Since We Last Spoke

There is much to write about; the last week has been a growing whirlwind of inspiring conversations and moments, along with its dreary and difficult sun-baked tasks and obligations. However, first I want to spreak of a new source of inspiration, the NY times bestseller Three Cups of Tea.

Over the last month, I have questioned many times my objectives in traveling and volunteering abroad in India. Being delegated to mundane office tasks, and spending time reading the news onlineat work did little to fuel the dwindling fire of passion for "exotic" or "moving" work abroad. I see the poor and suffering every day, whether it be people sleeping on the street, or emaciated cows eating trash, or charity kitchens where the undernourished squat, waiting for their turn to eat, that is if enough rupees are donated by passersby on that given day. But there seems to be little connection between my actions and change for the better.

Well Greg Mortenson's life story of establishing over fifty schools in rural Pakistan and Afganistan almost singlehandedly reminded me of the difference one person can make. In Three Cups of Tea, Dr. Greg, as he became known to the men, women, and children of nuerous treacherously balanced villages in the peaks of the worlds most isolated mountains, drifted in the wrong direction after a failed attempt to summit K2. The village he stumbled upon, and the promise he made Haji Ali, Korphe's cheif elder, moved Mortenson from climbing mountains to moving them. He promised to return the following year with the money and supplies to build Korphe a school.

Throughout this suspenseful read, Greg befriends everyone in his path, including Tom Brokaw, descendents of Ghengis Khan, and taliban warlords. This is a must-read, and it painted beautiful scenery for my imagination as I work my own path towards the Himalayas.

I just booked my train ticket to New Delhi, where I will start my adventure. From there, I will take a bus to Shimla, with plans to continue on to Manali and Dharamsala, the home of the Dhali Lama and the Tibetan government in exile. There is also an amazing buddhist festival during July in the northernmost state, Ladakh. However, I plan to spend most of my time in Himanchal Pradesh, where I can hike, meditate, meet a ton of Israelis, and open my eyes.

The moment I booked my ticket was the most terrifyingly alone I have been in my life. Here I am with four friends, and even being surrounded by them still I want to curl into the fetal position making myself safe. The image of cold mountains is desolate, as is negotiating India's rail system alone. It is easy to be picked up in the sand storm of loneliness and self-pity that accompanies it, especially while traveling. After a single day of contemplation and reading my guidebook, I was amped. This is an adventure of a lifetime and I hope to treat it as so. With a few backpacking lessons in the bank, and more to come, July first calls my name. And after the Barcelona bus station (where my day pack was stolen by an african-immigrant based theiving team), I won't fall asleep on public transport without my bag under my arms.

So if you haven't figured it out already, I no longer work for SPRAT. Over my time there, Mr. Johwer (my boss) and I did not always see eye to eye, mostly due to cultural differences, where our opposed personalities did not extinguish the growing tensions. In my final moments with SPRAT, I was disappointed to leave my great coworkers, but proud of the way I lived my beleifs and took a stand against motions that challenged them. While in the future I may not always have this luxury, my actions left me smiling that entire afternoon, knowing I showed myself and my American coworkers/interns respect.

My day today was pretty gnarly (yeah, total pipe dream, brah!). I woke up today, finished the aforementioned book, and after some lunch caught a rickshaw for one of the first times with my butchered hindi carrying me without a hitch towards the Jami Masjid. It was not the first time I had been to a mosque, but certainly my first time praying at one. Nadeem had invited me along for the most important and well-attended prayer of the week, friday afternoon.

After kicking off my thongs and briskly walking across scalding hot marble, I proceeded to the central washing station. If I was going to pray, surely I had to wash first like everyone else. Gingerly approaching the wash basin turned fish pond (with fish food floating liberally on the surface), I took a seat in the ring surrounding the water on one of the only free stools. I proceeded to wash my feet and hands (right and then left), and finally my face and mouth.

Eyes turned to watch the last stage; surely this white boy at a crowded mosque won't rinse his mouth with pond water. Well, the mouth is a muslim's most holy body part, as it issues prayers to Allah, and I proceeded to brush my teeth with my fingers. I then stood up, feeling surprisingly refreshed considering I was facing a possibly grim 24 hours with my innards, and bumped into Nadeem.

The 500 year old mosque we sat in (built in 1412, to be exact) must have been full with over 5000 men, and a few women towards the back. While I didn't catch a word of the sermon delivered in Urdu, the beautiful melodic wailing that followed from the cantor figure was mesmerizing. After this, individual prayer began, and I stumbled through following my neighbors in bowing and putting my forehead to the floor, all the while reciting the Shema.

The Shema says that there is but one God, and I figured praying, no matter how it is done, is important, and it wouldn't matter that I was facing Mecca and not Jerusalem.

All I can say is what an experience. Later that day I stumbled into a Jewish synagogue late, and still did not feel at home. Because I was late, I was forced to do much of the praying on my own, and stood and mumbled to myself at the back of the congregation of about thirty people. After a day of religious observance, I didn't think I did poorly, all things considered. It was at that moment I realized I was sitting on the women's side of the congregation. A tradition I have not regularly experienced in the states, I scurried to the men's side and avoided eye contact, continuing my praying solo style.

After a round of Shabbat Shalom's, I headed back to Jamalpur, dreaming of the feast awaiting me in a muslim home. Daal, chippatti, and watermellon never tasted so good; the only thing that could have been a suitable addition to the spread was matzah ball soup -- its good at every meal.

In afterthought, I had another religious experience today. In the middle of the afternoon in search of a cyber cafe I got my cheapest rickshaw ride ever -- three rupees. I guess being one of seven passengers is economical; hanging out of the driver's side front seat an inch from buzzing traffic would cause anyone to pray.