I am in love again.

Dear Mom and Dad, 

I know in the last year you were probably worried I'd never find love again, but I can say with my whole heart and 110% certainty that I am in love again. How do I know?! I'm happier than I've ever been in my 32 years of life. In quiet moments sitting in a cafe enjoying espresso, I am okay. Okay with the silence...okay with sitting with myself and my thoughts...okay with being lonely every once in a while. This kind of love does not make me anxious. True love shouldn't. Gone are the panic attacks...fleeting are the moments of helplessness where my breath could not be controlled and my mind was racing my heart, both over-working and underpaid. But no...now, I can feel it. I'm at ease. I am calm. I am aware. I am in love again. 

It was, in a sense, love at first sight. In the morning when I walk outside into the sunshine and gaze at the mountains, I can feel it. I can feel it penetrating my soul and enveloping my body. In fact, consuming my mind. In the best way possible. I used to fear going home. Going back to reality. A reality I had created for myself that was not my own, but rather shared. I always found a home in wherever I was on the road, not wanting to return to my physical home. But now, every cell of my body wants to come back, because I am in love again. 

Who is the object of my affection? Okay, here goes. Are you ready for this?! (breathing increases) I am in love with the new life I've been gifted by The Universe, God...the new life I've created for myself. And, I love myself. Wholly. You can't imagine how freeing this is. Through strength, I've found freedom. I love my new home. The mountains. The sunshine. Nature. And, most of all, the community. I love my job. Because it's not really a job at all. The people are my people. My tribe. Mom and dad, don't you worry about me - I've found love again. 

Thank you for supporting me and loving me when I didn't love myself. That's what parents are for, I know, but you could have easily taken a different route. Thank you for believing in me, attempting to understand me, and pouring your love into me every step of the way. Thank you for reminding me I am strong. And that I am enough. I have never been more viscerally enthusiastic to return home in my life. I adored traveling around India solo, but the time on the road made me realize how much I am in love. I'm ready to go home. To the mountains. To the sunshine. To the nature. To my community. To me. 

What a grand place to be, isn't it?! The grandest of 'em all.

Love, 

Your #1 Daughter

Chitta Happens: Namaste, Muthaf*ckas!

A lot of people asked me why I was going to India in the heat of the summer, and as the monsoon was about to hit. India has always called me, but over the last couple of years I had been thinking more and more about India. The colors, the smells, the people, yoga, Hinduism, the textiles and handcraft, the beaches of the south and the gateway to the Himalayas...all if it. I yearned to be consumed by the culture. 

I keep a running list of Travel To Do's...places like India I've always wanted to visit. Morocco, New Zealand, Fiji, Ghana, Iceland, Chile, Argentina, Nicaragua, South Africa, and more...I want to see it all. I spent Christmas alone in 2014, sitting at my favorite teahouse in Cesky Krumlov smoking shisha and intention-setting. I told myself I'd make it a priority to make 1-2 of these happen each year, exploring new ground. And I set the biggest and most important intention I'll ever set: to continue to be true to myself. And, further, I'd write a book. Let's start with India, I thought. Why not?! It's like a rite of passage for the solo traveler. I had been wanting to meet Arushi and the artisans I once worked with while at Ethnotek. So I booked my ticket. That's half the battle right?

A seasoned traveler, having traveled and lived all over Europe, the States and traveling to South America, I was looking forward to uncharted territories further East. I knew India would be different...not only because I hadn't traveled more than two weeks at a time previously. I had spoken to Indian friends and a few gal friends who had traveled India solo. I had heard stories of misadventures aplenty: the famed 'Delhi Belly,' the staring culture, the cremation ceremonies in the holy city of Varanasi, the heat, the mess of the monsoon, the poverty and sheer numbers of people...all of it. As I always do, I attempted to approach the meeting of India with an open mind and an open heart. I saw and experienced the good...so much of it. But I also saw and experienced the not-so-good. Let me preface this by saying that the stories of good outweigh the not-so-good stories, but it seems that the latter always tend to make a bigger impact. I value authenticity, so I am going to share it all with you right now. The grit and the great. Here we go...

Shit happens. Chitta happens too. "Chitta", in Sanskrit, means "memory" and is the subconscious mind.  

India is simultaneously the most chaotic and calm place I have ever experienced...and probably ever will experience. It's the single place in this world where you can have a solitary religious experience, surrounded by thousands of people and honking tuk tuks, cars and motorbikes. It's bizarre and beautiful. It makes me want to cry, puke, smile, cringe and scream in frustration all at once. Namaste, Mothaf*ckas: crass, but so perfect for India. Allow me to explain. India is - by far - the most cerebral place I've ever traveled. What does that mean? It means you have to think about every single interaction in India: from simply crossing the street to buying a pair of pants at the market, and grabbing a tuk tuk to the airport. For this reason, Indians, as a people, are the most resilient culture I've ever encountered. It's exhausting. Everyone in India is a businessperson. Super-savvy, persistent, driven. Even uneducated (book wise) tuk tuk drivers are damn smart. You have to be to survive. But, my friends, it's both a blessing and a curse. 

Cycle rickshaw driver who was high on hash and wanted to overcharge me. I won this battle.

I do not have a desire to set your expectations about India, but I'll share my experiences in an effort to give you an understanding of what traveling in India is like. Lesson #1: You will likely get sick. I thought I was above it. Had a stomach of steel. It doesn't matter. You're in India. If the spice and massive amount of cream, butter and oil used while cooking doesn't get you, it'll take one cook not washing his hands to land you in the bathroom all night. Or even the hospital. Happened to me in Rishikesh. I ventured to Mama Dosa, home to over one hundred varieties of dosa, with Jitan, whose father owns Shiv Shakti Guesthouse in Rishikesh. I opted for the Special Aloo Paneer Dosa. Bad idea. The next morning, I awoke at 3am feeling a bit off, as I was about to head out for the sunrise hike. I made the decision not to hike, and then spent the next 7 hours tasting dosa from both ends. I must admit, I even pooped my pants a little bit in a moment where my ego took over, thinking I was okay - but that's a rite of passage for the solo traveler in India too, right?! I'll keep telling myself that. Arun, the night receptionist and in-house yoga instructor, knocked on my door insisting upon taking me to the hospital. By the time 10am rolled around, I had sore stomach muscles from dry heaving, and there was nothing left inside of me. I reluctantly went to the hospital. I don't think you've really traveled India until you've traveled solo, as a woman, and visited the hospital to give a stool sample. Humbling. Turns out, it was inexpensive and though we waited a while, the doctor was great and advised against my strong American antibiotics. I obliged. In the end, it was an experience. And the smiles and glances exchanged with the mountain woman in the thick, hand-dyed wool red gypsy headscarf and mountain garb was well worth it. Chitta Happens. 

The doctor's orders... 

Lesson #2: It is a staring culture. EVERYONE will stare at you. Women in their beautiful saris, children with curiosity in their eyes, and men...the men will stare. Hard. Everywhere you go. On buses. In train stations. Tuk tuk drivers. Shop owners. Everyone. If this bothers you, you might consider leaving your western clothes at home. Wearing clothing like kurtas and pants that cover the body will help. I'm a huge believer in personal expression, and clothing is one way in which I personally express myself...but in the case of cultural nuances, it's best to blend. Trust me on this one. 

Haridwar train station at night. I was the only white person in sight. Authentic travel, baby!

Lesson #3: Non-AC sleeper car overnight journeys in the middle of summer=one experience I wouldn't recommend. Okay, it's an experience and I'm stronger because of it, but next time I travel to India I'll stick to AC for journeys 5+ hours. You might think I sound like a spoiled white chick. I kind of do. Except for that the taxi driver en route to the station in Haridwar from Rishikesh told me that even he doesn't take non-AC journeys and cautioned me, "be careful." Well shit. To be fair, it was all I could get. Think about that 1.4 billion person population again. Now consider how hard it is to snag a train ticket. It's damn hard. Though it wasn't my first choice to travel non-AC for the (what I thought would be) 14-hour journey, it was all I could grab if I wanted to go to Varanasi. So I went. When I arrived to the station, it was a cultural experience in and of itself. Hundreds of people lying on blankets outside of the station. Families waiting for trains. Friends bullshitting over homemade dal rice. I was instantly transported into another world. The scene was the same in the train station. I was the only white person in sight. If nothing else, this'll teach humility and resilience, I thought. It did. With a near-dying phone (will I ever learn?!), I made my way to a restaurant and attempted to plug in my phone. Still without an appetite, I bought bottled water and digestive biscuits and put my nose in "Beyond the Beautiful Forevers". A couple of hours until my train left. The owner came over by me and made sure I knew what platform to go to. Nice. 

I ate my biscuits and bought my time, and then grabbed my phone. It hadn't charged at all. Sweet. This means I wouldn't be able to chart my journey or call friends/family to let them know I was alright if something went awry. I've been in this position before. Remember the Poland sojourn back in the day?! Yup. So, I spent 5 minutes writing down the phone number and address to the hostel in Varanasi before the phone died. I tried to plug in the phone at a momo stand on my platform, where I laid down my towel and had a seat, but the power cut had other plans. I sat there in darkness, surrounded by men. You see, you'll find many men out in the streets while women are inside with their families. But there are also a lot of families traveling. I hoped I'd be lucky enough to have a family sit near me on the train. A train rolled in and I asked a few people if it was the right one before jumping on. Not many people around me spoke English, but in the end I was successful and found my bed at the end of the train car as Indians tried to push past me in haste. Everyone's in a rush, but no one is on time, remember?! I had a non-AC 3 top bunk. That meant there were two others below me. Same scene across from me, and stacked two kiddy-corner from me. I observed my surroundings as soon as I situated my bags. A family below me. Two children, a little boy about 6 and a sweet little girl, likely 2 years of age. Mom was wearing a vibrant yellow sari, and dad had a mustache and henna-tinted brown wavy locks. The parents couldn't have been more than 24 years of age. An educated, higher caste - perhaps college student - looking boy inhabited the top bunk kiddy-corner from me. No doors on our cabin like the train cars in Europe. No linens. Vinyl bunks. The window didn't offer much fresh air for me, but three fans were fixed on the ceiling above me, caked in dust. It was hot and it was nearly midnight. Turns out I wasn't the only one sleeping in the top bunk either...I felt a tickle on my right shoulder and was surprised to see a cockroach. A new friend. 

Top bunk non-AC digs for a long journey from Haridwar to Varanasi. 

I did sleep. At least for a few hours. I watched my water intake so I wouldn't have to get down, leave my packs and head to the toilet past the six men who were sitting/lying in the area in between train cars outside of the toilet. It reeked of urine and feces. The young man sitting down around the corner to the right kept his eyes fixed on me. A friend told me not to make eye contact, but I found a better tactic: acknowledge their stares with a "If you touch me, I will cut you." stare back. Worked every time. Caught them off-guard. But my god, I hate to do that...it's so not me. Survival tactics. At some point I had to get down and pee, I reluctantly walked to the toilet. The door was already open, and it featured standing urine on the floor. Not the first time I had encountered this, I hoped the urine wouldn't exceed the height of my flip flops and pour over. Successful mission. Wet wipes became my best friend. I awoke early in the morning, around 7am to see the educated, higher caste college student boy talking on the phone under a blanket. Masturbating. I'm not joking. Wish I was. I had heard many stories like this, but always chalked it up to westerners not being mindful of what they were wearing (not that this excused the male's grotesque behavior). But no, this was different. At least he wasn't looking at me, right?! I wanted to punch him as hard as I could in the balls for thinking that this was acceptable behavior, and for doing this in the vicinity of me and a family. Rancid. 

The woman and her child, and my ally below me.

​The temperatures increased as the morning went on. I was slated to arrive at 1pm, but was aware the journey could take longer. Still not eating, I tried to keep myself busy by reading and writing, and flirting with the little boy across from me. He started it. I had no idea how I was going to tell which stop was mine, since I wasn't by a window and the station signs aren't evident like they are in Europe. So I sat there, patiently waiting and aware, as the train frequently slowed and then came to a stop. I knew we were delayed. As the temperatures increased, so did the sweat. I have never been more uncomfortable in my life. I took my probiotics and antibiotics the doctor ordered, and closed my eyes and breathed slowly, evenly. A uniformed man walked by below, fining the staring young man and a couple of his friends down below who were riding ticketless. I waited patiently and then took the opportunity to ask when we'd be at Varanasi. One hour. it was already 1pm. In the meantime, a new passenger had joined us - a young man sitting next to the family. Probably my age. A new ally. Sigh of relief. 

New best friend. And yes, that boy kiddy-corner below stared at me for much of the journey, though was harmless.  Top bunk yellow shirt is the masturbator.

walked down the latter looking for some air, and to look out the window to get my bearings. My little friend down below - the six-year-old - put his oily dal rice hands all over the vinyl seat. The smells were strong. I was sweating. It was a mixture of dal rice, body odor, urine, shit, lychee juice, and more...I couldn't have been more ready to be done with this journey. Outside the window, villagers shit alongside the train, walked with their goats, and carried their children across the tracks. About 15 hours in, the train continues and soon we stop at a station. Watching out for me, my new ally mouths to me that this is Varanasi. Masturbating boy asks me where I'm going. Oh god, I knew he knew English and I knew this would happen at some point, hoping I didn't have to ask him for any help. Thank goodness my ally came through. I gave the masturbating boy a short answer without much information. Handled. Grabbed a taxi and got a little lost, then 19 hours later, door-to-door, I had arrived to Stops Hostel. Thank God. 

Lesson #4: You will get taken advantage of and overcharged. But it's not just because you're a foreigner. It's a cultural thing. Indians get overcharged too. Remember how I said you have to think about every single interaction?! It's a bargaining culture. Play, or you'll get played. It - surprisingly - didn't happen to me frequently, and when you realize your haggling over dollars and cents, it's not that big of a deal. Here's a scenario for you: a 35km journey from Haridwar to Rishikesh should have been around 400 rupees. That's nearly 8 USD. They told me 600. I said no and walked away. They followed me we finally agreed on 500. Less than 10 USD. I was arguing over about $1.50 in savings, on principle. I don't want to set the standard for the next foreigner that comes along to get taken advantage of. But know that it's a waste of time to feel like a victim. If you value something, be okay with what you've spent on it. And try not to let your mind linger on the fact that you were taken advantage of. Life is a lot more pleasant when you put things into perspective, and your experience will be much better. 

This happens quite often - this woman saw white skin and came up to me offering for me to take a picture of her baby, then asked for money. Her daughter, whom is in the right of the frame and can't be seen, did not have a functioning right eye. I'm hoping this was not done on purpose to the child in an effort to get money for the family, but it's very likely it was.

Lesson #5: Human life is valued differently. I can't justify this and won't expand much on this one, but when a country is overpopulated if you don't move with the flow, it's easy to get moved by it. En route to Agra one day to see the Taj two villagers crossed the busy freeway that was built through their once pristine farmland and were hit and killed. The villagers rushed the highway in protest, covering the four lanes of traffic and creating a chaotic mess for all who were commuting into work that morning. Sadly, this stuff happens frequently in India. In Varanasi, the holiest city in India and Lord Shiva's chosen city, families bring dead bodies of loved ones in preparation for rebirth to the Mother Ganga. Some say it smells of sandalwood and burning flesh. But it's not a sad place. It's seen as a celebration of life. People go to that river to bathe in its holy waters. You might think it's repulsive, but to them it's a blessing. 

Largest site at the ghats on the Ganga for cremation and salvation ceremonies into the river - you can see sandalwood, used for burning, and some of the bodies (wrapped in gold/yellow) near cremation site on the right. 

Okay, that's the grit. Life is just completely different in India. Not better or worse, just different. And, amidst all of the chaos of the honking and pushing and the smells and the men peeing everywhere you look in public, I found India to be incredibly spiritual. Oddly peaceful. Beautiful. The Muslim call to prayer. The live music pouring out of the temples after Aarti at dusk. The people are beautiful, and curious, and warm. I found allies in shop owners, guesthouse night men, taxi drivers, train passengers, and beyond. And I wouldn't change my experience for anything. I now know the importance - more keenly than ever before - of going with the flow and letting go of stimuli out of my realm of control. And I know that if you can travel as a solo female in India, you can travel anywhere solo. And I will. Stay tuned for posts on traveling solo and more...and - as always - let me know if there's anything you're particularly curious about. 

The good stuff: the people of India are incredible and hospitable. Here's me and Arushi's awesome cuz Kartik, who took care of me in Delhi, helping me to haggle in the market and show me the good stuff from Delhi to Agra. Amazing humans! 

Namaste, mothaf*ckas. And don't forget: chitta happens.

Rishikesh, a place to call "home"...

Rishikesh is one of those special places. You know, the kind that feels more like home than home itself. As a traveler, I have been blessed to know many of these: Valencia Spain, Cesky Krumlov Czech Republic, Cuzco Peru, Paia Maui, Lahinch Ireland, Seattle, Salt Lake, etc...places you visit and feel as if you've arrived, never wanting to leave. You don't want to leave them because you feel the pulse of the place. You spend more than a couple of days making friends in coffee shop owners, finding your tribe and a hangout spot where you sit in the corner and write, and read, and just be. You dive in...because it just feels right. You plant seeds, and create a foundation, and even though there are so many more places in this world to explore, you continue to go back to these homes. These are the places I'm talking about. And I've done the work and made the change to make one an actual physical home, as I moved to the mountains a year ago to Salt Lake. 

Zorba Cafe, one of my Rishikesh writing hangouts. 

But now I sit here, in Rishikesh India, thinking about my time in another such home - Cesky Krumlov - about one year ago today. I had just left my husband of four years, whom I had been with for seven years, and traveled to the Czech Republic for my brother's wedding. I was at a turning point in my life, making decisions for myself and moving forward in the best way I knew how: intentional movement. Travel. Trusting the Universe. I sat in Cesky Krumlov in my little room by the river - my second home when I lived in Prague, the village whose coordinates I had inked on my body, and the place where Tom proposed to me - and I was told by a colleague, partner and friend that I was no longer welcome with the company I co-owned and had put so much of my heart and time into. Fitting, it seemed. Everything was coming full circle. And I was gifted a clean slate by the Universe in one of the most special places in this world to me. At the time, a blessing in disguise. But it didn't come without extreme heartache and an overwhelming sense of loss. Through it all, I learned important lessons. Rishikesh is reminding me of this. Like the monsoon that floods the narrow streets of Dharavi, the memories come rushing back into my mind. Rishikesh is reminding me what is most important: to love myself. 

Yoga in Rishikesh to celebrate World Yoga Day

Rewind, time...to a little over one year ago I was spending time with an incredible woman and doing EMDR therapy. I was initially hesitant to do so, since talk therapy was helping me work through my feelings quite well. I had never gone to therapy before, but it was - paired with yoga - the best choice I could have made for myself at the time. EMDR stands for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, and it is used as a means to process thoughts and distress memories, often used in cases of trauma. I didn't feel like I fit the criteria, but I gave it a go anyway. You're probably wondering how this fits into the story, huh? Hang with me for a second...you'll see soon enough. I think I had just 4 sessions of EMDR, but it was in my second session that I had a total and complete awakening. I had been feeling anxious, and my body had been acting out the emotions my mind was sorting out, in a seemingly endless struggle. I was having panic attacks that left me breathless in a pile of tears and sweat on the bathroom floor. I was broken. I traveled often that winter to the mountains. Escaping from reality. During that second sesson, Lynn asked me to close my eyes and think of the place where I am most calm and my breath is most even. I closed my eyes and let my mind do the work...my stream of consciousness went something like this:

Time in nature. Camping. Little material posessions. Backpack on my back, everything I needed with me. Nothing more. The mountains. The fresh smell of evergreen trees. Crisp air on my face. Corduroy for days. Time spent with likeminded people who speak the same language. My tribe. No need to put a mask on...I could be me. Breathing easy. Flowing through life. Loving people. Loving myself. Being loved. Truly and authentically, and deeply. 

A Hindu celebration at sunset. Shanti shanti. 

I realized then what I needed to do. All the searching...all of the time spent on the mat...all of the work I was doing...was leading me back to me. Reminding me to return to nature. Return to the mountains. So I did. It's funny how quickly we can forget moments of awareness like this. Not that the awareness isn't there, but the physical feeling that was so poignant at that moment had escaped me, and so I moved on with life. Moving to one of those special places I called home, a career found me, in the very industry that enables me to breathe evenly, up on the mountain and surrounded by my tribe. This was no accident. After a long winter and too much time spent behind a desk the last couple of months, I misplaced some of the lessons I learned in the last year and a half. Rishikesh brought them back to me.

New friends - we talked during the entire ceremony, drawing stares from those around us. We just giggled. 

While I've been in India the last few weeks, I've covered a lot of ground. I've traveled from Mumbai to Ahmedebad and Kutch to Bhuj and Bhujodi and back to Ahmedebad and Mumbai and up to Jaipur and over to Rishikesh...not quite living by my "move slowly" mantra. But in Rishikesh, I feel good. I am moving slowly. I am staying in a great place (Shiv Shakti Guesthouse) with people I trust. I take daily naps. I walk the city with comfort, traveling to my favorite cafe just down the street on the Lakshman Jhula side (Little Buddha Cafe). I rafted down the Ganges with an Indian family yesterday, and flirted with a monkey who didn't reciprocate. I got an ayurvedic massage from a true healer, followed by a steam bath that made me feel as if I shed layers upon layers of toxins and bad juju. It was the best healing experience I've ever encountered. This afternoon I will visit an Ashram. Tomorrow morning I will go on a sunrise hike. But it was last night during sunset yoga that I was truly reminded of the moment in EMDR where I realized that returning to nature would enable me to return to myself. At the end of our practice we chanted mantras as the motorbikes sped by, honking their horns. The monkey on the roof slowly passed my mat, attempting to steal both my attention and my laundry hanging nearby. The breeze fell cool upon my face, thanks to Friday night's storm. And he said to me, as if he had known me forever and knew what I needed to hear, "Trees. Sunshine. Family. God. Water. Mountains. Think of, and thank, everything happy in life. Salute your Asana. Salute your God. Salute your parents. Salute yourself." And there it was again, that feeling...the memory of the place where I breathe evenly. 

To the mountains... 

Traveling alone, and traveling to Rishikesh specifically, has reminded me to love myself. To honor myself. To be honest with myself. To trust myself. Rishikesh, and India, have reminded me that I am enough. And that the simple things in life are the most important. Not money, not material objects, not sitting behind a desk...but nature, people, and experiences. I recently read an Elephant Journal article about a Paulo Coelho quote that resonated with me. This is what the article said, "He asked a wise person for advice and was told to forget his biography and just be - to discover himself in this way, in the shining light of the present moment. The thought panicked him. 'How can I stay myself if I willingly forget all that I was?' he asked. And he was told: the important stuff stays. What's left behind, we don't need. What remains, remains. And this remainder will always be enough." Amen. Deeply thankful for this moment in this place, and for relocating this awareness. Namaste. 

India Grit: Dharavi Slum

I've been asked to share stories of India grit. The sounds, smells, pace...real India. That must mean my stories are too smiley and idyllic and not what you'd quite expect, huh?! Well, I'm smiley and idyllic and not what you'd expect, so it kind of goes with the territory, right?! Okay, you asked for it, so here we are. But before I begin, let me preface this all by saying this is India through MY eyes. Everyone experiences places in their own unique way, and I think - though there are consistent experiences among travelers - much of what we experience depends on what kind of energy we approach situations with.  

The Plastic Yard at the Dharavi Slum

So, let's first travel to the Dharavi slum: Asia's largest slum, and home to a staggering 1 million residents and thousands of industries. The slum - with an industrial side and a residential side - lives on a plot of land 1/2 the size of New York City's Central Park. Dharavi is 20x more dense than Mumbai, and Mumbai is pretty dense, folks. 50% of the Mumbai population lives in slums. The average household houses 4.5 people and 48% of the houses are less than 10m2.

In this bustling industrial hub, industries such as plastic and aluminum recycling, leather, pottery, garments, baking, and more account for an annual turnover of over 665 million USD. It also happens to be one of the most fascinating places I've ever encountered. 

80% of Mumbai's plastic recycling goes to Dharavi. Photo Credit: Reality Tours

I visited Dharavi with an organization called Reality Tours, whose goal is to break down stereotypes through sharing the stories of the people and allowing tourists to see the reality for themselves. You see, the movie "Slumdog Millionaire" was based on life in the Dharavi slum, though the people of Dharavi were not too stoked about the way their home was depicted. These are a proud, industrious people. There is zero begging and zero prostitution in this slum. And these people - like most Indians I've encountered - are damn hard workers. Impressively so. They make us Americans look like spoon-fed, AC-consuming, desk-bound whiny little bitches. I'm sorry, it's the truth. You asked for grit. Grit you will receive. Quite often when you travel you realize what's wrong with your own culture, rather than the reverse. That's reality. 

Cardboard recycling in Dharavi. PC: Reality Tours

I don't feel sorry for the people of Dharavi. Rather, I'm fascinated by them and admiring of them. They don't want you to feel sorry for them. Sure, there might be better living and working conditions from the perspective of a westerner, but this is their way of life and the the last thing they need is for westerners to tell them they'd be more civilized people if they shit in a toilet. To them, we might be more civilized people if we spent more time with our families and less time pent up in track housing cubicle land, spending all of our money on fancy cars and other new toys, right?! Perspective. 

All in a Dharavi day's work. PC: Reality Tours

About 50% of the residential population of Dharavi is Muslim, 40-45% Hindu and 5-10% a mashup of other. For the most part, Muslims and Hindus live in peace. That's not to say there haven't been issues, because there have. And, if a Hindu boy meets a Muslim girl, you better believe there would be a war waged between the families. That's the reality. 

When I returned to Mumbai, monsoon season had just begin, so Arushi had fully prepared me for the wrath of the monsoon in the Dharavi slum. Jelly shoes, umbrella, raincover for my backpack...I was as ready as I could be. In order to maintain the trust and privacy of the people of Dharavi, photography was not allowed, apart from on the rooftop, otherwise I'd have grabbed GoPro footage of the monsoon craziness...because when it started, there was no end in sight. It started just as we entered the ultra-narrow alleyways.

The narrow alleyways of Dharavi. If you recall, Slumdog Millionaire was filmed in these allies.  PC: Reality Tours

Mothers in their ornate saris smiled as we passed by, drenched, probably thinking we were crazy white people to be touring the slum in the monsoon. Children seemed unaware of their surroundings - not knowing a life any different - as they shrieked with excitement when their friends dumped water over their shampooed heads. And they ALL wanted to share the English they knew with us yelling "HI!" to us while giving us high fives and giggling contagiously. I see India through the children's eyes. It's bright and full of hope. As we rounded a corner, a little girl grabbed my arm and was in awe of my mehndi, smiling wide and giving me praise. A tuk-tuk driver told me yesterday mehndi is like the passport to India. I like that. 

The children of Dharavi. PC: Reality Tours

We were nearly finished with the tour - good thing, too, because the New York couple was growing quite impatient - when we approached a section with water up to our knees. The monsoon has a way of flooding the streets of Mumbai, but you can imagine how messy it gets when it rains this much in a slum. With my jelly shoes, I wasn't entirely bothered by the rain, though can't say the same for "The Big Apple" - as we'll lovingly refer to the NYC chick. Just before that, as we waited under an awning, a little boy dropped his pants and went to the bathroom in an open space full of trash, then wiped his butt with water from a bottle, and his hand. "The Big Apple" says in disgust, "OH MY GAWD! Did he just shit?! He's not even bothered that we're here?!" Bahahaha. I laughed out loud. No, woman, he does not give a shit - pun intended - that you're there. This is his life. With 700 public restrooms for 1 million people, this is his reality. 

Dharavi community. PC: Reality Tours

Reality Tours works with Reality Gives to provide educational opportunities to the children of the slum. Many of the workers take the train in from other villages to work in Dharavi, or sleep in their factory. Residents of the slum own their properties and have fought against the government to come in and set up high-rise housing, fearing it will break their community ties. The community is strong and fights together. They are proud. They are hard-working. Not quite what you would have expected, perhaps?! Traveling opens your eyes and heart. I recommend it, in all it's grit and glory.