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.

The Waking Hours

In a flash your eyes open in a sharp, fluid motion. The room is dark except for the moonlight pouring through a window. Somewhere in the distance you can hear various calls to prayer. In a foreign language they echo across the night gently pulsating inside the cavern of your head. Coaxing you to pay closer attention to not that what you can’t understand, but to what you already know to be true. You sit up puzzled with the amount of energy you find reverberating in the dim. Coming to your feet you spy the moon, framed through the window pane, bearing witness to creation.   

The benefits of jet lag are these solitary moments. While the whole world around you sleeps, you are free to sit down with your muse. Sure, your mind is enveloped in a thick fog that shrouds your thoughts in that what feels surreal. A bit confused, your circadian rhythm is desperately trying to place itself. Is it time to wake up or go back to sleep? Is it time for dinner or rather breakfast?

In the waking hours you face yourself head on. All distractions dissipate in the darkness. And here you can take inventory of your ongoing battles and self-created enemies. In the perfectly-still silence you exhale your inspiration: for all the things you know are yet to be achieved. For the knowledge that the struggle will continue.

Wide awake you are free to dream. Nothing stirs and so there is nothing to dissuade you in these dangerous instances of self-assurance. The deeper you dive the clearer the revelation becomes, crystallizing in the film behind your eyelids. These aren’t grand visions – rather a list of what is to be done.  

These dreams:

                Of self-awareness
                                and less addiction;

                Of improved practice
                                and healthy breakfasts;

    Of colorful stories
                                and leafy gardens;

                Of realizing the fruits of love
                                and building the tribe that follows

You have never been so sure that they will come true. And when it all comes to pass it will be because of these moments. If you dare dream. 

For LIB

These days Liberia is stuck on the brain. It was only a year ago that my daily tour of Monrovia would commence soon after returning to the house sandwiched between Gurley and Randall Streets. The evening would be buzzing with the chatter of the line in front of the hand pump and pots hissing with preparations of palm butter, pepper soup, and potato greens. After stretching my legs I would race along the coast soaking in the sights and sounds of the city.

Passing Miami Beach, I would weave through the congregation of pam-pam drivers with neatly folded red, blue, and green bills tucked between their fingers. A chorus of Colloqua, Krio, French, and Mandingo would ring out through the revving of motorcycle engines. Somewhere unseen the Newport Street masjid would sound the call to prayer. Many of these young Liberians lived through a generation of war. But a whole generation can’t ride bikes forever. Many others came from neighboring Sierra Leone and Guinea – to hustle – taking advantage of a poor country that insists on using the US dollar as one form of currency. Now they say the pam-pams are banned in town.

Ahead would be the city’s prime real estate, where the first settlers began to create Africa’s oldest republic bringing inherent identity hierarchies over from North America. Today, Monrovia’s fanciest hotels occupy Mamba Point catering towards aid workers, ambassadors, and international business people with sushi dinners and all-you-can-eat buffets.

Leaving the hotels and hawkers behind I would climb the hill leading through the fortress that is the US Embassy. Charging downhill, the past splendor of the Ducor Hotel would float somewhere above the city. Along the way my eyes would swallow boutiques displaying the bright greens and oranges of traditional dresses, old cars being fixed by older mechanics, and children chasing after flat soccer balls. My finish line would lie ahead of me in Water Side – the entrance to West Point, the largest slum in Monrovia.

That was a year ago. These days, I run through the tree-lined streets of my suburban Maryland neighborhood. Almost inevitably, I unconsciously begin to compare the driveway basketball hoops and luxury SUVs with my previous home. I cannot shake the feelings of trepidation that follow. The latest news coming out of Liberia only intensifies the anxiety.

Every day now there are reports of growing tensions and apprehensions. There are reports of teargas, a forced quarantine for the next 21 days, and an attack on an Ebola outpatient clinic, all in the same West Point community of 50,000. All outbound flights may soon be ended, as the country could enter a virtual lockdown. These scenes strike nerves too close to home in a society still seeking to rebuild after a decade of civil crisis.

My phone suddenly vibrates, interrupting the music pouring from my headphones. It’s a message from Sis Teta in Monrovia: You guys are running away from Ebola like June passing by July.

In the past week I’ve attended a poetry fundraiser to support Gaza after a month of massacre and war crimes, and a protest in support of the ongoing struggles in Ferguson against the violence and repression of the new-age American Police State. But what does it mean to stand in solidarity with Liberia in the face of a growing epidemic and continued political malpractice?

Friends paint a picture of a government unable to tackle the epidemic with inexperienced doctors and nurses, a lack of supplies, and no proper logistical operations. One that has maintained a lasting peace, but provided what many see as little in terms of basic social services.  A recent editorial from a leading Liberian newspaper demands international support immediately to combat the epidemic, claiming a legacy of corruption has led to mismanagement of the unfolding situation.

So  many of the lessons learned that year were about understanding the psychology of conflict and trauma, the costs of a donor-driven agenda, and the limits of foreign investment, as the country’s land and natural resources are continuously being sold off at a staggering rate. It is estimated today that around half of the country’s land has been promised to foreign companies and investors.

I tried to understand how a country so naturally rich, so inundated with foreign aid, could still struggle with providing electricity, running water, and roads. In that process, I found a society struggling to trust. Chapters of ‘growth without development,’ corruption and nepotism, and violence, have all contributed to a pervasive lack of trust. As a friend reports:

Liberia’s history of bad governance and foreign exploitation explains citizens’ reluctance to trust the intentions of government officials and international health workers. Years of extortion by police, vast and highly visible inequalities in wealth and a sense that even aid workers arrive to enrich themselves have taken their toll.

Perhaps we now know too well to think that the 21^st century will swiftly bring just solutions to the crises of the world, especially those facing black and brown marginalized people at home and abroad. The repeated call from Liberia is one for international support. But for the West, what is the proper response when you can’t simply send airstrikes to eradicate Ebola? It seems that Liberia needs (what Iraq and Afghanistan also needed) an army of doctors, professors, and public health experts who are ready to join hands with local champions for justice.

After leaving, it took months to even begin processing the rawness and realness of everything I experienced. Nearly a year later, I find myself thinking of her every day and my heart shakes at the scenes playing out. Running past the privilege of my neighborhood I can still see the city on its hustle, the women selling butter pear and palm nuts and the pam-pam boys raising their eyebrows ready to give me a lift.

What form can love and compassion take to leave dark days behind and step into a better tomorrow?

The Air Up There

The air up there is thin. Struggling to reach 15,000 feet, my heart rapidly knocks against my chest, rattling my ribs and threatening to smash through my sternum. The dry climate reflects itself in the jagged brown mountains that stare all-knowingly. Rising up to meet the clouds they are only dwarfed by even sharper edges – snowcapped and silent – towering above. At these heights the oxygen is increasingly scarce. And the air, parched and crisp is poised to pierce through any ego.

Bouncing around the backseat of a van, the ceremonial is passed to me as we make our way along winding roads to the departure point. My handlers are young, hip Ladakhis, continuously on their hustle to make the most from the steady flow of the tourist season. These months bring the height of their income; for the rest of the year the region is largely cut off and buried in snow. Eyes glued to the other side of the window, at any given point the mountains encompass us circling 360 degrees of the horizon.

My companions are two 22 year olds. Another NRI who has also come to this corner of Kashmir on vacation, and our guide, a local college student whose summer climbing supplements his tuition fees. Before we set out, we sit with our handlers at a makeshift tea stall planted at the foot of a small stream. Once more the ceremonial is passed around, this time with the first of many bowls of Maggi which will mark the journey through high mountain passes. The masala stings my already weathered, chapped lips nearly 12,000 feet above sea level.

All week I’ve prided myself on my ability to adjust to the pahadi culture and high altitude. In the cutest Hindi imaginable, I repeat, “Chalne ke adat hai pechle janum se.” My certainty brings laughter and skepticism from my new friends. And with the final slurps we are off – to conquer or be conquered by the Himalayas.

Our first day is four hours of steady climbing. By early evening we reach “base camp” – a series of tents set to house wandering tourists, and the locals accompanying their adventure tourism. It seems as if this site is a staple of the trekking economy. Unable to keep my eyes off the imposing view of Stok Kangri, I begin to meet my fellow travelers.

There is the French physiotherapist who has quit his job to wander India for the next six months. He has taken to Buddhist philosophy and provides surprisingly good advice on watching where impulses and desires come from. His girlfriend is off practicing yoga poses. In full Surya Namaskar, she intermittently appears prostrating in front of the Himalaya. Soon enough they both wander off amidst some boulders to meditate.

There’s also the Tibetan immigrant who has made India his home. Over the subsequent hours, accompanied by several glasses of rum, he tells his incredible story. After fleeing Chinese occupation of Tibet, he made his way to Nepal where he climbed with the Sherpas for nearly a decade.  Following his time in Nepal, he came to India and has subsequently travelled the subcontinent north to south, east to west, even venturing out to remote islands. Now, Ladakh is home where he has become a self-made anthropologist, geologist, and historian of sorts. Scrolling through his digital camera he explains how he wants to bring scientists to see the isolated parts of the region he has explored, where he has discovered fossilized remains, as well as documented local traditions and practices.

At night, the stars shine ferociously. Like a million tiny specks of silt burning through the sky transmitting the Light we are searching for.  In between those aerial fires are wisps of the Milky Way, like curling smoke upon a nocturnal canvas.  At the rooftop of the world, the villages are few and far between to cause any type of light pollution. Once again I tilt my head backwards as I brush my teeth, inhaling starlight.

All was well that night, that is, until that sudden 4 am wake up. You know the one where you get up with a start and sense of purpose. Unzipping the double layers of my tent, I quickly zigzag between the dozen or so encampments sprawled across the cold ground. I shine my flashlight up the hill, illuminating my destination. The makeshift structure is three walls of neatly stacked, level, rounded stone. I dart around to the open face to gratefully find smooth ground with a single hole in the center.

***

I swear I died at least twice that day.  With nothing left in my system, the lack of oxygen became even more noticeable along the steep hike. Over two hours of incline, I was forced to stop literally every twenty steps. My heartbeat – pounding – ricocheted off my eardrums making each lumbering step thunder in my head.  Sucking wind, I bargain: if the sins and substance abuse of the past years can be released through my pores then this is all worth it.

My pride gets me through, refusing the assistance of any man or pony. Atop the Ganda La Pass, prayer flags flutter in the cold wind. Below, the valley is illuminated by the still rising morning sun. The Himalayas stand stoically, asserting their stature, ignoring our minute achievement. Besides me, a group of American college students pull out a bottle of Old Monk to celebrate the ascent. I decline as shots are taken of the sweet-syrupy rum to mark the occasion. And then down we go.

The remainder of the day is spent walking through the stark and beautiful landscape. Jumping through streams, walking into narrow rock corridors, and marveling at the majesty.  After a few hours, I lodge my protest at taking a step further while the sun is at its highest. Finding a collection of bushes I drop down, immediately falling asleep for the next hour.

By evening we reach the village that will be home for the night. The local monastery stands on top of a small hill and we once again climb up to pay our respects. In Ladakh, the cultural and religious dynamics are defined by Tibetan Buddhism, which has been predominant for well over a thousand years.  Our home-cooked dinner is momos stuffed with local vegetables – the antidote needed for deep sleep.

Returning down through the evolving landscape brings us face to face with the dust and concrete of new construction. Roads and bridges are slowly coming to connect the trekking routes and villages that are becoming popular. Reaching the River, I jump in a raft alongside scores of Israeli, European, and Indian tourists as we battle rapids to where the Zanskar meets the Indus. Jutting up to kiss the sky are the brown and unmoving mountains, keeping steady, watching all along. 

Dilli without the Rains

Delhi without the rains is deserted dust rising from the asphalt. A stifling heat so complete it bears down without discrimination or mercy. Hotter than an eight percent growth rate, it is a blinding white light that reflects a city on its hustle. All at once fighting to eat and chasing every latest fashion with a consumerism that would put New York City to shame.

Delhi without the rains is coming home the first night to find the plastic of your toothbrush melted.  Its three baths a day, where the water from the tap is always hot – percolating in metal pipes for hours at a time. It’s the ruin of the Fair and Lovely – and once more turning the color of the earth from the sun kiss, a welcome reminder to confused travelers returning from distant shores.

It means walking through a ceaseless cloud of hot air expectant with humidity. In an ancient city the monuments from the past pop up without warning. And despite the ubiquitous warmth, the beads of sweat that suddenly appear take you by surprise. They trickle down your forehead in a perpetual stream, tracing the shape of your upper lip. You never realized your body could pour buckets of sweat. Sweat that stealthily runs down your back, clinging to your clothes.

Perpetually damp, it’s only the privilege of air-conditioned rooms that bring the controlled climate you have known. And when then electricity goes, it means sleeping on the terrace like you did as a child on strange summer adventures in the houses your parents told you they grew up in. The distant hum of generators reverberating off the cooler stone below, gently lulling you to asleep.

Delhi without the rains is the buildup before the burst.  Above, the clouds quietly congregate. With eyes tilted skyward our gaze carries the hopes for our collective stupor to shift: from an intense malaise to an outpouring of gratitude.

And with these final keystrokes, it begins first as a drizzle. Yet within minutes the downpour has become torrential. Before you know it, the rain has ceased to fall downwards. It whips like the wind, horizontally pulling everything in its path, bringing down trees and telephone poles.  If only it will last. If only it will return again tomorrow.

And so Delhi remains what it was and always has been.  A house where my Nanima consistently chastises me for not taking one more roti, not having one more spoon of dal, for never eating enough.  A resting place along the journey where I ensure the flicker of the TV alternates between reruns of the Mahabharat and kitschy Bollywood music videos. It is, amidst the chaos, a repeated site of reflection. A reminder of yet another opportunity to make sense of these thoughts and these words and these footsteps that only move forward.

And God Laughs

Exiting the Foggy Bottom Metro Station, I instinctively double my pace. Ahead of me lies the last leg of my morning commute.  It’s my favorite. With dirty break beats and bass lines blasting in my brain, I bob and weave through the vanilla ice cream stream leading deep into the heart of Georgetown. Channeling my New York City legs, I am that animated walker – led forward by an overly-enthusiastic stride, rhythmic hand motions, and a flickering wave of lyrics escaping my mouth aimed at startling more subdued passersby.

Over the past weeks the blanket of snow has ebbed and flowed depending on Old Man Winter’s whims.  Dwindling down it leaves a constant streak chasing after me. It’s like the streets are doing their best to imitate a babbling brook. But when the fat flakes fall the cold reasserts itself, arresting the sedentary puddles of water and encasing them in a fragile, splintered sheath – not so different from the one that may surround my heart.

Avoiding the mounds of dirty snow and cracked ice I pass the expensive boutiques that comfortably assert their stature. I can’t help but think that this isn’t the DC with which I am familiar. Then again, even that DC has probably been re-claimed.

Approaching my destination, I start to turn the music down. I can spy my office amongst the Abercrombie & Fitch, Banana Republic and United Colors of Benetton. These sanitized streets are starkly different from the chaos of Monrovia, New York, or New Delhi. And I can’t help but think: How did I end up here again?

It wasn’t an easy decision. After a year in Liberia, the DMV was only supposed to be a pit stop. The East was calling and there were more adventures waiting in Africa and India. But just as soon as my plans were imminent, they disintegrated like the fleeting ash falling from a lit stogie.

Wiping away the dust from still burning embers, it really is like they say: We make plans, and god laughs.

So when I was offered an opportunity to continue the community land rights work I started in Liberia  from an office in DC, I embarked on my own skittish decision-making process. Lists were made, mentors were tracked down, and advice was sought. Did I really want this? Couldn’t I just show up on the spot and do the same thing?

While my pride pulled me to  find my own path on the other side of the globe, my mom insisted: A bird in hand is better than two in the bush. She asked what I would say I did with my time when she introduced me to mythical girls at unspecific weddings. A bird in hand…

Nearly a month into it all it looks like most of my fears have not been realized. The learning has accelerated, as I collaborate with community forestry networks in Nepal seeking to enshrine their natural resource rights in the country’s new constitution, Indigenous People in Indonesia trying to implement a court ruling recognizing their ownership over their customary land, and grassroots activists in India fighting land grabs.  However, my heart did break a little when I saw my first paycheck – taxed and debilitated.

As the momentary rage passes, I remember to realize this stepping stone seems springier than first imagined with opportunities to return East on the horizon.  I can feel the excitement building inside. If only I knew better than to start making plans in my head.

Reversing the steps that brought me into Babylon I head back home. It is only when I finally reach my car, unplug my earphones, and deeply inhale Suburbia that I can sometimes hear Her laughing. I am trying to learn to laugh along. After all, it’s hard not to smile at the thought of the leaves returning to the trees as that cackle edges my dreams closer.

Sundays Aboard the Hari Om Express

Growing up in our house we had a ritual every Sunday. It was a weekly battle that would involve physical combat, divine incantations, and ancient Indian guilt trips.

My mom would wake us up, drag us out of bed, and insist we to go to the Chinmaya Mission, the Hindu spiritual center around the way. My resistance in the name of slumber won out now and again; but for the better part of a decade I would attend the Sunday classes on Hindu spirituality, philosophy, and symbolism.

While we spent our Sunday mornings donning kurtas and churidaars trying to relate the knowledge of subcontinental scriptures to our suburban-born realities, my dad had his own Sunday routine. In fact, I can’t remember a single time he joined us. I’m pretty sure he had his own beliefs in the divine; he simply was not willing to come even close to ascribing them to any institutional form. I have a feeling his experiences in India with a culture of god-men, false promises, and pie-in-the-sky hustles gave him enough insights into that world.  I remember he would joke, “Religion is the only thing keeping the poor from killing the rich.” His Sunday mornings, instead, were spent on the golf course.

By afternoon, we would all reconvene for another form of worship: fervently rooting for the Washington Racists Football Team with a fanaticism that would make the most zealous, jealous. It is a devotion that continues to date.  

Last week when I found myself gazing out the window of the second-story Hindu temple in Monrovia, the memories came rushing back. Outside the sun was setting. People were jostling into packed mini-buses for the journey home. The streets were full of grime and massive puddles – a testament to the ongoing rainy season, reminiscent of past monsoons. And I remembered how those past Sundays dug roots for me, revealed perspectives from other worlds, and reinforced a love for storytelling. 

The cultural connections that were built those mornings have proven enduring. And lasting lessons have been learned from my parents too. Like understanding the role of faith and sharpening a sense of humor. Both of which have proven necessary for navigating modern jungles from West to East – especially in places where daily life proves to be consistently unpredictable.

In addition to faith, laughter, and heart, I would add:  the search to reach a higher level of consciousness should not be divorced from everyday struggles for social justice. After all, how could we begin to talk about conquering ego, letting go of desire, and glimpsing humility without addressing the circus abound. The flashing lights of the gleam are calling. Being able to enjoy them without getting lost is the challenge.

The internal hard work involves a journey. And at the center of the movement is a love for the people strong enough to support self-improvement projects. The insanity of unsustainable consumption, the violence of unfettered capitalism, and the arrogance of empire are what surround us. And with it, religious nationalism manifests its ugly face through communal hatred, violent sexism, and misguided xenophobia.

Sitting on the floor in Monrovia, I spy the familiar gods and goddesses shining their light on my path. Looking around I see that everyone here, like me, has left their home to build another life on unaccustomed earth. But unlike me, everyone else has come on a separate hustle. I am the only one who wasn’t born in India. I suppose I can only embrace my identity crisis whose many layers were starting to develop on those Sundays. As my brain switches over from English to Hindi, my mouth obeys, joining in with the bhajans my mom used to lull us asleep with many years ago.

But the train of existence barrels forward. I’ve become accustomed to enriching the journey by circulating between different classes and compartments.  I’ve learned the value of hanging out the side to witness the heart of the countryside. It’s okay if I haven’t found my seat yet on the Hari Om Express.

What They Tell Me

It’s like I’ve been running a marathon. I know this ground beneath my feet. I know it well. I’ve run and walked and crawled through these forests and villages and hectic city streets. I know where I stand. At least, I think I do.

I can see I’m approaching the end. In front of me is a really steep hill – going down. And I’m running; because either I don’t know how to stop or I don’t want to slow down. My feet are carrying me forward, acting independently – or rather ahead of – my mind.

The finish line looks close. Closer than it actually is. I’m so focused on that finish line that I’m starting to stumble. I can no longer pay attention to the mud and the dust below. I can’t see the setting sun draw orange and purple streaks on the clouds. I can’t see the proud silhouettes of palm trees waving in the wind.  I want to look around, but temptation is winning. My eyes stay glued ahead of me. 

I’m losing my footing. Down the hill I go. I’m scared I’m going to fall. Crash and burn.

***

I’m blessed. I have this amazing team of supporters and soothsayers behind me. They watch and they listen. They counsel and they guide. Their words and arms and prayers prop me up from across continents and oceans. They love me for who I am, and forgive me all the same. Before I ever stepped on Liberian shores, I knew that we all have to walk our own paths. I tried to remember that we never walk alone.

They tell me I can’t run away from here and now.  I’m not that fast. But more importantly they tell me, I shouldn’t want to move so quickly. This time will never come again. The twists and turns that have shaped the road over this past year will inform my future. And the truth is I’ve learned so much: about land, struggle, and injustice. Such things are not meant to be taken for granted. 

They remind me of what I have. They say just look around. They point to Egypt, Syria, and India.  Perspective enriches eyesight like carrots. 

So, while I plan to return from Liberia slightly bruised, somewhat stronger, and hopefully a little wiser, this opportunity will never come again. Despite the ups and down of the day, the people, places, wide-open skies and ocean breeze remain to see that the learning takes place. Each moment is precious and nearly perfect in its own right.  At least that’s what they tell me. 

Song of Sorrow

It was pitch-black outside. Aside from the wood-fed fires flickering and the occasional flashlight passing-by, I was alone with the bucket of hot water in front of me. Between two mud houses I stripped down naked, balancing my towel and recently discarded clothes on the low-hanging thatch roof. I squatted low to begin to wash the day from me, once again feeling the clay that makes up this body.

Taking off my glasses the world took on the blurry facade those of us with poor eyesight are accustomed. Feeling around for the soap, I began to hear her wails. Perched atop the wet mud ground I tried to make out what she was saying.  Her sorrowful incantations would rise and fall over and over again. It was clear. Someone had died. Her cries of grief (were they in Bassa or English?) took form as a near-song – hallucinogenic and heavy.

Over and over she was asking a question. It is the same question we all ask, in despair: “Why?” And it kept coming. “Why? Why him? Why me? Why God? Why?” Her frequencies, addressed to this world and maybe another, were stirring the air all around. There was no respite, like she was whipping up a storm.  In demand of an answer, her voice – vibrating – set to shatter the fragile night.

Listening, I couldn’t help but think: isn’t this repetitive cry, this call into the darkness, this sad song, a way to make sense of a world turned upside down? Were her echoes questioning His plan, or trying to understand the profound loss that inevitably strikes us all? Perhaps we are all programmed to think there is some comfort worth looking for in hearing our own reprise. That in our darkest moments we can seek refuge in something like song.

Tracing the clay with my fingertips I bathed in silence, her ululations carrying me into the night. 

Notes from the Cut

The fading light brings relief to another hot day. Four triangles of thatch consistently meet at the tops of homes and outdoor kitchens. A pot sits precariously balanced on two mud-bricks sending up smoke over fire. The glowing wooden sticks burn bright orange before turning to the ash we all eventually become. Children howl as their mothers bathe them under the evening sky with water collected from a nearby creek.  Straight from God to Man the trees are tapped for wine.

Walking through the bush has become a daily observance. Surrounded by forests, echoing many shades of green – bamboo reed, palm tree, cassava leaf – I am reminded of summers at my grandparent’s house in India. It was at the foothills of the Himalayas where I first fully explored dense green hallways and corridors. On these journeys memories come rushing back and I quickly get lost in my own jungle of thoughts.

This is my eighth – and at two weeks, longest – trip to rural Rivercess County. Leaving my insecurities behind in the city, I find myself surprisingly more at ease now for the first time in Liberia. With no electricity, phone signal, or means of communication, being cut off forces a mindset of complete presence. Willingly or not, I am discovering discipline in daily practice – controlling the mind and enjoying the little things.

The days revolve around our mission to organize rural communities to protect, document, and govern their land and natural resources. Calling meetings between clan chiefs, community people and traditional elders we seek to establish local ownership over the process. With large-scale land acquisitions(land grabs) on the rise, rural communities’ abilities to retain control over their customary land is being comprised. Building connections with our collaborators on the ground, I am starting to find my feet by stressing the importance of strong organizing practices, dedicated workplans, and a commitment to the land – and the People.

But operating in the cut means being flexible to the schedule of farmers. Between community meetings there is plenty of time to read, write, and explore. There are also the lively debates that rage between our teammates. Sitting under a magnanimous mango tree or thatch-roofed kitchen the loud, spirited – and sometimes, heated – discussions are endless. We cover nearly everything: competing conceptions of love, the impact of colonialism on Africa (and India), and War.

It helps that I have picked up enough Liberian English to sharpen my arguments. Our banter reflects the diversity of our life experiences. The phrases and colloquialisms roll off the tip of my tongue as I joke with friends and strangers alike with an ease built up over the past six months.

Deep in the cut, the adventure don’t seem to stop either. Like the other day when our jeep’s wheels fell through a bridge, getting stuck for hours. Or the night when a giant scorpion scurried in our midst sending grown men screaming to go home. And the mice that occasionally fall on top of me from the thatch-roofs while I sleep.

Despite my awkward screams in the night, I have grown accustomed to the environment, using the generous spaces of time for self-reflection and self-improvement projects. There is nothing like fresh pineapple or coconut on a blistering day. And while I do not eat everything around, I can devour fried plantains cooked with pepper and ginger, and swallow fufu until my stomach is satisfied.

Making a conscious effort to bond and build relationships with community members has added color and context to the journey. Sometimes I can’t help but smile and shake my head at the scenes and stories playing out in front of me. But as each day passes it lets me know that I am growing with it.

Half-way into my time in Liberia I have found a new sense of comfort. While acknowledging the fragility of this feeling, there is a familiarity between me and the people and the trees. Deep down I understand that each moment I spend in the bush I am building strength.  Strength that will not only see me through the rest of this journey, but will inform everything to come after. The releasing tension in a handshake culminating in a snap of fingers – the ubiquitous Liberian greeting – helps put the pieces together inside of me. Finding their way I can sense they are cementing lessons learned – and in the process forming the foundation of something like  greatness.