What I am enjoying most about hostel life in India, is the people you meet. An eclectic bunch, to say the least. Most are younger between 24 and 35, but yesterday, an Israeli couple near my age spent a night. The opportunity to share life stories is a powerful way to reduce stereotypes and begin to see how much we have in common. Sitting on the floor for your meals or sharing your peanut butter—a must-have, by the way—with someone needing a snack opens you up to “real talk” and honest laughter.
After dinner the other day, I had a conversation with a 38-year-old gentleman. During our sharing, I talked about my work in addiction. He was able to open up for the first time about his struggle with Meth. At one point, as we spoke, he cried for the first time as an adult, stating that his culture didn’t allow such weakness. I assured him that there is power in the catharsis of tears. The details of that exchange are not important. Important is the moment that would not have happened if the two of us had not decided to travel in this way. The richness of this tapestry of lives cannot be accomplished in any other way, in my opinion.
A travel-weary person being welcomed by a hostel and its guests is amazing. Look, I am sure there are some horror stories to be told, and I am not halfway into this journey, so just keeping it real and reporting to date.
So, the bus – Ok, 16 hours and 3 stops equaled very full bladders in the last 2 hours of the ride. Everyone was crossing their legs and asking if we could stop. A few attempted bottle relief but given the erratic nature of the drive and roads, that was like trying to thread a needle while doing somersaults on a trampoline. Ya ever given that a go? However, to our elimination delight, the driver needed to stop to grab a bite from a roadside stand—no, literally, a little dusty shack structure on the side of a desolate stretch of highway. I’m talking creepy. No, he didn’t announce the stop. I just happened to be looking out of the window of my coffin-sized berth and saw him walking towards the back of the bus. I immediately alerted the other passengers, and we tumbled out of the bus to stand wide-legged like soldiers at ease. Back on the bus, we completed the last hour, made our exit, and proceeded to the Madpacker Hostel. A 5-story house just a 7-minute walk to the golden temple.
Note to self: on the return trip, nothing to drink 4 hours before the trip, buy adult diapers, and bottles with an ample opening.
by David Kelton Starks
In these pages, you’ll encounter the raw and unfiltered emotions of a journey marked by resilience and triumph.
In these pages, you’ll encounter the raw and unfiltered emotions of a journey marked by resilience and triumph.
