Farther south was Varkala, a nice beach set below a cliff on which rows of thatch roofed open shops and restaurants were lined up along the contour. It was a beautiful contrast from the beach we enjoyed in Mangalore. Here there were no gawkers and white women felt free to wear bikinis and sunbathe topless. The few single Indian men who attempted to site see on the beach were escorted off by a security guard with a whistle. Only Indian families were

A lazy backwater boat cruise took us through the inland canals of Kerala. Peaceful life drifted by as we watched from plastic chairs arranged on top of the government boat we caught in Allepey for the 200 rupee six hour ride. Other tourists were on board, many white foreigners speaking their own European languages and Indian tourists speaking whatever dialect belonged to them.

Kathakali dancers on the beach hut stage made up each others faces with natural paints creating clown-like drag queens. The group, reminiscent of an acting truope from Shakespear’s time, was all men, the shorter and more feminine of them playing the female lead.

The old bus rattled and jostled us for five and a half hours to Mangalore. We climbed narrow winding roads to the pass through the foothills and then back down the other side. We were uncomfortable. Some of us were nauseated from the Indian style motion sickness. Christy hates heights and was miserable as the bus careened downwards along steep drop-offs with no guard rails.

Daniel sat at his desk-like table in the consultation room that was bright with daylight. A relic of a physiology poster hung on the far wall. Bethany and I were in chairs at his side. The first patient was an elderly monk in his seventies perched on the stool beside the table. He had returned to tell Daniel that the cold was still in his lower abdomen. He had been treated for diverticulitis with antibiotics and was better, all better except for the coldness. We don’t know what that means. It’s common terminology in traditional Tibetan medicine, but

Monks in maroon robes were sitting cross-legged in rows on maroon cloth covered cushions in the new puja hall that resembled an ornate ballroom. It was large with high ceilings and eight rows of five pillars that were painted bright red with pastel colored designs reminding me of Easter eggs as the tops disappearing behind a curtain also painted intricately with pastels and tassles hanging in staggered rows along the bottom edge.

Coolies in tattered red shirts with armbands carried our five 70 pound bags on their heads – even the large rolling one. They took them up two flights of stairs, across the footbridge over six sets of tracks, and down to platform #7. The train was pulling into the station. As we walked the length to our first class car, we could see something trickling from beneath a few coaches. The smell of urine was strong.

Tara, a Nepali friend, met us at the train station in Bangalore. He looked good, fresh and sweet. He stayed with us for two days, missing one day of his college classes in Dharmapuri two hours away. He had arranged permission from his professors, as Patti was helping to sponsor his schooling. She and Sara and I had met him at the first medical camp we did together in Bandipur. He had endeared himself to our group, taking a leadership role with his other classmates who were helping as translators and showing us around his home territory with perfect Catholic school learned English.

Our first day back in the city was a much needed down day. We caught up on emails and journaling and relaxed, trying to absorb our collective experiences. We found Pizza Hut for a taste of home and downloaded digital pictures onto CDs. Alex found a Hyderabad newspaper to read.

The editorial inside was entitled, “United States Turns Tsunami Into Imperial Strategy.” The first sentence was, “The United States has the experience and the expertise of turning tragedy into imperial strategy. The latest is the tsunami disaster and the politics of relief.” Many people in Asia and around the world

I was teary eyed at the opening ceremony. So was Alex. It was the parade that led us by tribal drums down the dirt road to the brightly arranged tents, all those government officials with their incomprehensible Telugu speeches of pride and gratitude, the banner with all of our names including Austin’s, and the little girl of eight or nine reading in English her polite thank you from a sheet of notebook paper. She was so cute but still so elegant. We lit candles in front of a small alter with incense and a framed picture of Ganesh, the elephant-like Hindu God that is to start all projects. We watched as the school children sang their national anthem,