A Passover seder is supposed to be a night of questions. I have experienced two seders here in Bolivia; both caused me to question and reevaluate. I went to one Bolivian seder in Zona Sur, La Paz. The night was a confusing one. The family was warm and hospitable; the night concluded without any mention of my fleece pants and chacos amidst the holiday finery. The meal was delicious and the songs familiar. But the house, neighborhood, and family were so unlike any other from my Bolivian experience and so staunchly misrepresentative of the Bolivian majority population that I couldn´t help but feel uncomfortable. For the first time, I was uncomfortable in my comfort zone.
       A few nights ago, another Passover seder was held at our program house in Sorata. There was no matzoh ball soup. In fact, there was no matzoh. But there was family, comfort, questions, and lots of singing. We read our group´s reflections on freedom from our Haggadah (compiled excellently by Lauren) throughout the night. We all served each other, we all reclined back and to the left, and we all laughed at Kevin and Henry´s exchanges as Moses and G-d, respectively, in the telling of the story of Exodus. The seder may have been...how shall I put this...untraditional, but it felt more like a celebration of freedom and community than the former seder: in the Zona Sur seder we were served by hired caterers, but in Sorata we served each other.
       I had, until this point, thought of my life at home as an entirely seperate entity from this trip, with my family, friends, and favorite places continuing their stories as I exited stage left for a short, four month intermission. However, taking part in the same Passover traditions here in Bolivia (and particularly in Sorata) as I do in Boston made me realize that this trip is as much a part of my life as anything I have done or will do. My experiences and friends here and at home are a part of the same story. There´s not really "my life at home" and "my life here" at all: there´s just my life.

OK, so we’ve all learned by not that you don’t have to speak Nepali to live in Kathmandu. In fact most tourists during their stay here learn little more than danyabad (thank you), and sometimes not even that. This is largely due to the fact that wherever you go, there will always be taxi drivers who understand what you want, shopkeepers who want to chat with you and probably a good number of educated Nepalis roaming the streets who might just speak English better than you do. Convenient yet sometimes disappointing- that’s globalization for you.

In light of these facts, the question becomes, why, in our short stay here, do we put so much effort into learning Nepali? Some of the more flip Dragon’s students here might tell you: what else would we do for 2 hours every morning?! But after a steep learning curve hastened by our excellent language teachers, we are reaping the benefits of our newfound knowledge and have come up with some more convincing reasons behind our hard work.

Reason number 1: Language acquisition distinguishes the tourist from the traveller (an idea that we explored in depth at the beginning of this course in Pico Ayer’s essay “Why We Travel”). This is not to say that all tourists speak no Nepali and all travellers speak the language fluently. However, while tourist might come here for a week and feel content speaking only English with the excellent staff hotels and restaurants in Thamel, a traveller feels obligated to make some effort to cater to the culture around them. This might be a “Namaste” here and a “Danyabad” there, or it might be looking through a dictionary to learn “charpi khahaa chha?” (where is the toilet?).  The key word is not so much ‘learn’ as ‘try’ or ‘make the effort’. It is the effort and not the result that distinguishes the action.

Reason number 2: Trying to speak another language show’s respect towards another culture. In Buddhism, the physical prostration of a student before a teacher indicates a willingness to absorb and learn the dharma as well as humility to the master who gives this knowledge. In learning another language, we prostrate ourselves before that culture, opening ourselves to the teachings it has to offer.

Reason number 3: People like you more. As soon as you open your mouth to attempt a Nepali phrase, you turn from the incomprehensible Other into a  potential friend. Every person wants to feel human connection but often judgements and misconceptions that occur across culture lines prevent us from making this connection. By learning another language we can reach across cultural barriers and integrate more easily into Nepali society. This is probably one of the biggest lessons we have been exposed to in Kathmandu. In restaurants, we delight waiters with our clumsy and slow attempts to order. Riding buses, I have been invited to tea at a Nepali’s house no less than five times. The last time I took a taxi, we spent ten minutes in a surely silence (I had bartered the man from 500 to 300 rupees) but when I timidly began a conversation, the driver told me with a great feeling all about his family, profession and the city of Kathmandu.

It is an intensely satisfying feeling to realize that you have just had a meaningful interaction with someone from a vastly different culture. For me personally, those moments are why I travel.

In conclusion, I have come to believe that all learning is good. Whether or not this learning will someday save your life, earn you money or even serve you in any way at all, it opens your brain to new possibilities and ideas and may spark interest in other areas. The more we practice this learning and openness, the easier it gets and frankly, good learners and thinkers are always in demand. Whether or not we use our Nepali when we go home, I think I can speak for 11 of us when I say that those two hours spent every morning in a stuffy classroom with our teachers completely worthwhile.

  "Om mani padme hum. Om mani padme hum. Om mani padme hum." Twenty five of us sat on the warm stone courtyard under the bejewelled, deep sapphire night sky chanting this mantra of compassion. Around us, all over the Root Institute grounds, small candles glowed and flickered-- like hundreds of resting tinkerbells. The almost-full, if not full, moon hung, suspended, above, giving off its owns, cooler, white glow. An orchestra of chirping crickets serenaded us, while fat mosquitoes left itchy red welts on bare arms and ankles.

   When the chanting finished we lingered in silence-- some lying back; looking up to take in the twinkling diamonds reflecting the fairy lights surrounding us, other, myself included, walking through the shimmering pathways of dainty candles. It is amazing how easy it can become, while wrapped up in busy lives, to forget the pure beauty which can be found in something so simple...

   The light ceremony was the perfect way to end our final day of silence, our last evening in the peace-filled bubble of buddhism which was the Root Institute. For me the ten days went by much faster then I thought they would. And despite boiling temperatures, fiesty mosquitoes, and aching joints I really enjoyed myself. 

   Sounds of birds chirping and whistling, leaves rustling in the hot breeze, delicious smells of sweet summer flowers, and cool of the early morning lent me a refreshing taste of nature. The four healthy dogs which we could actually play with, bleating, black baby goats and their somewhat disinterested mothers, a few cows-- it was comforting to feel a little bit more connected to the natural world again. The meals of mixed western and indian food were light and nourishing. The beds simple yet comfortable (thank goodness for bug nets and fans). So, although the heat seeped through every doorway crack, the atmosphere provided a nice break from the whirlwind of Banaras. 

   Arriving with only bits and bobs of information about Buddhism, the daily teachings danced through my mind bringing up all manner of thoughts; whether I agree with everything or not is another matter. And I have a much deeper interest in meditation-- there are many types to explore. I learned a lot over the ten days and found myself exhausted from a churning mind by the time our last mediation session finished around 7:30pm. I am excited to take what I gained and explore further into the world of Buddhism. I don't feel I will become Buddhist but realized that many of the philosophies ring true to how I try to live my life- with compassion and kindness. 

    It is amazing how comfortable a group of people who don't know eachother can be living together in silence. As we ate our final lunch with the rest of the program I thought about how I wish I had had more time to get to know these people I had just spent ten days with. It was only when the silence had been broken that morning that we could begin to ask questions and listen to others' stories. A few hours is not enough. I suppose one is bound to find really interesting, kind people at a Buddhist retreat-- but I wasn't expecting to find such great group mates. Perhaps in the future some of us will cross paths again. And if not, it is enough to be left with each one's impression.

   And now? We are back, immersed in the juice of Banaras once again. A small adjustment after the time away. But, it is really nice to be 'home.' I am so happy to be back with my incredibly special Indian family. As I pick up steam again, I find it interesting to see how the Buddhist philosophies play out in the big wide world; these observations seem to be almost constantly running as side thoughts through my mind...

With only two weeks left here in this rich, vibrant, magical place, I am fighting the 110 degree heat and trying to do as much as possible...

 I like spicy food.

I know you didn't expect to hear that from me. I know that we've eaten together at Mexican restaurants, and you've seen me avoid the salsa with my chips. I'm sure you've watched me gulp water like a labrador after eating something with too many onions or too much pepper. You were probably there when I was preparing for this trip, too, and I bet what comes to mind is that list I made of ways to deal with food that is too spicy - milk, bananas, bread, breathing heavily, etc.

But that's different now, friends. Last night, I went out to dinner and found that the food was not spicy enough. Yes, I reached for the pepper and the salt and then the pickle, a magical, neon orange Indian sauce that literally opens your sinuses when you look at it. I ate whole onions.  And then I wondered what living in this country has done to me.

There's something about being relatively independent in a place where you only kind of speak the language, I guess. There's something about taking sleeper trains to the Taj Mahal or riding a camel through a desert in Rajasthan. There's something about squeezing your bike in between a cow and a school bus that is actually a rickshaw packed with children lined up like crayons in a box that is being pulled by a man who is a little bit thinner than the last ironing board I encountered. There's something about drinking mango smoothies on the street and planning a trip upriver for some swimming in the Ganga and elbowing your way into a temple at five in the morning. And there's something about India, about the way people live here.

It's extraordinary, really, how extraordinary things are. Imagine a flash of hot pink salwar peeking out beneath a burka. Picture a teenage boy on a motorcycle with knitting needles for his mother clamped between his teeth. Close your eyes, and see mustard fields - miles of golden flowers - and the woman in a sequined sari with a basket of water buffalo chips balanced on her head. And the woman next to her with a television on hers; remember those stiff-necks, those slow steps, and the way they never look down. Watch the kites dance over the city and realize that there isn't a breeze, drink chai standing on a street corner, listen to the bells from the temple next door. Smile at the rickshaw drivers who remember you - "Hello madam! Ravidaas Gate, bus hai, na?" - and check on that shopkeeper who had a heachache last week. Teach classes on straw mats under mango trees. Dance when there's a festival going on and they are blasting the same song - "Har HAR maha dev!" - from speakers on every corner. Listen to a sitar concert and feel that familiar "Kya bat hai!" bubbling up in your throat, an univited exclamation of awe.

Imagine being constantly stricken with awe, constantly. Imagine teaching a woman to crochet who can only use one of her hands; imagine the way she grips the hook in between her toes as though it's nothing, and then picture the neat rows of her first project - a hot pink purse. Imagine realizing that limitations aren't that limiting after all, as long as you don't let them be.

In the past few months, I’ve found myself tasting culture in the same way I sampled dishes at dinner: tentatively for the first few months, asking myself if this bite was safe, if it tasted good. I also spent a lot of time saying, “Not too spicy, please.” Now, however, I put chili sauce on everything, I drink pomegranate juice and omelets from street vendors, I no longer peel apples, and I’ll try anything my friends bring from their villages, especially if it is spicy. This doesn’t indicate a lack of caution, however. Instead, it speaks to a newfound love of discovery and a perpetual desire to live extraordinarily. I traveled India in the same way; for the first few days, I moved with my bags locked, my arms crossed, and my eyes on the uneven pavement, but now I will bike anywhere in the city, attend any event, teach class in any location - even the sand under the playground - and listen to any story.

It is difficult to make peace with the fact that I only have about two months left here. It is hard to realize that in that time, I need to say goodbye and adequately thank all the people who have made me laugh, made me practice my Hindi, made me realize how beautiful this world is, and helped to make me who I've become. I'm not sure that I've changed a whole lot - we'll talk about this later - but I do know that my life in India has been anything but mild. And it is becoming clear that the rest of my life won't be either.

Please pass the chili sauce. . .