Hard to believe that eight years have passed since we were last here and it’s exactly 10 years since Michael and I met in South India. We have done and experienced a lot since then. Mentally, we have grown a little and physically probably already shrunk a bit. But not just us, India has also changed.
Private cars have become popular, especially the big, petrol consuming 4×4 Landcruiser types. The air, light, noise and water pollution is increasing with frightening speed. An outing in a cycle rickshaw in Amritsar is the equivalent of smoking 40 cigarettes. A sore throat, head ache, stinging eyes and chest pains the consequence. The humming of the traffic hangs merciless over the Indian cities and doesn’t allow one quiet moment; not even on the toilet. And who creates such a world? A huge freak monster? No, us human beings! Yuk, how can we, we ask. How can we choose to live under such circumstances? I believe that one week in the streets of Delhi would get anyone to reconsider their life-styles, but it seems I’m wrong. For my side, I swear to myself that after our return home, I will have the same car-free/riding bicycles and using trains and busses life-style as we had before our departure. Enjoy the clean air and don’t take it for granted! On a more positive note, we have benefited from many smoke-free journeys as a lot of Indians are non-smokers.
The young and modern Indian females dress in colourful Shalwaar Kamez (they are tighter, more body-hugging than in Pakistan and with short sleeves and open collar), sometimes in western-style jeans and t-shirt and ever decreasingly in Saris. Indian’s ladies, always a strong, confident type of woman, have become more liberated and independent and form in many cases the leading elements of society. After Pakistan, it seems strange to us to see so many women out in the streets. With their shiny jewellery on there ears, nose, neck, arms, fingers, ankles and toes, Henna designs on the palms and skilful make-up, they are often strikingly beautiful; at least in their youth. Obesity and skin problems have arrived in India and with them the service of Weight watchers and other, similar institutions. Wealth is demonstrated in big bellies.
To keep a slim waist line is justifiably not easy with the oily and often deep-fried food. Nevertheless, we enjoy the tasty cuisine, especially – to our surprise –our two boys. Desmond and Lenny can’t get enough of the colourful, sugar-coated fennel and anis seeds served together with the bill in restaurants. We love the fact that most Indians are vegetarians and that if a restaurant serves meat, they always state so with a big “non-veg.” sign. Even in McDonalds there aren’t many Big Macs and Chicken Nuggets, but rather a McVeggie Combo, McAloo Masala and a Paneer Wrap.
India hasn’t just gained more cars during the last years, but also more people (seems nearly impossible), more mobile phones and TV-stations. And more colour. It seems unimaginable that anybody can deeply understand the richness of colours until he/she has experienced India. Even the turbans of the Sikh come in the right shade to match the clothes and grannies wear bright pink and neon yellow saris.
Amritsar, the town on the border with Pakistan is the centre of the Sikhs. It’s also the place where their holiest monument stands: the Golden Temple. The Sikhs’ religion was founded during the 15th century and combines the “best” elements of Hinduism and the Islam. Sikhs don’t cut their hair and therefore often wear a turban (and carry a long needle to scratch itches under the tight cloth). Other signs of their religion are the knives that men and women carry on a belt and steel bangles on their wrists. The tradition is threatened though. We read in a magazine that about 80% of the young Sikhs have decided against long hair, turban or knife. They say it’s not practical and uncool.
The chicken parade
Every night, an unusual ceremony takes place on the border between Pakistan and India. It is so incredible and amusing that it attracts many thousand spectators daily; on both sides. From 5.30 p.m. volunteering patriots run up the road to the gate, proudly swinging their country’s flag. The audience is ecstatic. “HINDUSTAN” they shout; “PAKISTAN” is carried over to us by the wind. The guards carry hats with big, red fans, which make them look like cocks. And like the male feathered animals they parade; a straight leg, stiff walk, chins up. That’s how it comes that we nickname the spectacle the “chicken parade”. The top man with authoritive moustache marches to the border line towards his counter-part on the other side. A few centimetres before they meet they stop, give each other a “nasty” glance, stamp their feet like small children wanting but not receiving chocolate and turn around abruptly. After 30 minutes of screaming and stamping both flags are pulled down, hands are shaken with the “enemy” (to our greatest surprise!) and the gates are locked. To be repeated the next day.
And whilst returning to the guest house in the dark night of the country-side, sitting huddled up in the back of a noisy rickshaw, I’m once more overcome with the pleasure of being together with my family. The pleasure of experiencing new things together. Of creating mutual memories. It’s like opening a new surprise bag every day. And at the same time I realise how wonderful it is to have a husband who has the same values, on whom I can count, with whom I can laugh.
After a short time we’re already well known in Amritsar and the “hello” often shouted to us when passing through the streets becomes a “hello Swiss family”. Getting train tickets isn’t as easy as it used to be, so we end up staying for over a week. And although we like the town and its people, the air pollution and noise is getting to us and is making the last few days nearly unbearable.
Faces along the way: Nurita
Nurita is 1 ½ years old and the daughter of the hotel’s manager. Our boys immediately take to her. The first time they are interested in a child that is much younger than them. Nurita loves attention. She is on her own for hours on end.She walks around the hotel grounds unattended. She doesn’t have toys, she wouldn’t know what to do with them. Her older brother lives far away, with the grand-parents. She barely knows him. Nurita is so sweet that everybody loves her. Only her father doesn’t know much good to say about her: “She’s too small. A girl.” We barely see her mother. Nurita loves to be carried around by us and enjoyes to have her black curls storked. Tenderness and attention are rare things in her life. Desmond and Lenny take care of her, play with her and love to see her happy.
Fear
For the first time in nearly 16 months on the road, we experience a scary situation; in fact more like a series of uncomfortable happenings. After all, travelling can’t always be sunshine, but also needs a bit of rain to make a good balance.
It’s busy on the train. The four of us sit on a lower bunk bed and enjoy the atmosphere. Next to us, a lady adorns her hand with henna, a few children cry and vendors, offering food, drinks and other goods pass frequently through the corridors. Many of them are blind.
Our uneasy feelings begin, when a passenger complains loudly, because we’ve put our empty food tray near his luggage. At the time we just didn’t know where else to put it and didn’t think it was a big deal. Especially given the fact that the carriage has never in its life seen a brush and water. Should his suit case get dirty, it surely wouldn’t be from our tray.
Shortly after, a drunk lies down on the bunk above us (for which we hold the ticket). We don’t care, but the smelly man keeps dropping his arm over the side, each time hitting Desmond’s face. I ask him nicely to keep still or else to look for another (free) sleeping arrangement. So he stares. And stares. Until I have enough and signale him to leave. He doesn’t and instead enlargens his abuse to the sales staff. Only shortly before Delhi he gets off the train.
Final destination: all passengers stir and leave the carriage in record speed. We belong to the last few, when the people from outside start to push in. We’re stuck. Panic breaks out. A woman in front of us shouts that we should use another exit, the people behind us reply: “No Chance, you won’t get out of there!” Everybody shoves, pushes and rams. For a split second I have the thought just how quick a life-threatening situation can arise. Michael somehow manages to get through. His shouts have opened him a narrow passage. He can’t come back for us though. A woman who wants to be first on the seat initiaties a fight with a man who wants to get off the train. Like us, he’s trapped. She punches him straight in the face. He stumbles over and nearly falls onto our boys. I carry two backpacks, one on my back and a small one on my front. Impossible for me to pick up Desmond or Lenny. I try to protect them with my arms and tell them all will be fine. They are scared, hold each others hands. The noise of the crowd has reached a high. Pleadingly, I call to the people in front of us for help: “I have two little children!” My words remain unanswered. They push and punch more. After what seems an eternity, Michael gets a tall Indian man to assist us and manages to push us through the wild crowd. The reckless attitude of these people appals us. As a mother I feel endlessly sorry to have put our children through this.
We walk towards the exit. The station resembles a giant building site. Whole families work in the dirt. They live in tents made from rags and erected on huge litter piles. Tiny fires flicker in front of each home; tea break. Young mothers carry heavy loads on their heads. Children from about 5 help with the work. The younger ones sit on the gravel, a few centimetres away from the tracks. Trains whiz past them unineterested. Rats run around freely. Stray pigs lick up the feaces that lie everywhere. Main station Delhi is paradise for them. A small boy crouches naked in the public sink; dirty water dripping over his head. His sister, the age of Desmond, squats on the floor next to him, washing her brother’s clothes. No parents are in sight. A teen-ager without legs, walking on his hands, settles on the curb and cries. His sobs turn into screams; big crocodile tears dropping into his lap. Nobody takes any notice. What a world! Do we really want our children to see this misery? For the first time during our travels we have doubts. Was it the right decision to come to India?
One of our days in Delhi – together with Mexico City the most polluted town in the world
Pahar Ganj is not only one of the main bazaar areas of Delhi but also the place where cheap hotels spring up like mushrooms out of moist forest ground. Somebody once made the remark that India is the psychiatry ward of the West and here, in the heart of the country, one could argue that this somebody had a point. Colourful backpacker clothes are sold next to Mars, Snickers, Pringles chips, lasagne and muesli. A young tourist asks a few street children to look after his Enfield (Indian motorbike), while he searches for a hotel room. Some time later he drives off, smiling and cool, neglecting to pay the young workers for their deed. [Little remark to that. I read the following in an article written by a ten year old in a magazine for exploited children: “It will be a long time before the world can be without child labour. For now, we don’t mind working, but if we do, we want to be treated and acknowledged like workers!”] A drug junkie walks into the restaurant, dried blood crust down his arm and begins to play football with the menu. Two foreign girls stroll down the street, dressed only in bikini tops and mini-skirts. An old man from Europe drinks a chai at the corner stall. He’s barefoot, his hip is covered in a flimsy, orange cloth, the rest of his body is bare and his beard, long and grey after many years of wandering now tickles his belly button. The crazy “traveller scene”, which we escaped nearly 10 months ago with the arrival in the “off-the-route-Philippines”, has caught up with us.
Faces along the way: Raj
“Call me Raj” says the thirteen year old entertainer. He is rightly proud of his cycle rickshaw. His honest smile is catching. His short, skinny legs barely manage to stretch to the pedals; his youthful energy makes up for the lack in size. From early in the mornings until late at night he chauffeurs his customers through the congested market streets of Pahar Ganj. His voice replaces the missing bell. Whenever we need a rickshaw, he’s there. An extremely ambitious and hard working business “man” with a great talent for Marketing.
Back to life in Delhi. Our lives in Delhi. We have to get a new passport for Lenny and try to agree a price with the rickshaw driver. After a seemingly endless to-and-throw we come to a mutual agreement and get in. Okay, we’re ready to leave. But the driver has a different idea, he turns to us and demands more money, assuming we wouldn’t get back out. He doesn’t know the Hudsons… We change vehicle, haggle again and finally leave 20 minutes later. The rickshaw drops us off outside the embassy, at least that’s what the driver assures us, and leaves. We ask around and walk a good half an hour until we arrive at the real destination. Nothing can be simple In India. The staff at the Swiss Embassy turns out to be extremely helpful and friendly and our visit, even though short, leaves us with a pleasant, happy feeling.
Lenny’s passport photos aren’t good enough (smiling isn’t allowed in passports!), so we take him to a studio to have new ones made. The mouse running loose in the photo shop helps Lenny to relax and the normally enduring task becomes simple – Lenny has long ago ceased to like strangers taking photos. Whilst waiting for the printing we watch a man emptying his tea into the saucer and slurping it from there, something common in India.
Time for a picnic in the park. Sun sheltered by the heavy branches, covered with bright pink flowers we make sandwiches. Chipmunks and parrots watch us from atop the old, wise trees. Daring couples hide behind the long, hanging ivy, where they hug and snog secretly. A police man patrols the park and commands the young lovers to keep a decent distance.
Faces along the way: Sangita
Beautiful woman in a sky blue, dirty sari. Sangita is a young 25 years old and already mother of four children. Children that she had born and handed over to her parents-in-law. Her duty has hence been fulfilled; all she has to do now is earn money for their keep. Her husband and her sell plastic buckets in the park. Her income goes to her in-laws. She doesn’t know the meaning of privacy. If she’s not working, she’s helping at home. Home is a tin shack in the slums of Delhi. One room shared by 9 grown ups and 8 children.
On the way back we once more become victims of the maniac traffic of this huge city. We’re stuck on some big cross roads, breathe the ill-making fumes (we’ve all got headaches and Desmond and Lenny start to show the effects in the big black rings circling their eyes) and become the target for the local beggars. A cripple without legs sits on the floor between the cars, unnoticed by most of the drivers. Another man approaches, showing us the open wound on his leg. Lenny inquires what has happened and immediately thinks up some action-filled answers. A small girl with an absent, blank look shoves her open, demanding hand into our faces with a robot movement. She doesn’t even look up anymore. A few people sleep on the side of the road. The crossroads are their home. A wooden cart with huge, creaking wheels stands in the traffic jam in front of us. It is drawn by a white cow, as big as a mini-bus and with horns that reach far into the sky before they bend over and come to an end millimetres before the back of the animal. Parts of the fur are decorated with henna. A magnificent picture! One that would be even nicer if it wasn’t on this awfully polluted crossroads. A camel walks past us, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. The noise of the cars is robbing us of our energy. Using one’s horn is a common and frequently done thing.
We have to go to the post office. The lady serving us from behind the counter blows her nose into her fingers and flicks the result promptly to the floor.
Back in Pahar Ganj we go shopping. The products are tempting. There are shops selling just one single thing: one has only bindis (the red dot women stick on their foreheads), an other one bangles, the next one incense sticks. And great clothes with cheap prices (often even with H&M labels).
Doubts
As a consequence to the previous train experience, we book a bed on a second class A/C carriage. It’s much more civilized and the four course meal, included in the price of the ticket, is nearly royal. The journey takes us to yet another polluted city from where we get on a night bus to Diu a few hours later. In order to offer our boys a children-friendly waiting time, we overcome tiredness and sickness (to be sick in a tiny hotel room with two energetic little boys isn’t easy) and take a taxi to a stationary fun fair. Unfortunately, the plan in theory was very good . It turns out unsuccessful and instead of relaxation we find stress. Within seconds people surround us, photograph and film us, touch and interrogate us. Indians have the painful habit to greet children with not only the annoying cheek pinching, but, to make matters worse, with a gentle smack in the face. I don’t think I need to mention how Desmond and Lenny react to this. As a travelling family we attract curious crowds like ants around a crumb of sugar. We answer the standard questions what seems a million times. “What’s your name?” “Your country?” “Are they girls?” (They don’t look like girls, do they?) And “What grade do you study in?” (School education plays a very important role in Indian life). Young women often approach us with the command: “I want to talk to you, answer me some questions!” Difficult situations. These people just want to be friendly and are naturally curious. But for us and especially for our boys, the constant overstepping of personal borders is tiring, the touching uncomfortable. “Can we have an ice-cream?” our boys ask, but even this little pleasure has to be denied. Ice from street sellers is one of the top things on the that-should-be-avoided-in-these-countries-list. So, we’re off to a better, cleaner and more expensive restaurant for a treat, but even there, we end up being stared at by the eight under-occupied waiters.
At 10.15 p.m. we stand, exhausted, on a busy road, next to the public toilet block. Well nourished rats run through the dark lanes, worriless cows stroll around looking for scraps and dogs creep around the people, always wary of being beaten. Again, we breathe the poisonous smoke and wait for a bus that should have been here a long time ago. “In five minutes, just five minutes!” we have been reassured several times within the last hour. In India you can order a green, round apple and receive promptly a yellow, oval lemon. They will try and convince you that the fruit in front of you is indeed a green, round apple and argue their case despite the evidence. Situations we experience daily. For example at the money changer: we should receive 8’000 Rupees, which is also stated on the receipt, but only get 7’000. We double-check and ask for the missing thousand. “No, sir, this is correct, that’s what it says on your receipt!” replies the smiling man. Once more we show the money, show the receipt and insist. Defeated, the Indian rolls his head and passes us the missing note, which he had held in his hand under the table, just waiting for us to leave the shop without it.
Sorry, my mind got distracted; let’s get back to the night, when we’re waiting for a bus. Desmond barely manages to hold his head up. “Mama, when can I sleep, I’m so tired?” Lenny’s thoughts have long gone to the land of dreams and big, round tears roll down his face. Patience is a luxury that travelling parents don’t have much of. My mother heart fills with pain. Is it worth it? What are we doing here? It’s no place for children! India might be interesting, exciting, and unique, crazy and lovely, but at what price?
Enough is enough
Our boys are exhausted. We have a few intense weeks behind us, have covered several thousand kilometres. They are so “full” with impressions that it has become impossible to absorb anything else. Nothing can please them and, atypically, they have started to whinge a lot. Add to that the cough and cold from Amritsar and the bad tummy from Delhi. Enough is enough. Time for a break.
The bus comes, late at night, and takes us with a neck breaking journey – just imagine to be a bead in a musical shaker – to the beach. We find a bungalow 30 m from the sea. It’s actually an old container and has a bit of a tin-feeling to it, but the big terrace and the view of the gorgeous bay make up for it. The air is very breathable, the food fantastic and the people friendly. After three days our boys find their own selves again and laughter, play and happiness comes back. We even go on a treasure hunt…
Every evening we watch how the glowing sun is swallowed by the sea, the fire extinguished and as a consequence the cooling night started. Diu is growing on us fast and despite it not being a tropical Thai island, it certainly has charm and beauty. It lies on the southern tip of the state of Gujarat, but belonged to the Portuguese until the sixties. Ever since it has remained independent from its neighbouring province and is directly subordinated to the government in Delhi. One thing that shows this clearly is that alcohol is widely available, whereas it’s illegal in many areas of India, one of them Gujarat. A lot of tourists from all over the country come here to have some Bacardi Breezers and beers whilst enjoying the beaches and sea breeze.
Our children quickly understand the concept of corruption. Whilst playing police men they arrest the owner of our guest house and let him go, once he pays the demanded baksheesh. Talking of playing, their favourite role plays are those of travellers, shop managers, trekking guides and chefs.
Faces along the way: Gupta
He works as a waiter. Gupta’s parents, wife and two children life 28 hours away from his employment. He tried to get a job nearby but failed. Every day he serves the restaurant’s guests for over 14 hours. Week ends or holidays are unknown to him. If he wants to see his family he has to take unpaid leave and with it the risk to loose his job during his absence. He has only seen his two year old daughter once. His wife and mother like him to visit, but at the same time they don’t as it means a shortage in their meagre budget. Gupta shakes his head: “My life has become so difficult since I’m married!”
Hope
A visit to Gandhi’s ashram gives us a closer look at the life of the ingenious person. Ghandi spent many years in this commune in the state of Gujarat. While he was alive it was surrounded by untouched nature, now it has become part of a huge, busy, polluted city. His house is open to anybody and beautiful in its simplicity. The peace for which Gandhi has fought violent free lives on in the premises. We feel privileged to be able to buy some of Gandhi’s very private literature in the little adjacent shop.
A day in Kolkata (formerly known as Calcutta)
Once more a taxi driver tries to offload us in the wrong place, but this time we’re cleverer and insist to be taken to the real Sudder Street. Before we even put our bags down, we’re already offered hash, heroin and “whatever you want, I’ll get it for you”.
We meet our old friend Stan; a bright ray of sunshine in this chaotic city bursting its seams through an uncontrolled overpopulation.
The city bus # 241 should take us to the botanical gardens, something that we have confirmed by several fellow passengers. Michael is sent off my wooden bench: “Ladies only!” Just minutes after a local man sits next to me, this time seemingly unnoticed by the passengers who had so much opposed to Michael sitting there! 10 minutes pass before the conductor lets us know that bus 241 doesn’t go to the botanical gardens and another 20 minutes pass before they stop and tell us to get off and take a ferry across the river. There, so we’re told, is the entrance to the gardens. The fence is high; the rusty gate has been padlocked for decades. We picnic before we carry on our journey to look for the real and official entrance.
Two goats, a family of crows and a street dog try to nick our food with relentless persistence. Enough is enough, we move on, walk along the road towards the other end of the huge botanical gardens. The trip has cost us so much time that in the end we give up, drink chai from the traditional clay cups (which are thrown to the floor after) and take a bus back home. Once more we understand that often the journey is more exciting than the actual arrival.
Faces along the way: Gopal
He is one of the fast decreasing – and only seen in Kolkata – human rickshaw-drawers. Gopal has a good sense for business and discovered the fact that tourists like to buy the bells used traditionally by men like him as horns. This new business brings him a steady additional income. Gopal is, as most of his work mates, barefoot and has, according to statistics, a very low life expectancy. His sister and her family also live on Sudder Street; on the pavement next to the public pissoirs. At night they cover themselves with old blankets and sleep under a plastic sheet, which gives them a welcome shelter. They belong to the thousands of homeless of Kolkata.
A small woman pledges to the tourists to buy milk powder for her baby. She takes the clueless, generous foreigners to a shop, where they purchase the white powder for her child. Once they’re out of sight, she returns the baby food to the shop for money. A very old trick that started during the time when Nestle launched its pro milk powder campaign in the third world.
Kolkata’s streets are full of crippled people. Looking at the deformities and fates makes us sad, pitiful and helpless. The innocent children’s eyes of our boys see a different picture. One man has hands like a chicken foot, another one waves his arm stumps about like a fish fins! For Desmond and Lenny the world is simply the way they perceive it at this moment. There is no thought for the future, for the struggles of a handicapped person.
From the newspaper we copy the following two statistics: Here, every 28 seconds a rape is reported to the police and every 69 seconds a murder of a wife due to a dowry (so the husband can remarry and “cash” in again). On the train we are requested by loudspeaker message to destroy all plastic water bottles. This as a prevention for crooks refilling them with unclean water and reselling them. You wouldn’t think that the rest of the world is talking about recycling!
The constant confrontation with poverty, invalidity and homeless people leaves traces in Desmond. One night at bedtime he tells me his thoughts: “It’s a pity you will die before me. Will I recognise you when you’re old? The old people here in India look strange. When you’re old, Mama, I will share my house with you, so you have somewhere to sleep. I will invite you for food at least once a day and buy you presents from the shop. I know I am only six, but I will try to keep this promise when I’m older!”
At the airport the check-in man assures us that we will have four seats together, which promptly turns out to be another lie. What was it? A green, round apple is in reality a yellow, oval lemon?
What next?
One thing was clear from the beginning: we want our children (and us) to enjoy travelling. Even if we miss some sights, but spend an extra day at the local playground. Who cares? No plans, no obligation, nothing forced. Keeping this in mind, we assess our situation and come to a conclusion.
We have been journeying for a long time, have gone to many countries. We have experienced and learnt about many cultures. We have suffered with people and celebrated with others; have witnessed misery and felt happiness. Have answered some questions and created hundreds more. Have held on to faith, yet gone through heavy doubts. Have seen nature’s most beautiful face and watched horrid crimes committed on her. Have joined the prayers to God, Allah, Buddha, Shiva and wise ancestors. Have met enlightened souls as well as lost ones.
We are tired, long for a temporary, stationary home. A place where we can establish a routine. Where we don’t have to eat in restaurants once to twice a day. Just for a few weeks. A few weeks holidays from travelling.
India is tough. It has a fascination that sucks your time and energy. A country that can only be understood when we put our western knowledge aside and meet it empty and without prejudice. A void that we don’t currently possess. First we need time to digest, to empty. We want to return to Thailand. I decide not to accept the teaching job, but to simply benefit from the last few months that I can spend with my family. I will have the rest of my life to work.
In Delhi we watch some CNN news. A seldom event. Fortunately. A bomb on the local train station has killed people, another attack a few days ago in Kolkata has injured many. There is chaos in Iraq. We wonder if it is important to know everything that is happening in the world? And to what extend the knowledge we acquire from the media differs from the one we get from travelling. And can we lead a better life through a wide knowledge? Can we actively improve the world through it? Would we not do the world a favour if we freed ourselves from the depression and worry instilled in us by negative headlines and to be happy with our local surrounding and share the positive feelings? Don’t the media create a fear that serves as a fertile breeding ground for a damaging intolerance to other cultures?
The news might be broadcasted in colour, however, the picture they transmit is rather black and white. The world we experience shows us the grey tones between. The people. Not the governments or powerful enterprises. We experience the world of individuals, each one with an own personal history and struggle, each one pursuing the same goals. Millions of destinies connected closely in the big puzzle of the globe. People who want acceptance, happiness and peace. Share emotions, friendships and love. Jealousy, hatred and fear. Pollution, hunger and misery.
When it comes down to intellectual intelligence, we might not belong to the elite. What we are trying to acquire is something that could be described as an emotional intelligence, one that will help us to understand. Our knowledge has proofen useless and had to be questioned so many times that it has become secondary.
In the whole muddle, we still manage to find one truth: that friendship can change the world for the better! Because in friendship external flaws become obsolete. Because the mental, inner picture of a friend is simply one of a friend and our lovely memory of the person neglects details such as skin colour, looks, disabilities and cultural or religious backgrounds. Don’t you know the feeling to meet somebody who you find ugly only to befriend the person later and wonder why you ever judged him/her that way. In the last 16 months we have made more friends than in the last 35 years and what remains in our hearts are the pictures of wonderful people. Just people, great people. Which leads us to the conclusion that if everybody made more friends across the globe and within different backgrounds (made easy with e-mails and chats), many conflicts could be avoided.
Our journey has become a deep meditation. We slowly detach from our structured lives at home, from excessive baggage and goods. We sink deeper into the world, go further and further, remain briefly, absorb and go on. We meet new people, connect, and make friendships, share and leave. We estrange our own roots, confuse our minds to the extend where it looses itself in the universe. Until the water drop falls into the sea and becomes one. Borders disintegrate, the values with which we judge and measure change and finally become nothing. Priorities shift. Mother Earth calls. Truths are questioned every minute of every day. Reality multiplies. Past and future meet in the present. One day we will wake up from our meditation and that’s when the challenge begins to let the spirit of the traveller live in the everyday life.
