Travel on

Gorakhpur is a city covered in a fine clay soot, a khaki dust that permeates the pores of its occupants and coats each flat surface it finds, and it finds everything. It finds the trees, it finds the ledges, and even tacts to windows and walkway walls. The traffic here, and population in general, is much reduced from that of Varanasi. There is slightly more order, but still a chaotic and sometimes frantic buzz and blast that makes even the largest of U.S. cities pale in comparison. Joining the beast parade of goats and cows and dogs and humans and razorbacks on the streets of Gorakhpur are the mules, which travel in packs and tend to themselves in much the same way as others -- finding food and rest where they can, wherever they can. The entire city shuts down by 10:30 p.m., even on a weekend night. It will not open again until 10 or 10:30 the following morning, something the people here call "Indian time." Yesterday we took the road to Kushinagar, which is half rutted and half new, flat construction that comes and goes in short, intermittent spurts. This is something that parallels society as a whole here, I think. The road, again, as in the case of Varanasi to Gorakhpur, is lined with villages and is occupied by many many wood oxen carts carrying sugar cane. The place they're headed is Sukroli. It resembleds a battlefield following an air raid. The visibility cannot be more than an eighth mile. Diesel fuels powers belt grinders to mince the cane and extract the pulp. This is boiled under straw huts in circular cauldrens four foot in radius. In any direction, as far off as can be viewed, piles of gray and black smoke finger the sky. In this sacarin village, every breathe comes with an intoxicatingly sweet sting. Now, with the sticky syrup sifted and strained, villages allow the substance to cool and it comes to a grainy, brown molasses. It is gritty and sweet to the taste. Children paste it to short sticks of sugar cane and eat it as candy. As Karisa, one our group members noted, "This place makes me feel like I'm in a National Geographic production." Indeed.
So, another 15 minutes up the varying road, Kushinagar is known as the land of Buddha, where the wandering prince spent his final embodied days. It is said that when he passed, the Earth shook and the skies shot a shower of stars. Upon arrival to this holy place, we stood in the sunshine and ate fresh goya and bananas. We watched school boys use a lodging house court yard to play cricket. Even 12-year-olds have vigorous matches. We walked to the stupa and other ancient structures that were unearthed in the 1920s. We visited a temple constructed 14 years ago by a Thai king, given the tour by a Thai monk. Anne and I were pulled aside by a group of Gorakhpur teens. Apparently they liked the way we looked, and asked us to pose in a photo with the group. We do tend to stand out. The architecture for the temples and the mausoleum where an approximately 40-foot tall statue of Buddha lays on its side are impressive sites. The lone regretful thing is that the grounds for such an important place are littered beyond excuse. It ocurred to a couple of us that a handful of the beggers here could be given jobs to simply collect the paper waste and put it in an offset spot. But the days here are irreplaceable. It is difficult to be on the road, rushed about all the time. The thick air, the blaring horns, the oppressive traffic, the massive amount of food our gracious Indian hosts insist we try, and the 5:30 a.m. prayer calls that echo through the city at the first light of each day tend to wear on our apparently light Western constitution. However, it's impossible to justify a day of rest. This is a time never to be had again, and to miss a day of events with such enlightened hosts and an ever-bonding travel team would be inexcusable. Today was a trip to Lucknow, the capital city of Uttar Pradesh. On the way we stopped for lunch with Rotarians at Barabanki and visited a grade school for village girls -- young ones in previous generations that used to be called "untouchables." The school, in a movement called "coming to caring", was started in the early 1930s by Gandhi himself. These little girls, with their large brown eyes and brilliant smiles, performed traditional song and dance for us in a sunny courtyard. We presented them with warm wool blankets provided by the Rotarians. Although the temps here are mid-70s, this is the Indian winter. At any rate, equal rights and education --- a project for which anyone can be proud.