The rigors and rewards of travel are something that I have come to live for.  From hitchhiking across Hawaii and Alaska to all-night buses through Peru and Bolivia,
each trip has served to build my character and strengthen my wit,
knowledge and abilities. Now, after 6 years of traveling, I really feel
like a seasoned pro. The past 48 hours has been a wonderful reminder of
this.Leaving Hyderabad
was the first step. Just getting out of a city of 6 million people was
a breath of fresh air. En route to Nagarjuna Sagar, all I saw were
great expanses of agriculture, row upon row of chilies, eggplants,
oranges, grapes and cotton. Goats here herded down the road by barefoot
farmers while women carried massive loads upon their heads at an
outdoor brick-making operation. The bright red color of chilies drying
in the sun was in stark contrast to the dry, arid land in which they
grow. I watched a girl collecting cattle dung and forming it into
patties next to one of many roadside graves that dot the landscape. The
large irrigation channels appeared and I knew that I was near Nagajuna
Sagar. As dams go, this one is impressive. The largest masonry dam in
the world, they claim. And in no was its construction a small feat,
especially in India.In
the end, it was not the massive dam or giant lake that will stick in my
memory. It was the children. For though I was the only white guy in
town, I was not the only tourist. As I bought my ticket and prepared to
board the boat that would take us to the island of Nagarjunakonda,
I saw that I would be joining a group of 60 schoolchildren and their
teachers who were on a week-long field trip. The boys (of which there
were 25) wasted no time in meeting the fair-skinned stranger that stood
out so much at the boat landing. They set about me with unbridled
enthusiasm and curiosity, all at once attempting to shake my hand,
learn my name and guess my nationality. There was a constant procession
of children around me for the next 4 hours, all clambering for my
attention and having their turn offering me their names, handshakes and
questions. Those who weren't talking to me had their eyes fixed on me
nonetheless, especially the 25 girls who watched curiously while the
boys bombarded me. When the time came to board the boat, I walked alone
down the right side of the path like a star on the red carpet with 60
screaming fans on my left, one teacher trying to maintain order and
fighting for the attention I had stolen. I boarded the boat with every
eye upon me, seats being offered to me left and right while I walked
past the teachers, the girls and sat on an empty bench among the boys.
One outgoing boy sawthe opportunity and jumped on it, landing nearly in
my lap. Every seat around me filled within seconds, and as jostling for
positions began, I had to remind the boys to "Relax, relax" which they
murmured to each other, copying me in the cutest way but not heeding
their own advice. I was offered every chip and cookie on the boat, each
boy eager to present a gift.

I answered every question the boys could think of, the most common of which was "America is rich country?" I tried to explain a point that I learned in Fiji
many years ago. I imagine every Westerner is faced with this question
when traveling, but as an American I find this is one of the hardest
stigmas to shake. For it's easy for me to explain that George Bush is
very unpopular or that I know no person who supports this war, but how
do I convince a poverty-stricken child that I'm not rich as I listen to
my $300 IPOD and show them their photos on a fancy digital camera?
First of all, I must be humble and honest. The truth is that a poor man
in America would still be well off in India
and each of these children live in poverty that would appall even the
most unfortunate in my country. But the fact of the matter is that just
being rich does not make a person happy and I would challenge anyone to
find a group of 60 schoolchildren in the States as happy, healthy and
well-mannered as the children I met in Fiji
or the ones on this boat. So I try to help the children understand that
they are more fortunate than they know and that they should feel proud,
not poor. For the beauty in the eyes and smiles of these children is
not born of money, but love. My belief was re-enforced as I spoke with
the teachers. They spoke as eagerly and excitedly to me as the
children, each taking his or her turn to welcome and thank me with hard
and humble handshakes or clasping their hands together in traditional
fashion. Indeed, these children were from very poor families and were
only able to participate in this trip because their school had raised
the money to make it happen. Their education, uniforms, books, food and
bikes were all provided by the government, thus making it possible for
the children to leave their villages and attend school, where otherwise
they would be 8, 9, and 10 year-old workers in situations our country
calls illegal.I was not only impressed with the students, but
also their teachers. I felt awkward at times conversing with these
intelligent teachers who asked serious questions of me as if I were
some visiting professor or foreign dignitary. But as the answers
spilled from my mouth, I impressed even myself. I remembered being 21
years old sitting around the kava bowl in a Fijian village as village
elders questioned me about the war and listened intently as I offered
my best answers. In both instances, I found it wasn't as much about
giving the perfect answer as it was offering a thoughtful response. My
position has always been one of giving compliments, not criticism. For
in countries like Fiji or India
where one could surely concentrate on so much of the poverty, pollution
and desperation that surrounds everyday life, we must instead focus on
the bright shining lights that stand out amidst the squalor; much as I
hope people see me being from a country that has ruined its reputation
throughout the world.

As
I walked around the island's museum with one of the teachers, observing
Buddhist ruins that date back to the 2nd Century BC, I apologized for
stealing the children's attention away from their school trip. He
laughed and instead thanked me, telling me how happy he was that they
(himself included) had a chance to meet such a noble American. He
explained to me that in India "Guest is above God" and that the children would take away far more
from meeting me than they would looking at these ancient artifacts. In
these first 2 weeks in India,
I have experienced this time and time again. For though it is me who
has come to seek and learn, my position as a guest and as an American
has allowed me many opportunities to teach and explain. I have been
impressed with my own insights, considering my lack of education,
income and career often puts me at a disadvantage in the States. Yet,
this experience was further reinforcement that sometimes the greatest
knowledge is not learned in the classroom but found in the world all
around us.

Sad to part ways once our trip was over, I joined the
group at temple where they were having lunch before moving on. I was
given a heaping plate of curried rice and vegetables. I sat amongst the
boys as it is custom that the sexes are kept apart, but it was the
girls who giggled the most as i ate the spicy rice with my hand. The
heat must have shown on my fair skin because even the teachers were
laughing at me. I was offered some water after finishing every bit, but
when I went to drink, the water went down the wrong pipe and exploded
out of my nose and mouth nearly drenching the poor girl who had offered
it to me. All 60 people or more present were in tears with laughter.
And now it was no longer the spicy food to blame for my rosy cheeks; it
was sheer embarrassment.

I had come to this remote part of India to see the world's largest masonry dam and the island of Nagarjunakonda with its ancient Buddhist relics. But as I hopped into my rickshaw and
waved goodbye to my new friends, I knew that they were the reason that
life had brought me to this place and reminded me just how lucky I
truly am.

Luck and experience would not only factor into that
morning. It would push me through the next 20 hours. For I refused to
be discouraged by news that I would have to return to Hyderabad to make my next stop in Chennai. Determined I could find a way, I hired an auto rickshaw to take me 17km to the dusty town of Macherla.
A friendly Chemistry professor noticed me there and helped me to locate
my next bus, also giving me instructions for catching a train to
Chennai. So I boarded the packed local bus and made another 4-hour trip
that defied death at every mile as Indian buses and lories barrel
towards one another on crowded highways, swerving at the last minute
and barely avoiding destruction. The bus then dropped me at Gunter, a
city of 1 million though I'm pretty sure I was the only white guy in town.A rickshaw then carried me to the railway station where I would begin my first Indian train journey.

A
first class train ticket on this 8-hour overnight journey to Chennai
costs 10 times that of second class so I bought the ticket knowing I
was in for an experience. I also knew that timing and position was
everything on Indian trains and these can only be accomplished by
force, determination and complete disregard for others. So as the train
pulled up and the Second Class berth shot past me, I broke into a full
run and fought my way onto the train that was already as packed as a
cattle car. As I expected, no seat was available. So instead of hanging
out the open door like a local, I pushed my way to the center of the
car where there was room to stand.Benches that
held four were all packed six deep. Overhead bunks were occupied by
whole families sleeping on one another. Luggage couldn't fit in
overhead racks because full grown men were sleeping there already and
the same goes for under the benches. So as the train pulled away, I
plopped my bag onto the floor, thankful just to have a cushioned seat.
There I sat (and tried to sleep) for 8 rickety hours. The sleeping man
beside me quickly became my back rest and I, his pillow. The elderly
man who slept on the narrow walkway kept my feet from moving, though
his presence didn't deter people from pushing past us and stepping on
us both. That's merely the way it is.

Needless to say, I was relieved when our train reached the city of Chennai in Southern India around 6am. This would not be the end of my journey though. I still had
to flee that dirty, stinky city before calling a halt to the 2-day
trip. Yet another packed local bus carried me two hour to Mamallapuram,
a relaxed coastal town where I saw the first international traveler
since I arrived in India- and lots of them.