Dateline: Mungpoo, Darjeeling District, West Bengal, India; March 14, 2011—You can mark it on your calendar; today I did it again. For those who follow my travelogues, you might surmise to what I refer. It might begin, “Once upon a walk…”

Last Sabbath, after dinner, the students wanted me to tell part of my testimony so we set out to a special place they frequented. It was a good walk from the school, out of the village area in which we study, down roads being carved into the mountainside and paved with large creek rocks from the river far below, past the newly planted vineyards and orchards which take the place of the denuded jungle growth, and partly down a ridge to a lovely spot under some large cedar trees the British planted 100 years ago. It was a great spot and a lovely day. They carried a guitar and sang some songs. They can really sing wonderfully. Then I spoke for about an hour before we headed back to the school.

One of the young men lived down the mountain and was employed during the week in building a new set of steps up the mountainside. And everything, from top to bottom, is transported on the backs and necks of humans; male and female humans. Women with baskets or sacks suspended from straps across their foreheads, will carry 100 pounds and more back and forth. Amazing people. One of the students here, Honock, grew up doing this type of work. He lived a ways from the nearest road and had to carry food on his back; like 50 kilo (110 pound) sacks or rice. And when he worked building roads or retaining walls, he would carry 100 kilos of concrete, 50 kilos on each shoulder. He is quite a guy.

Well, these stairs being built really looked attractive and so I thought I would explore them a bit closer. So Monday I set out on my little adventure. It is amazing how they construct these paths and stairs. Using mostly rounded stones, they do a rather creditable job of making a solid platform for each step. Once the rocks are in place, they cover the whole stair with concrete, making it look as if it were solid concrete. Trouble is there is a bit of dishonesty here in India. If 100 sacks of concrete are allocated for a job, 70 might be delivered. The rest? A little kickback for the people in power. And so the fewer sacks of concrete, the less binding material in the final product which causes the concrete to become brittle if not downright rotten, The leading edge of most of the finished stairs are already broken away.

All this I was observing as I descended the mountain thinking for a long time I would come to the road that snaked down to the main highway. The stairs and the connecting path wound through people’s yards, gardens, orchards. Here, as in much of the world, growing food is not a hobby; it is bare existence. It seems as if not too many Americans wandered this far from the main thoroughfares. I was scrutinized with a combination of incredulity, curiosity and caution. Finally the stairs petered out in the middle of nowhere and the paths whispered over the steep ridges in every direction. And as far as I could see, there were no major roads below and I was far nearer the river in the valley below than when I began by corriganistic journey. (See Wrong-way Corrigan.) It was then that light broke over me and I realized that in walking to the lovely Sabbath spot we had passed over to another ridge and now on Monday I was going down the far side of it, straying further and further from the familiar. So, once again I startled the folks tending the gardens, bearing the burdens, cooking the meals. What goes down much come up and it is amazing how much longer those steps became in just a short time. I was a tired puppy when finally home came into sight.

The next day was “take a walk to the tea factory” day. We had held school on Sunday to allow the school’s director, Sandra Horner, to arrive from Nepal, as she wanted to go with us. The tea factory can easily be seen from the school but banish from your mind any idea that it would be a short walk. You can see the moon too. The tea factory was on the side of the facing mountain. As the crow flies the factory was probably no more than two or three miles away. But none of us were crows, although before the day was over I mused a time or two about why some people might cling to the futile belief in reincarnation. So we skirted the mountains, walking perpendicular to our destination for about three hours.

I love walking in mountains and here you can never get lost. Not just because of the trails, but because the trails are lined with empty purple packets that held the national pastime; dipping. In the USA we have Skool and other types of leukoplakia-producing snuffs. Here they mix the powdered tobacco with betelnut, catechu, lime and various spices and flavorings. The packages ominously depict the black silhouette of a scorpion with the words “Tobacco Causes Cancer.” Seems not to stop too many people as the wrappers are everywhere. Little wonder oral and stomach cancer are so high in India.

Around 9:30 AM we all set out, carrying packs and glad for an opportunity to be out in nature. It was the best day of the week as far as weather. Sunny and warm. At one point on the walk we came to gorge through which ran a very lively and clear stream. I was told that stream was the source of all the water we and the area of Mungpoo use. From high up in the mountain, the water cascades down to the river below but somewhere up there a pipe enters the cold, soft water and into the community flows life. And the water is very soft, and very cold. Those two factors make showering a bit of a challenge although I am used to it by now. You learn quickly not to use too much soap as soft water does not cut soap very well. And when trying to rinse soap off your cyanic body with very cold mountain water, rapidity is a necessity not just a courtesy to those who might be waiting for their hypothermia treatment. At last the training I received on Naval vessels in the taking of Navy showers was paying off.

This gorge was the crossing point to the other mountain, the home of the tea plants. On our side of the mountain the main cash crop is the cinchona tree from whose bark quinine is extracted. Whereas it is not as much in use anymore for treating malaria, they continue to propagate trees, plant them and harvest their bark. The other side of the mountain is tea. Sort of reminds me of Deuteronomy when the children of Israel lined up on facing mountains, Mount Gerizim and Mount Ebal, the mount of blessing and the mount of curses. Medicine and poison. Interesting contrast.

We stopped along the way and had lunch, served from a pot we had been carrying the whole way. It was great to empty that pot for it became heavier by the mile. We ate beside a dirt road carved through the midst of tea shrubs. This mountain was an undulating sea of green, each shrub a perfectly rounded wavelet swelling up the side of the mountain and sinking in its furrows. We had passed through tiny hamlets on the way to the fields themselves. The homes grasp tenuously to the side of the steeps, the front door on the level of the path and the back door, if they have one, suspended 20 feet above the “yard.” These are hardy folk.

We went through two tea factories, one of which had been established in the 1800’s. Not being in the peak of the tea season, not much was going on. But it was getting late and we had a long way to go to arrive home. It must have been after 4 PM when we turned homeward, not the way we came, but straight down and straight up.

I like to consider myself as being in shape. Following the road down made the trip probably almost 10 times longer. The mountain is so steep that the roads consist of switchbacks, hairpins and pirouettes. I can't ever remember thinking I might not be able to complete the mission. I have humped the mountains of the Philippines carrying all my gear, a 2-niner-2 and a machine gun my men couldn't carry, and lead the whole way. I have run sub-three hour marathon and worked long days planting trees, but this was and ordeal. But the "troops", the students and staff, cheered me on and we all finished in fine shape. Nice day off.

Some have asked me, “Don’t you get tired of traveling?” You must understand the thoughts that filtered through my mind on the afternoon of October 1, 1984. I was driving through the gates of Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point for the last time. My fourteen-year military “career” was over. I was now a member of CivDiv (Civilian Division), a member of the great unwashed masses with no order, no esprit, no direction. My traveling days were over. It was the end of traveling that imposed itself upon my senses most powerfully. No more travel, no more new sights, no more new challenges, no more respite from the boredom of the status quo. I would no longer be free to Go.

Little did I realize God had a bigger plan in mind for me. The plan required cutting short my retirement plans by six years, meaning no big paycheck after 20 years of service. It meant losing just about everything I owned, that which I had sunk all of my savings into. I meant being separated for long periods of time from the one dearest to me. It meant enduring the monotony of the status quo uncomplainingly and faithfully for a few more years at wages that would have made the poverty level look attractive. But through it all God was with me, leading, pleading, supplying all my needs. Then He said “Go.” That’s what I do now.

But again the question comes, “Do I ever become weary.” Oh yes. Few realize the rigors of this work. The almost constant isolation, cut off from the gentle flow of humanity by language, custom, duty. The constant requirement to give, to teach, to counsel, to prepare, to study. I will spend hours preparing for each hour taught and I will teach 3-6 hours a day. Then missing the familiars; the family, the few friends I have back a world away. No phone, no internet, no cheering words. But then I think of those who have dedicated themselves to years in this environment and am ashamed of my selfishness.

But I do miss seeing all the spring flowers in bloom that I have planted around my little home in Alabama. To feel the warmth of a fire on the hearth, the pleasure of a hot shower, a bowl of granola with blueberries and almond milk. But then the advantages of this work overwhelm all other considerations, and the benefits have been monumental this trip. Meeting new friends and changing lives. And the young men at Mungpoo were the tops.

More to come.

God bless,

Don