Final thoughts from India--what we did/accomplished

I realize that I've left out the entire justification for the trip--what we did when we weren't meeting with the Dalai Lama, on weekend boondoggles to Amritsar or the Taj. The main purpose of this trip was to volunteer.
Monday through Friday, the cadets and myself were placed in volunteer assignments throughout lower (Indian) Dharamsala. Four worked at a summer camp, two worked with special needs kids, one taught English, and one worked in a local hospital. I taught computer skills and typing in a small community center.

We also saw the power and challenge of money to solve problems. In preparation for this trip, Kris received generous donations from his community, mostly books and supplies to help in
schools. We also ran a garage sale at West Point of all my old adventure racing and military gear that collectively raised about $700. We planned to make purchases once we hit the ground. However, Cross Cultural has a strict policy on donations. Posted around our house were large posters, showing the problem of volunteers giving funds and the very real concern that this would produce expectations, dependence and all sorts of problems that would remain after our volunteers (and money) went home.
Nevertheless, after a number of meetings with the Cross Cultural staff, we found the middle ground. We split the cost of repainting the dilapidated community center, transforming it over a weekend from a run down, dank concrete to something more resembling a school. We purchased school supplies and computer peripherals for the center, sports equipment for the camp, medical instruments for the hospital, delivered on our last day with a member of the staff present.

The guys also saw the incredible need. My center, the Sahyog community trust, created from an initial donation now sees its funds completely depleted. After considering closing down the center, a volunteer earlier this summer 

floated the idea of selling the beautiful Indian scarves online. The sale of each scarf allows the fund to operate for a week. When 

I wasn't helping kids learn how to type or (in classic Army officer fashion) teaching them PowerPoint and Word, I worked with the center's director, Yamini, on how to market the scarves and build this critical business. Shy but whip smart, Yamini is doing what she can to become a businesswoman and keep her center 

afloat. If you have a second and need a beautiful X-mas gift that provides a very genuine feel good, please take a look at what they have to offer here.

That about does it from India. We are now back, half a world a way in far more than actual physical distance. I hope to keep this blog going as already I am loving getting back into the classroom again, teaching 

American Politics during the most fascinating election of my and my students' lives. We have a great semester set up with a slate of guest speakers ranging from Dan Rather to Paul Begala to the head of the Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America and others.

The Dalai Lama experience has made our little trip well known and I've been asked to talk about the importance of these relatively new additions to the 47 month experience. This idea 

began a year ago with my simple desire to travel to India (and get someone else to pay for it), received eager support from my department, continued through an application by the cadets, task organization so each had a role/responsibility, preparation meetings at my place where cadets researched and gave briefs on the history, culture, language and political situation. The Rubin Foundation hosted us on a Saturday in April, where we toured their fantastic museum of Tibetan art and heard from scholars of Buddhism and a representative of the Tibetan gov't in exile.

The goal of this 'operation' was simple--to help make these eight cadets to be better officers. Like all military operations, we conducted an after action review (AAR) so I figure the cadets' own assessments of this experience matter much more than my own. Thanks for reading:

The experience provided me with what I feel to be the greatest preparation I could have had for a deployment. This is due to the high volume of cultural immersion and a strong team centered environment emphasized by the Officer in Charge which allowed me to get in the mindset of thinking what it would be like to be a second lieutenant. This allowed for bar none the best learning points in my own personal leadership style than I have ever known before.

It was a fantastic experience that taught me much more than could ever be learned in a classroom setting. It developed me as a person and as a future officer.

I believe that all of the cadets who attended the AIAD received some of the best training for becoming a second lieutenant on this trip than most experiences at West Point.

Knowing what to expect greatly reduced the assault on the senses that was Dehli.

I was exposed for the first time to a situation where my belonging to the US Army was a sensitive issue, which was a valuable experience.

I experienced a very new leadership climate, different from what we usually experience at USMA. It primarily fostered individual responsibility and initiative.

My trip to Dharamsala, India was one of the richest experiences of my life. I truly feel that I will be a better officer because of it.

Not only did I enjoy the trip, the time I spent in country will 100% have a positive effect on how I operate in the not too distant future when I am deployed. I learned how to fit in a foreign culture, the importance of learning the language of the people, and other cultural norms imperative to different regions.

If I had merely traveled to India as a tourist and seen the sights, stayed in hotels and not really interacted with the locals I would not have been able to take away near as much as I did living among and interacting with members of the local community.

One comes to realize that every culture and way of life exists because it works and makes historical or practical sense in some way. Even if you don’t agree on a personal level with the way things are done, learning to work within the framework of that culture and at least temporarily putting aside your disagreements is the only way to be productive.

I may have not understood why certain things are the way they are in India but I came to appreciate them all the same. It taught me not to look down on the people of another nation because it is possibly to learn a great deal from them.

The process of making a contact, sustaining it, and working it to obtain a meeting with a man of such global importance was a great lesson that genuine feeling, a smile, and determination can lead to the incredible.

The exposure to the country we were in gave me perspective on developing nations and the perils of language and cultural barriers. This trip brought forth the realization that you truly need to understand where you are going prior to getting on the ground or else it will be difficult.

Being able to interact with other cultures is a requisite for functioning properly on future deployments. Furthermore, working with mentally disabled children gave me insight into my future profession. I plan on becoming an Army Doctor. Working with these children has solidified my objective of attending medical school and becoming a doctor.

I was able to assist in the delivery of a baby, sit in on a surgery, and refresh my medical skills

As an Army officer, I feel that I will take this learning experience and be ready for anyone, anything or any country that I find myself deployed to

The Sikhs

We're back at West Point, me teaching, the guys marching and learning. But before I wrap up the India experience, I need to express a few things. Namely my love of the Sikhs.

In the summer of 1996, I worked a summer in Africa, splitting time between teaching computer skills at a resort hotel in Mombasa and learning how to write at an opposition newspaper in Kenya. That trip, as a twenty year old, was part of my reason for creating this trip for other twenty year olds. Simply, I grew.

I also fell in love with the Sikhs. Stranded in the vast savanna that is SE Kenya, with darkness approaching, a series of misfortunes and misjudgments ended with me knocking on the door of the Makindu Sikh temple. A traveler told me that if I was in trouble, find sanctuary in the closest Sikh temple. So as the bearded, turbaned, Sikhs answered their rattling gate, there were no questions (why on foot?), no judgment (with darkness approaching?), just free food, free shelter, all at the expense of a relatively modern religion, that focuses on service in this lifetime. Who were these people, the ones that carried daggers and wooden combs as part of their belief? How could they give food to everyone that asked? I met my high water mark for random hospitality twelve years ago, and now, back in India, I didn't have to wait long for another show of Sikh hospitality.

Upon arrival in Delhi, the Cross Cultural staff pulled me aside and asked if we wouldn't mind driving up to Dharamsala. The flight from Delhi to Dharamsala had been overbooked and they needed eight program volunteers to give up their seats; as our group was nine, lean and mean, this made the most sense.

Two of our drivers were Sikhs, easily distinguished by their colorful turbans.

After taking over an hour to get past the outskirts of Delhi, we headed north on highway one. This part of India is distinguished by its indistinguishably. Tabletop flat plains stretched to both sides, providing a glimpse of the rural environment where still 80% of the one billion Indians live. Rice paddies dominated, interspersed between conical stacks of hay and large silos indicating rudimentary brick factories. Every few hours we would see billboards advertising new, massive housing communities. Then, off to the sides of the highway, we would see these half constructed complexes, without exception, sitting idle. I wondered if there had been a housing bust here as well.

About three hours into the trip, we stopped at a collection of shops that served as an upscale restaurant. The new guys got their first taste of Indian food at a Punjab restaurant. By far India's richest state and home to the Sikhs, they benefited from both an industrious culture and the large renumeration sent back from a global expat community. Many if not most of the Indian restaurants abroad are actually Punjabi restaurants.

Eight hours into the trip, the landscape, and roads, began to change. As we came to the border of Punjab and Himchal Pradesh, I caught my first glimpse of the snow capped Himalayas, off in the hazy horizon. We turned off the main highway, and began weaving through foothills seemingly made from solid mud. Water and roads cut paths through the hills, leaving large gashes that didn't betray a hint of rock.

Our driver used broken English to say that this area was his home, and asked if we would like to stop for tea--of course. A few more turns, each narrowing the road, and we found ourselves in a small housing complex that immediately reminded me of rural Iraq. Part house, part barn, we walked through a stable of cows and buffalo. One of the drivers jumped down to milk a cow; he asked if we wanted to and AJ jumped into to give it a squeeze. The guys pounced when he had trouble producing any milk.

Past the stable, the obvious host and patriarch stood straight with a long flowing gray beard. He motioned for us to sit in a semi-circle of white plastic chairs. An old lady sat behind us twirling an odd fan. The nine of us sat down in the open air next to the patriarch, and became quiet. I stumbled through Hindi. He smiled. The driver came back and asked us if we would like tea, or chai.

I've found it amazing how a simple and seemingly immutable provision like tea can change and adapt throughout the eastern hemisphere. From the creamy, super sweet concoction in Kenya that you couldn't let sit for a minute without a gravyesque skin of fat congealing on the surface, to the apple flavored deliciousness of Istanbul that goes exceptionally well with a hook-ah, to the tinking of tiny spoons whipping up the half inch of sugar that sits in the bottom of the hourglass shaped Iraqi version, tea simply happens. The Indian version, at least what we had in that Sikh courtyard, may have topped them all. Fresh, whole milk based, no skin, with delicious hints of spice, served hot in straight small glasses you grasp at the very top, the guys needed little prodding to take the offered second round.

As we sat there stumbling through pleasantries, in an environment so similar to where I did a bulk of my business in the Middle East, I felt I was keeping a promise. In pitching this trip, first to the faculty and then to the cadets, I tried to explain how these experiences do more to prepare you to be an officer than learning to jump out of an airplane. With tea, and Iraq reminiscence, came a bit of vindication.

When we said our thanks, used their squat toilet, and headed out to mount our three cars, a group of women and kids peered cautiously through an adjacent door. My smile and "Namaste" was quickly reciprocated. As Sean gave the old man a frisbee (we should have done better with the West Point gifts), I gave the kids some gum and pens. The guys were thrilled and talking about how great this unexpected stop was.

But that wouldn't be the last of our Sikh experience, with the center of Sikhdom a doable weekend trip away from Dharamsala.

Located close to the Pakistani border, Amritsar with its Golden Temple is the mecca for Sikhs. As you walk through the gates, I was immediately struck by two things mostly absent from India: order and cleanliness.

There is simplicity to the Golden Temple that, even after a long day of travel, we could understand. Take off your shoes and trade them for a token at an organized office. Walk through little pools of water to wash your feet. Cover your head (we bought 10 cent orange bandannas emblazoned with Sikh prints). Touch the ground before walking inside the compound.

And there is was, gleaming in the night. The Golden Temple, covered in gold leaf, glows from a manmade island set in the middle of a square, manmade lake. I've always loved religions that allowed more than hushed whispers and silent reverence in their holy places. Walking clockwise around, you'll see people prostrate, sitting, and conversing on the broad marble walkway and bathing, swimming and soaking in the sacred pool. Above it all comes the singing of priests, piped through the PA system, chanting and reciting passages from their Holy Book. This occurs from 02:30 AM until 10:30 PM, just a few minutes away.

Sikhs don't need an invitation to come up and speak with you. Many youth hang around the temple to practice their English. As I was meandering, one walked up, introduced himself and told me I was welcome to come into the inner sanctum to see the closing of their Holy Book. We walked the single gangway/dock, leading from the side to the temple, mostly covered in gold leaf, with the interior in beautiful inlaid marble much like I saw at the Taj.

The interior was packed. About a hundred worshipers were pressed together in half of the room. Across a small handrail a central Sikh figure, his head wrapped in a deep purple turban sat cross legged, reading from a thick 6" book, about 18" x 18" in dimension. Three attendants sat in this inner sanctum, each with a prescribed task. One swept coins and bills tossed into the center. Two others stood posed on both sides of the book. Four musicians sat to the left, one singing, one patting on a tabla, and two others played an accordion like device, all providing an exotic musical backdrop to the chanting of the central Sikh, who suddenly stopped.

As hundred watched and perspired, the central Sikh closed the book. Then in a slow, deliberate manner that reminded me of an honor guard folding the flag, the two attendants to the side began pulling up and folding sheets to cover the book. As the music continued to play, the book was folded up with dozens of sheets. When done, the wrapped book was huge; the central Sikh put it up on his head, said a few words and the crowd prostrated. My guide directed me out of the sanctum, showed me around the rest of the temple (more priests) and then we joined the masses carrying the book in a golden arc, out of the temple. At the end of the gangway, a Sikh scooped out a clump of sweet dough and plopped it in our hands.

I ran into one of the cadets munching on dough. He said the rest of the guys were already racked out, and they wanted to do as the locals, by sleeping within the temple. I found them curled up together, orange bandannas still atop heads, somehow sleeping on the hard marble. Some of them wore the steel bracelets common to the Sikhs--something past the flowing beards, turbans and daggers to distinguish themselves. As I curled up next to the lake, I feel asleep, proud of the guys.

I woke to water being thrown in my face. It was 2:30 and time for the temple to be cleaned. We got together and wandered over to a large dormitory for pilgrims. Another Sikh volunteer directed us into a room with large platform beds, in which the guys collapsed. Free lodging and health care for anyone is part of the Sikh belief.

The sound of the book being read awoke me a few hours later. As the sun was up, I walked back to the temple and saw life continuing as before. Some Indian tourists mobbed me to ask where I was from. They loved hearing I was from America, although they weren't sure about the increasingly close relationship fostered in a contentious nuclear pact.


A man joined others, and bathed with his son in the lake. While I needed a bath, what I needed more was some food.

Here the Sikhs, yet again, don't disappoint. Providing food for everyone is part of any Sikh temple, no different here than in the remote plains of Kenya. I walked into the central dining facility and again was impressed with the military-like order and efficiency. I was directed to sit in a long line, as volunteers came by, dishing out dahl (a lentil soup), a sweet white rice pudding with raisins and slapping chapattis onto my plate. As the entire line watched my every move with curious smiles, I cleaned the plate.





Turns out they feed 10,000 a day at the Golden Temple. Again, staffed all by pilgrim-volunteers, I wandered first up the stairs to get a birds eye glimpse of the complex. A volunteer stood guard on a room covered with chappatis. I talked with a Brit Foreign Service officer, on vacation from Islamabad, about the odd feeling of walking on bread.
We walked into the kitchen to watch cauldrons of dahl being prepared next to thousands of chappatis being patted and roasted. My digital camera came out and the bakers really started to perform, addresses being swapped, pictures being promised.














I was meeting up with the guys to head back to Dharamsala, so I said my thank yous, dropped some money in the donation bin and headed to our link up spot. They seemed happy, laden with Sikh souvenirs of daggers, steel bracelets and lots of knick knack inspired by the new #1 film in India, "Singh is King" featuring the story of a bumbling, good natured Sikh all set to a soundtrack that features Snoop Dogg. As we listened to rap-Bollywood fusion on the way back to the mountains, the guys were buzzing about how cool the Sikhs were. I can't imagine what it must be like to be a Sikh today, to wear their turbans proudly, despite their own history rife with torture and persecution, by Muslims and Hindus, in the post-9/11 world and to do so without hesitation.

On the first day of class, I always mention the one word that more than anything else will help the cadets be successful--passion. Passion for the subject, passion for the reading, passion in finding out whatever interests you and finding the American Politics angle on it, will help turn the material and subject alive.

I think that is why I love the Sikhs--their passion for doing good now, in this world, for providing food, for their openness, for their pride, for their martial order, for their commitment to service and volunteering. In passion, Singh truly is king.

Border closing

As an officer in one of the most powerful armies in history, there is much for which to be thankful. After seeing a number of other militaries, our non-commissioned officers, equipment and general esprit de corps are second to none. But it is not just our sophistication; I also appreciate the simplicity of our U.S. Army. We walk and salute in somewhat normal fashion. No weird leg kicks, odd arm swings, or spastic salutes, our movements seem very clean, sharp and simple. Second our uniforms don't have nearly the ridiculousness of plumes, crops, riding boots, super-sized medals and strange hats that seem to dominate the rest of the world. These days we don't even polish our boots and our combat uniforms are pajama-like comfortable. Last weekend we discovered the Indians and Pakistani border guards were not so lucky.

On our one free weekend, we decided to head west towards the Pakistani border. Attari is the single border crossing point between India and Pakistan. During the 1947 partition, estimates ranging from hundreds of thousands to millions went missing as Muslims fled to newly created Pakistan and Hindus and Sikhs fled south to India. I expected the closing to be somber, serious and martial reflective of the current conflict, backed by nuclear weapons, that has killed thousands over the years, and a handful even since we've been here.

The drive from Dharamsala took over six hours, even though the distance couldn't have been more than about 150 miles. At any moment, on any stretch of Indian highway, lanes are mere suggestions as cargo trucks swerve around rick shaws, avoiding taxis which dodge around little pelatons of Hindus, riding bikes covered with orange garlands, all of which watched by dozens of people on bikes or simply standing on the side of the roads. And all must dodge, swerve and avoid the damn cows.

The cows are well past annoying, not out of lack of respect for religion, but out of their disrespect for instinct. Nothing in their genetic instinctual wiring should lead them to stand in the middle of a paved road, where there is no food, with huge beasts swerving and beeping just inches, but always inches, around them. Yet this is where I've seen almost all the cows in India, not in the fields munching on grass as one might expect, but in the streets eating cardboard boxes or nosing through the inevitable pile of roadside trash. As we near missed our hundredth cow, I really do believe they are conscious and take great satisfaction in simply screwing with a nation that reveres them.

Dropped off by our driver about a kilometer from the border, we heard the border before seeing it, with the deep thump of techno music and cheers of crowds hitting us. It felt like walking through a parking lot to a baseball stadium, hearing the crowd roar...we quickened our step.

We climbed the three flights of stairs to get to the top of the stadium and wedged through a mass of Indians. What we saw next was nothing like the seriousness you would expect two enemies would display. Thousands of Indians sat and stood in huge bleachers surrounding a road leading to the border gate. Children and women danced to popular Indian songs in the street. A man in teal somehow was appointed to get the crowd going and would occasionally give the 'raise the roof' sign to produce a cheer.


This was usually in response to a cheer from the other side. About 200m away, we could see the Pakistanis, in their own stands, waving their own flags. "Allah...Allah" was answered by "Hindustan!".


Which brings me back to those poor Indian and Pakistani soldiers. While I was impressed with their height, I felt for them in what they wore...what looked like red and gold Chinese fans on top of their hats for the former and much cooler but still elaborate dark fans for the later. These shook and wobbled, making them look like roosters, twitching and strutting and constantly having to reposition their hats to keep them straight.


We talked our way into the VIP section about 50 m from the border gate, and sat a few feet away from a group of plummed soldiers led by what was likely the officer of the guard. In sync with their Pakistani peers, the officer would call each out one by one. They would answer by a straight leg kick that the Rockettes would admire, then with arms swinging straight, march at a double time up to the gate. It reminded me of pro wrestling, with the match getting more complex as more and more ran out of the locker room. Each had a role, mirrored by a Pakistani on the other side, of gate opener, flag rope tier, flag lowerer, buggler, etc. As each got inches from the imaginary line separating these two foes, they would prance and look tough, flexing and preening. The toughness patina ended when they would do their Roxette kicks, with their unfortunate hats, but the Indian and Pakistani crowds loved it.

At the end, the flags were lowered, in sync, inch by inch. The gates were again closed and the crowds were allowed to surge past the rooster plumed soldiers to the gate. I expected hatred from the crowds of enemies now separated by feet, but mostly I just saw little waves back and forth and curious stares peering back and forth. The mirrored movements of the soldiers were replaced by the mirrored reflection of two enemies that up close, looked almost identical to each other.

Preparing to meet the Dalai Lama

A misty gray morning here on what should be an amazing day. We are scheduled to meet HH Dalai Lama later this afternoon.

After the 2:30 wake up yesterday, I went for a run up the mountain to McLeod Gang. It took about 26 minutes of straight up hill running. The placement went well as Yamini and I are working to get a syllabus and plan together. Brian came back from his placement at the hospital thrilled. Initially placed in the summer camp, teaching sports, this former Army medic and civilian paramedic wanted to use his skills as best as possible. He asked to be reassigned and again Cross Cultural staff accommodated. After seeing what they do with so little (bleaching and reusing latex gloves, an ambulance empty past a wooden bench, etc) he talked about a new path in life.

Following the placement, I crashed for an hour and was awoken by a call from HHDL’s office. Where I thought we had an outside chance to meet HHDL when he was coming or going from one of his teachings, I didn’t expect a call so soon. Tenzin Takhla, in perfect English, stated that we would need to be up at the Government in Exile’s headquarters at 11:45 so we could pass through security. Except for not bringing cameras (they would have an official photographer take the photos), little other guidance as to behavior, dress, 2qw given. He suggested we meet with the Department of Information, one of the seven cabinet level departments within their executive prior to the meeting.

First we needed clearance from Cross Cultural solutions; meeting at 11:45 meant that many of the cadets would miss their placement that day. I spoke with the country director back in Delhi to get the approval. She was thrilled, supportive, and only asked that I conveyed to the non-West Point volunteers that this was something in the works for many months to prevent a stampede.

Grabbed the guys and headed up the mountain to the Government in Exile. After a couple or wrong turns, we ended up in the small compound, about halfway up the mountain between Dharamsala and McLeod. We were met by Masood Butt, an employee of the Department of Information. He sat with us and explained the political structure and answered our questions well past the office’s closing time.

He described a judiciary that must work within the Indian judicial system (reminded me of how the U.S. military is governed when stationed abroad, through Status of Forces Agreements (SOFA)s), and a complex election allocation that polls the roughly 100,000 Tibetan refugees spread across the world to select 43 parliamentarians and their chief executive every five years. Parties have not developed in this system, instead Madison’s prediction of faction balancing faction manifests in the legislative checking the executive. Six parliamentary seats are reserved for women but more than that are serving in this parliament.

Green books given to every official refugee over the age of six, prove status and also contribution to the government. Those in India are asked to give 56 rupees a year (yes…$1.25, a little more than I’ve paid for a Diet Coke). If they are salaried by the government or more well off, they are asked to give 2% of their income. Dependent on the repatriations from Tibetans abroad (Masood estimated 3-4,000 in North America), all payments are recorded in their personal green books. He recommended asking people to produce these to prove their true Tibetan status.

As monkeys fought in a tree just outside the lobby, the guys asked some great questions, specifically about the Dalai Lama’s role and the prospects of a return to Tibet. Masood stated how the government was modeled after the Indian system, with a President serving as a nominal head of state. The Dalai Lama served this role, but far more than nominal, would be involved in all major issues.

He talked with certainty about the end of exile, “When we return to China, we will dissolve this government.” Masood stated the three main stumbling blocks for a return would be first, China’s insistence on the Dalai Lama stated Tibet’s place within China both in the past and today, second, bringing the three traditional provinces into Tibet (the current Tibetan Autonomous Region or TAR encompasses only about 50% of the land Tibetans claim) and third, the amount of internal autonomy granted to Tibet to govern within China. The prospects of all three seem dim; even if history could be rewritten, I just can’t picture the PRC allowing a democracy to flourish within its borders, especially one that claims a huge swath of increasingly important territory (traditional Tibet is the source of water for the major rivers of both China and India and therefore 35% of the world’s population).

When I asked about the Olympics, Masood began with the official answer—that the administration is not against the Olympics and the HHDL has expressed his support of China hosting the event from the start. I pressed on his opinion of the protests against the torch and how his office was prepared for what would likely occur around the world. He emphasized that the government’s ability to control the many NGOs and Tibet support groups, each with their own agenda, was limited to appealing to them, which had occurred. In a democracy, he stated, there is always space for dissent. He admitted the difficult of this period of time when stating, “The Olympics will come. They will go. But the dialogue with China and our eventual return will continue.”

After some final tips on protocol for the meeting, we thanked him and walked outside. Huge monkeys leapt from buildings, to powerlines, to trees, right past a huge banner protesting the Olympics.

Afterwards, we headed up to McLeod. Some of the guys picked up some of the beautiful, delicate white silk scarves that will be presented to HHDL, while others did a primer on Tibetan greetings. At dinner, Loc and Kris gave a fantastic reminder lecture on Buddhism. Loc doesn’t say much, but when the topic is either Buddhism or his time as a squad leader for new cadets, he has much to say. As we ate our power outage produced candlelight dinner, the guys asked questions about Buddhism and debated its merits. The guys put forward the question they would ask if given a chance and settled on Loc’s if we only had one—reconciling Buddhist philosophy with their chosen military profession.

Now headed out to our placements, I hope they get the chance to ask their question.

Dharamsala impressions

Woke up at 2:30 am wide awake, after about five hours of sleep. So I'm sitting at our little dial up computer listening to the thunder roll outside. It is monsoon season here in Dharamsala and one of my first purchases was an umbrella.

My days here are starting early, with instant coffee looking out over the valley. Let me paint the picture of Dharamsala. It clutches the very end of the Himalayan range. The town itself is jumbled together; walking through it you get hit with the smells of street venders (minus the urine and excrement that wafted through Delhi), the sounds of dozens of horns beeping as little minibus taxis and motorcycles/scooters weave through the crowd, the sights of the jumble of signs, drooping power lines and mismatched buildings that characterize most of the emerging world. Dharamsala itself is very Indian and while it definitely benefits from tourism, most of the town seems to carry on without noticing the Americans from our group. No beggers or people yelling out "Hello!" "My friend!" as I've found all over the world. The one huge exception to the commonality of the place is the cows. Sacred for Hindus, they roam here as they roam Delhi. I realize that I've gotten used to them already, but picture a cow roaming through NYC and you start to get the picture. No one touches them, herds them, shoos them, they just carry on as if they were part of the landscape.

We live in a house about a five minute walk from Dharamsala. The mountainside is latticed with walkways, most paved, some even lit at night. I sleep in a room with two of the guys, with the other six split between two rooms. We have one real bathroom, one Indian style one (squat) and a kitchen. We eat our meals together in another house where the Cross Cultural staff lives.

I am loving the food. My meals are typically banana or mango lassi (a sweet yogurt drink), a bottle of water, some naan (the fantastic charcoal oven flat bread) and a curry. I love the amount of spice in the food here, enough to let you know it is there but not enough to leave you gasping for water. No real stomach problems yet. Last night we went up the mountain to McLeod Gang with three of my guys; we've had a number of rolling laughter meals and last night especially.

McLeod Gang sits 1500 feet above Dharamsala, clinging to the same mountain just higher. We take a taxi for $2.50 the five harrowing kilometers winding up a road that in many places is only, barely wide enough for one of the small mini-buses. Two way traffic careening up/down, with some sharp drop offs and steep cliffs makes for a fun trip. The trip takes about 10 minutes but completes a transition from Indian to Tibetan. About five minutes up, we start seeing the deep maroon of the monks robes, wrapped around shaved heads. They remind me of the deep red of the Masai on the Kenyan savannah and how their draped robes distinguish them from the landscape. They've surprised me with their umbrellas, slickers and mixed sex.

McLeod is where the Dalai Lama fleed during the Chinese persecution of Tibetans in the 1950s. Since then, he has carved out a goverment in exile on this mountain side. The Dalai Lama or HH (His Holiness) as he goes by here gives public lectures a few days in the year. As providence has it, he is lecturing August 4th-6th on the topic of Korean Buddhism. We went to the gov't office to register to attend. And yes, I've requested a special audience for our group.

HH's presence here means that McLeod will be a focal point during the Olympics. For now, the streets seem very calm, with the Tibetans following the Dalai Lama's call of support for the games, although I watched a candlelight procession with a few dozen Tibetans yesterday. You can find 'Free Tibet' on everything from road signs to shoulder bags. The rest of the town is very much oriented to the backpackers seeking enlightenment. The two-street town is filled with Internet cafes, tons of shops selling knick knack to some very nice items and signs advertising yoga, massage and rekki. A massage costs $7.50 for an hour so you can bet I'll be there on a daily basis. My first was yesterday, in a quiet, incense filled room.

Back to the average day. After coffee, I am out walking/running with one of the guys up the mountain. Yesterday, Leo and I spent a good deal of time watching a troop of monkeys. After the walk, I catch a quick communal breakfast at the CCS house, then off to my placement at the Sahyog Center. I head off with a driver for 25 minutes over more bouncing roads. I work with a young woman who runs the center, Yamini. A mother of one, divorced at 25, she gets up at 4:45 every day, tutors two kids at her house, gets to the center at 8, stays until 6 PM, goes home (she lives with her parents) and tries to fit in studies for a masters in English. The center does two main things--teach English and teach computer skills. I've been paired up for the computer training. Right now I am working with Yamini on something where I can actually help--organization. We are building a syllabus and just organizing the mob of kids that want to come and practice their typing. A previous volunteer got Yamini up on the web and started a small business selling scarves; www.moli.com/sahyog. We all finish our volunteer work around noon, grab a communal lunch and then either have mandatory cultural lessons/classes with Cross Cultural or have the time to our own.

My Hindi is coming along nicely. I am trying to convince the cadets on the power of language, of trying even if you know you will butcher, and my approach to language. Every taxi ride, street vendor purchase, I am doing the same standard conversation (Hi/How are you?/Are you married?/Kids?/Pleasure meeting you!) by now. Universal production of smiles with kids, cabbies, shop owners etc.

The cadets are doing well and making me proud. They are placed in summer camps, learning disability centers, a hospital and one teaching English at Sahyog. Sometimes they remind me they are 20-21 but most of the time I forget. The work put in putting this together I believe will more than pay off...I see it in their excitement, their realization about the commonalities and differences between cultures, their growing confidence in getting around, and their general satisfaction in being treated as grown men.

Some little moments that stand out. Yamini, standing on a plastic chair as she waves incense in a circle around shrines to Ganesh and other Hindi gods that sit above the doorway to the center. My driver teaching me Hindi as we bounce on the roads to the center, removing both hands to do a quick prayer as we drive past little road side shrines for Shiva that remind me of the little road side Catholic monuments in Germany. The odd response most Indians give to almost all questions, kicking their chin to the right and the top of their head to the left, an expression that can mean yes, no, maybe, I don't understand, you butcher my language, etc.