Return of the Himalaya

All I want to do is walk. Any chance I get, I take off. It doesn’t necessarily help that six seven hours a day are spent bumping around in a bus or in the back of a jeep. We ride parallel to rushing rivers that are voraciously being dammed. Beside, the headquarters of hydro and cement companies sprawl. It isn’t long before the asphalt disappears and gives way to more humble tracks upon which to tread. We slowly climb up and eventually back down lush green hills. And while the winding dirt roads mean travelling at the snail’s pace, it still feels like I’m going too fast.

My eyes try as best they can to feast on my surroundings, but more often than not they are fixed upwards, glued to snowcapped peaks. I can’t help it. There is something about those sharp, jagged edges that arrest, keeping me in awe, aware of my size. When they move out of view, I take in the breadth of the landscape. Another world defined by a direct relationship with the land comes into focus. As soon as we stop for tea or reach our destination in Kinnaur, in Kullu, in Mandi, my legs take over. Every free moment I can steal away, I want to take in these hills and streams and staircase villages.

So every evening after heated discussions on community forest rights, I leave my new activist friends behind and begin to wander. It’s only on my own two feet that I feel like I can move slowly enough to feel everything that this place stirs inside. My mind is engaged in constant conversation with itself; I am only a bystander at this point, quietly listening to the back and forth banter inside my head.

Climbing up worn pathways, I quickly get lost trying to find my way to an arbitrarily picked destination way above where I stand – a temple, an orchard, a waterfall. Amused villagers ask where I am going and I excitedly reply that I’m simply going for a walk. It’s not long before I am again sitting down with strangers, drinking tumbler after tumbler of sweet pahadi chai.

I know these moments mean more because of those summers I spent as a kid exploring a similar setting in Kangra. Sent to my Nanaji and Nanima’s house, the monsoon welcomed me.  I know it’s because of the memories that come back from that year in Kumaon that makes it all the more meaningful. And now, with a few more years on me and a (relatively) more stable head on these shoulders, I keep my ears open, attuned to the secrets being whispered.

I no longer try to compartmentalize or label the feelings that arise. Rural life with all its beauty, generosity, and hardships stands directly in front of me. Not asking for anything, yet still demanding all of my attention.  The smell of wood-fed fires brings waves of nostalgia and inspiration that wash over me, making it all so dangerously easy to romanticize. Standing atop of a world that at once seems familiar, and yet one I know I cannot claim to fully understand.  It is here I recognize there is too much upon the hills and below the surface that I am unable to put into words.

But just as is with every return to the Himalaya, internally there is work being done. Inside, I can only hope my heart is being soaked, and wrung, and washed anew. That somewhere, though I cannot see it – only vaguely feel it – there is a realignment taking place.

Deep in the Cut

Deep in the heart of Rivercess County, the mud homes stand completely illuminated by the scorching sun. Their thatch roofs consistently prove match for the daily rains.  Above, the blue sky plays backdrop for the treetops that surround each village. The forests and trees act as a frame, allowing another world to come into focus.

It is in this corner of Liberia where I've been getting my NGO on. Baseline surveys, questions lost in translation, smiles at accents not completely understood. Under the unforgiving afternoon sun, it can be slow and tedious work. But there is something like strength in embracing the unfamiliar, trusting the process, and fighting to win.

The goal: organize local communities to receive formal ownership papers from the State for their customary lands. Land that has no title or deed, simply worked and lived upon for generations. As we seek to build the capacity of communities to manage their land and natural resources, establish community governance structures, and harmonize boundaries with neighboring clans, I realize we are talking about something revolutionary.

The importance of protecting rural land ownership rights rests, in part, on peacebuilding. These efforts are equally tied to sustainable development, social justice, and food security. The larger context is a national and global land rush with community land being sold off to foreign investors, with claims that few benefits are being distributed locally. The added nuance is that communities rightfully want basic social services – roads, schools, clinics, latrines, and employment – and are at times quick to sign agreements with companies.

The journey to the bush is an adventure in itself. Leaving Monrovia behind, the asphalt quickly turns to mud as the countryside extends its open arms. Wrestling the road ensures a constant jostle – back and forth, up and down. Any moment could mean being stuck in six feet of mud for who knows how long. There are times when the bush swallows the dirt path we are passing along, leaving green simply everywhere. After six hours my lower back begins to howl, thankful for our arrival.

The simplicity of life is tough, captured through clichés of young children carrying water along blazing paths. Here your cell phone is of no use. Electricity and sanitation are virtually nonexistent. Such realities demand reflection on the inequalities that persist in our modern age, and the benefits of balanced living.

I can remember the first time entering remote villages in the Himalayas: the sweeping sense of estrangement I felt. This time village life doesn't seem so stark or particularly romantic. This time it’s just life lived daily.  Here there are village elders, town chiefs, and forefathers to consider. At times, the bushmeat can seem excessive, the war stories – jarring. But the constantly candid conversations, strong social commentary, and laughter, ensure that the learning is endless.

The setting sun signals people’s return from their farms. Hearty smiles and handshakes initiate our gathering as we once again re-engage communities on our joint land protection efforts. As our discussions go into the night, I tilt my head all the way back to be assaulted by an unending canopy of stars. Deep in the cut years are added to the spirit. Providing guidance from above, they remind me I am here in Liberia to learn certain life lessons. Lessons I do not understand right now, but will prove invaluable in years to come.

Under the night sky, my thoughts try to keep up with all that has happened in the past few days. The kindness shown from strangers, the impassioned pleas against promises not kept, and the changing face of rural existence. Exhausted, I am given a bed that will be my refuge for the next few hours. I take comfort in knowing there is value in all that has passed, and everything yet to come.

Just Like Alloo

When I was younger I was terrified of train stations in this country. The sheer number of people was enough to overwhelm my ten year-old grasp on reality. The mixture of prickly smells colonized my Western-adapted nose with utterly strange odors. And the teeming and seeming chaos, the proximity to poverty I was used to only witnessing from the other side of a car window, was a spectacle that was incomparable to the sanitized environment in which I had grown up. In short, it was crazy. But what could I do? I was there on the platform; I had to take the next steps forward.

Traveling has always made me a little nervous. In the Indian context, when I was a child this fact was even more pronounced. I remember one instance, sitting on the train between the blue train berths I would become so familiar with later in life, crying in my grandmother’s lap. I was convinced that I would be separated from my parents in a sea of people and never see them again. The squawks of the vendors walking through each compartment were almost equally unnerving. “Snakes! Drinks! Snakes!” I couldn’t understand what strange place I was in where people would be selling snakes along with soda. My grandmother, who was thoroughly amused by my hysterics, explained these “snakes” were actually snacks. Over the years as my understanding grew my fears eventually subsided, and a connection to this place was well underway.

Recalling all the drama, its ironic the project I find myself engaged in today. I have been on the road visiting NGOs all over the country penning the stories of individuals and organizations dedicated to the transformation of Indian society. Over the last three months, let alone the last two years, I have lost count of the number of trains and buses. The means of the journey have certainly added layers of value and tribulation to the experience. From sleeping on the floor of platforms (gross) to sleeping on the floor of trains (so much grosser), the way has not always been the most comfortable.

So when my recent train journey happened to by an AC ride, it almost threw me off. I will save you dear readers from the constant grappling and reflections on wealth and privilege. However, I will say this, it seems like there is a certain segment of the population in India that is totally clueless about how everyday people exist.

Continuously oscillating from urban to rural, air-conditioned to sweltering, and slums to villas to villages, a conversation from the year I spent in the Himalayan state of Uttarakhand keeps coming back to me. One day, during a visit to a field office I was working in the cook turned to me and said, “You know what? You’re just like alloo (potato). You go with everything” (Potato is a common vegetable that is cooked with almost every vegetable dish). I didn’t realize he would be so right, and how much like alloo I would have to become.

Living in India, for the better part of the past two years in such a manner, at times conjures up a strong love-hate relationship. There have been moments when I have felt such intense anger. I went into a tirade about how I don’t even have to be in this country after being asked for a bribe to get a seat on a train. Seeing tiny children defecate openly on the streets brings such feelings of despair, not because it’s unfortunate, but because it will only add to the cycle of disease and poverty. And yet, there is something magical here as well, – the freedom from the nagging insecurity and superficiality that bombards suburban youth back home. The camraderie between strangers. The subtle, yet unmistakable, familiarity in the air.

But perhaps what encompasses the love-hate feeling most is hanging out the door of a train. With the breeze whipping your face, you can take in the beauty of the countryside. The heart of India is exposed in its villages, and the simplicity and mindfulness behind each day. Look to one side and the perpetual rain of litter and plastic pours out of the side of the train. How does one convey that infuriation is an understatement? And it’s like, “What am I even doing here?” But each step must be taken forward. There is another stop to reach, a different reality to understand, and the challenge of remaining the same person throughout it all.