Of India, or “Are you going to eat that?” Mypadu – Part 1

Not long ago, a good friend of mine returned home from her trip to India. I went to her “I-want-an-excuse-to-see-you-guys” party and heard stories, and saw pictures. And just this weekend, I saw our trip’s fearless leader, Colleen, while the tour she was working rolled through town (click to peek the Mountain-scape we enjoyed that day).

This naturally brought me back to my trek to India, and I decided to dig up adventures of my time there.

One day, toward the end of our visit to India, our Indian Guides (no pun intended) from St. Joseph’s took us to a small hut village called Mypadu.

Prior to this visit, we had been told that we would be treated like rock stars because we were white-visitors to this foreign land. As our trip progressed, many in our group began to feel weird about being white.

Truth be told, this wasn’t a phenomenon I found myself paying much mind to. While I was in Taiwan, I wrestled with what it was to live in a Western-infatuated Eastern Culture.

To read the crux of that encounter on The Taiwan Drift,
click here. Written on: 10/05/08

Comfortable being White in India, I may have been. But no amount of preparation could have readied any of us for the greeting we received at Mypadu. As our van slowed to a stop, we saw what seemed to be a whole village standing in the road. Making our way off the van, we were greeted by an entire village in a procession that seemed straight out of National Geographic; delicately placed flower petals, and dancers and a street band to ignite it all in a grand welcoming to the strange White people who have come as guests of honor to visit their secluded village.

After we were presented to the village, and they presented us with home-baked pastries and bottles of water; after a short interview between the village elders, our group leaders and a local television station, we were individually taken by the hand and brought to home after home to see their living conditions.

Dirt floors. Grass roofs. One room. Minimal belongs. No electricity. No running water. No four-post beds in sight.

But they were proud to show us their home. They helped us stoop under their low doorways by protecting our heads with their hands. Some of our group were offered additional food or trinkets upon entering. They would spend a few minutes pointing out their treasures hung on the concrete walls or placed delicately on a shelf, each void of any semblance of what we consider technology. But that didn’t matter to them. One of the girls on our trip pointed at a crucifix of Jesus. Her host shut her eyes, smiled warmly, and covered  a clenched fist over her heart. Their eyes met, and the two became sisters, though they shared no spoken language. Hearing that story made me reconsider my valuables. What do I consider important, and worthy of showcase, when my friends come over?

At every stop along the way, we bore gifts of Saris for the women. It wasn’t until we stopped in Mypadu that I realized this was a ceremonial exchange; intricate and important to their culture. They open their homes, give us food to eat and water/soda to drink; we give Saris.

It was hard for some of us to take their food and drink the bottled water they gave us. How could we take from such an impoverished place? We, the first-world Westerners, with our technology and money to get us to India, and closed-toe shoes, and designer jeans; how could we take from them what they seemingly do not have? What did they scrounge together to feed all of us? Where did these pallets of water come from?

And yet, it would have been rude not to eat. I couldn’t, on my clear conscious, not accept what they’d labor to give me. I joked with the children who sat just in front of me, making wide eyes to exclaim how delicious their gifts were (and they were!): they giggled. It was an honor, when we were given the nod of permission, to offer from our plate to those around us. The young ones devoured our re-gifts like (American) kids consume their Christmas candy.

Credit: Ashley Marie

The people of Mypadu opened their homes and their hearts to us strangers they never met. Be it from cultural tradition or sheer hospitality, they gave from their poverty to our spoiled hands. If you’ve traveled with me for any length of time, you know that a situation like this is one to get my wheels turning. But to hear that reflection, you’ll have to come back for my next post.