Guest Post By: Maegan Merrifield

We returned to the hotel for breakfast after our overwhelming morning at the Ganges River and headed out to Sarnath. Sarnath is one of four Buddhist holy sites, a deer park where Buddha delivered his first message. It’s a peaceful place with quiet visitors making their way through old ruins and a museum displaying beautiful works from as far back as the 3rd Century BCE.

Buddha’s teachings of equality were revolutionary in caste system India. Followers do not worship the Buddha statues, but use them as reminders of his teachings. Each part of Buddha symbolizes something e.g.: the curls on his head represent all of the many thoughts in his mind. One interpretation I really connected with, must be the therapist in me, is the elongated ears of Buddha remind us to listen more and speak less.

Next we piled back into the van and drove a few blocks to a crowded residential area. We stood in a small, hot alley batting flies from our sweaty faces as we waited. Out from an old, narrow, three story building came Rajan, an ordinary looking Indian woman who took our hands and beamed “I’m so happy you came to visit my school.” Rajan is the founder and operator of Buddha’s Smile School (buddhas-smile-school.org), a school for some of the poorest and most disadvantaged children in the world. Their parents are on the street, prostitutes, homeless.

As we walked through the school, Rajan kept saying about the children “I put love deep into their hearts.” Class after class “I put love deep into their hearts.” Small ones coming up to her with their work, rewarded with a candy from her bag “I put love deep into their hearts”. Every time she said it I fought against tears burning behind my eyes. That was it for her – love.

In India today, 95% of all marriages are arranged. When Rajan got married, over 20 years ago, that percentage was higher. She has what is called a “love marriage” – she married a man she loved and with that received no inheritance, had no dowry, and was completely cut off from her family. Yet despite these obstacles she earned her degree in Education, teaching in private schools and for government officials’ children. She became known as the women who could motivate children and teach those who did not want to learn. When they moved to Varanasi for her husband’s entrepreneurial business venture, Rajan describes the start of Buddha’s Smile School as the children finding her. “I never imagined I would have this many children around me all of the time. I don’t know why I was chosen to do this, but I was, and I am so grateful.” Her determination to change the trajectory of these kids’ lives is evident in everything that happens at the school, “I want to give these children dreams, so they can be more than where they came from.”

The children stay at Buddha’s Smile School for as long as they need to. They are put into classes based on abilities not age. The school goes to grade 5, and once the kids are done Rajan herself creates their school records complete with ages and birthdays as “they have no birth certificates”. But it doesn’t end there, BSS provides scholarships for each of its children until they graduate high school.

220 children are fed, educated, and have love put deep into their hearts everyday.

NOTE: We’ve been away from Internet access for the last week so there is a delay in these posts. I’ll try to get the rest out soon.

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“This is a magical place!,” the local guide hisses through blackened teeth and piercing eyes. “Every other spiritual place on earth is spiritual some of the time, this place is spiritual all of the time!” The car bumps along, weaving toward the old city as he continues, “You must open your mind! You must take in all the magical energy of this city! This is the place every religion was born.” Wow, based on that description we must have just arrived at Disneyland-India. There are the tourists, the vendors, and the ticket sales, but the the rest of the experience is a bit different.

We had arrived in Varanasi earlier in the day and were able to enjoy a few hours at the hotel before setting out. Our travel guide, Muneer, who will be with us for the next few weeks is not licensed to guide in Varanasi so we have a new local guide with us. This new guide is a very passionate and devout man who clearly sees this city through rose coloured glasses and is determined to have us do the same.  Almost everything is considered sacred, the Ganges river most of all.

As we wind our way through the old city, every step must be intentional as animal and human sewage is everywhere. We finally break through the narrow passageways, reach the river and carefully climb into our boat.

Rowing upstream, we round the corner and see the cremations happening along the shore. Muneer glances towards our kids then stops the local guide from bringing us closer, which I am thankful for. According to Hindu beliefs, a cremation at the Ganges is a quick ticket to eternity, a “fast-pass” as our kids called it. As a result, cremations run 24 hours a day and there are stacks of wood and bodies lined up, ready to be placed on any of the dozens of fires burning along this part of the river.

As the sun is setting, we arrive back on dry land. We are ushered to the front row of a sacred thanksgiving ceremony performed by the Brahman, the priests and the highest caste in India. It is a fascinating and beautiful ceremony attended by over thirty thousand pilgrims seated on the surrounding steps. When I questioned how we got front row seats as non-Hindus, our guide explained that seating was arranged by payment like a concert. Higher priced tickets up front, lower in the back. This brings pangs of guilt as I feel we must have taken a seat from someone who had spent their life’s savings traveling for weeks to be here.

At every corner are Sadhus, self-proclaimed holy men who are sometimes nude, often painted white and living off the handouts of tourists and our local guide who feels compelled to stop us at every opportunity to donate.

The next morning we are up before sunrise to enjoy the Ganges again. The sunrise is beautiful and as long as I look toward the east side of the river I am fine. When I make the mistake of looking toward the city, the bathers surrounded by garbage just upstream from the people washing their clothes becomes too difficult to watch.

Regardless, we’re here to have an open mind and take all the good we can from this, I try to remind myself. Sadly though, each passing moment in Varanasi makes me feel disappointed and even frustrated. You might be thinking that the naked holy men begging for money from my daughter or the public cremations are what bother me. Oddly, that is where I am able to be quite “open-minded.” What makes me so sad is the overwhelming paradox between what is considered “sacred” and the manner in which it is being treated.

This “sacred place” is covered in all forms of garbage, sewage, billboards, and vendors and the river is treated like shit…literally…I watched it with my own eyes.

I realize that every religion and sacred place has its human failings and none are perfect. When I try to talk about this with our local guide, he’s adamant that we ignore our concerns and just embrace the “ohm and magic” of the city.  Sadly, I am unable to do that.

Thankfully, tomorrow we leave for Agra.

We had been in the country for close to a week, but the jet lag was still taking its toll. Even though three days of hiking should have bought me a good night sleep, I found myself staring at the ceiling in the dark not wanting to reach for my phone to check the time. “Is it 2:30am or 5:30am?,” If I take the time to check my phone and its too early, the distraction may make it even harder to fall back asleep. Clearly, I get a bit neurotic in the middle of the night. I take the risk and reach for my phone. “4:30am” Close enough.

The sun is slowly rising and the horizon is barely a shade of grey as I dress and prep my camera. It takes longer than normal because I don’t want to wake up Maegan. I attempt to light a fire in the small wood-burning stove, but unfortunately, I lack the proper kindling and fire skills. I give up.  As purple turns to a dark gold in the sky I emerge from our glass and dry-stacked stone cabin to enjoy the sunrise.

I take a few steps towards the kids cabin and notice someone sitting in a chair outside their door. “Hey Dad,” the voice says as I get closer. “I started reading in the cabin but I thought the sunrise would be pretty and I didn’t want to miss it. So I came out here to read instead.” I wondered how my timid ten year old turned a young man overnight. I guess those little moments are what trips like this are all about. As he continued to hunch over his book I snuck a photo. I’ve been incredibly impressed by my kids so far. Complaining has been minimal, meal times have been adequately experimental, and they seem to have responded better to the time change than we have.

That night around the fire, Mark turns to me, “Lane, how in shape are you.” As I mumble a response I try to flex a bit and let him see for himself. “Could you handle something more challenging?,” he asks. “Sure, I’m willing to give it a shot,” I respond. “Good. We’ll start at 6am tomorrow.”

By 6am the next morning, I had already been up for two hours and a bit anxious. I tend to consider myself relatively healthy, but the last few days was more hiking than I’d ever done. “It could take four hours or more to get up there and the same to get down,” Mark explained. “But the view is totally worth it and don’t worry, we’ll take more time if needed.” The first twenty minutes I felt great as we climbed through the pink and red Rhododendron trees in full bloom and the sun continued to rise over the mountain peaks, the next twenty I was a bit more winded, and by the first hour, I was a sweaty mess.

“What’s the elevation here?,” I squeaked. “8000 feet,” Mark responded. “The air is a bit thinner than you’re used to.” That was the mother of all understatements. Every breath felt like a fight to get enough air.  It felt like snorkelling through a straw. As we reached the half-way point, Mark said, “Look at that tree. Many believe its the most impressive tree in all of India.  I’ll let you decide for yourself. By the way, that’s exactly how it grows…naturally.

I asked how we were doing for pace. “We’re making great time,” he said. “The record is two hours to the top and were not too far off from that.” As we continued, I inquired about the small waist-high stone wall that was stretching over each hill. “It separates the villages,” Mark responded. I chuckled at the absurdity of silly villagers lugging rocks to the top of a mountain just to divide a couple parcels of land. Then I immediately feel convicted thinking about how hard people on our side of the world sometimes work to build our own divisions.

As dirt turned to snow, the last twenty minutes were painful in every way, but in the midst of it I was overwhelmed by a feeling that almost knocked me off the mountain. Why hadn’t I done this sooner? I’m not talking about just the hike, but the whole experience. Why had I allowed myself to get into a state where my days were divided into endless meetings and vacation was just a new location to take a video conference call and do email? Why had I allowed this part of life to slip by so easily?  I almost became emotional there on he side of the mountain. A mix of regret, gratefulness, and exhaustion. I wished I had simplified my life and made room for something like this sooner. That is what overwhelmed me; that I had let fear and a sense of self-importance keep me from experiencing this for so long. “Never again,” I thought to myself.

Just then, we reached the summit.  ”We’re here! You made it!,” Mark shouted. After climbing almost 3000 feet over 10 miles, we were done. The view was endless. We could see the Himalayas in every direction and it was magnificent.

After taking it all in, I finally got around to asking Mark, “So, how long did it take us?”  ”Here,” he quipped, “lets have some breakfast.”

“How far down does that go?,” I hollered. “About a thousand!,” our guide yelled over the clattering of the engine and the rocks tumbling beneath our wheels. “Feet?,” I responded as my stomach sank. “No, meters!”

We had traveled on the Shatabdi train for five hours to Kathgodam and now were bumping along in jeeps for the next leg of the journey into the Himalayas. Our guide was named Mark. He is thirty something with a gentle voice and only hints of an accent due to his being raised in boarding school. His voice reminds me of someone famous but I can’t quite put my finger on it at the moment. “Why don’t they have guard rails?,” I ask. “Who needs guard rails?,” he responds. “Our drivers are very good.” 

I have experienced more than my fair share of dangerous adventures in life, but this is one of the few times I have genuinely been scared. Imagine being on the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland except you’re traveling twice as fast on a goat trail three-thousand feet up and there’s no track underneath you. As if that isn’t enough, every third or fourth turn presents another car or animal that must be passed which requires you to hug the side of the cliff even more. There were times I looked down from inside the vehicle and could only see sheer drop, no road.

“We’ll hike from here!,” said Mark, “The roads are too dangerous ahead for cars.” If he’d asked me, I’d say that was the case for the last few hours.

Hiking into the first small village was like traveling back in time. Older women carrying hay on their backs and children leading their goats into the lower floor of the small cottages for the night. Keeping the animals inside protects them from the leopards and naturally warms the home above.

We are shown our room for the night. It is an authentic village cottage and quite rustic. The only thing distinguishing it from the other homes is a fresh coat of paint and nicer linens on the beds. Many of the rooms had birds’ nests inside and I made the mistake of leaving one of my lenses out near one. “It’s good luck,” Mark told me the next morning as I was trying to clean the poop out of my focus ring.

The kids loved it since it felt like camping. Each night around the fire we were treated to fresh Masala chai and authentic North Indian cuisine.

We trekked for a few days stopping at temples, shrines, waterfalls, and sleeping in different villages each night. We encountered a variety of people and numerous animals along the way.

At one point we came upon a bright yellow school tucked into the landscape and, being that it was Saturday, were surprised to find it full of children taking a math exam. The teacher noticed us, paused the exam, introduced the class and shared some of what they were learning. The school children were the same age as ours so it was a very special experience. As we left, we asked why they were at the school on a Saturday. “In India, kids go to school six days a week,” Mark replied. After hearing that, both our kids mentioned they were thankful they went to school in Canada.

As we neared dusk on the third day, we came upon a beautiful grass field, it was the only flat land we’d seen since getting into the mountains. Carved into the hillsides around it were incredible glass, wood and hand-laid stone cabins. The sun was setting on the Himalayan ridge and smoke rose from the chimneys of these small jewelry boxes. “Every piece of wood, every pane of glass, every piece of furniture was carried here for five hours on someone’s back,” Mark said as we stared in wonder. “Welcome to Leti… This will be your home for the next three days.”

“What time is it?” — “Eight-thirty.” — “Good, I was hoping we’d get at least four hours.” Our plane had landed at 2:30am which meant we didn’t get to the hotel and into bed until 4:30am. The melatonin did its job and we were able to get a bit of sleep before our introduction to India. We had one day in Delhi before heading to the north and we were determined to make the most of it. The kids were surprisingly chipper as we perused the breakfast buffet filled with a mix of local food and some familiarities of home. After breakfast we met our city guide, Muneer, and climbed into the van.

The travel company we are working with on this trip is famous for its connections and their abilities to provide experiences that are rarely found in a Lonely Planet book. Off the beaten path felt like an understatement as we were led through the market in the old city and into a private home. We made our way up three flights of paint chipped brick stairs through all sorts of rooms and smells. Our daughter squealed when she got to the step swarming with ants and Muneer quickly scooped her up and lifted her over it. As dimly lit rooms led to sunlight we found ourselves on the rooftop overlooking the market and covered with Pigeons. “They breed them and compete with them in races. It’s a very old practice and method of solving conflicts with a neighbouring family” our guide explained. As the words left his lips a sharp sound from the owner sent the whole flock up into the air circling a few times before descending. It was a surreal way to start this adventure and the kids loved it.

Next we were careening though the narrow streets on a rickshaw toward the Muslim mosque in the center of the oldest part of Delhi. “Gate 3!” our guide screamed to our frantically peddling driver as we dodged all varieties of people, animals, shops, and sewage. It was a crazy blend of colours, life, and waste all rolled together. But somehow it works. It’s not pretty or sterile, but there is an order to it all and unspoken rules that somehow keep this chaos under control.

Like a red-stoned Central Park in the middle of the city, the mosque was peaceful and quiet as this huge space was largely empty save but a few worshippers and families. The architecture was incredible and the religious rituals calming to observe; an old man washing his hands, face, and mouth before praying and gatherings of families relaxing in the shade of 17th century awnings. Maegan made eye contact with a baby girl who smiled and crawled around her feet before bursting into tears as we walked away. Even though we were in the middle of a religious place very different from the churches we were raised in, it felt familiar and peaceful.

Over lunch the kids were felling a bit overwhelmed. “It’s ok to feel that way,” Maegan assured them. “It’s called culture shock. It will get easier over the next few days.”
Afterwards, we spent some time visiting the last home of Ghandi and the place he was killed.  It was enlightening to learn more about him and I felt like the knowledge increased my respect for his life and dedication to peace.

Muneer asked if we were tired or if we wanted to see one last thing. Without hesitation, we drove towards one last stop, a Sikh Temple near our hotel. Even though Sikhs are less than 2% of the population, they provide over 65% of the charity in India. More than Muslim, Hindu, and Christians combined. One key reason is that they offer free meals to anyone in need every single day. No questions asked. All of the supplies and labor is volunteered.

We visited the basement where preparation takes place and watched as dozens of people stirred giant pots, flipped pieces of naan bread over hot coals and pounded vats of dough by hand. All in preparation for the five-thousand meals to be served In a few hours. It was an inspiring way to end a wonderful first day in India.

…Except, it didn’t end there.

As the sun fell behind the temple and we made our way back to the van, we slid open the door and while herding the kids into their seats I felt a strong tug on my sleeve. What I encountered when I turned around will stay with me for the rest of my life. I escaped into the van and shut the door as a girl pounded on the large windows pleading for money. The guide shouted something in Hindi and we sped away. Everyone was still silent as we approached the hotel and got back to our room. We ordered some dinner and got the kids ready for bed. “What happened?” our son asked. “What do you mean buddy?” “What happened to her face dad? Why was it like that?” “Well champ, Muneer told me that sadly, sometimes when a girl in a lower caste does something to shame, offend or embarrass someone, one of they ways they get revenge is to throw acid on her face. Thats what happened to her. It’s why her face looked like that and it’s a very sad thing.” “But why would they do that Dad?,” he said through empathetic eyes. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”
As we returned to the evening rituals my stomach sank with the image of the melted mix of raw bone and skin I had witnessed and it sank even more knowing my kids had witnessed it too. The next morning we learned that our son woke up at 1am and didn’t fall back asleep because he kept thinking about her. He slept with us the next few nights. We continued to talk through it with him and time seemed to heal as we travelled to the north away from the congested city and to the base of the Himalayas for the next leg of our journey.

Its rare to be sitting in an airport parking lot at 6am and watch your plane take off.  Driving back home just an hour after leaving for our great adventure, I was flooded with thoughts, “How could this happen?”, “What could I have done differently?” “How will we rebook an entire day of flights?”, “Did we remember to let the cat in?”

Just a few minutes prior to this mental diatribe, we stood as a family loaded with luggage for three weeks in India completely stunned.  We had arrived at the airport an hour early for our short flight to Seattle (the first of 3 flights today) and found another family just in front of us in line.  They were having some difficulty and were taking a while.  I don’t know all the details, but it had something to do with paying for luggage, some sort of  a large rodent or cat in a carry-on, and cash and passports strewn across the counter.  As their saga finally wrapped up,  an awkward visual occurred above our heads as the lady slowly spun the sign from “Open” to “Closed.”  I ask what counter I need to move to and the agent sneered through her horn-rimmed glasses, “Sir, the flight is closed, you’ve missed it.  I’m sorry, but you should have arrived 2 hours early for an International flight.” Sorry? I wonder. Really?  Was the airport even open two hours before this flight?  I’ll spare you the details, but those who know me, know what followed next was a blur of raised eyebrows, rolled eyes, gasps, frustration, anger, and finally shameless begging.  As she disappeared behind the counter and I slowly turned to meet the eyes of my family, my son quietly asked,”What do we do now Dad?”  Unfortunately the only answer I had at that moment was the one answer that Dads everywhere agree is the most difficult one to give. “I don’t know.”

I have a feeling I’ll be forced to give that answer more often than I’d like on this trip.  I’ve never been to India and from all I’ve heard, its going to be different than anything I’ve seen before.  As someone who’s usually in control and likes it that way, this will be stretching.   I have no doubt there are more lessons to come…

Rather than recount our adventures one by one with each of you, I’ve set up this blog for those interested to follow.  I will dare to keep it as interesting and honest as I can and I will try to use pictures more often than words to tell the story.  If the rest of this trip is anything like this morning, we’ve got a great adventure ahead.

Oh, and thankfully we were able to figure out other flights and will be arriving just a bit later tonight than we planned.