One of the things I miss the most about the United States is
the ability to eat food without fear. I
miss the days when I could hop in my car at 3 AM, head off to my friendly
neighborhood Kroger Marketplace, and return home a mere fifteen minutes later
with virtually any type of produce in my possession—in season or not. Then I could eat it, immediately. Without even washing it, because I’m a rebel
like that.
As ridiculous as this scenario sounds, it’s not an imaginary
one. In the U.S., I really loved to
cook. I have never claimed to be particularly
skilled at cooking, but it was always an enjoyable way to relax and unwind after
school. However, since moving to India,
that love has simmered down to the level of a disappointing duty. Not because of the unavailable
ingredients. Not because of the
inaccessibility of ingredients. Not
because of the limited counterspace, lack of dishwasher, or microwave-sized
“oven.” But rather, because I know that
every bite of prepared food I take is potentially poisonous. I often question why I go through the time-consuming
hassle of cooking a meal when I know there’s a 50/50 chance that it will just
result in a weeklong diet of bananas and crackers.
I admit that a 50/50 chance is an exaggeration, but I can
safely say that I have had impromptu, late-night, stomach-flipping dates with
my bathroom wastebasket at the rate of about once a month since I’ve been
here. I’m no mathematician, but that’s probably
more puke production in half a year than I’ve managed to muster throughout the
rest of my entire life. And it's not something that I'm proud of.
I was lucky not to have any health issues during my two-month-long winter vacation, but sure
enough, less than a week back in Mussoorie and I am already dancing the
intestinal jitterbug. But let’s rewind,
back to the end of September, when I experienced my first bout of illness. It was a couple of days before “quarter
break,” a weeklong vacation between the first and second quarters of school. Feeling sick right before/during vacation is
an obvious bummer, but most vacations aren’t as epic as climbing to a height of
14500 ft. in the Himalaya. But, long story short, I hastily procured
antibiotics and was fortunately able to still go on the trip, along with 10 students and 3 fellow staff members.
I think that the trek was a key factor contributing to my
blogging hiatus. I knew it needed to be
featured, but how? How could a page of
text accurately convey a week of unprecedented outdoor adventure? As I sit here four months (!!) later, I
realize that time does not aid in the blogging process. So instead of poorly and incompletely rehashing
the entire experience, I will let you reconstruct it for yourself via 1) some
photos, and 2) my contribution to the “group journal” that was floating among the
trekkers during that week. I already
converted this puppy into a lesson for my 7th graders and a devotional
speech for the 10th graders (and it was also quoted in the
Hanifl Center’s write-up about the trip, which you can read here), but I’ll share it here on Julindia as
well. Because when you stumble across a
somewhat transcendental idea in India, it would be un-American not to whore it out to
the masses.
The next time you hear from me (which will be soon), I will
start to recap my winter vacation rather than tryto fill in all of
the gaping holes of my online chronicle.
We’ll just call November “the lost month” and forge ahead.
October 1, 2012
Every year, my family vacations at Lake George, New York;
every year, we climb a mountain. When I
was 8 or 9, we climbed Pilot Knob. My
father had not ventured up this particular peak since he was a child himself,
and the trail had become worn and weathered over the years. At first glance, we originally deemed it impassable
and almost turned back, but then my uncle noticed a small pile of rocks perched
atop a nearby boulder.
“This,” he said with a smirk, “was not created by nature.”
I specifically remember being moved that people I didn’t
know, and would never knowingly meet, would put so much time and effort into
marking the trail for future travelers.
I swelled with such a feeling of comradery for these unseen friends, and
my brother and sister and I instinctively began adding stones to the piles like
we were playing an endless game of Jenga.
The towers eventually guided us all the way to the mountain’s summit,
where we chowed down on my family’s traditional mountaintop grub: grapefruit.
Today, about 15 years and half a world away from my
experience on Pilot Knob, I saw these manmade markers once again… not in the
Adirondacks, but in the Himalayas. Once
again, those feelings of comradery and “oneness” came rushing back. This sense of unity that I assumed would be
dulled by the process of aging was actually heightened by the scope and setting
of the trek to Darwa Pass. And this
time, it came with an epiphany.
“This,” I thought with a smirk, “was created entirely by
nature.”
Human nature. Those
seemingly simplistic piles, I feel, are actually symbolic of the selflessness
of humanity. Once our basic needs are
met, we are conditioned to care about and provide for the well-being of
others—not just those we know and love, but also those we would love to know,
and even those we love without knowing!
Apart from the rock piles, I have seen human compassion manifest itself
in the actions and reactions of my fellow trekkers. From taping up one hiker’s broken boots, to
divvying up the weighty contents of another hiker’s pack, to cooking for each
other and sharing our beloved stashes of gorp and chocolate, we have proven
that humans are ready and willing to think and act beyond the boundaries of
family, nation, and even religion. I am
as inspired by this realization as I am by the breathtaking landscape that is
currently surrounding me.
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