The Greenlandic saga

We first met each other in the screening room of our Reykjavik hotel.  Moira was one of the guides, an enthusiastic young woman from British Columbia.  She would be our naturalist, discussing everything from lichens to whales.  She was an energetic blonde with purple-streaked hair who had a penchant for breaking into song and howls.  That evening she gave us an introductory lecture and had the guests repeat the slogan, “This is Greenland.”  She explained that plans could change without warning.  Standard rules of schedules, weather, and logistics did not apply.  Previous groups had gotten stranded in camp when poor visibility prevented helicopter and boat departures.  There were no roads where we were going…

We had all come for different reasons.  Some people mentioned the wildlife, others the geology, and some wanting to experience something unique.  I came to witness the rapidly changing landscape.  I had read recent articles about the melting of the ice cap, the rise of the oceans, and the opening of northern waterways through previously frozen waters.  (See Elizabeth Kolbert’s article in the October 24, 2016 issue of The New Yorker, Greenland is Melting.)  While Greenland had long been on my doomsday travel list, I had a new-found sense of urgency about getting there.

Most of the guests were travelling solo on this expedition, which created an interesting social dynamic.  Everyone needed to make a concerted effort to get acquainted.  We quickly learned each other’s names—Daphne, her sons George and Andreas, Marilyn, Elizabeth, Michelle, Tom, Norman, and Renata.  Over the next ten days we would hear each other stories, from our origins to our destinations, our hopes and our heartbreaks.  We were a motley crew about to embark on a singular adventure.

Tom was a retired circuit court judge from Michigan and would be my kayak partner.  Renata was a logistician sent from the home office and a fellow vegetarian.  Norman, a retired naval engineer, had once lived in Corvallis, Oregon.  Michelle had a wicked sense of humor, a Canadian transplanted to Boston.  Marilyn was a retired corporate lawyer from the Midwest.  Elizabeth was a medical librarian.  Daphne was a New York City physician in private practice.  George was a junior in high school, Andreas a sophomore in college, each trying to navigate his way in the world.  And isn’t that what we were all doing?

Greenland is a country in flux—not only because of wind and ice and clouds, but also from the influence of outside cultures and technology.  It is the largest island in the world (Australia counts as a continent), and 80% of the landmass is a 2-mile thick ice cap.  The population of 56,000 lives in the green belt on the periphery.  Greenland is an autonomous country, but considered part of the Kingdom of Denmark with associated economic and political ties.

While most people see Greenland from a ship, we would be staying on land at the Greenland Base Camp.  This three-year-old semi-permanent camp is in a channel off the Sermilik Fjord, on the less visited and less populated East Greenland.  To get to the “Arctic Riviera” took the better part of a day.  We began with an airplane flight from Reykjavik to Kulusuk (“place like the chest of a black guillemot”), site of East Greenland’s airport.  The airstrip was originally part of an airbase constructed by the American military in 1956.  The Americans had left, but the airport remained.  From Kulusuk we took helicopters to Tasiilaq (pop. 2000), the largest town in East Greenland.

In Tasiilaq we were met by Daniel, our historian and kayak guide.  He was a lanky dark-haired Australian from the Blue Mountains.  Daniel would later give lectures synthesizing his knowledge of geology and history, including the tale of Nansen’s expedition across the Greenland icefield.  He gave a talk on snow, how it changes with time and pressure, how some ablates and some persists.  He described how a glacier is a moving icefield, carving its signature into the Earth.  The fjords, icebergs, and rocks tell stories of what has past and what is yet to come.  I thought of how cool glacial ice would be in my gin and tonic.

On one of our first nights of the trip, we saw the movie “Palo's Wedding,” directed in 1935 by half Inuit, half Danish explorer Knud Rasmussen.  Inuit culture is hundreds of years old and gave us the kayak, the anorak, and harpoon technology.  The Inuit survived in Greenland while the Norse civilization perished.  Rasmussen wanted to capture East Greenlandic Inuit life, and filmed scenes of polar bear hunting, seal skin preparation, and shamanic rituals.

Despite the age of the movie, it felt remarkably contemporary.  It was the classic tale of two young men vying for a young woman’s affection.  There was a drum dance showdown, filled with expressions of mirth, terror, and most powerful of all, the blank stare.  Stoicism is a highly-prized emotion in this culture.  Ultimately (spoiler alert!) the victor grabs his lady, straps her to the back of the kayak, and paddles away.  The movie showed the sharply defined roles of men and women.  The strongest hunter chooses the woman most adept at domestic skills to be his wife.  Her duties including sewing and embroidery, and preparing seal meat and skin.  Clothing must be both ornamental and functional.  A man is literally sewn into his kayak.  His garment needs to be wind, water, and weather proof.

On another night we met Rasmus, a 25-year old Dane who described his life in Tasiilaq.  He had fallen in love with a local girl while at university and had dropped out of school to settle in her village.  He lived with his girlfriend’s family, raised sled dogs, and was trying to get his tour business off the ground.  He would take intrepid travelers on guided sled trips during the winter.  I thought it brave and romantic of him to choose this challenging life, and I wished him well in his endeavors.

After two days in Tasiilaq, we took a boat to the base camp.  We passed a wonderland of icebergs with all their varied forms and blue colors.  We took turns describing the shapes we saw—opera houses and dragons and faces. The seafaring birds flew overhead:  the fulmars with their choppy wing glides, the colony of common eiders, the glaucous and Icelandic gulls.  We spotted our camp in the distance, a tiny row of tents overshadowed by the mountains of the valley.

We got oriented to the camp, from the Endurance dining hall to the shower tent to the communal yurt which housed the library and board games.  I was impressed by the coziness of our tents.  Our beds had faux fur blankets.  Each tent had its own propane heater.  While it could be stiflingly hot during the day I didn’t complain because I knew we would be warm at night.  I hate being cold.

We were fitted with our Mustang suits which would serve as both flotation devices and protection from the elements.  We strutted like supermodels while looking like Michelin men.  We were quite formidable in our suits.  We gazed warily at the electric fence surrounding the camp, to keep polar bears at bay. We met the sled dogs, Nanook and “Lady.”  They were to alert us if a polar bear was nearby, although since they were chained, they couldn’t do much else.  I found out the “Lady’s” name was the pejorative term for female dog.  Apparently she was friendly towards people but nasty to other dogs.  She and I got along just fine.

We met Julius, one of our zodiac drivers and guides.  He was from the nearby town of Tinit.  While visiting his village, we were invited to his mother-in-law’s home.  She showed us her otak, the knife used to defat seal meat from the skins.  She was renowned in the village for her skills, and proudly passed around her beautiful pieces.  We saw boots, shorts, and jackets made from seal skin, cloth, and intricate beading and weaving.  She showed us an amaud—a woman’s anorak, with an additional strap to hold an infant in place.  A woman could simultaneously work, feed her baby, and maintain warmth for both.

The walls were lined with family portraits, and there was a large screen television in the living room.  This is the challenge, to preserve traditional Inuit values in the face of 21st century technology.  While young children are educated in Tinit, when they get older they are sent to Tasiilaq, and sometimes to Denmark for advanced training.  Julius had spent time in Denmark learning to be an electrician.  While he worked in tourism, he remained committed to teaching his children the hunting and fishing skills necessary to survive this climate.

Julius’ story was an interesting one.  At the age of 4, he had been adopted by an older couple because his biological family could not provide for him.  He described how he had learned to swim, not in the summer, but in the winter because a hunter needed to be fearless and able to handle the cold.  The Inuit culture recognizes the importance of community to one’s survival.  Multiple families lived in a sod houses together, to preserve body heat, to divide up the labor of hunting and domestic work, to share food.  A hunter cannot kill a whale alone.

One can see the result of losing the Inuit values of community and designated roles.  With the loss of purpose comes higher rates of depression, alcoholism, and domestic violence.  Of course, other factors can contribute to mental illness, such as the prolonged darkness of winter and genetics, but feeling isolated doesn’t help.  We visited a small craft shop which donated space and tools for people to create and sell art together, a place to restore some pride and connection.  Tobacco and fast foods are also exacting their toll.  The subsistence diet is being replaced by processed, fatty, and sugar laden foods imported from Denmark.

One morning I woke up with an all-over body ache.  I was faintly nauseated, feverish, and head-achy.  I knew our plan for the day included a long hike and even longer zodiac drives.  I considered staying at camp but when I saw the stunning blue sky, I knew I would regret missing the glaciers.  So I loaded up on tea and anti-inflammatories and bundled up in the Mustang suit with the rest of the crew.  We had the first of several whale sightings.  First we saw a hump-back, later a family of fins.  We stopped for a snack on the edge of one glacier, and had lunch on the ledge of another.  While most the group went off for a hike, a few of us stayed back.

I found myself a private spot from which to contemplate the ice.  I felt like a lizard sunning myself on a rock, and let the heat warm my sore muscles.  I sought quietude to meditate and instead got the cacophony of sounds:  the thunderous glacial calvings, the snap, crackle, pop of the floes below, the startling sound of a bergey bit rolling over.  I heard a sweet chirping sound, and saw a mustard colored bird watching me.  This bird did not look like the snow buntings I had seen.  I noticed how the color of the bird matched the rock.  I was sure I had discovered some new species but later realized that the mustard color was the lens of my sunglasses, and the bird was likely a brown yellow Northern wheatear.

Greenland has the impermanence of a dream.  Water exists simultaneously in all its forms, shifting seamlessly between solid and liquid, exhaling a dreamy mist.  The wildflowers bloom effusively between rocks and over hills:  harebells and fireweed, sorrel and saxifrage.  The bejeweled flowers compete for the pollinators.  In the absence of bees, the mosquitos and flies take over that role.  We would wear mosquito head nets while hiking so as not to be devoured ourselves.  Everything that grows stays low to the ground including the Arctic willow, lichens, and crowberries.

When we did group hikes, one guide would be at the front, carrying a rifle and making noise.  This was in case of an unlikely, though not impossible, polar bear encounter.  We heard in Kulusuk that a teenage girl, listening to music on her headphones, had nearly walked into a bear recently.  The idea of seeing a bear was both thrilling and frightening.  While one guide watched for bears, the other guide would be at the back, making sure no one got left behind.  Being a helper is no less important than being a hero.

Our days were full of sunlight.  It was light when we awoke.  It was light when we went to bed.  One night I set my alarm to sound right before midnight.  I needed to see the moon.  I threw on my fleece jacket and wool socks and stepped into the night air.  From my deck I could make out the far-away lights of Tinit.  The moon was bright and almost full—a waning gibbous.  I looked for stars.  Initially I counted five but the longer I gazed, the more appeared.  Suddenly the sky was full of twinkling lights.

Another night I dreamt about garbage.  My nightmare took place in Manhattan, a recurrent location for many of my night-time journeys.  I was sorting through the recycling, compost, and trash, vainly trying to find a place for everything.   It reminded me of the scene in "Sex, Lies, and Videotape" where Andie McDonald is talking with her therapist about her obsession with garbage, and where it will all go…  Except this was not a movie about a bored American housewife.  I had seen the trash at Kulusuk, leftover industrial wastes and detritus from the defunct American military base.  I had seen litter on the shores at Tasiilaq and Tinit.   There was talk of five-year plans, of relocating the trash to Nuuk in West Greenland.  I don’t have a lot of faith in five-year plans.

While most of our days were packed with activity, we spent an inordinate amount of time eating.  We would leave after a hearty breakfast, eat our picnic lunch perched on rock ledges, have a snack-filled happy hour, followed by a gourmet dinner.  The Inuit subsist on a diet of seal, fish, and whale meat.  There is no agriculture in Greenland.  Our diet was a bit more varied.  We had access to food flown in from Denmark and Iceland.  Our chef Andrea made us homemade bread and pastas, served beautiful salads and risottos.  In the hotels of Tasiilaq and Kulusuk, our meals were served buffet style with plenty of vegetarian options.

As this was a World Wildlife Fund approved tour, the carbon footprint was offset by the cost of the trip.  There was a conscious effort to avoid restaurants that served whale.  At our last group meal, Norm commented that the meat was “curiously seasoned.”  I saw the pink-red piece of meat on his plate.  Then Daphne said she didn’t care for it, and she was having a strange reaction.  Moira and Daniel looked at each other and excused themselves.  They came back quickly to let us know that the meat was whale.  The normally placid Tom nearly spit out his bite.  He then took a sip of his boxed wine, and to add insult to injury, announced that the wine was undrinkable.  I gave the same look I always give when someone announces that they are unhappy with their piece of meat—part embarrassment, part sympathy, part disgust.  The guides were mortified and quickly exchanged plates, bringing over a couple of bottles of California Cabernet.  I continued eating my beet cakes which paired nicely with the earthy wine.

The last full day at Base Camp, I requested one last kayak trip.  I had not yet gotten my fill of the Arctic waters.  Our Zodiac driver and kayak master Ken was enlisted to take out interested parties after dinner. As it happened, most of the group opted to stay in, contented with a day of fjord exploration and sleepy after a multi-coursed dinner.  I layered up for the chilly twilight paddle.  Ken and I talked as we rowed, discussing life in New England, and our decision to live on the other coast.  He was originally from Rhode Island and now made his home in Alaska.  We discussed what it meant to live a peripatetic life, and how that choice determined other choices. We wondered about the names of the snow-covered mountains overlooking the channel, and made up names for the mountains in the style of the Inuit.  The Inuit name their places not after people but rather descriptions.  Sermilik Fjord is “place with glaciers.”    We contemplated the "head of small seal" mountain, near Tinit "where the strait remains open."  Stopping at the intersection of two channels, we sat suspended like jello on a moonless night.  As we paddled back in silence, I breathed in deeply, feeling strong in my lungs and limbs.  When we got back at 11 pm, the moon had yet to rise.

The following morning, we took our last hike in the hills behind the camp.  We stopped first to visit a litter of new born puppies and their mother, another one of Julius’ sled dogs.  They had been brought to the camp to provide food and protection.  We all took turns snuggling (and almost smuggling) the tiny 10- day old pups.  During the hike, I made a conscious effort to notice the clarity of the sky, the crispness of the air, the feel of the boggy ground cover beneath my feet.  I reconstructed the history of the land: how the glacier formed the valley and brought along the fragmented rocks.  I saw how the melting water danced over the brightly painted stones.  Everywhere the wildflowers bloomed.  The rocks were covered in lichens with their unique hues and forms.  I saw the local children bathing and laughing in the pools. Despite taking lots of photos, I knew all the images were inadequate to preserve the scene.

When my late grandmother would receive houseguests, the first question she would ask was, “When are you leaving?”  She was bracing herself for the eventual departure, anticipating the sorrow that would follow.  When I travel, I try to focus on appreciating the current place, not focusing on destinations past or future.  Nonetheless, I do feel a bit melancholy as the trip winds down.  The more remote the place, the harsher the re-entry into “civilization.”  There is something about the polar regions with their desolate and fragile beauty which leaves one disoriented upon leaving.  I felt it when I got to Santiago after Antarctica, Oslo after Svalbard.  It’s the distressed feeling of being alone in a crowd; of suddenly being plugged back into the digital grid after being away.

Once back in Reykjavik, Marilyn and I made plans for dinner.  I was glad for the company and enjoyed our in-depth conversation.  We shared our thoughts about the journey.  After dinner we walked around downtown, exploring the sites of Laugavegur street.  Marilyn headed back to the hotel, but I was feeling restless and wandered into an English style pub.  A duo was singing cover tunes.  So there I was crying into my Icelandic beer, as Pink Floyd’s “Wish you were here” and the Beatles' “You’ve got to hide your love away” played.  I scribbled in my journal, recollecting the warmth of the Inuit people, the crackling of the ice, the sweetness of the puppies.  I would miss this and more.  Nothing this beautiful can last.

For more photos, please go to Greenland photos.

Immigrant Song

I was born in Bhopal, India.  In 1984, Bhopal was the site of the Union Carbide gas leak.  At least 5,000 people died, making it the worst industrial accident in history.  I have always taken a perverse pride in being born in Bhopal, as if by leaving I narrowly averted disaster.  So much of your life is determined by the circumstances of your birth.  My parents and I lived in a modest flat, a tidy house with a small yard.  My father was an electrical engineer.  I remember waiting for him when he came from work so I could ride on his scooter.  Since we were too poor to have domestic help, my mother spent time all her time cooking, cleaning, and doing the washing by hand.  I was toilet trained at eight months, before I could walk, to cut back on the diaper burden.

My life in Bhopal was book-ended by trips to extended family.  I was the eldest daughter of the eldest son of the eldest son, a position of great privilege.  During my early years, I was doted on by grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and servants.  I thought myself the center of the universe, possessing all-encompassing power and unconditional love.  My paternal grandfather was a devoted gardener.  I ran amok in the vast gardens of the compounds, climbing guava trees, eating mangoes, chasing chickens and dogs.  The maternal compound involved roaming around a massive stone edifice, a building full of art and surrounded by exuberant bougainvillea.  This was my young life.

My first memory of America was the International Arrivals terminal at JFK.  I was four years old, clutching my mother’s hand as we disembarked from the Air India flight.  I don’t remember the Trans-Atlantic flight, which surely must have been a long, strange trip.  I remember the arrival.  I felt very small in the huge hall as I looked up at the balcony lined with international flags.  I remember seeing my father waving from above, and I waved shyly back.

My father had left India ten months earlier, a beneficiary of the Hart-Celler Act (aka the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965.)  This radical piece of legislation was proposed during the Kennedy era and passed during the Johnson administration.  The Act abolished the national origins quota system, opening immigration to non-European nationals.  Priority was given to those from countries affected by war and civil strife (e.g. Cambodia and Vietnam in the 1970s).  The Act also gave preference to certain in-demand professions such as scientists, engineers, and physicians.  Many Asian Americans can trace their roots to the immigration that occurred during this time.  While this migration led to a brain drain in much of Asia, it led to great scientific and technological advancement for the US.

My father had long dreamed of coming to America.  His application process had been expedited by his grandfather, who gave him money surreptitiously and helped him take out a government loan with family property as collateral.  My father was issued a green card on his arrival in New York City.  This card gave him permanent residency in America.  He quickly found an engineering job at American Electric Power on Staten Island.  He had a view of the Hudson River as he worked 10 hour days (with mandatory overtime.)  He rented an apartment in Flushing, Queens.  He and a friend bought a used Impala from the landlord, and my father paid an additional $15 a month in parking fees to the same landlord.  He became part of a community of recently immigrated young Indian engineers.  My father tells stories of their efforts to adapt to this strange country, such as when they tried to boil a turkey on Thanksgiving.  I think their first Thanksgiving meal consisted mostly of beer.

My father is not a foodie, and he lived on white bread and American cheese.  In his first month in America, he developed a boil on his neck.  As he had neither the time off to make a doctor’s appointment nor the health insurance to pay for it, my father used homeopathic remedies which healed the boil.  Thus began his lifelong love affair with homeopathy. My father considers himself the original “Dr. Singh.”  He is nothing if not a frugal man, and he quickly saved enough money to bring my mother and me to the States.  He was first in line at the Indian embassy at 2:00 a.m. so that he could apply for our visas before heading to work.

My mother and I arrived in December.  When you are an immigrant, there is the life before and the life after the move.  And everything is different between the two: the language, the food, the weather, the customs, the people.  Many writers have written about this sense of disorientation and displacement.  Jhumpa Lahiri describes the Indian immigrant experience in her work (see “The Third and Final Continent” from Interpreter of Maladies.)  Her images are poignant—the sari dragging in the snow, the loneliness of young wives separated from their families, the small Hindu deities in home shrines.  These are images I remember from my own life.

In India, there had been two seasons: the summer (dry heat) and the monsoon (wet heat.)  Snow came as a shock.  In America, I always felt cold despite the boots and a winter coat.  We lived in an apartment on Stanford Avenue in Queens, surrounded by concrete and crowds.  There were no expansive gardens and orchards to run around in.

I have a few other visceral memories of my early American life.  I got the mumps shortly after we arrived.  There were no vaccines in India, and my parents had not known to get them in the US.  I can still feel the pain of the swollen glands as I cried in my mother’s lap, holding my head in my hands.  I remember a boy sitting next to me in the cafeteria eating salami and blowing his breath in my face.  I remember getting lost in Rockefeller Center when my father took me to see the Rockettes.  I remember seeing my father only on weekends, as during the week as he would leave for work before I woke up, and he came home after I was asleep.  I remember the strangeness of not seeing my extended family.  I remember making toast and tea for my nauseated mother when she was pregnant with my sister.  I remember her silent sadness which I could neither understand nor erase.

Even in the culturally diverse neighborhood of Queens, I was a stranger in a strange land.  I was not black; I was not white.  My mother tells a story of us passing a group of people and my asking, “Are they laughing because we are Indian?”  I was baffled by American behavior and language.  One time in kindergarten we were told to line up.  I stood behind a girl wearing a halter top.  I was fascinated by this outfit that exposed her bony shoulder blades.  I tapped her scapula and asked why we were standing in line.  “Assembly,” she replied curtly.  “Oh,” was my response.  “You don’t even know what assembly is,” she said as she whipped back around.  She was right.  I fought back the hot tears of shame.  I would ask about that word when I got home.  And every other word I didn’t understand.  There would be many strange words in this language: galoshes, catechism, auditorium, smock.

As I grew up I recognized that despite being educated in English medium schools, my parents retained their accents.  They were not always understood by native speakers.  I remember my mother asking the school for the lunch “me-nu” or my father asking for a “fill-up” at the gas station, their requests being met by baffled stares.  I could understand my parents, why couldn’t other people?  I was fortunate that both my parents were literate in English.  My mother read to me.  I watched hours of Sesame Street and soap operas.  I had access books at home, from my precious Little Golden Books to the Big Book of Science.  I had learned to read and write in Hindi before I came to America, and I quickly became proficient in English.

In first grade, we were required to bring books to read in class.  I always had a book with me but there was a young boy who was usually empty-handed.  I can still see Louis with his big brown eyes and an open, pleasing face.  In retrospect, I suspect his name was Luis.  He didn’t speak English, and he was scolded daily by the teacher for not bringing a book.  One reading period I saw him pull a book out of his backpack.  He looked so proud.  The teacher saw him with the book and accused him of stealing it.  I wanted to intervene, to say, “No, that is his book.”  But I didn’t.  And again I feel the hot tears of shame on my face.  I regret that I kept silent.  Perhaps I was shy or afraid or uncomfortable.  That is no excuse, and I have since learned to use my big girl voice to speak up.

I didn’t consciously set out to master the English language.  I just happened to read voraciously, to the exclusion of all other activity.  I would read anything I could find:  magazines and manuals, novels and dictionaries.  My social life revolved around libraries and bookmobiles, great equalizers of public education.  I did well in English classes and had inspiring teachers.  I ultimately majored in English in college and went on to earn a master’s degree in English and comparative literature.  I recognized early that language is power.  And that those with power have a responsibility to advocate for those who are vulnerable.

We moved away from Queens when I was 7, escaping in our Vista Cruiser station wagon to the suburban oasis of Ann Arbor, Michigan.  We lived in Ann Arbor a couple of years before moving to Gaithersburg, Maryland.  We would move back to Ann Arbor a couple of years after that.  I attended five different elementary schools in six years.  Each move was a mini-migration: new teachers, new classmates, new playgrounds.  Naturally introverted, I was forced to be bold.  Fear was a luxury I could not afford.  I needed to make new friends and learn new rituals as I settled into yet another climate.  This adaptability has served me well as I navigate the world.  The frequent displacement also left me with an existential restlessness.  I am perpetually searching for belonging, for community, for home.

These early memories are the micro-traumas of a five-year-old child, told in retrospect by a middle-aged woman.  Every immigrant has a unique story, one which involves saying goodbye to one life and awkwardly embracing another.  My origin story pales in comparisons to the suffering and sacrifice many immigrants have endured.  Life is not fair.  Wealth and health and human rights are unevenly distributed in the world.  The world has always been full of immigrants and refugees, fleeing tyranny, seeking security and health for their families, hoping to live and worship as they please.  We all want the same things.

In addition to the billion Indians in India, there are countless more dispersed around the globe.  This is the Indian diaspora: the IT prodigies on the campuses of Microsoft and Amazon, the manual laborers in the Middle East and Africa, the shop keepers and motel owners, the doctors and the scientists.  When one Indian recognizes another, there is often eye contact and a slight nod.  Perhaps it is the subtle acknowledgment that we share similar struggles, aspirations, and culture.  We have eaten the same food, recognize our music, laugh about Bollywood movies.  Whether it is the Sikh Uber driver who teaches classical Indian music, or the Fijian hospital workers who share their food, or the Mauritian surgeon who wants me to mentor his daughters, we seek connection within this diverse tribe.

Immigrants face a constant struggle between assimilation and preserving their cultural identity.  Some immigrants keep their heads low, work hard, and try to blend in.  They sense that acceptance is tenuous and can easily be taken away.  America has always had a problematic relationship with its settlers.  This country has prospered on the labor of both willing and enslaved immigrants.  American democracy has been built on shaky ground.  The values of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness were meant for a select few.  The Constitution was written for and by white men, when Blacks were property, and women weren't even acknowledged.

The current American president has unequivocally denounced immigrants and refugees as threats to the American way of life.  Every day there are more deportations.  I have started carrying my passport and a copy of my naturalization papers.  Anger and xenophobia have led to an increase in hate crimes against minorities.  Recently a young Indian engineer was killed in Kansas.  He was simply having a drink with another immigrant friend.  He left behind a young wife.  This could have been my parents.  Despite this threat of violence, I refuse to be intimidated or keep my head down.

My father’s success can be attributed not only to his perseverance, but also to his grandfather's support and to a progressive US administration.  Talent alone is insufficient; there must also be opportunity.  I have benefited from internships and scholarships which allowed me to attend boarding school, an Ivy league college, and medical school.  My teachers encouraged me to be better, to think bigger, to overcome barriers.  How else could a girl child born in Bhopal become an orthopedic surgeon?

It remains to be seen what the future holds for the American political system, whether it can survive the current climate of polarization and divisiveness.  Democracy is a fragile thing.  I am slightly heartened by the appropriation of its ideals by the Canadian, Scandinavian, and mon dieu!, perhaps even the French.  So much of your life is determined by the circumstances of your birth.  I am grateful to have been born in the right place, at the right time.

There is a Crack in Everything

There is a crack in everything.  That’s how the light gets in.

“Anthem”  Leonard Cohen

The last few mornings the sunrises have been extraordinary.  The colors of blue-pink-orange linger over the mountains; the lights on the bridge shine the way onward.  Despite the ugliness of the Trump administration, beauty still exists.  It is the light driving out the darkness.

The last week—has it only been a week?—has brought an onslaught of horror.  Executive orders against refugees, immigrants, Muslims, Mexico.  Orders building pipelines, erasing mention of climate change, denying freedom of speech and health care rights.  And each act has been met with resistance.  Trump has been fought in every possible way, with tweets, emails, legal actions, in personal meetings, and phone conferences. There have been protests and record breaking marches.  In short, his actions have been met with public outrage.  This uproar has not been by elected officials, who by and large have been shamefully silent.  This has been common people, the true stewards of democracy.

Airports have been shut down, taxi drivers have gone on strike, roads have been blocked.  This movement has become an opportunity for everyone to speak out, to exercise their rights however they can.  People who have never been “political,” who have never taken any political action, have found their voice.  How many of us have written letters, made phone calls, mobilized our friends and family?  This is a chance for people to demonstrate their power and their passion, and share their decency and respect for one another.

And again Leonard Cohen’s Suzanne rings true, “And she shows you where to look among the garbage and the flowers/There are heroes in the seaweed, there are children in the morning.”


And if you are wondering what you can do, here is just one link:  How to fight Donald Trumps Muslim ban

View from the Roof of the World

Every volunteer assignment is an opportunity for adventure.  Tibet is the land of legends.  It is the fabled Shangri-La, the roof of the world.  But you cannot get there directly; you must first go through China.  I had gotten my first taste of Chinese bureaucracy when I had applied for the Chinese Visa, which is a prerequisite for getting a Tibetan permit.  And you cannot get a Chinese Visa if you mention going to Tibet.  During a brief visit to New York City, I visited the Chinese Embassy­—a massive, ugly, well-guarded edifice on the West Side Highway. I dutifully presented my documents, in duplicate as specified.  I had the passport pictures, the money order, the plane and hotel reservations which only listed sites in Chengdu and Beijing.  And because I was respectful and obedient, I could return two days later to collect my stamped passport. I am welcome to visit China for the next ten years.

Flying from Yangon to Chengdu involved a layover in Kunming, where I had to go through immigration and customs for the first time; I would do so again in Chengdu.  The female immigration officials came straight out of David Bowie’s “China Girl,” with their severe haircuts and snug outfits.  "China Girl" was one of my two earworms in the country, the other being Gang of Four’s “I Love a Man in Uniform.”  Flights in and out of China were invariably delayed.  The layovers involved everyone getting off the plane, cramming into an airport bus, driving around the tarmac, and then getting back onto the same plane.  It was literally an exercise in wasting time.

My first stop in China was Chengdu. My guide was a pleasant young woman named Shannon.  Her round glasses and short black hair reminded me of Marcie from the Peanuts cartoon. I kept expecting her to call me “Sir.”  At 14 million people, Chengdu is the fourth largest city in China.  If you have any doubt that China is the great imperial power of the 21^st century, this city will promptly school you.  The buildings are massive, built in a Communist institutional style which emphasizes function over form.  Manhattan’s avenues seem positively provincial in comparison.  The highways were congested, filled with cars, bicycles, and motorcycles. Bikers wore anti-pollution face masks but not helmets.  And to stay warm, many riders donned backwards jackets that looked like a combination of quilted apron with oven mitts.

The shopping malls downtown were packed with young people, socializing, shopping, and eating.  At Shannon’s recommendation, I stepped into a doorway next to a Zara store.  I found myself in a hidden alley, full of lanterns and jade shops and carvings.  There was a food court with skewers and bowls and spices.  I was armed with my dietary preference card which had Mandarin translations for vegetarian food. No fish. No meat. Tofu, beans, dairy, eggs okay.  I was enticed by the sizzling spice of Sichuan cuisine with all those red-hot chili peppers.  I finished dinner with lips burning and tongue tingling.  But I was not here for the food.  I was here for the pandas.

Shannon and the driver picked me up early from the hotel, and we drove 90 minutes to the Dujiangyan Research Center of Giant Panda Breeding.  Shannon informed me I was going to be a volunteer “Panda Keeper.”  As with most of my volunteer activities, I was paying for the privilege.  When we arrived at the center, I changed into a utilitarian blue jumpsuit and got to work.  My role was to pick up the panda poop within the walled enclosures.  Two other volunteers washed the pens and gathered bamboo.  The guides warned that the Head Keeper was a strict woman, one who could be harsh with the volunteers. She warmed up to us, however, and allowed us extra time to hand feed the pandas and touch their paws.  We fed them apples, bamboo, and panda cakes.  Bamboo is not very nutritious so their diet is supplemented with the cakes which consist of grains such as wheat, rice, and rye.

We saw a movie about pandas, their lives and their loves.  Pandas are not very energetic and don’t have much of a sex drive.  The females are in heat only two days a year. Hence the need for a breeding center, one which monitors their cycles and encourages socializing at the appropriate times. Between loss of habitat, poor dietary choices, and lack of social skills, it’s amazing there are any pandas left at all.  They survive because they are cute, with their contrasting colors, large heads, and disproportionately small eyes.  Humans spend a lot of energy, time, and resources in panda preservation.  After I spent the day cleaning panda poop, breaking bamboo, making panda bread, and feeding pandas by hand, I got to cuddle a baby panda.  She couldn’t be bothered with me, focused as she was on eating, but it was a thrill nonetheless.

"A person can change.  Everything can change."
Marilynne Robinson  Home

My next stop was Lhasa, a short flight from Chengdu.  I stayed in the Shangri-La Hotel where most of the guests were Chinese.  The hotel had an in-house doctor and an “Oxygen Lounge” to assist with the altitude problems that can arise at 11,000 feet above sea-level.  People not accustomed to altitude can suffer from nausea and vomiting, headaches, shortness of breath, insomnia, and extreme fatigue.  The hotel was filled with elderly people walking gingerly, looking miserable, sipping on tea.  The heart can race, trying to compensate for the decreased oxygen content by pumping more furiously.  Paradoxically my heart rate slowed, holding at a steady 60 beats a minute.  Despite the outdoor temperatures being quite cool (around 30-40 degrees Fahrenheit), I felt flushed much of the time.  I wasn’t sure if I was going through menopause or malaria, but then I realized the thermostat in my room was broken.

To visit Tibet as a solo traveler, one must have a formal itinerary and state-approved guide.  Nyima (“pronounced like Nemo the fish”) was my Tibetan guide, and he spoke excellent English.  He and Dawa, our non-English speaking driver, were my good natured and steadfast companions for the 9-day visit.  Nyima shared his story with me.  He was born into a poor illiterate family in a village outside of Lhasa.  He was expected to be a shepherd like his older brothers, but apparently lacked the aptitude. At age 17 he joined a monastery in Lhasa.  There he learned to read, studied Buddhism, and led a monastic life. Four years later he was imprisoned for participating in some sort of political activity.  I didn’t ask for details and he didn’t tell.   During his four years of imprisonment, he studied Chinese and English.  Upon his release, he became a tour guide in Lhasa, encouraged by foreign mentors along the way.

He invited me to visit his house, located off a side street near the hotel.  It was a modest structure with basic facilities.  As there was no heating, Nyima sleeps under thick blankets and drink lots of hot water.  He proudly displayed a large flat screen television, his most prized possession.  He watches news and sports programs to improve his Chinese and English language skills.  He particularly enjoys American basketball and is a fan of LeBron James and Stephen Curry.  Being a tour guide has exposed him to different people and nationalities, and he imagines visiting other places.  With his criminal record, he can't get a passport or a visa.  I felt his sadness and frustration living in a system he will never escape.

The reality of Tibetan politics lies in stark contrast to its ethereal mythos. I had read up on the history of Tibet prior to my arrival.  Briefly, China invaded Tibet in 1950 as the rest of the world, namely America, India, and Great Britain, chose not to get involved.  The US government was more concerned at the time with containment of the Russian communists.  The Chinese communist regime proceeded to re-educate or imprison the monastic orders.  The Dalai Lama, the spiritual and political leader of the Tibetan Buddhists, fled to India in 1959.  The Cultural Revolution (1966-1977) brought further destruction of Tibetan monasteries and relics, under the guise of getting rid of the “Four Olds—customs, culture, habits, ideas.”  Simultaneously the Han Chinese proceeded to populate the country and build their infra-structure.  Lhasa is now composed of 70% Han Chinese and 30% Tibetans.  I had been warned not to publicly mention the Chinese invasion, the Cultural Revolution, or the Dalai Lama.  Having a picture of the Dalai Lama, or other “Tibetan” materials could result in my arrest, and risked the security of my hosts as well. 

For those interested, Tibet: An Unfinished Story by Lezlee Brown Halper and Stefan Halper covers this history in greater detail.  It is a riveting story of unchecked aggression, failed diplomacy, and covert military operations.

Tibet presented the usual precarious situations inherent in being a stranger in a strange land. Vegetarian food could be a challenge.  I had given up fish prior to my visit to Asia, partly for ethical and health reasons, primarily for personal preference.  From my previous experiences in Asia, I knew that fish came from polluted rivers or sketchy fish farms.  And the fish was super fishy in smell and taste.  Most people assumed I chose to be a vegetarian because I am a Buddhist, and I didn’t disagree.  My hosts would apologize for being “bad” Buddhists.  I would remind them that the Buddha was not a vegetarian, and he encouraged monks to eat whatever was offered them.  In Tibet noodle soup with yak meat was plentiful and affordable, and that is what the guides ate.  Fortunately I had many options beyond fried rice and vegetables.  There were momos (Tibetan dumplings), Nepali thalis, mapo tofu.  And every meal had some variation of tea:  masala chai, butter tea (with yak butter), sweet tea (with milk), and my personal favorite, lemon ginger honey tea. 

Few people spoke English.  I couldn’t negotiate prices, order food, or ask for directions (forget about having a meaningful conversation about religion.)    If I wanted to take a taxi, I would have the hotel bellman write my destination in Chinese and Tibetan.  It would be written on the hotel’s card, which I would show when I needed a ride back.  Taking taxis was a hazardous escapade, with multiple stops and many passengers crammed into the cab.  The drivers would smoke as they yelled in Chinese, careening through the busy streets.  

Travel in Tibet involved many checkpoints, at various monuments, and along the road.  There was a large police presence, with constant demand for identity cards and passports.  Timecards were stamped at each town to monitor the driver’s speed.  The penalties for driving too fast were high, and Dawa would intentionally dawdle along the roads to make sure we didn’t arrive too quickly.  There were many random cigarette breaks (both Dawa and Nyima were smokers) while I stood around contemplating the vastness of the frigid plateau.  Occasionally I scrambled behind rocks to relieve myself.  On one occasion, we drove one hour beyond the Samye Monastery to register at the police in Tsedang, then circle back with the paperwork to visit Samye.  If it were written today, Dante's Inferno would include a Chinese bureaucracy circle.  It’s the one where people who display hubris are punished by standing in a never-ending queue, a constant reminder of their impotence, insignificance, and inferiority. 

Despite the changes brought about by the Cultural Revolution, the power of piety remains palpable in the Tibetan culture.  When visiting the Jokhang Temple in Lhasa, I was mesmerized by the pilgrims, spinning prayer wheels, holding prayer beads, circumambulating the temple and adjacent market. Walking the kora can be done around a religious structure, a natural site (such as lake or mountain), or even a person.  The act itself becomes a meditative practice.  If you really want merit (and possess a limber spine), you can prostrate all the way.  I’m a fallen Hindu and a closeted Buddhist.  I meditate and pray in solitude.  Nonetheless, I was moved by such public expressions of devotion.  Surely all that communal energy must reverberate somewhere?  

I never tired of visiting the monasteries.  With each one, I became more acquainted with the iconography, the lamas, and bodhisattvas.  There were the protectors, who looked like demons, and the various manifestations of the Buddha. I learned of Songsten Gampo, the 7^th century Tibetan ruler who was introduced to Buddhism by his Chinese and Nepali wives, and subsequently introduced it to his kingdom.  He went on to build Jokhang Temple, the first Buddhist temple in Lhasa.  I learned of Guru Rinpoche, also known as Padmasambhava, who built the first Tibetan Buddhist monastery at Samye.  And my personal favorite, Milarepa, who led a tumultuous young life.  He was encouraged to become a sorcerer so that he could exact revenge on his family’s enemies through black magic.  Ultimately he repented, and after years of hard work and suffering, he attained enlightenment within his lifetime.  Most people pass through many lifetimes to achieve enlightenment, so I was duly impressed by Milarepa’s expediency.

I watched monks debating, chanting, and leading their communal lives.  The 30^th of each month is especially auspicious, as it signifies the day of Buddha’s death.  On October 30^th I was at Mindroling Monastery where I was greeted with a symphony of chanting, drums, and musical instruments. I was transfixed and reluctant to leave.  In Samye, villagers helped renovate the monastery, singing and stamping in unison as they pounded down the new floor.  I stepped inside the Drak Yerpa cave Padmasambhava had meditated in, thrilled to share the same space and breathe the same air.  I celebrated the endless Buddhist holidays, growing accustomed to the smell of yak butter, incense, and burning juniper.  And I joined in the communal circumnavigation­­­ around the monasteries, the markets, the prayer wheels, the stupas. 

One day Nyima and I walked around an eerily deserted village.  It was a road side diversion intended to while away the time until the next checkpoint.  As we wandered around yak dung houses, we were approached by an elderly woman.  She had a prayer wheel in one hand and prayer beads in the other.  She spoke to Dawa as she looked at me.  She extended her hand, and when I took it, she began to cry.  I looked at Dawa for an explanation.  “I told her you live in America, but you are originally from India.  And she associates India with the Buddha and the Dalai Lama.  I think when she sees you, it reminds her of her unrealized prayers—that she will never see the Dalai Lama in her lifetime.”  I got misty myself, moved by the emotion of the moment.

I had heard something similar when I was staying at the Shangri-La.  A warm and lovely young Tibetan waitress described her fascination with India.  She had always wanted to visit.  She dreamed of seeing the Dalai Lama in Dharamsala, his residence in exile.  She prayed for his safety and long life.  She wanted to visit the sites of Buddha’s life such as Bodh Gaya where he attained enlightenment.  And behind all her aspirations was the wistful sadness of knowing she will never be able to get a passport to go anywhere.

When I was an intern, one of the senior residents nicknamed me “Smiley.”  Somewhere along the line, after all those years of residency and fellowship, being a woman in a male dominated field, struggling to meet all the demands placed upon me, I lost my cheerful demeanor. I developed what is referred to in modern parlance as a “resting bitch face.”  When I was in Tibet, I felt my jaw loosen, my palate relax, my eyes soften.  It’s the face I have when I meditate.  It's Smiley's face.  

Sometimes when I walked by Tibetans, they would look at me and say something to Nyima.  The translation was always the same, “They say you are nice.”  “How do they know I’m nice?” I thought to myself.  One time a donkey started following us, and another time a three legged ram.  “Even the animals think you are nice.” I don’t think “nice” is what they were thinking, demonstrating the inadequacy of language and the insipid nature of that word.  I think they were conveying something like she is “pleasant” or “pleasing.”  

Even now I am struggling to articulate how Tibet changed me.  Something shifted internally.  People often wonder why I choose to travel alone.  I enjoy navigating foreign cultures and languages, keeping my intellect nimble.   “Aren’t you afraid?”  “Don’t you get lonely?”  Whatever doubts I have during my travel pale in comparison to the self I discover.  In traveling I become the person I want to be­­­—smarter, funnier, better looking, all without the benefit of alcohol.  This is the self I present to strangers.  Tibet took that feeling of boldness to another level, where I could glimpse the self I could be—a manifestation of truth and kindness and compassion.  Maybe it was the high altitude, maybe the mindful walking, maybe the rhythm of the monks chanting, but I felt simultaneously energized and serene.  I felt connected to all the beautiful and chaotic humanity around me.

Before I flew back to Seattle, I spent three days in Beijing.  I kept my expectations low, especially after my transcendent experience in Tibet.  Upon my arrival at the airport, my guide John handed me an industrial mask to protect against the air pollution.  I wore the mask most of the time, removing it in the car which had built-in air filtration.  There was a constant haze over the city and suburbs, including at my stop at the Jinshanling portion of the Great Wall, slightly outside the main city.  The tap water was not potable, and I carried a bottle filled with boiled water.  I looked forward to returning to rainy Seattle, where I could drink the pristine water and breathe the fresh air.  I felt sad for the residents who would spend all their days in Beijing. 

My hotel was a converted mansion from the Qing dynasty.  Away from the business district, the hotel was set amongst landscaped gardens and a beautiful courtyard.  It was located in a hutong (a narrow alley) near the Drum Tower and Houhai Lake.  My first few days in Beijing were spent visiting the usual sites—Tiananmen Square, the Forbidden City, the Temple of Confucius, and the Temple of Heaven. At the Great Wall, I watched a young Brazilian man sing “Something” while being filmed for You-tube.  I spent my last night in Beijing exploring the dimly lit hutong.  I took a wrong turn and stumbled upon a bustling street next to the lake.  There were ducks and paddleboats in the water, music and food vendors, children and families enjoying the evening.  I was filled with melancholy for this crazy city that I had just come to know, with its art and history, beauty and chaos.  And for a brief moment, I was a part of it all.    

For more pictures, please go to China and Tibet.