying my daily office in the oddest places instead of away from the bustling kitchen or in the chapel down the road. She asks me many questions over the next days, and is particularly moved when I tell her that silence is found in the heart and that this is the reason I can say my office wherever I wish. She makes sure to take my contact information so that we can stay in touch.
After coffee and conversation with those of us who are awake, it’s time for Mass at the Chapel. One of our party is Father Jay, a Roman Catholic priest in the East Bay. His arrival was perhaps most looked forward to by Mama Stella and the staff. His parish is one of the benefactors of the community here and as a priest in this largely Catholic community his visit was long expected. He has been accorded great respect and his own room here.
Mass, although something I could prepare for intellectually, takes me emotionally by great surprise. Fr. Jay asks me to participate by reading the Gospel and helping with the distribution of communion. As a Anglican, I am mindful of the generosity of this request and am eager to participate. But nothing can prepare me for what I am about to experience of the Mass in an African context.
The chapel here is very simple. The altar is properly adorned with a purple and gold cloth for Lent. The perimeter of the worship space is lined with chairs and benches with cushions. There is a seat properly reserved for Mama Jean and another kneeling bench for Mama Stella, Jean’s sister. As the de facto worship leader responsible for the children’s spiritual formation, Stella needs to be within arms reach of the children on the floor so she can wrangle them if they get unruly.
In the corner are two drums and a couple of sets of maracas. Statues of Jesus, Mary, and the Holy Family all hold their respective places in the chapel. When the bell rings, all the children descend upon the space, discarding what shoes they may have outside and filing in to kneel in their places, girls on one side, boys on the other.
There are not many men in Mother of Peace. Unlike the country surrounding it, the community here is a matriarchal society and women rule here. Most of the staff here are “mothers” responsible for nurturing the children here in the absence of their birth mothers. It is not uncommon for a woman here to be responsible for the love and nurture of as many as fifteen children of a particular age group.
Two young boys of about 6 years old or so (it is often hard to tell. Malnutrition and HIV often conspire to cause children to appear underdeveloped) dress in white albs with little purple capelets and cinctures. They are to be acolytes during the mass. We process out to the chapel from behind a screen and my bliss begins in earnest.
Nothing helps me to enter into an experience more than music. The sounds of the drums are enough to make me sway with joy and rapture, but the sounds of dozens and dozens of children singing an entrance procession in Shona puts me over the edge. I look around to see them on their feet dancing, all the faces from the bus yesterday smiling and clapping, arms extended outwards moving up and down to the rhythm as they sing. I can’t believe I’m here.
The music of the Shona is beautiful. The language itself is lyrical and lovely. The style seems to have a call and response, or perhaps the call acts as a prompt for the next verse of the song. The harmonies are unexpectedly beautiful. I hear Mama Jean singing in deep bass tones bringing a distinct African harmony to the music. Occasionally I hear a reference to Jesus or Mary, but mostly the Shona words are difficult to discern. There are hints of English and some latinate words that become obvious after a while. The first and second lessons are read in Shona. I read the Gospel in English.
The joy of little faces makes the Mass a joyful experience even given the Lenten Observance. The children are remarkably well behaved, with only one or two occasionally having to be wrangled by Mama Stella. Mostly, they are simply fixated on Fr. Jay and me while we distributed communion, with dozens of upturned mouths coming forward for the host, and tiny eyes gaze up to look at the strange new people celebrating in their chapel.
After Mass, I can’t believe several of the children come up and in single file kiss me on my lips, once on each cheek, once on the forehead and then place their hands on the top of my head as if blessing me. It is a strange and beautiful ritual that plays out each time we worship together. We will celebrate Mass every day while we’re here as well as the Benediction and Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament each evening. Only the Mass is not part of their daily routine, dependent upon an available priest to celebrate. The faith of this community heightens my experience of the ministry of this trip. After the strange ritual is over, everything devolves into a frenzy of hugs and giggles and tiny clutching hands. I walk back to the house surrounded by a dozen children all wanting to take me to the dam and show me the sights. We decide to have breakfast first.
MEALS TOGETHER
I can’t believe the abundance of food prepared for us here. It is rather embarrassing. The staff prepares poached eggs, polish sausage, fried potatoes with butternut squash, fresh baked bread from the bakery and homemade peanut butter. Peanut butter is a staple of the diet here because of the high protein. The eggs had nearly no yolks, I suspect because the chickens may be as undernourished as the people. The food offered has been so abundant and absolutely delightful. They’ve even made coffee and I suspect someone from our party may even have brought it with them because it can’t be cheap and we drink pot after pot of it.
Before each meal, grace is offered. Sometimes by a member of our party, sometimes by a member of the kitchen staff. Juliet, the kitchen manager, even sang amazing grace as the blessing before the meal once and we all heartily joined in. It has been very moving.
Lunch consists of rice, kale, potatoes (sweet or plain), fried farm chicken, peanut butter sauce, and vegetables. We always have Fanta (orange), Coke, and bottled water. Variably we have okra, cabbage salad, and meat when available.
Juliet takes our comfort very seriously. She was actually raised here as an orphan. When she was old enough, she left to marry and start a family. Sadly, the man she married was an abuser who raped her. She left him because women in Zimbabwe have very little recourse against their husbands. By the time she left she had a baby. He is now nearly three years old. She returned to Mother of Peace and now she works here. She has told us many stories about her life and much about Zimbabwean culture during our stay.
TRUST
After Mass, I meet the most remarkable child. Over the next several days, I become convinced he will break my heart. His name is Trust. He is four, nearly five years old and has the most remarkable smile and a deep and hearty laugh. His health seems pretty good considering and he appears to be very bright.
It is his love that touches me more deeply than anything else. And his joy appears to be un-containable … especially when we walk together. He clings to me at every turn, wanting me to carry him. Once in my arms, he is unwilling to be put down under any circumstances. He wraps his little legs around my waist as if to squeeze me in half if I try to put him down for even a second. He likes to play with my ears and when he lays his head down on my shoulder, I think I’ll die from joy.
After the children’s clinic is over, most of our party decides to return to Harare. Several of us will stay until Tuesday to explore the community further and to enjoy our time with the children. Anthony and I will stay. There is still much to see and the children are an endless source of inspiration and entertainment. The simplest thing make them laugh and I have a suspicion I have much to learn from them.
Later in the day, some of us distribute shoes to the kids. Marc, the pharmaceutical rep with our group, held a drive before we came here at a sales convention. He collected 300 pairs of new shoes and 400 pairs of socks for the kids. One of the suitcases went missing on our arrival. It was found early this morning and will be here on Tuesday. The saddest thing is finding kids whose size does not match what we have here today. They don’t understand Tuesday… two days away is an eternity for a child under any circumstances, let alone under these conditions. The ones who can’t get shoes are inconsolable.
CHINZANGA PRIMARY SCHOOL
On Monday, we go to visit Chinzanga Primary School. Its down the road about a ten minute drive. Many of the kids from Mother of Peace go there. We saw them off in their uniforms this morning. We make the drive after breakfast and as the bus pulls into the school, hundreds of kids pour forth to see us. Ours recognize us immediately and try to sneak in hugs before their teachers see them.
About 700 students attend here. The girls wear black gingham dresses, the boys military gray shirts and shorts. Most of the classrooms are outside under the shade of trees. There are only three buildings here. Many in our party are raising funds to build more. One is partially completed, they are simply waiting for materials.
We wander through trying not to disrupt the classes. It’s virtually impossible. As soon as we walk by the kids rush up to have their picture taken with us and to say hello.
We meet with the headmistress who gives us an update on how the MOP children are performing here. Our commitment is to see all of the kids through school. She explains some of the challenges, particularly that the MOP preschool teachers are not yet fully qualified to get the kids ready for Chinzanga.
She also raises the issue of kids treating each other badly. We know that our kids are traumatized by their situation. They bring with them some bad behaviors that infiltrate the school, particularly bullying nicknames. One of our kids, Emmanuel, was abandoned by his mother in a sewer. The kids have nicknamed him “sewage” and it has unfortunately been picked up by other kids at the school. The story makes me cry. Emmanuel or “Manu” is such a sweet little one. His eyes are a problem. He had surgery on them recently and one of them appears to be infected. His eyes have been filled with ointment the whole time we’ve been here and the infection just gets worse daily. I pray he doesn’t lose his eye.
We bring boxes of supplies that Brenda has collected. Erasers (which cause quite a stir for the headmistress, she hasn’t seen them in quite a while), spiral notebooks, chalk, colored paper, pencils, stencils and many other things for the school. Talk of fundraising goals begins and many commitments are made.
Our departure is quiet. We’ll see many of the kids back at the community. We are all subdued by the overwhelming need and by the faces of those most vulnerable who need the most.
DEPARTURE
Tuesday, it’s time to leave. None of us seem prepared much. Trust has been glued to my side much of the last couple of days. Penny has spent a great deal of time visiting with Mercy and trying to gain more information about the medical visa she needs to get treatment in the United States. We are spending a great deal of time talking about the children.
After breakfast, we say good bye to the older children who are off to school before we leave. James walks away slowly and turns to wave a dozen times before finally trotting off. Just before, he gives me a big hug and calls me friend. I can’t think about it without crying.
We say goodbye to John and Ivan, Stephen and Joachim. Lucy and Abigail and Ruthie all say good bye. Lucy gives me what appears to be a love letter. Several of the girls have approached the women here and asked them to be their mothers. This in essence means someone that they can communicate with by mail, receive gifts and help from and build an emotional connection with in the absence of their parents. Carolyn was rattled by the request she received, not entirely understanding the context of it. She was much relieved to hear the young girl was not asking to be adopted, having no idea how to say “no.”
Carolyn is staying here for a month trying to coordinate groundwork on the cemetery where many children are buried. She is doing this because her own son’s ashes are buried here. He died of AIDS some years ago before they could take a planned trip to Africa together. She brought his remains here and was gifted with a traditional Shona funeral by Mama Jean. She laid him to rest here and is connected with the land as a result.
We all get ready to board the bus reluctantly. The preschoolers we put down for a nap early so they could be awake to say goodbye. This is the hardest part. At every turn, children wander by to say goodbye. They’ve all started sucking their thumbs again. Apparently, they do this when adults leave that they’ve grown attached to… a kind of regression. When the bus pulls in, all the kids swarm out of their hiding places, knowing it’s time to for their new friends to leave.
Veronica, one of the staff here, helps us by singing songs. The women gather on the lawn and join her, everyone trying to squeeze some joy out of the departure for us and to keep the children from being too traumatized. Trust will barely look at me and he keeps sucking his fingers. Finally, I get him to come into my arms and let me hold him for a while. He gazes off absently. Mercy comes too. Veronica’s songs help us all to dance a little.
We make our goodbyes. Mama Stella offers us a blessing. Mama Jean says a prayer that God will bless us. I kiss Trust on the cheek, barely able to contain myself. My heart sinks at the thought that I will never see this child again. I hug all of the children I can get my hands on before I board the bus.
The women and children follow the bus and guide us to the gate. There’s no more singing. Once to the gate, the guards make the rounds around the bus to make sure none of the children have made it inside. It’s a sharp reminder. We wave and start the long trek back to Harare. The bus ride home is eerily quiet and subdued.
As we get closer to Harare, the number of police check points on the highway increases in frequency as the distance to the capital decreases. We feel close to being stopped and searched on a couple of occasions. No less than seven stops. Thanks to Kuda, our driver, we narrowly miss being searched.
The moment we cross back over into Harare, we become American tourists and, unfortunately, the whole dynamic of our group changes over the next couple of days. Anthony and I are particular sensitive to the change and will become increasingly dislocated over the next days.
TOURIST TALES
When we arrive back at the Baobab, Dr. Scott, who has been in Harare for a couple of days, has arranged for Bronson, a Shona sculptor, to come and show us his work. The stone carvings of the Shona are remarkable. I saw them everywhere in town when we arrived. They dot the grounds of the Baobab.
Bronson is one of several accomplished and internationally recognized Shona artists in town that we visit over the next days. Anthony and I buy two pieces, “Lovers” and “Giving a Clue” and wonder at how heavy the stone is.
For the Shona, the stone contains spirit that is revealed by deceased ancestors. Carving and polishing give face and manner to the spirit that is already predestined to be revealed by the stone. The names are revealed to the artist. Shona carving is an artisan’s skill that is usually pursued in families and handed down from generations.
I immediately notice that some of us start to haggle over the prices. I am tempted to follow suit and then stop myself. I wonder how we can dare begrudge a few extra dollars to these people when we’ve just seen first hand the devastation of endemic poverty like exists in Zimbabwe. This insensitivity will disturb me with greater intensity as the days go on.
On Wednesday, we are off to Victoria Falls. We take a small plane to Victoria Falls on the other side of the country in the north west. A bus and driver are there to pick us up. We make the short drive and then begin our tour of the falls — only after we, for some reason still unknown to me, try to get out of having to pay the $20 entrance fee. We will lose nearly an hour of our day as a result.
The falls are exquisite. I suspect that if one didn’t believe in God when they got there, they might leave with some room for doubt. If one did believe in God, I trust their suspicions would feel confirmed. It was all I could do to not sing out loud of the mighty works of God. Some in our party sang praises at the top of their lungs. It is an amazing sight and, at every turn, gets more breathtaking than the last.
It is the rainy season and the falls are particularly powerful right now. The spray fills the air and rains down like a deluge. Everything is soaked and humid and misty. The air is heavy and tastes fresh. The roar reduces everything else to whispers. By the time we leave we are drenched.
The bus is waiting to take us to the Zambezi River for a cruise and lunch. We arrive an hour and a half late. The Zambezi cuts between Zimbabwe and Zambia.
It is calm and tranquil. We are about 3 kilometers up from the falls. We enjoy a nice lunch of curried potato salad, fish, beef, bread and butter, and fresh fruit salad. We see a hippopotamus on one edge of the river, hiding behind the reeds. For a time we fret that it will be the only animal we see, but luck smiles and an elephant appears on the opposite edge, having his lunch.
After lunch, we head back to shore to catch the bus. We need to get back to the airport in time for our flight to Harare. We are all a bit disappointed that we don’t have enough time to shop. The driver accommodates us and allows us five minutes at a local bazaar on the way to the airport. It is filled with wooden carvings - animals and faces, bowls and walking sticks… all of those things that you would expect to find. Anthony and I race to find a carved monkey for a colleague who jokingly asked him to bring back a monkey before we left the US. We settled on a baboon instead. In addition, we buy a wooden bowl and set of spoons for home and a carved giraffe that I think is cute and, for some reason, satisfies some romantic childhood notions I still harbor of Africa. It breaks when we get it home but by then it doesn’t matter.
We just narrowly catch the plane back to Harare. I spend most of the plane ride thinking of Trust and grow melancholy. I miss him already and try to hide my sadness from Anthony. I write in my journal.
Thursday is a wild ride. Stanley who spent the first clinic day with us comes and acts as shopping guide. Kuda arrives with the bus to take us out to spend our Zim. We all still have stacks of it. I grow uncomfortable that our biggest problem today will be to figure out how to spend the money we have before we leave. It just seems so unfair. Anthony and I set aside a large portion of it to give the staff at the B & B. We also give some dollars to Stanley and Kuda at the end of the day to thank them for their patience with all of us.
First, we’re off to see Jemali. He’s another internationally acclaimed Shona artist. His sculptures are amazing. His wife, brother, and several apprentices also sell work in the complex. Anthony and I leave with five pieces. All small, all heavy. We joke and wonder how we’re going to get them home. We pay for everything in US dollars. After leaving Jemali’s, the group dynamics really fall apart. Tensions between some group members are really high. Anthony and I try to remain uninvolved and quiet. It’s disappointing.
We hit some stores downtown and then off to Chapunga Market. it reminds me of Mill Valley in the Bay Area… mostly white, obviously rich, and very expensive. I won’t spend my money here because I know that none of it will reach the people who live here. Most of it will end up in some rich South African gallery owner’s pocket. I hear one of the gallery matrons refer to a worker as “you, girl” and decide to have lunch instead.
We see a fabric store and hear that the owner is African so we get some fabric. Lunch is delicious - sweet corn cakes, salad, scones and coffee. We all hope we can make it to Avondale today. It’s a flea market on the other side of town. Kuda takes us after dropping some folks off at the hotel. We spend the rest of our money.
Dinner is bittersweet. I pass around the notebook to collect everyone’s contact information. We all spend the evening relaxing after the crazy day. I look around the table. We’ve all just experienced something profound together. I would be dishonest if I failed to admit that it binds you together in some strange way. How can you not grow close after seeing such amazing things together, after engaging in such a good work together? We accomplished something profound this week… we saved lives and offered hope for the future. It didn’t take much time, and only some effort.
In some small way we all leave here changed people. Over 400 people will have a chance at life over the next 3 months that they would not otherwise have had. The ripple effect will, I’m certain, change the lives of many more. How can you count the cost of such a thing?
What is abundance? Do we really know what it is in our country anymore? Do we understand value? I am from a country that throws away more than some countries use in a year’s time. Do we stop to think of the intrinsic worth of what we cast away to someone who has nothing at all? More importantly, do we stop to think about what we’ve lost because we either value nothing, or value the wrong things entirely.
A couple of hours of time a month out of my life and 400 people have a chance at something better. A weeks time a half a world away and I am transformed by so simple a thing as a kiss on the cheek and a pair of tiny hands at the top of my head in blessing. How do you count the cost? Or better still… why do I continue to see value in terms of “cost” at all? I still have much to learn.
Today, I had someone in idle conversation turn to me and say, “You are a very good man, Karekin.” My response took me by surprise, and yet, it didn’t. I replied, “No, I’m not, but thank you. I am man, just like any other.”
It got me thinking. I am no better or worse than any other man. Sometimes I do good things, and sometimes I don’t – regardless of my impulses.
I am a man of deep belief in God, even though I act sometimes as though God isn’t there.
I am not one who gives in to anger, believing as I do that it is of secondary importance to what I’m really feeling just behind it. And yet, sometimes I get angry.
I am someone who lives for family, even though I don’t always know how to act towards them.
I am surrounded by friends and occasionally feel lonely.
I am a Virgo and yet only sometimes act like one – even though I don’t believe in horoscopes.
I am an Enneagram six, even though yesterday I thought I was a nine and tomorrow may be something different. Because I am not the same person I was yesterday, either literally or figuratively.
I am true to myself, even though I often act differently depending upon who I am with and where I am standing. Yet, I am not a chameleon. I am an impulse. Or maybe it’s just the world that changes.
I am neither a nihilist, nor am I a fatalist. And yet I hold firm to the belief that we are not rewarded simply for good behavior as religionists believe. And I believe that prayer is often answered with a resounding “No.”
I do not believe that God saves us from calamity just because we ask, because there are many who pray and are not saved, and I cannot believe that my prayers are better than theirs.
I have learned over long years of my life about what I want for myself. This is largely due, through trial and error, to learning about what I do not want.
I have made many mistakes and somewhat fewer regrets and, yet, I believe that none of them were in error if they have led me to where I am today.
This way of thinking about myself and the “who am I?” is in part due to the way I have learned to think about God and all of the other mysteries of life of which I am but one and with which I am entirely One.
I have learned that the moment we speak about what God “is” then we must be required to write that definition on a list of those things which God is not. Because we are simply incapable of knowing and naming that which is beyond our ability to comprehend.
As much as God may be said to be revealed, God must also be said to be hidden behind the veil.
I have made much in my spiritual life these days of the sense that God is in the void waiting to be found. And that the void requires us to leap – leap into the great abyss that is the human heart.
For the greatest distance for us to fall, is the distance between our head and our heart. Into that great waiting space that steps outside of what we think and what we know and what we think we know.
It is there that God may be found, and once we do, we shall never be able to put words to what we find. We shall simply have to be content with silence.
God may be One. And God may be Three. And God may be the three hundred and thirty million of the Hindus. And maybe still, God is Zero. I think God doesn’t get mathematics.
God is order and chaos and stillness and the roaring of a ravening lion. God is…
If I cannot, after 44 years of life, figure out who I am… how then shall I have the audacity to claim to know what God is.
My religious tradition may provide me with a vocabulary, and just as often as they give me comfort and a way of visualizing the One, Holy, and Living God – they also fall silent when my experiential glimpses of the Divine Life scream out “No! This is not enough. This is not what God is!”
So, let me be clear.
I am deeply happy and grateful for my life, even though I often complain.
I am deeply happy with my faith, even though at times my doubt weighs heavily upon me. Not that I doubt God (even though I often do) but that I doubt my faith.
But I would rather spend my life living in the tension between recognizing what I am not before being prideful about who I am. I had nothing to do with it.
And I would rather spend my life uncovering the richness of what God may be, by rejecting those things I say that God is the very minute the words leave my mouth. And, even still, I will go on talking about God because that is my nature and my duty, and my vocation. And so, my list will get longer and longer and longer.
And one day, after this negation runs its course, I hope to stand in complete awe and wonder at the recognition that both God and I are so much more than I would allow myself to believe in my short sightedness.
That we are here at all is miraculous, or maybe, simply, a happy coincidence.
But as a good friend used to say, “a coincidence is nothing more than a miracle where God chooses to remain anonymous.”
Our airport experience getting to South India was intense and stressful. We make it to Mumbai without any issue, but once there it turns disastrous. Anthony briefly loses his wallet at the airport and we have five minutes of panic as credit cards and ATM cards go missing. As our panic rises, he gets paged over the loudspeaker and we are relieved to know they’ve found it. But then, just as we recover from that fiasco, we realize we’ve checked into the wrong terminal. They take our boarding passes and destroy them and we have to walk twenty minutes outside the airport to another terminal to check in. As luck, fate, or God would have it – our flight has been delayed and we manage to make it. We leave two hours late, arriving in Mamallapuram well after our scheduled arrival both stressed and grouchy.
Our driver, Sanjay, is waiting for us still outside the bustling Chennai airport. He has a big smile and a warm demeanor, and we are instantly relieved. We depart along the East Coast Road for the nearly two hour drive to the village of Mamallapuram, arriving in the dark near eleven.
Even arriving so late, we recognize that this is a huge change from the first two legs of our trip. We enter the town on dirt roads, everything is eerily close. There are still plenty of people walking the road, but most of the shops are closed and it is quiet and relatively dark. Few street lights here, the road only lit by the light that pours out of the shops. It is a rural town and we are eager to see it by daylight.
We check in to our hotel, the only hotel we’ve chosen during our entire stay in India. Modern amenities, a pool, and a sense of privacy and anonymity that we are grateful for at this point in our journey. We ask about food since we are both starving. We have been traveling for nearly twelve hours. The concierge knows of a roadside place up the street that is still cooking food, so we walk a couple of blocks to the little shop and order some fried rice and masala fried chicken. The bellhop takes us there and then brings us back and sets up a dinner table in our room so we can eat. The chicken is slightly undercooked, so I opt to eat only the rice. Anthony wolfs everything down. He will regret it later.
After eating, we unpack a little and prepare to settle into bed. Anthony glances out the window and yells for me to come and look. There is a herd of cattle walking down the road just outside our hotel window. Must be over a dozen of them, just slowly walking toward the other end of town. We are really excited… and we realize just how rural this town might be.
The next morning, we wake up refreshed and thrilled to set off on our own. Mamallapuram is a small village of about twelve thousand people. Everything in close and small, and we could walk the entire town in under half a day. The people here are beautiful and ethnically very different from the people in the north. They are darker skinned and smaller in build. We notice right away that the language is different, Hindi is not really spoken here, but Tamil. The writing on the signs is very different. Because it is a tourist town, frequented mostly by Europeans and particularly Frensch tourists, English is spoken here by most of the shop keepers.
Everywhere, men wear the lungi. It is a checked wrap around skirt or various colors or patterns. Most wear it high up above their knees, but when meeting strangers will unfold it so that it hangs to the ankles so as not to offend. We hear the “chink chink chink” of the local stonecutters working on the stone carvings that Mamallapuram is so known for. We see many of their studios dotting the roads and the sculptures are exquisite – statues of the various Hindu deities, Buddha, animals. A giant shrine to Hanuman stands a block from the hotel.
The shops cater to tourists and in all places we are stopped by shop keeps who want us to come in a look at their wares. The invitations become a bit relentless over time, but we learn to defer and beg off gently (sometimes not so gently) as we try to walk a couple of blocks and their attention slows us down.
We walk to the far end of the road to find a giant stone frieze carved into giant rocks on the roadside. These carvings date from the seventh century. The are scattered throughout the town which was a seventh century port town under the Pallava dynasty. We discover that the town, in fact, predates the dynasty and may be much older indeed.
Mamallapuram was hit hard by the tsunami in 2004. After the waters receded, a new temple complex was discovered that was uncovered by the water. It may prove the myth of the Seven Pagodas which some believed may have been located here. The newly discovered carvings and complexes may date back as much as twenty five hundred years.
We take a side road and realize that we are heading straight for once of Mamallapuram’s most cherished carvings – the Shore Temple. We see it silhouetted against the water – sticking up out of the beach along the Indian Ocean and the Bay of Bengal. Along the way, the touts become aggressive but we simply move through them on our way to the structure.
Standing before the Shore Temple is a breathtaking experience. I have never seen anything so old in my life. It is constructed of granite and dates from around the eight century A.D. As we wander among the stones, we can see how the sea air and sun have eroded all but the shapes and primary structure. The details have long been washed away, but you can easily imagine what it must have looked like when it was built. Hindu gods are carved along the face and a menagerie of animals stand guard around it. We see a statue of the goddess Durga riding on a lion. There are two shrines to Shiva. One for Vishnu. It stands about 60 feet high with five stories. It is one of the earliest temple structures in South India. We wander the grounds, touching the rock face, and I imagine those who built it. Did they know that so many years later folks would come to marvel at it? What were their stories? Who were they?
We spend a little time walking down to the beach, past small craft stands and little shacks cooking and selling deep fried masala fish freshly caught. Along the shore, you can see the men and their fishing boasts dotting the beach. The air is hot but so fresh off of the water. The sand is burning hot. Anthony finds and buys a nice pair of sandals. I keep my eyes out for the statue of Hanuman – the monkey god – that I intend to find here if it is the last thing I do. It turns out that it is – in fact – the last thing I do in India!
The rest of the day is spent walking through town, swimming in the pool, and having the best vegetarian food we’ve had in India. At the hotel restaurant which is renowned for its vegetarian cuisine, we order a traditional thali. It comes served on a banana leaf – ten small dishes with ten distinct flavors – surrounding a mound of steamed rice. It is delightful.
Around the hotel, we discover a tailoring shop where Selvam – the handsome sales boy – will make us custom tailored shirts over the next days; one for me, one for Anthony, and a choli for Mom’s sari that we bought in Jodhpur. I find several more dhotis that have the beautiful zari border. One cream, one golden, and one brown. We discover several shops that sell stonework and other local craft work peculiar to South India. It is somewhat different from the craft work of Rajasthan – the embroidery is much more elaborate.
We are determined to take out time here, relax, and enjoy unwinding after the rest of our trip. The only agenda we have is to drive to Kanchipuram tomorrow – a place known for its temples and its hand-loomed silk saris which are famous throughout India. We have arranged a driver for tomorrow to take us there. It is two hours inland, so we know it will be a long day. Today we relax. We end the day with a nice nap and then dinner out on the beach at a small restaurant on the shore.
Sitting in the evening on the Bay of Bengal is like a dream. The breeze blows in softly, the heat of the day has melted away. Along the beach, fishermen roll up their nets into giant balls and lay down beside them to keep the wind off. The restaurant is quiet – it is still a month before their tourist season starts in earnest – and so we are largely alone but for two other couples. The smell of the salt air combined with fresh seafood cooking in the back is mouth-watering. The shore is dark, lit only by the ambient light cast from the few restaurants along this shore. A peace drifts over the two of us as we eat and chat, talk about they day and begin to reminisce about our trip so far – knowing that too soon it will end. We also talk about home, our friends, our little Sancho and Grace, and somehow know that we miss home and will be ready to return once our trip ends.
We take our time walking back to the hotel. Through small dirt roads where the kids run playing while women chatter in groups and the small shops sit quietly, we meander along little alleys imagining the daily life of those who live here. We contemplate how disastrous the tsunami must have been this close to shore. We pass a woman shoeing a cow away from her produce stand – seems he’s gotten a little too bold. We feel the sand between our toes. We are grateful for this peace and quiet.
Kanchipuram
Our driver picks us up at 9:30 and we begin the trip into Kanchipuram. Only a short distance as the crow flies, it is a two hour drive through rural Tamil Nadu, down winding roads and the occasional small town. The sights along the way are deeply moving for me. Ox drawn carts abound and in many places the cows horns are painted with gold bands with one horn painted bright red and the other a deep green. They are the deep spirit of India.
We drive through Thirukazhukundram where the famous Eagle Temple sits upon the mountain top. It is said that, every day, two eagles arrive their from the sacred city of Varanasi on the Ganges and are fed by the priest here. The town is small and lovely. Women abound on the roadside in their saris, working, chatting, gathering. We see many children too, playing and laughing.
We pass through a fairly large city along the way and the congestion of city life again becomes apparent before we pass through into the countryside again. Urban life in India is hard in all places. The city is dusty and hard looking, the roads are choked and bustling with people, cars, and ox drawn carts.
Upon arriving in Kanchipuram, our driver wastes no time in taking us to the first of the five temples we will visit. We arrive at Devarajaswami Temple first, dedicated to the Lord Vishnu. It is massive, and the entire edifice is covered with a scaffolding of grass and wooden poles. They are restoring the face. We remove our shoes in the car and head inside. We are met immediately by a Hindu priest who insists on showing us the only part of the temple complex that is open to non-Hindus – the marriage hall. It is huge and extraordinary. It is often called the hall of a thousand pillars, although there were only 100 and only 96 now remain standing. Each pillar is carved with a horse ridden by one or another deity. Along the bottoms, on each face, is another character from Hindu mythology. Deities and demons abound, as do consorts and children. It is a deep and dark place that opens up onto the ghats on the backside. In this temple there is a giant statue of Vishnu that lives under the water in the ghat pool. Every forty years, there is a festival where the water is drained and the statue revealed for reverence. The next time is in 2019.
We head out after our brief tour and head to our next location after grabbing a brief cup of tea and some fried dosas in the lot outside. The next stop is Kailasanatha Temple and will be the major highlight of our trip here.
Kailasanatha is a magnificent eighth century temple. It is empty when we get there but for an elder gentleman who gives us a tour of the temple. Along the inner walls there are nearly one hundred small shrines surrounding the main shrine. In many, there still remain frescoes painted on the inner walls. The colors are still vivid and we can only imagine what it must have looked like when first constructed.
We take our time wandering through the complex with our guide, taking in each scene and each carving, lost in the abundance of gods represented here and the stories of each.
Anthony is inspired by the colors and I can see he is already planning for a new series of paintings when we return home. Along the outer wall, the lingams stand in their shrines, deep black stones with the simple carving standing out in white. It is so quiet here. It is so peaceful.
The next stop is Sri Ekambaranathar, the largest temple in all of South India. It is immense! Again, only Hindus are allowed into the innser sanctum, but we wander the great echoing halls which surround it and are breathless at the size. We find brightly painted statues all around, reminiscent of painted ponies at a carnival. Hindu priests sit in little nooks along the side, praying or napping. In the center stands a sacred mango tree. A priest there beckons us to come and see, but we are too captivated by the long hall where the Shiva lingams stand in rows behind the giant stone pillars. The sounds of worship from the sanctum echo, the smell of incense fills the air. Candles burn in small shrines. Men and women drop to their knees in front of a major shrine in the hall, piled with dung and flowers, pools of fragrant oil and incense, the sense of sacred India is at its most powerful in this place.
We walk lightly and quietly, feeling slightly irreverent as we snap photos and stand with our mouths agape. Outside, there are little stands that sell supplies needed for worshipers to make their offerings inside. The entrance towers above us with doors so large they confound the mind. When we leave, a woman comes up to us and pours coconut milk into our hands which we are to rink before it falls to the ground. This is our blessing.
The final two temples are Kamakshi Amman, dedicated to the goddess Parvati, and Vaikuntha Perumal. The first is also off limits to non-Hindus and there are many people coming in and out of the sanctuary. We stay only a short time. The last is another aged temple and there is music being piped through speakers when we enter. We can see straight into the sanctuary as the temple priest offers blessings to worshipers inside. The ghats here are long empty of water, but it seems to be an active temple – more so than the others we have visited. There is a sense of liveliness about it in spite of its age and size. It is much smaller than the others we have seen today.
The drive back to Mamallapuram is slow, but another fascinating glimpse of rural Indian life. We pass a fish market on the roadside, swarming with flies as one man sells and two women clean fish. We get stuck there for a time as two trains pass on the crossroad just ahead of us. Piles of crabs sit in the heat covered with flies and every once in a while the man pulls a dead one out and tosses it to the side. We are morbidly fascinated.
Once back in Mamallapuram, we settle in for a quiet night. We order room service for lunch and prepare for a nap. We take another dip in the pool. We are content to be quiet here, not to rush. We are no longer shopping for much since we have bought so much in Jodhpur and because things here are expensive – geared as they are to tourists. Here, you never pay what folks ask for without haggling first. Generally, expect to pay a third of what they originally ask for. We are not used to that and find it exhausting.
During our final days in India, our wedding anniversary comes along. We buy ourselves a beautiful hand embroidered tapestry to hang on the wall at home as a gift to ourselves for our special day. We celebrate with another dinner on the beach and simply enjoying one another’s company. We can’t believe it has already been a year since our wedding and we chat about our trip to India – such a beautiful gift from our family and friends.
The last couple of days, it becomes apparent that Anthony is sick. Nausea and bad bowels. It hits him like a brick and he is exhausted. It will turn out to be the chicken he ate on our first night here. I knew it was under cooked. We spend most of our time resting. I finally find my Hanuman statue in a small shop off the main road. The man brings me into his shop and hears that I am a fan of the monkey god. He pulls out two. One of them is the most beautiful I’ve seen. I buy it on the spot.
On the last day, I know that there is still one more monument I want to see… the Five Rathas. This sculpture dates from the seventh century. Each giant ratha or “chariot” is carved from a single piece of stone. Anthony feels well enough to go with, so we walk to the other end of town where the monument sits. We are glad we did.
The Rathas are beautiful! A giant elephant stands among them, as though waiting to draw one of these chariots through the sand. Lions grace the pillars of one, gazing out as if to protect them. We wander among them lost in time.
On the way back, we find another mandapam or monument. A temple sits upon a rock hill. Beneath, in the hill, a beautiful shrines has been carved out with frescoes of scenes from the Mahabharata carved in relief on the walls. We can’t fathom the age. We explore it before heading up to the top to the temple and there we catch a glimpse of Mamallapuram stretched out below us. The ocean sits placidly in the distance, inlets carving up the land around us. There is a lighthouse up here that we have seen at night breaking its light into the distance. It is such a small town and so graceful. There is a light breeze in the midst of the heat of the day. We know, as we look out, that we are saying goodbye to India.
The rest of the day is spent picking up a shirt that Anthony had made, saying our goodbyes to the local shop keeps that we have gotten to know, and packing our things for the trip home. We have to leave at around midnight tonight for a four A.M. flight in the morning.
We have a nap and dinner on the rooftop restaurant upstairs. Small lights twinkly around us, the lighthouse we saw today is brightly shining. We laugh and chatter and realize that we are excited to be going home.
India has been one of the most beautiful experiences of my life. I have dreamed about it for so many years. The reality of India and the dream are very close in some ways - and in others so very different.
It is a land of contradictions. Chaos in the midst of spiritual peace. Modernity in the midst of the ancient. The culture is so different from our own, and yet the similarities are striking. The people share the same aspirations, the same dreams, and the same frustrations as any people would. But the route to personal fulfillment and the means are worlds apart. Cultural norms are much more rigid than ours, and yet remain unquestioned for the most part.
We have experienced riches here that are unexpectedly different from our own, and deeply meaningful. There is a peace here that transcends circumstances that we would find unbearable in the west… the poverty, the crowds, separation of genders. And yet, the people are gentle and giving, hospitable and lovely. I will keep a part of my spirit here, and hope to come and gather it back another time.
Anthony and I have experienced something together here that few people will. Those that do, we know, will share a special bond with us. We have deepened our own bonds with one another here as we’ve navigated the strange and exotic culture together. We are glad to be going home. And we hope one day to return here and experience more. We are so grateful.
Here’s a tip of the hat to the man who taught me to cook and was the closest thing to a father I had when I was a teenager. Sylvester is a remarkable man, and his Greek food is like no other. Check him out. And don’t be afraid to check out his Avgolemono Soup!
We are dropped off at the airport in the early morning. Kuldeep and our hostess, Lubna, drive us away at 7:00 AM. Lubna gave us a delightful parting gift of pillow cases and Kuldeep gave us a friendly farewell at the airport. Our wait is short as is the flight. We fly through Udaipur and then off to the “Blue City” of Jodhpur.
While Delhi is sheer madness, upon arriving in Jodhpur with wide open and clear skies, and a tiny airport, we already breathe a bit easier and sense that this will be the highlight of our trip.
We are eventually met at the airport by Banti, the cousin of the guesthouse owner, in a huge old Ambassador with a back seat like a sofa. The ride to the house is only fifteen minutes. Jodhpur opens up around us and we drive right by the Umaid Palace, seat of the current Maharaja of Jodhpur. It rises like a jewel on a plateau overlooking the town.
The guesthouse, Durag-Niwas, is spectacular! Painted in imperial blues, the color of Rajasthan, it is utterly charming and rustic. When you enter in, the inner courtyard gleams – an explosion of color. A fountain rises from the center, a cage of birds sits in the corner providing a constant chatter and chirp that makes you feel like you’re sitting in a park. Tables and settees surround the space and the floors of the house rise up around us. Curtains in blue silk and satin flow gently in the breeze that whispers through the yard.
We are taken to our room, the Maharaja Room (which makes us giggle a bit), and settle in. The room is a dream of colors and fabrics and textures. Divided by a curtain made of colorful silk saris, there is a sitting area, a couple of lounging couches, and our sleeping area. Typical Rajasthani crafts adorn the shelves and walls, the windows open and the breeze creates a spectacular dance as the hanging fabrics twist in the breeze.
We unpack, shower up, and change into comfortable clothes. Then we head downstairs. Everything we could possibly want is available for us. The smell of food emanates from the kitchen. We discover that this lovely, mouth-watering experience will be constant throughout our stay. Food is ever available, as is tea, drinks, and anything else.
In short order, we are introduced to Govind, the owner, who takes us into his office to welcome us and provide us with information about Jodhpur. Four generations of his family live in this house. There are several long-term guests in residence who volunteer for the NGO that Govind runs off the rooftop here. Sambhali Trust provides education and teaches trade skills to Dalit (“untouchable”) women in Jodhpur to give them financial empowerment. It is hoped that, upon learning a marketable, income generating skill, it will also empower them in their own homes to make decisions about the household. This is the first intimation we have of the rigid constraints on gender roles that are so much a part of Rajasthani culture.
Govind introduces us to his wife, Mukta, who runs the household here. They have been married for six years and have a five year old son, Ayush, who we discover to be a playful companion for all of the guests and a welcome diversion from adult company during parts of our stay.
Today is Diwali, and the house is in a flurry of activity preparing for the festivities. Govind asks us if we will help light and set out the Diwali lamps later on, and he welcomes us to join him for Lakshmi Puja, the traditional offering to the consort of Shiva, that marks the festival. We happily agree.
Before lunch, we decide to step out and explore on our own for a while. Durag-Niwas sits down at the end of a quiet road, right next to a giant park. The main roadway is about a two block walk away where we found tuk-tuk’s always parked on the roadside always ready to take us where we wanted to go. The drivers would become very familiar faces to us during our time as we walked past to explore, glad to be on our feet instead of in a car.
We discover a place called “Handloom” a couple of blocks away. It’s like a giant indoor bazaar filled with clothing, crafts, food, and a bustle of people. Because it is Diwali, the place is a mad rush of people buying last minutes gifts and food for the festival. In the front, there are counters filled with sweets and fried things. Several men sit on their palettes, hand-making dumplings and fritters, the giant vats of oil boiling with fragrant spices and batters as snacks are made to order. It is an explosion of color and madness and chatter. We know that this is where we will find gifts for family and friends. So we scope it out to get the lay of the land and buy a couple of small things.
Many of the local shops are closed for the festivities. It will remain so for a couple of days, so we prepare ourselves to sit back and enjoy the people and the local area. We see the palace on the hillside gleaming in the bright Rajasthani sun. The air is hot and dry and the sun is strong on our faces. The Old City and the fort are only a short ride away and we are excited to go and visit the Sardar Market. But we have time. For now we know that we should just relax and take it all in, enter into a deeper freedom of movement and leisure that were simply not possible in Delhi. We are already breathing more deeply.
Since the events begin in a short while, we opt not to go out and eat, but instead order food from the kitchen and settle in to the new surroundings. Lunch is dhal, rice, chapatti (flat breads) and a spicy aloo (potatoes) that makes my mouth water. We take lunch in our rooms and then unpack our things to feel more at home. We notice right away that this is indicative of our feeling for the place. We never unpacked in Delhi but lived out of our suitcase. This feels like home.
Gracious does not even begin to describe our hosts here, and Jodhpur already feels like a deeper step into my dream of Indian culture. Govind has given us a wonderful map of the city and a list of places that are safe to explore, shops that won’t rip us off, and where to find the best foods. He even gives us a warning about the cute “touts” (hustlers) around the clock tower who will certainly regale us with compliments and sexual flirtation, and how best to avoid them (if we want to!). We laugh about it in our room afterwards. Lunch and tea is relaxing, the curtains flow around us, the breeze is delicious and a sense of letting go of the frenetic pace of Delhi starts to wash over us. We are in love with this place.
The Diwali festivities are very moving. The oil lamps, little clay pots, are filled with oil and the wicks are placed. After they are lit, Govind, Anthony and I begin to place them all around the house, inside and out, on benches and shelves, on tables in ledges. As I do, I name each of our friends and family members, all of my brothers – as I promised I would – praying for each in turn to have abundance and luck for the coming year. Diwali, the Festival of Lights, is all about abundance. It is like Christmas and New Year all in one. Everyone is off changing into their finest for the festival. Govind comes out in white cotton kurta pyjama, looking very much the head of the household and very patronal. Mukta arrives in an exquisite sari of many colors, festooned with seashell garlands and trimmed with red and gold strands. Ayush wears a bright blue kurta decorated with gold. Once the lamps are placed, Govind begins to prepare the altar for the offering to the goddess Lakshmi. She represents abundance, and so the offerings gathered are many. Spices and puffed rice, gold coins and purified water. The women bring the jewelry that they treasure. The books of the business, school textbooks are placed also – anything in the household that they wish to be blessed or are symbolic of abundance are brought and placed in set order. Statues of Ganesh (remover of obstacles) and Lakshmi are brought out and anointed with oil and spices and then heaped with offerings and incense and candles.
Govind’s mother and brothers are there, and Anthony and I, along with the other long term guests, are invited to join them as they make the puja (offering). Once the offerings have been made, they ring bells and sing songs to Lakshmi. A flaming pot is brought out and it is waved in front of the altat – three times counter clockwise – then one by one, we are presented with the flames. We watch and learn. Wave your hands over the flame, then bring them over your head to invite the blessing to yourself. We follow suit. Then, Govind and Mukta anoint each of us with spices on our forehead. It is deeply moving to be included. I cannot imagine how old the ritual is. It is not lost on me that, around the country, everyone else is doing this same thing.
Afterwards, it is time for fireworks. Everyone in the house retires to the front porch. A huge bag of fireworks is brought out and the fun and noise begin. All over Jodhpur, we hear the echoes of explosions. The sky lights up with fireworks. Dogs howl in the distance. Everyone watches as sparklers and bottle rockets and fountains of spark and fire erupt up and down the street. We laugh. I immerse myself in the joy of the moment. I remember those I love back home and silently wish them all abundance and good fortune. I thank God for my own.
The next morning, we awaken fresh and ready to explore. The noise of the night before has quieted, but there will be more tonight as the fireworks across the city continue. It reminds me of home, those couple of days after the fourth of July when you can still hear errant firecrackers continue for days after the holiday.
We order breakfast and relax into the day. We plan to visit the Sardar Market, the heart of the Old City. We are disappointed when we get there to discover that it is the one day of the year when the market is closed. There is an eerie silence to the place that belies its place as the epitome of bustling Jodhpur. We walk through anyway, past a few cows and some young kids on motor bikes that drive through. We can only imagine, given the size of the central market, that it is a mad rush when it is actually open. The clocktower is beautiful and we can see the fort looming on the hillside. There is a wall around the Old City, ten meters high.
The people of Rajasthan are beautiful. Everywhere, we can see the colorful turbans worn by the men. The women are dressed more elaborately than in the Delhi where western influence is much stronger. The saris are more colorful, worn over vibrant petticoats, with spectacular color combinations. Tribal jewelry is more abundant, with women wearing the ornate nose rings and bracelets and necklaces of silver and stone and colored glass. Jodhpur is a swirl of color.
The relationships between men and women in Rajasthan are much more proscribed. One would believe when walking the streets that men outnumber women ten to one here. It is because most women opt to stay and work at home rather than come out and run the risk of violating the rigid rules that seem to govern relations here between the sexes. Women will never look at men directly. The men are generally very friendly. Men, however, are obviously in charge. We notice at the house that Mukta often covers her face with a veil when certain guests arrive. She also gets down on her knees to touch the feet of honored guests. We are not exactly sure what rules govern this behavior and are a bit shy about asking.
Everywhere, the cows wander. Outside the guesthouse this morning, is a pile of cow dung, formed in the shape of a man. An oil lamp sits next to him, and incense burns near the head. It is decorated with spices and grains of rice and ghee (clarified butter). The cows are part of the fabric here. Every morning, we are unsure whether we will find one or two or four grazing idly along side the street outside the house. They wander along the bridges, the roadways, outside the shops in herds. Some of them are enormous. On one afternoon, I simply have to walk around one that blocks the sidewalk on the railway bridge I am crossing on my way to the ATM machine.
After our attempt at the Sardar Market, we decide to go shopping. We’re off to Handloom. Quieter than yesterday, it is still a bustle of faces and an extraordinary display of the craft and culture of Rajasthan.
One half of one entire floor is filled with saris of various fabrics, colors and styles. The stacks and stacks of colorful bolts of silk and chiffon run from floor to ceiling. Some are tie-dyed, some embroidered, and others awash with sequins that sparkle gold and silver. A tailor sits in one corner prepared to knock out matching choli (blouses) for whatever sari one chooses.
The menswear section is just as colorful with silk angavastram (formal scarves), embroidered jackets, kurta, dhoti and gamcha (casual scarves). Housewares is a mountain of the Rajasthan style embroidery on pillows and tapestries, throws and bedding. There are ornate crafts from strings of ceramic animals with shells and bells, to wall hangings, statuary of stone and wood and even gaudily painted plastic, and tin and copper sculptures which even include altar settings for the Hindu home.
Downstairs, the food market is filled with all of the spices and stuffs from which local food is made. Breads and lentils and piles upon piles of sweets which are so favored in Jodhpur. The smells are rich and fragrant – a hodge-podge of spices and incense and soaps combine with the aroma of the fried goodies still being churned out in abundance just up the half stairwell which leads outside.
We begin to shop in earnest, buying for ourselves and our families. We find a good deal of the things we want to decorate our bedroom back home – something we have planned since we painted last year in anticipation of our trip. We choose reds and purples and greens, colorful patters and embroidered pillows. We find puppets made of wood and fabrics, dressed in the style of Rajasthan.
English is not as prominent here and we struggle a bit with cashiers. It takes us several tries before we realize that our purchases in certain departments are sent downstairs for us to pick up on our way out once we finish shopping. For the first hour, we carry arm loads of fabrics and crafts around with us, not realizing that we should check out of one department before heading off to another. We get very strange looks.
After some marathon purchases, we head back to the guesthouse. We meet Govind and Virendra puttering around the courtyard. They invite us to dinner and dancing at a local restaurant with them this evening. We are excited to go and get to know them better. The restaurant, “On the Rocks,” is utterly charming and about a ten minute walk away from the house. We drop off our things, order some tea and lunch, and sit in the courtyard downstairs.
We begin to meet some of the guests in the house, notably Ruth and Margarethe, two elder women from Switzerland who are here for three months to work at the Sambhali Trust upstairs. They got to know about the work of the trust through a tour they took the previous year run by Govind and Virendra. They operate a 22 day crafts tour of Northern India that is quite popular among women. Ruth and Margarethe met on the tour as well and now they are fast friends living in India together. Margarethe is old enough that everyone calls her grandmother. She is a hoot – more energy than most people half her age. She is going with us tonight and can’t wait “for beer and dancing!”
The house has a variety of guests that pass through and several times last night and today, Govind has had to turn folks away for lack of space. It is part hostel and part home. Govind has made clear that he obviously prefers long term guests rather than folks who come and stay for a night and then head off without engaging the community that lives and works here. Throughout the week, we meet folks from Denmark, France, Australia, Macedonia, and the U.K.
Mukta, as always, is busy running the kitchen. We meet the nurse that cares for Govind’s mother and grandmother, Ayush’s tutor, and several of the staff including the housekeepers and the houseboys. Govind’s friend and driver, Pitou, will be another constant companion this week as he drives us to and from dinner and generally offers us whatever hospitality we need.
Anthony goes upstairs after lunch to take a nap, while I sit downstairs and catch up on writing and drink tea.
Dinner in the evening is a blast. “On the Rocks” is one of the hipper places in Jodhpur. Decorated to look like the inside of a cave, we enter into the gardens and head to the nightclub in the back. The place is filled with young people, both Indian and tourist. The music is contemporary and the place is alive. Govind is very well known in the town, and here is welcomed like a VIP. We sit and have drinks, chat about our experience in India so far. Margarethe is a joy to be around. Her English is pretty bad so we rely on my outdated French to communicate. After a couple of beers in her, the French gives way to German and we mostly resort to hand gestures to communicate.
An interesting thing happens. The music grinds to a halt early in the evening. We notice the security of the club gather up a bunch of Indian men and take them outside. Govind intimates that they are being taken out to get beaten. It seems as though they were a little drunk and got too feisty for the local’s taste with some female tourists on the dance floor. Women and men do not dance together here. The men usually just dance with each other which puts to the lie any notions we have about the rules governing masculinity in our own culture back home. It is not uncommon to see men walking through the streets holding hands here. But, when the men tried to encourage dancing with foreign women – they were taken out to get beaten. It made us a bit sad. But as I said, the rules governing relations between the sexes here are very rigid.
The music never comes back on. Dinner comes after dancing. We eat well after 11PM in the garden outside and the food is sublime! Butter chicken murgh, dhal, rice, corn and spinach curry and lots of bread. The meal is so satisfying as is the company.
After dinner, the boys take us all out for ice cream at a local place. Pitou picks us up in the car and drives us twenty minutes to a local place. We sit outside, eating fresh creamy ice cream, with cows and wild dogs milling around the tables, unwilling to let the night get away from us just yet. The night is warm yet and a soft breeze blows in off the desert. Margarethe has found her French again and we chat idly. Jodhpur is fast proving to be so much more about the people than about the buildings and the monuments. We feel so welcomed.
We spend a couple of days exploring and shopping, resting and hearing stories. While the area we are staying is relatively quiet, a few minutes walk across the bridge provides a glimpse of the hustle and bustle of this desert city. Traffic is still a sight to behold. One afternoon, I watch as a train pulls into the station and thousands of people pour out onto the platform in a dizzying array of colors. The people are friendly and engaging. They are helpful. Anthony and I enjoy the food at “On the Rocks” several times since it is one of the only eateries in the city that is very good. When not, we eat at the house and enjoy Mukta’s fantastic vegetarian thalis (a collection of many small dishes with rice and bread). The day is punctuated with pots of chai and bottles of water. We decide to go and visit the Mehrangarh Fort, the center of the history of Jodhpur.
You cannot understand Jodhpur truly until you have seen the fort. Suddenly, the city makes such sense and its imperial history and the life of the Maharaja as its focal point become clear. We spend two days at the fort. Mainly because on the first day, we forgot to put the battery in the camera. And we came woefully ill prepared for the heat and the climb. It is a fortuitous accident.
Mehrangarh Fort
Begun in the fifteenth century, the Mehrangarh Fort towers over the city on a rock outcrop that is four hundred feet high. Rao Jodha, the first Maharaja of Jodhpur, moved his capital here from Mandore to the north. It is, as is told, the only fort in India to have never been taken by a foreign invader. One can easily see why. It is not only massive but high and difficult to get to. A winding road takes us through parts of the Old City to the entrance through alleys of small shops thronged with people and camels and traffic. Stepping into the fort is like stepping several hundred years back in time.
The first thing you notice after walking through three gates to enter the complex is the city – all imperial blue – stretching out below you. It gleams in the sun like a patchwork quilt. Off in the distance, the Umaid Palace stands alone. The hilltop reveals the tops of Hindu temples scattered throughout the city, and waterways and ghats for ritual washing. The Old City and her markets runs right up to the natural stone outcrop upon which the fort is built.
Inside, a cobbled stone roadway climbs steadily upward into the fort. You can see the marks left by cannon balls on the walls, injuries taken during some invasion or another. In the walls, little shrines to Shiva or Ganesh appear here and there, garlanded with flowers. Through the second gateway, a family of gypsies plays music and sings while their little boy dances for the crowd in a red turban, his eyes outlined with kohl.
Still towering above us is the main complex of the fort, ornately carved windows looking down over us and the city even farther below. Crowds of people walk up and down the ramped road that climbs ever farther up into the main. Along the way, locals want their picture taken with us. A group of young men stop Anthony and ask me to take their picture together. Another group of musicians plays the drums, dressed in khaki with bright yellow turbans.
We pass by monumental windows, ornately carved in the stone with elaborate scrollwork.
At the top of the long climb upwards, we come to a sand plateau where trees grown and a local gypsy woman is busy making puppets out of mango wood. We stop and buy two knights on horses from her for home. Along the side of this ridge are small rooms built into the wall where the stoneworkers of today are(and the soldiers of the past were) housed. All along the back, we see ramparts filled with cannons overlooking the city from all sides. Off the right and down in a small dell, a giant statue of Shiva sits in the sand. A woman takes a long stick to a tree and bangs it to jog loose seed pods that grow in the branches. With her, two little boys gather them up in baskets.
Down the long ramp on the backside, a white Hindu temple glows brightly in the sun, folks walking barefoot in and out as they make offerings. A view from the back looks out over a sea of imperial blue houses stretching out from the rock.
We spend a few hours touring through the rooms of the museum here, which includes the royal apartments and the halls in the top windows of the fort. It is so beautiful. The marble work in the royal apartments is stunning.
On the way out, the museum shop is jammed and expensive. But we are thrilled to discover, upon exiting, a vibrant bazaar right behind it. I find one shop where the owner yells out “Gandhi-ji” and pulls me inside. He is convinced that I look just like Mahatma Gandhi. He is not the first in India who will make the comparison. But he insists on showing me pictures of his family. He introduces me to his daughter, and offers me the proverbial discount on whatever I want. I look for a while. He wants our picture together and makes me promise to send a copy to him by mail. He gives me his address. I find a lovely wooden box inlaid with camel bone and brass. I buy it. He shows me a smaller one. I buy that too. Folks crowd around the entrance to see why he is so enthusiastic. I am embarrassed but joy filled all the same.
We make our way back down slowly, savoring the feeling of being in an older world. I’ve not left yet when I find myself already mourning the end of the experience here. Soon, we are in a tuk-tuk heading back to the guesthouse.
Jodhpur Finale
The rest of our stay in Jodhpur is filled with joy and friendship. Another dinner out with Govind and the other guests. More ice cream. A night out at a “new Bollywood” film which is beyond bad trying as it does to mimic the slapstick comedy of Hollywood. Beautiful but empty headed acting, gorgeous scenery and lots of car scenes and beach. Some of the gags are taken right out pf the Groucho Marx physical comedy playbook. But the theater is a study in the excitement of India.
The seats are jammed with families of nine, ten, twelve. Infants, older folks, children in tow. Twice as many people as an American theater would hold. At each scene, the audience erupts in applause as though they are part of the film. It is chaos and excitement and immersion. The film is nearly three hours. When it is over and everyone piles out, the theater looks like a garbage heap. No one cleans anything, just tosses it on the floor. Come to think of it, we have never seen a garbage can anywhere on the streets on India either. Just midden heaps and ash heaps from where refuse has been burned. Fascinating.
The last day is filled with excitement as a VIP member of the Sambhali Trust from Austria is coming to inaugurate the new year with a new sewing room upstairs. Everyone is in a hurry to get the last minute decorations done and prepare for the important guests. We spend our morning packing and getting ready for the last leg of our trip.
I do an interview with Govind about his situation in the hopes of writing an article for the BAR when I get home. It cements our friendship and makes us both bit sad. But we have enjoyed this leg of our trip so much.
Jodhpur will forever be to me a place of extraordinary hospitality and a place of ancient culture and rich tradition. More than anything, the colors and the smells will linger in my memory for years to come. It is classic India and a remnant of a older times. Rajasthan will remain in my heart forever and we hope to return someday. Our suitcases are full, but our hearts are fuller. Now… off to the south of India to Mamallapuram in Tamil Nadu, the extreme south east and the opposite end of the country. From what we are told, it may as well be another India altogether. We will see… we will see.
