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| Norris, yawning. Big Cat Sanctuary, Addo, South Africa |
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| TBB East Coast Sand Dunes. Addo |
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| River Valley looking north to the Dhauladar Mountain Range Palampur, India |
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| Garden Terrace Palampur, India |
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| Girls in mandala competition. MCS School. Palampur, India |
In just one week, we have traveled
over the subtropical thicket and never-ending coastal sand dunes of the Eastern
Cape of South Africa to the pine and garden terrace-covered Himalayan foothills
of Himachal Pradesh in India.
We have gone from comfortable homes
with all the luxurious amenities one could ask of a kitchen, bathroom and
bedroom to the awkward complexities of an Indian home: squat toilets where
bidets are more prevalent than toilet paper, different food with vibrant tastes
that don’t always settle well in our stomachs, new guests in the midst of a
seemingly chaotic ten-person Indian family.
A little over a week ago, we were
walking through townships with hospice caregivers visiting patients with
chronic infectious diseases; today the students set out to five different
primary and secondary schools, and will be teaching math, science and English
to the Indian children in attendance there.
A little over a week ago, we were
on safari in South African bush, seeing the largest land mammal, the African
elephant, rip thorny branches (we dare not touch) off of the bush with its
trunk and feed it into its mouth just feet from our van window. We were at big cat sanctuary, sitting just
feet away from 2 year old lion brothers - the power and energy felt staring
into a lion’s eyes in that close of proximity is indescribable. If there is such a thing as an aura, I
definitely felt the lion’s. Today, we
see cows dodging traffic as they walk up the main road, scrappy dogs nursing
sickly wounds, intimidating red-faced monkeys leaping from building to building
looking for any food they can scavenge, and all sorts of interesting
birds: green parrots; long, thin-tailed
birds with yellow bellies, orange beaks and black backs; brown hawks en masse soaring over the river valley
searching the landscape below for small prey.
The thick South African English
accent, somewhere between a mix of British and Australian, and the clicks of
the Khosa language, have transformed into Hindi and the local Kangra
dialect.
We are situated in northern India,
32 degrees of latitude north, nestled between Pakistan and Nepal. We have flipped somewhat equidistantly to the
other side of the equator. In South
Africa, the cool, overcast, drizzly days were becoming longer, hotter and sunnier
as we moved from spring into summer. In
India, the days are becoming shorter, as the heat and light of summer
transition into what will be a cold and rainy winter.
Palampur stands in somewhat of a
striking contrast to Jaipur, where we were for our Indian unit last December
and January. Jaipur was a large city,
with upwards of 2.5 million people living in a dusty cement jungle in the
middle of the Rajasthani desert. Old castles
and forts adorned the peaks of the blurry, fog/smog-filled hills surrounding
the city. Palampur sits at 4000 feet,
nestled at the foothills of the Himalayas.
Behind the town, jagged, snow-capped stone mountains rise above the tree
line and stand like cold, unemotional sentinels guarding the town to its north.
To the south, smaller rolling hills disappear into the blurred horizons of the
sweeping Kangra Valley below. A large,
boulder-lined river valley cuts its way from the mountains through the
foothills creating a western border to the town. Dirt and cement-lined irrigation ditches
bring the fresh mountain water to the terraced gardens, canopy covered tea
fields, and homes of the 40,000 some odd Indians that call this small mountain
outpost their home.
In downtown Palampur, the senses
are overcome with the same infusions as one might find in Jaipur, but to a
tenth of the degree. One, main, one-lane road cuts its way through the downtown
area, easy to walk through in ten minutes.
Pop-up vending stands selling fried food and fresh vegetables post outside
the shops that sell brightly colored cloths and trinkets and goods for everyday
living. The eyes take in the movement
and miraculous passings of the cars, tuk-tuks, buses, and motorbikes, the
constant movement of people snaking their way up the sides of the streets, avoiding
getting hit, ducking into and out of shops, hands filled with food or colorful
cloth. There is the constant honking of
horns, revving of engines, conversations loud and quiet, the occasional music
of worship and praise. One feels the
density of things: people, vehicles, shops, trinkets and animals – you don’t
realize you’re holding your breath until you’re out of the apparent chaos. There are smells of sweets, fresh baked
bread, urine, feces, incense, and the paradoxical naturally fresh rankness of the
tea fields nearby. You can taste the
unfiltered exhaust, the delights of the sweet shops, the evolutionary draw
toward the caloric, frying samosas.
Though on a much smaller scale, as
in Jaipur, the stimulation is exhausting for this suburbanite. Retreating to the outskirts of town provides
sensory relief. Here, among the gold of
former corn terraces, water rushes from a ditch to flood a terrace. Once the soil is adequately softened, a cow
will help till the soil, and beets will soon be planted. The corn that was previously harvested from
the terrace now lays strewn out on the front porch of the farmer’s nearby home,
the red, yellow and orange husks drying in the sun. Here on the outskirts of town, where the
stray dogs scrap with local monkey troops and women dressed in brightly colored
saris collect grass from the hillsides, I am whisked away to another era. Just outside of the chaos of the downtown,
time seems to have stood still for the farmers who support the growth of the
county municipal seat.
Beyond the outskirts, following the
creeks and irrigation canals deeper north and higher into the mountains, I find
the even deeper serenity that the wild brings.
Here, amidst the boulders, bushes and trees, I am transported to a place
devoid of culture. Humans have made no
significant mark here, and the lack of sensory input from any human or
human-made thing makes it possible for me to transport myself to the Sierras or
the Rockies. Were it not for the obvious
ecological differences, I might forget where I am all together.
During the first several days walking around
the rural fringes of the town, I noticed things that reminded me of my time in
Yunnan, China. Terraces carved into the
hillsides with constant use over centuries have created the appearance of
strong, sturdy earthen steps naturally carved onto the steep slopes. The dirt paths that line the edges of the
terraces, used to move between plots and to and from houses and town. Corn, spread out in a single layer over cement
porches, drying in the sun. Small
shrines scattered about the hillsides, constant reminders of the ties here
between spiritual and physical labors.
Overall, I notice both agricultural and spiritual activities and a pace
of life that, if not for the clothing and language and types of deities, would make
me think I was in China. After looking
at a map and realizing that here in Palampur I’m actually further north than I
was in Yunnan, I recognize just how much geography helps shape culture. Despite the borders that separate China from
India, there is an overwhelming sense that the these peoples’ connection to the
land and to the seasonal cycles in these hilly and mountainous parts of the
southern Asian continent ties them closer together than any political border
keeps them apart.
As for me, it is hard to internally
track the seasons, travelling across oceans and many degrees of latitude over a
short period of time. My body, slowly
tuning itself to the lengthening of days and the energy of summer suddenly must
adapt to the early darkening and closing in of winter. An internal cycle of life and death and the
associated movements within us, something all animals have evolved with and
adapted to as part of the natural rhythm of life, is disrupted. This creates an uneasiness within during
these very unnatural transitions. My
thoughts, emotions, and body fall out of sync.
However, we are resilient
creatures. Time heals. Routines set in. With the help of chai tea and new friends, I
slowly become present to my new place.
