I really like public speaking, everyone has to listen to me.

Oh, hey.

I opened the doors
of the refrigerator to
A winter of thin wire.
Metal racks and decaying
tupperware.

And my neck hairs stood up.

(A poem a friend wrote on the first page of my new journal. That’s all I’m telling you.)
This blog thing won’t let me tab, I like doing the tab thing, it spaces things out more. I’m feeling pretty restricted right now.
So (Ah, that should be indented) I gave a presentation on Human Trafficking to my psych class, and it went really well. I read over all my India entries last night, looked over old notes, went to STOPTHETRAFFIK.org (if you never have, go do it right now please.) It stirred me up, raised a familiar block in my throat. I felt really connected during my talk, told personal stories of girls I met in half-way homes and the brothels. My 15 minute presentation turned into almost half an hour, people kept asking me questions. I didn’t want to sit down when it was over, so many things were popping off in my head, stories I wanted to tell, contributing factors I saw that people don’t hear about, NGO’s and volunteering.
Afterwards a bunch of people came up to me to ask questions about organizations, how I got involved, questions about my trip. It was amazing to see people inspired to help and get involved, it reminded me of when I first started learning: “Yeah, but what can I DO?” Right now, I think what I need to do is keep telling my stories.

keep Austin weird.

I’ve been trying to find a thread, something to make this blog stick. I’m not in a foreign country, nothing in my life really updates interestingly enough for me to tell you about. But hey, maybe it’ll come.

I’m in Austin, TX right now visiting my dad and the Haney family. I caught some of the South by Southwest music festival, Cayah has a new-ish french bulldog puppy named Banner who isn’t fully house-trained, throws up sometimes and doesn’t like his leash, but is so adorable, and it’s St. Patrick’s day. Meaning I’m having an entertaining and successful trip.

It’s nice to get out of the the Bay area. I’ve been debating the merits of both places. So far the most deciding factors have been: the Bay has the ocean,people in Austin are really nice. Has anyone else noticed how mean people in California can be? Is that all of California? I’m sure there are pockets in the middle where everyone’s nice, but it’s probably farmland or near Bakersfield, which I don’t really consider California. I think they should chop it up into two states, make the middle part of Nevada or something.

Back to the mean-people thing. I see it in huge contrast when I get back from Denver, Raleigh, or someplace where people make eye-contact and chat with you in line at coffee shops. As someone who talks to everyone, frequently people behind me in line or waiting for the same bus (who am I kidding, I don’t take the bus), I go through a mild culture shock when I arrive in a new city and strangers are friendly.

I guess what I’m saying is if they picked Austin up and dragged it closer to the Gulf of Mexico I’d move out here in a hot second. But if that happened, I’m sure the cost of living would skyrocket, plastic surgery would take off, and everyone would get snotty and rude. Back to square one. So I guess I’m better off just staying in the bay or braving the heat.

I think I’m going to continue here.

I was checking my wordpress just for the hell of it, and the option “Write” in the upper left hand corner of the screen looked so inviting. I love writing, so I decided to keep on with this blog, even though I have nothing of real consequence to say. Maybe Marie or my sister will check it every month or so, that’s enough for me. I’ve been writing a ton in my journal since I got back, but there’s something about sharing what I put down with other people that I like. I’m definitely going to have to revise that last statement, I don’t think it made much sense.
I keep trying to write stories, mostly cause I haven’t since I was 16, but it’s HARD. I don’t know what to write about, so many other people’s stories bore me (sorry), and it feels stiff. I should probably start with my own. Story, that is. Why is it so much easier to write about Nothing than to write about Something? Or am I just weird?
Today I was signing up for classes (I’m on the 12 year program, it seems, for undergrad. Life is so distracting), and I was telling my mother how frustrated I was getting with their website. I was feeling very criticized by it. She looked up at me from her coffee and asked if I was really having an emotional response to a website. Well, yeah, I was. It kept re-routing me, using pretty condscending language, making me log in again and again. All in all, a very rude and churlish website. not a fan.
Oh, and I decided not to revise my need-to-share thought. I can’t be concise and super-readable all the time.

save it

I figure if I don’t write something here soon, I never will. I feel a responsibility to sum up .. well, something. I’ve been home for almost 5 days now, mysteriously skipped any kind of jet lag, and feel the most intense gratitude for my family, my friends, space, my coffee maker, and hot showers. I’ve felt like a little kid every morning, I can’t believe I live here.(!) I’m considering trekking to another country 2 months out of every year, partly to re-experience this.
This trip has given me so much- a greater capacity to understand, be patient, see things without a lens of idealism, a calm I didn’t know I had. I learned in a very real way to respect people who are different than me; I realized how hard that is. My knee-jerk response is often to decide things are wrong, inefficient, or ridiculous instead of Different (and probably beyond my understanding at that point). I learned a little bit of how hard it is to be a foreigner, to be treated like my ways of doing things are wrong, inefficient, ridiculous. I gained a fair bit of cynicism (still leveled with some leftover idealism), saw the frustration of working toward justice, and realized, like the sky had opened up, that people whose case studies I had read, the ones who are suffering, are real people. The laugh, they cry, they live, and they try to heal. They don’t need my pity, they deserve my respect.
Finally, I learned that if you want to save the world, you should start with the world you live in right now. I’m sure you’ve heard that before, but it took me two months traveling on the other side of the world to really figure it out.
I don’t think I would have done this any differently if I could go back. It was a delicious soup of difficulty, pink bubbles, doing admin, overcrowded trains, curry with roti, mosambi juice, festivals, hotel hunting, chai, decompressing in Coffee Day, markets, making friends from everywhere imaginable, finding gaudian angels in every city (thank you Roonshing, Abbas, Salman, Steve, and Vishal!), skipping dinner in favor of dessert, learning the fine art of crossing the street, book trading along the way, trying to lean Hindi then giving up, quotes of the day (“I can’t think of the word, that whole scenario when the rickshaw driver wanted to take us to his shop…A SCAM!!”), balancing work with play, and trying not to be a stupid American.
It was pretty amazing. So thanks for following me, for your emails and comments, for picking up my phone calls at 7am, for encouraging and supporting me, for your faith and love and belief in me. It was huge, and I am so thankful to be living life with you. Much love.
Sara

Show me Bombay in a whole new way

I’ve been trying to get to a computer for days, but the only time i had a decent amount of time in an internet cafe, my computer turned off halfway through my post. Bummer.

The rest of our time in Calcutta went really well, we met with a guy who works in villages, he explained the close link between disease, poverty, and trafficking. He sees the same story played out of famlies getting sick from unsanitary conditions, getting into debt to pay for medicine, then making up for it by selling their children to traffickers (often there’s a cover story of waitressing, or something of the like). He told us that 80% of disease in developing countries is preventable. They work a lot to educate them on disease prevention.

We went to the International Justice Mission office in Calcutta. A ton of the people we’ve met are ex-IJM’ers, so it was good to actually see an office, sit down with them. A few people had just arrived from the states to work, so we went along for a walk-through of the red light area. We stayed on the street walking single file down alleys. It was about 5 in the evening, and girls lined the streets. I was suprised how many there were, heavily made up teenagers in western clothes stood with their hands clasped behind their backs, one hip thrust out, women in saris looking distastefully bored. Many of them yelled out to us, reached out to clasp our hand in theirs. Rachel and I wanted to stop and try to talk to them (since I speak Bengali and all), but we had been told to Keep Moving. The woman from IJM told us we had seen a tenth of the girls in the area we walked through. Most are kept inside.

Yesterday was Diwali, a huge Hindi holiday. From what I gather, it’s something between Christmas and 4th of July. We awoke to what sounded like bombs going off outside (fireworks.) We were pulled into a neighbors house who fed us puri and baji (I am definitely spelling that wrong), took picures with us, and told us we were “daughters of wealth.” They were so loving; the wife kept pinching our cheeks, it was adorable. Walking around last night was pretty overwhelming, fireworks went off above and all around us, every alley filled with boys lighting crackers. Every few minutes an explosion shook the sidewalk. It felt like being in a war zone. But fun. Yeah.

So now I’m in the Bombay airport (Calcutta heat drove us here a few days early), waiting for roughly seven hours before my flight takes off. And Sunday afternoon (I can hardly believe it), I will be Home. Land of personal space and real coffee, nonfat milk, water pressure, no communication barriers, and my family. I am pretty excited.

Welcome to the City of Joy

We are in Calcutta

Our second night, I found a phone booth while Rachel headed for the room. 20 minutes later I enter our hallway to find half of our stuff piled outside the door. I ask what’s going on. “We’re moving.” Why? She deadpans me. “Go Look.” I walk in: every surface is covered in tiny bugs. They cover the bed, rim the sink, clog the toilet, nestle in our luggage. (The bathroom window was left open.) In our new room I arm myself with a book, and take to killing bugs that rode in our bags. We call down for water. Five minutes later a 15 year old boy walks into the middle of our room and sets bottled water on the table, looks around as if he has no intention of leaving, continues to ask if we need anything. Rachel finally pushes him physically from the room.

Today we visited Mother Teresa’s Mother House. We got out of a cab and a little boy ran up to us and pointed down a wide alley, said “Mother House!” We thanked him and walked past several nuns wearing the white, blue-trimmed saris into a stone courtyard. A room off to the side held photographs and gave a chronological explanation of her life. It struck me how ungaurded she looked, even at 18. I think most people try to come across a certain way. She looked pretty okay being where she was. Until I saw that in her face, I didn’t realize what a big thing honesty can be. Overall, reading and seeing what I did (which wasn’t much), she seems to have been very, very human. Which I love.

Walking out, the sound of nuns singing slowly filled the courtyard. I couldn’t tell what direction it was coming from, and the sounds of Alleluia Alleluia Alleluia began echoing against the high stone walls into me. I had a hard time speaking for the next half hour (anyone who knows me can understand the significance of this.)

I didn’t come out with any real head knowledge I can say, but my eyes feel a little wider.
Dealing with street children has been a fun/hard/interesting/heart-wrenching thing. We buy them food, smile at them, hold their hands. It feels very trite, seeing what they deal with. But apart from all the stigma and bigger-picture stuff, they’re just kids, and we are treating them as such.

We had Muslim food. I’m thinking of converting.

I have to vent on today before I lose it. Left at 7 to the Taj Mahal. Slept in varying degrees of discomfort on the 3 1/2 hour drive (during waking hours we saw a snake charmer -eerie-, camels, and men with monkeys on rope leashes. Everyone wanted a tip. Suprise.) The Taj was beautiful, huge, and smelled like feet. No one’s allowed to wear shoes inside, but it’s kind of fun walking around barefoot on the marble; in a hippie-ish, earthy, I’m-on-a-pilgrimage sort of way. Honestly, it didn’t stir anything big in me, but was very pretty and worth the jacked-up foreigners price. AND they include mineral water and little booties if you’re germaphobic. A steal.

On the way home we got a flat tire (I can’t believe this doesn’t happen to everyone every 5 miles or so), and we pulled into a roadside open-air restaurant where about 20 locals sat and stared at us. Rachel and I ordered tea while our driver trekked off to find a tire. An old man wearing a kurta and a neck brace walked up to our table and deposited two tiny rabbits. They tried to get us to come see the litter, we said no. So we sat for about half an hour drinking chai, ignoring the men, playing with our bunnies. We named them Oreo and Snowball.

Back in New Delhi we ate at Karim’s, a famous Muslim restaurant that’s been written up in National Geographic, and recommended to us by pretty much everyone we’ve met. The menu was so overwhelming that we called Salmon (we’ve dubbed him our gaurdian angel), told him to order for us, and handed the phone to the waiter. Fifteen minutes later we were served chicken biryani, kebabs, mutton, lamb shank in tomato sauce, the fluffiest roti EVER, and I think some other stuff.  Seriously, we almost finished it. It was one of the most delicious meals I’ve ever had. It was… I don’t know, it was just so good.

Quote of the night: “I’m never going to see these people again. All I need is your love and support and I’ll be Just Fine.” (Rachel as she devoured what appeared to be an entire chicken. I was too busy eating lamb to respond properly.)

PS we were enlightened to the Three Points of Driving in India today by our driver. They are: Brake, Horn, and Luck.

Last night we watched Scooby Doo in Hindi, trying to figure out the short girl’s name. (It’s Thelma. We think.)

And we are in Delhi, good Lord I feel like I’ve been gone for years. We got in Sunday night (have no plausible idea when that is US time), checked into the hotel our favorite Indian friend, Salmon, found for us. Then next morning we met a British bloke who’s backpacking for 10 months. He was able to navigate the Delhi metro and end us up downtown where we wanted to be. As I’ve been known to get lost on BART, in a place I’ve lived my whole life and everything’s written in English, I have a profound respect for this young man. We found an amazing well-priced hostel in on Main Bazaar (quite possible the funnest streen I’ve ever walked down, it’s nuts) with functioning locks on the doors and a cafe on the roof (great food, hilariously slow service. “why don’t you order coffee for both of us while I take a shower, it’ll probably be ready by the time I come up.”) There are tons of travellers everywhere, the tourist season just started.

Delhi is polluted and crowded, but there’s so much to see. I wish I had 3 sets of eyes. It’ll be a good preface to Calcutta, said to be the most crowded and overwhelming city EVER. Last night we had dinner at another rooftop restaurant and there were fireworks going off above our heads. I think there’s a festival, but no suprise, there seems to be a pooja (Hindi word for worship) maybe three times a week. They do fun thing like decorate their cars, dance in the street, throw red powder on eachother, smash pumpkins.

The cheif annoyance here is that because it’s tourist season, everyone is constantly trying to rip you off. All the rickshaws want to take you to the tourist office (they get commission), no matter how much you tell them We Know Where We’re Going. So we walk a lot. Way to work off all that roti and palak paneer, kids.

Brico Elephant Tango!! (Belgian guy spelling his name to a hotel over the phone)

I’m going to try and sum up the last week or two here. It’s been…well, it’s definitely been.
Rachel and I made some great friends in Bangalore, one spent time in CA growing up and has flown into the Livermore airport! After wrapping up our time with the Oasis Bangalore team, we set out for Ooty (or Udhagamandalam, if you prefer) to visit Freedom Firm. We stopped in halfway in Mysore (a touristy town from which we could see a palace on top of a mountain half covered in mist– one of the most ridiculously magical things I’ve ever laid eyes on). After dinner we went to find our cab to ride on. The driver informed me that is was getting dark, raining, and the elephants were crossing. Much too dangerous. So the risk of stampeding elephants stranded us in Mysore for the night.
The drive the next morning was breathtaking, trees and mountains and hovering mist took up all of my peripheral. I couldn’t stop staring out the windows drinking it in, it was like a banana shake for my soul (bananas are yummy yet nutritious.) We drove through a preserve where we saw said elephants, peacocks, and monkeys, quite fun. Ooty is by far my favorite place in India so far, it’s far up in the mountains surrounded by tea plantations built in a valley spilling up onto the hills. Kind of a run-down Vail, with much character (and amazing chocolate and tea.)
We met with Greg and Mala of Freedom Firm, a nonprofit that works to free girls from the sex slave trade and runs an aftercare home. It was wonderful to sit with them and hear about what they’re doing and what they’ve learned and are learning. It was a very connecting, human experience. We got to hang out in the aftercare home the next morning and afternoon, which was so wonderful. The home mother taught us how to cook a bit, and we spent time with the girls, chatting and helping them make masks for an upcoming party. One of the girls who speaks English told us her story of being trafficked, so humbling. They were beautiful souls as they opened up and talked with us, it was hard to leave them.
It was encouraging to spend time with people who’re doing work I connect with. I’m not a lawyer, I don’t want to be. What I am pulled towards is providing support for girls to regain their strength and humanity.
The rest of our time in Ooty was great, the rain rejuvenated me (I’m such a weirdo, too much sun depresses me.) We connected with some European backpackers and had a bit of community for a few days. Met some guys from Sudan living in Ooty, were yelled at by a Rastafarian who I suspect is frustrated by life in general. Found a cafe that serves proper coffee instead of powdered. In short, the usual.
okay. goodmorning or night, or what have you. much love.

yeah, there it is

So I’m sitting here in my nicely mid-range hotel listening to “amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now I’m found, was blind but now I see.”
Since I’ve been here, whenever I thank God for grace and safety and peace and my family and everything else wonderful in my life, it sticks in my throat. What about them? What about the millions on the streets, the girls held against their will, the destitute, the lost children who don’t have a place to go? The fathers who have no way of feeding their families? The sick and the alone, the HIV positive, the young men turned to crime because they have no hope for their future, the girls who sell themselves because it’s the only way they can survive? What about them? Why can I trust God for my safety, pray that I don’t get sick, when millions will sleep hungry on the pavement tonight? If God loves us all equally, why does it seem like He only takes care of some of us, me and not them? The injustice brings tears to my eyes, the frustration builds in my throat. I’m here, I’m seeing, but no matter how much I want to give, this will still be here.
The thought comes unbidden into my mind: it would be so easy to go home and forget all of this. Chalk it up to travel and life experience, remember these emotions as part of a youthful idealism. I’m still processing, having poverty so present every day isn’t something I’m used to, and the stories we hear are pretty gut-wrenching. There are a million trite answers to this, but none of them answer, just evade. It’s a part of the world, of humanity, I can’t understand.
As far as my prayers go, I can see wrestling with this going two ways; either feeling that there’s no way a merciful and loving God could allow what happens to people, or finding the whole thing so incomprehensible that there must be a Creator that it makes sense to. I’m pushed towards the latter. What I’ve seen and heard throws me so far outside of what I can comprehend, there has got to be a God that understands.