If you follow my blog regularly, you may have realized that I have a penchant for the journey aspect of travel — all the things you see and experience while moving from one point to another. The points might be what have attracted me to a place, but I love the discovery — self or cultural — that occurs in the process of getting there.

The internet is saturated with short travel videos that focus on the said points, many of them full of beautiful image after beautiful image, many of them in time lapse form. But when it comes to actual travel, how honest are these videos? So much of travel is the movement; the in betweens are often the meat of it.

One of the first things that struck me about this video was how much watching it felt like travel feels for me. Sometimes it’s sublime moments in beautiful famous places, but much of it is exploring a new place propelled by my own feet and the unique people you meet along the way and sometimes being crowded in a boat with other tourists who signed up for the same thing and adjusting to another country’s way of moving about and looking at the world through a dirty window and seeing it for what it is, but still finding beauty in it and in the process of moving.

And then the last stretch, that bittersweet, wistful, exalted arrival at home; not always choreographed to such gorgeous melodies in the background, but a gorgeous moment, nevertheless.

“For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.”
- Robert Louis Stevenson

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

It’s a typical day for me in Mexico City. I’m walking around in the afternoon summer downpour and I’m lost. Along the way, I stop to ask anyone who doesn’t look like they’re in a hurry for directions. I eventually find the building I’m looking for with the help of two Mexico City transplants, a couple originally from the Midwest of the United States.

I’ve come to this building because of a recommendation from a new friend I made in Oaxaca. Originally from New York, she is now a teacher at an international school and she’s given me the contact info of her masseuse in Mexico City. A ninety minute massage is a fraction of what it would cost me at home. After over three weeks of carrying my too-heavy backpack and sleeping in hostel beds of varying quality, it’s an opportunity I don’t want to pass up.

I use the building’s phone system to dial the apartment number I have written down for the masseuse. I try again and again, but no one answers. Finally, a man walking out of the building holds the door open and lets me in. I go up to the apartment and knock on the door. No one is there.

Next door, a group of people exit an apartment. “Who are you looking for?” one of them asks me. She tells me she is not sure who who lives there, as she has just recently moved into the building. “Wait here,” she says. “We’re going to the store, we’ll be right back.” Confused, I agree to wait.

The group returns with refreshments and they proceed to invite me to join them. I’m hesitant at first, but my intuition tells me it’s okay. And it is.

They are a fun trio of mid to late twenty somethings. Two of them are coworkers at a tech company and another is the cousin of the woman who lives there. They are unwinding on Friday afternoon before they go out later that night to a Cuban club. It’s a happy hour of sorts. More friends and family come in and out the apartment and I am introduced, no big deal that there’s a random stranger hanging out.

They want to know if I like Mexican music. They pull up Los Tigres del Norte on iTunes so I can hear a bit of norteno music while we chat about our lives and work and San Francisco and Mexico City and Colonia Roma and how neighborhoods and cities evolve.

Eventually we find the person and the apartment I was looking for. I’d written the apartment number down wrong. I reschedule for the following morning with the masseuse, silently grateful about the great evening my mix up has led to.

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It’s hard to believe that a solid friendship could evolve from a brief encounter on a crowded Mexico City Metro car, but in summer 2010, that’s what happened.

It was my first full day in Mexico City and I was with two New Zealanders from my hostel and we weren’t quite sure where we were going. A kind soul saw us looking confused and stepped in to help us out. Along with some exceptionally friendly locals I’d met the night before at the hostel, he set the tone for my exploration of a Mexico City that was so different from what you tend to see in the headlines.

We are both travelers, musicians, and fans of each other’s cities. We became friends and kept in touch and our paths have crossed a few more times in both Mexico City and San Francisco since that initial introduction on the metro. The day after the apartment gathering, we met up again to go to a memorial event for the grandmother of one of his friends.

The idea of attending the event sounded preposterous at first, but he assured me that it was completely fine for me to go along. And again, it was no big deal to be an unmistakable stranger at this family function.

It’s a yearly party they host to celebrate the life of a family matriarch who’s passed on, around the birthday of her patron saint. Apparently in her day, she was a beautiful and social woman, so they like to commemorate her in this way.

They are musical family, and they began by performing songs along with some members of local orchestra that plays traditional Mexican songs. There was a short mass and more music and a sit down lunch underneath a canopy to protect us from the daily summer storm.  Some of the kids practiced their English with me, some with a bit of encouragement from their parents while others were more outgoing.

One of the adults wanted to know if it was strange for me to travel in Mexico for a length of time and constantly hear people speaking Spanish around me. I explained that in California, it’s typical to hear many different languages being spoken and Spanish is one of the most common. And it’s just an aspect of travel that you get eventually get used to.

The strangeness of being surrounded by foreign language hadn’t occurred to me before they asked. What really struck me was the feeling that there was something extraordinary in how ordinary it felt to be there; a stray traveler taken in for the afternoon by a lovely family of strangers.

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I read extreme stories reporting from Mexico City almost daily. There doesn’t seem to be a place for the everyday happenings of the city’s 21 million people in that kind of forum. I may have only encountered a miniscule portion of those people, but time after time, I’ve seen a kind of hospitality that you don’t find everywhere, a subtle kindness that’s almost mind boggling in its genuineness. In the vast range of things that Mexico City is, the people I’ve encountered there are a large part of why it shines so brightly amongst my various virtual pins on the globe.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

One morning in Oaxaca, I wake up with an onward bus ticket on my mind. I am supposed to leave the following day.

I head out of the hostel earlier than normal and make my first stop at a bank. The ATM line is long and moving at a sloth’s pace. I share sighs and smiles with the other people waiting. As more bank customers approach, they spot their friends in the line and make conversation and gestures about their disbelief of the size of the line before dutifully taking their places at the end of it.

It’s these little insights that I love so much about being in Oaxaca and Mexico in general. The little moments where locals allow you feel like you’re part of their world as you take part in everyday tasks with them. You’re a random tourist in the mix, but more importantly, you’re just another person.

Once cash has been procured, I visit the markets and shops and stock up on unique to Oaxaca gifts and mezcal and chocolate. When I have everything I was looking for, I walk over to the Mercado 20 de Noviembre. I want to find the right place to have a cup of Oaxaca style hot chocolate with ground almonds and cinnamon in it.

I settle on a comedor where a family of four is finishing up their meal and an older couple chats with the chef as they eat. The chef is Lidia and her little eatery is named after her. Comedor “Lidia”. I like the way the food stall signs have the names of the people who run them in quotation marks.

I give Lidia my order. She breaks off a chunk of chocolate from a huge bar and puts it into hot milk in a pot. She rubs a molinillo between her palms and whisks until the chocolate is frothy. She pours the hot chocolate into a small bowl and insists that I have a pan dulce roll to eat with it. She is right, the airy bread is the right companion for the chocolate. When she has made sure I have everything I need, she leans on the counter and resumes her conversation with the the older couple.

I sip the chocolate and dip the bread and people watch in the market. Leaving the next day doesn’t feel quite right. I can’t wait to get back to get back to Mexico City, but I want to spend just one more day in delving into Oaxaca’s heart.

Later that afternoon, I walk over to the bus station to change my onward ticket to a day later. It does not escape me that almost exactly a year before, I took the same walk for exactly the same reason. It’s hard for me to leave Oaxaca.

Travel can be full of spectacular sights and spectacular emotions that are fleeting and keep you moving in your quest for more. But those places where you want nothing more than the everyday are golden; they urge you to lay your backpack down a little longer and bask in pure contentment.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

In the vast and varied country of the United States, fellow residents tend to misunderstand each other as much as they have a tendency to misunderstand the world beyond. It’s disconcerting to see how many people form concrete opinions of other places based on very little knowledge of and experience in those places.

I discovered my own habit of doing this during my travels to the South. I’ve had enlightening experiences there where found that I liked that part of the country more than I imagined I would. I realized that my negative opinions on it were based on stereotypes, politics, and history rather than personal experiences with the current people and places.

Recently, I’ve also eased up on Los Angeles. In California, there is a little tiff between SoCal and NorCal, and more specifically between Los Angeles and San Francisco. It’s a microcosm of larger issues in the country and in the world and while it’s not detrimental, it can be petty and counterproductive.

While there are still stereotypical and true characteristics of Los Angeles that I don’t like, I’ve found many other things to appreciate about it. I’ve accepted the city for what it is and opened myself up to discovering its more awesome aspects, and that has been a good thing.

Here’s a collection of things that have made me happy on my recent visits to Los Angeles:

» Warm Weather

I love San Francisco, but its weather is not the jam. It has its hotter times, but it tends to hover around highs of 60 degrees Fahrenheit year round, give or take about 10 degrees. I actually prefer to be in warmer climates and I’m not a fan of bundling up. LA is more capable of making these partialities feasible. When I go there, I can pack light and give myself a break from restrictive outerwear.

» The Diverse Array of Cultures

Los Angeles goes far beyond the typical subsections of American cities. There is Koreatown, Thai Town, Little Ethiopia, a sizable population of Hasidic Jews, and areas that make me feel like I’m in Mexico. As a fan of traveling, I really appreciate this cultural mix up all in one location.

» Food

The awesome weather combined with people from all over the world make for an excellent food culture in Los Angeles. There are year round farmers markets everywhere and an abundance of international restaurants and food trucks. There is often an emphasis on food that’s produced locally with respect for the environment and the people who will consume it.

» The Laid Back Atmosphere

Something I noticed on a trip to LA last year is that people there give off an air of being on vacation in their own town. I really enjoy the very city-like energy and feel of San Francisco, but I appreciate the more relaxed nature of LA as well. It’s a nice break from my typical surroundings.

» Hiking to the Hollywood Sign at Sunset

This was the highlight of my most recent trip to Los Angeles. The day after Thanksgiving, we got off to a late start on this hike, but it turned out to be great timing. The lighting was gorgeous on the way up, and when we reached the top, we had a 360 degree view of the Los Angeles and beyond, all aglow in sunset light.

» LACMA

Last summer, I had an afternoon to myself where I happened to be within walking distance of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) and it happened to be a free entrance day. I decided to take advantage of that. LACMA is impressive before you even walk in; there is a wonderful light sculpture at the entrance. Once you’re inside, there is an amazing collection of art from around the world. The exhibits are presented in a way that really enhances the art and gives you a sense of the periods and places they come from. The curation at LACMA is artistic excellence in itself.

» Day Trips to Santa Monica

Santa Monica is such an interesting place. With the beach, the boardwalk, the Third Street Promenade, and surf city atmosphere, it’s the California of a lot of people’s dreams. But there is also a very apparent desperate and gritty side to it. These aspects combined make for a truthful dose of Americana.

» Secondhand Shopping

When I’ve gone secondhand shopping in LA, I’ve found some good stuff, I think partly because styles change so quickly and people often get rid of barely worn items. If you’re not caught up in following trends closely, there is good stuff to be found. Beyond the shops, last summer I came across the Melrose Trading Post, a hipstery weekly flea market that has all kinds of little treasures that reflect many different periods of LA. I saw wacky furniture, vintage travel and movie posters, tons of antique knickknacks, and some great jewelry.

» Strange and Passionate People

Venice Beach has its fair share of the LA counterculture, but there are a lot of unique individuals throughout the city. It’s a city that attracts people from all over the country, a lot of them with personalities that were probably too large for Small Town, USA. While there are a lot of people in Los Angeles chasing vacuous and vague dreams of stardom, there are plenty more who may still be enticed by stardom, but have a true love and passion for their art. Los Angeles and San Francisco seem to be equally full of people who are endearingly odd and steadfast about expressing themselves.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

When I look back at the time I spent volunteering in Salvador da Bahia, Brazil in 2006, it seems so natural, so inevitable that I would end up in there at some point in my life. I often forget about what drew me to it in the first place: Banda Didá, an all female drumming ensemble that is based there. Before learning about that group, I hadn’t even heard of Salvador, an Afro-Brazilian city in the northeastern part of the country.

Music as it pertains to social movements or social justice has always been a topic of interest for me. When I came across a documentary called Girl Beat: Power of the Drum, I was automatically drawn by the synopsis. It highlighted the Banda Didá organization and the work it did to empower females of African descent in Salvador.

Banda Didá was powerful. I couldn’t believe this group of women whose hands and arms pounded out the rage of the remnants of European enslavement to the beats of West Africa. At the same time, their bodies moved fluidly and rhythmically and their faces beamed with pride in their heritage.

The documentary revealed another world, one that I had not yet been privy to, but in which I felt I likely belonged: Afro-Latin culture. In mainstream grade school education in the United States, the fact that Africans were enslaved in many other parts of the Americas is often ignored. The vivacious modern cultures of Latin America and the African influence on many of them is often overlooked. At that point in my life, I was vaguely aware of Afro-Latin America, but that was the first time I’d seen it so tangibly.

As the daughter of immigrants from a small West African country, I’d grown up on the periphery of belonging. I’d accepted that position at that point. But Salvador da Bahia seemed like a place where the distinct mix of cultures that went into my creation was very much the norm in a very visible way. And sure enough, it was.

There’s a bit of drumming at the beginning of this, but skip to 1:00 for the good stuff. Those drums are heavy, and these women make dancing with one attached to your hips look easy.

I saw Banda Didá for the first time in person just a few days after I arrived in Brazil. Every Tuesday night from August until Carnival, they have a big party in Pelourinho, Salvador’s historic center. They call it a “rehearsal” for Carnival and it’s an insanely fun night of government sanctioned partying. There are concerts, street food and drinks, and baterias (drumming ensembles) marching down the cobblestone streets.

A drum circle with an intrinsic sense of spirit and all kinds of soul.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

When we step out of our beat up colectivo and onto the outskirts of San Juan Chamula, we are immediately engulfed in a festive atmosphere. The autonomous Mayan village already feels like a place where unique things happen, and we are fortunate enough to be there for one of their biggest festivals, Dia de San Juan.

Chamula (Dried Lake) is the original Tzotzil Mayan name for the village. The San Juan (St. John the Baptist) comes from the Dominican missionaries. It just so happens that San Juan’s birthday is at the same time of year as the summer solstice. This made him a prime choice of village saint for the sun worshiping Mayans in their syncretic religious practices. So every year, Dia de San Juan is essentially a summer solstice festival and quite a party for the people of the village.

In San Juan Chamula, we’ve been dropped off next to a fair that looks like it could be any fair in Small Town, USA. Every primary color is present in decoration of the rides, there’s a Ferris wheel, a carousel, and all sorts of finger foods and knickknacks for sale.

But most people are shorter than me (and I’m already short). The women have on long furry black skirts and wear their long hair in braids while the men sport furry vests and cowboy hats. This is definitely not the wardrobe of Small Town, USA. And instead of funnel cake, they’re selling churros.

Just past the fair, there’s a graveyard with crosses for headstones that look like they’re being swallowed by the earth. Down a washboard road, we find ourselves on a pedestrian lane lined with vendors.

It’s jam packed. We realize quickly that we have to allow ourselves to get swept up in the crowd, let ourselves be wedged between fur and braids. This is not a place that slows down for or accommodates foreigners.

We’re not really a tour group per se, just a group of hostelers and Couch Surfers who came over in the same colectivos. It’s not long before our large party has been broken into smaller ones and we try to look out for more manageable-sized groups in the abundant chaos.

We reach the town church which is known for its lack of pews and one of a kind rituals. We want to enter, but a man holds his hand out in the universal stop sign. We are not allowed to enter on the festival day. So we find a free spot in the town square and wait for something to happen.

Eventually men start pouring out of the church. They march around us on a bed of pine needles that encircles the square. Some of them haphazardly play a wide variety of instruments. A cacophony of sounds merges to form compelling music. It’s so disorderly that it works. The scene looks so strange and beautiful to my wide eyes and it begins to swirl around me.

I’m having the kind of travel experience that an experience junky like myself craves — the hard to define and often elusive “authentic” experience. The festival seeps into my consciousness and prods at corners of my senses that I was previously unaware of.

I have to use every bit of willpower I have to keep myself from taking my camera out of my bag and snapping away. San Juan Chamula is notorious for its distaste of photo-happy tourists. And because it’s an autonomous village, they make their own rules, which can potentially be harsh.

As I am thinking about this, dozens of men in furry vests clutching police batons come storming into the square. It looks like something is happening, and we’re not sure what. Then we see it, an Italian guy who works at the hostel we’re staying at is dragged out of the square by the Chamula police. His offense? Trying to take pictures. Later, he is released, and I notice a discernible smidgen of humility in his normally ultra confident demeanor.

The festival gets more intense as homemade firecrackers are set off more regularly. They are deafening and dangerously close to the crowd. My little group waits for a break in firecracker lightings and then we beeline for the nearest square exit while covering our ears.

The local women chuckle at me when I let out childish screams of surprise when I let my guard down and forget to cover my ears. In some parts of Mexico, it seems that there’s a cause for celebration and firecrackers every day. So to them, maybe it’s like white noise.

We find the guy who arranged our trip, the owner of the hostel we are staying at. He answers some of our questions about the village. I ask why some men have on white vests while others wear black vests. He explains that white fur means you’re part of the village’s government. It is very apparent that only men run the government in San Juan Chamula.

When a decent amount of us have somehow regrouped, the hostel owner takes us up a hill to visit his friend, a well known artist in San Juan Chamula. “Eh! Africana!” the charming old man says to me excitedly as he welcomes us to his patio.

We sit around a table and sample different flavors of pox (pronounced “posh”), the local moonshine. I’m not a big fan of it, but some are inspired enough to go to the corner store and buy more. It comes in reused plastic bottles with the bottle’s original label still on it.

As we chat, the daily storm clouds appear in the distance to warn us that the party is ending. We’re on our own for getting back to the hostel. I make my way over to a colectivo stand with a few others. Thick drops of rain begin to fall on us as we wait. We decide to get out of the long line and settle on a deal with some taxi drivers for a tiny amount more. As we leave Chamula, the crowds have dispersed. People will regroup at night after the rain stops and the festivities will continue, tourist free.

I wish I had pictures of this colorful festival to share with you or that I could find a video of it online. But in a time when you can be so easily distracted by trying to get the perfect shot, it’s good to have experiences where you have to be fully in the moment. And in a time when you have the ability to preview everything, it’s wonderful to have experiences where you have absolutely no idea what to expect.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

The taxi driver turns to look at me anxiously as we slow and then come to a halt in Mexico City rush hour traffic. He skillfully maneuvers around other taxis, big buses, small buses, regular cars — whatever he can do to get a few feet closer to the bus station where I’ll begin my fourteen hour night journey to Palenque.

We approach police cars and and stopped cars and beyond that, the road is clear. I make it to the station with time to spare and time to settle into the kind of traveling spirit that can make a long bus ride bearable and even enjoyable. Journeying to new places overland tickles the adventurer in me.

Aboard the bus, I say bye to Mexico City for now. Except as we exit, the city seems to never end. But it’s not long after we’ve left the uber city behind before we enter a national park. As we drive through a more natural world, I look forward to the next leg of my journey which will be radically different from the first one.

I’m getting used to travel’s inherent need to make sudden transitions whether it’s at the beginning, during, or at the end of a trip. And it’s slowly flowing into my regular life, helping my sometimes resistant to change self understand that shifts are necessary and healthy and essential for maintaining perspective.

We exit the park and continue on through cities and villages. The sun sets and the twinkling lights of the houses that creep up the mountainsides look like sparkling floating islands in the darkness of the night sky.

We reach the city of Orizaba, and most of the passengers exit the bus. After a longer than announced stop at the station, the few of us who are continuing on spread out on the bus and prepare for the several hours we still have left. After a finger and toe chilling bus ride in Mexico last summer, I am more prepared. I already have on several layers and I wrap my sarong tightly around me to seal in the warmth before I shut my eyes. I am happy when the new driver decides not to blast and sing along with ranchera music like the first one did.

I drift in and out of sleep on a patch of windy and bumpy road. It is completely dark and the only things the bus’s headlights illuminate are the road and trees of the forest that surround us. I open my heavy eyelids again a few hours later when the sun begins to rise. I’ve barely slept, but I am curious and I muster up the energy to keep them open.

What I see is a rainbow sky in shades of pastel and land that is so thick and green and vibrant and so incredibly beautiful. The lines between my dreams and my reality have been blurred. Good morning, Chiapas.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

1. You can see the Taj Mahal from the roof of many nearby hotels. Many of them have conveniently placed (overpriced) restaurants on their rooftops. I got my first glimpse of the Taj Mahal while having lunch on my hotel’s roof.

2. At the main entrance, the Taj Mahal ticket office is not next to the Taj Mahal. As I was walking towards the Taj Mahal’s south gate, I ran into the Aussies I’d met at the train station in Varanasi. They asked me if I’d gotten a ticket. When I said no, they told me to turn around. The ticket office was not only behind me, but beyond my hotel. Make sure you have a ticket before you get to the entrance to avoid delays.

Two men taking the “I’m grabbing the tip of the Taj Mahal!” photo.

Me taking the obligatory “Yes, I was really there!” photo.

3. Be prepared for paparazzi. Most of the tourists at the Taj Mahal are Indian. If you look very non-Indian, people will ask to take a picture with you every ten minutes or so. Between me and the two blonde Australians I was hanging out with, we took pictures with dozens of Indian people. I often turned around to find someone taking a picture of me on their cell phone camera and one man even asked me if I could shake his son’s hand.

Colorfully dressed women and children waiting in line to go inside the Taj Mahal.

It’s hard to pick just one favorite photo of the many pictures I took at the Taj Mahal, but I think this is it.

4. Yes, you should go. Amongst frequent travelers, I hear the Taj Mahal catch a lot of flack for being overrated. Sure, there are more impressive monuments in India and beyond, but the Taj Mahal is truly beautiful and worth seeing. Much of its beauty is encompassed in its details — the smoothness and precision of the marble bricks, the floral design, the symmetry that’s fantastically skewed by a change in perspective and offers so many ways to view it…

5. You don’t have to go first thing in the morning. Most guidebooks and information you find online tell you that you should go to the Taj Mahal at sunrise for the ultimate experience. I wanted to visit it at sunrise, but with my train getting into Agra seven hours late, that was not possible. But I thought sunset was a fantastic time to be there and I imagine it’s equally as beautiful as sunrise — as long as you are prepared to deal with the congestion.

If you get there at sunrise, the heat and the crowds will grow as your day goes on. At sunset, the crowds eventually begin to disperse, the monument looks more beautiful than your first glimpse of it, the chaos of the experience fades, and it’s a wonderfully quiet way to end the day.

One last glimpse of the Taj Mahal as the light fades.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

Before the Wedding Ceremony

When you wear a sari, you need the correct undergarments. My pre-made petticoat fit well, but the top that was tailored for me did not. After I returned from the flower market, I dashed through the markets in the Sudder Street area until I found a vendor who carried ready made tops. The only one that matched my sari happened to be a gold spandex top à la American Apparel. I bought it. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

The guy who’d sold me the sari had given me a quick tutorial on how to put it on. I attempted to do so in my hotel room and ended up wackily wrapped in cloth. I decided to take up one of the bridesmaids on her offer to help me put it on, and headed over to the Oberoi Grand to meet up with her. As she folded and draped and pinned and spun me around, I realized that there was no way I could’ve gotten it right after one sari lesson. It must take years to become an expert. With my sari on correctly, I felt regal. There was something about wearing it that made me want to stand a little taller and prouder.

They were still setting up for the wedding when we arrived at the Hyatt where the ceremony would take place, and for an hour or so, the overseas guests were the only ones there. We snuck a peek at another wedding that was in progress in another part of the hotel and mingled at the poolside bar until they told us the groom would be arriving shortly.

What followed was the longest, most elaborate wedding ceremony I’ve ever seen. To only give my descriptions of what I saw would not do it justice, so I’m meshing my memories with information from the descriptive wedding program we were given:

Bor Jatri

The bor jatri was the procession of the groom and his family and friends. The groom’s arrival was very festive; he came in on a horse and was accompanied by a brass band we’d driven by on our way to the hotel.

Bor Boron

When the bor jatri arrived at the venue, they were welcomed by the bride’s family). They blessed the groom and prayed for health, wealth, happiness, and prosperity for the couple. Refreshments were served after this.

(After this, the brother of the bride told us to check out tent where the bride was sitting with some elders. It was very quiet and serious compared to the groom’s arrival; the elders were chanting and she was repeating after them.)

The Shaajo Biye

The bride sat down on a piri (a wooden stool) and was carried over to a flower petal covered pedestal by her brother and three of her guy friends. When they reached the groom at the pedestal, they carried her around him seven times. The circles are called saat paak and they represent the seven spheres of the universe. While she was being carried, she held a large leaves in front of her face so the groom couldn’t see her.

Shubho Drishti

When the saat paak were completed, the bride and groom looked at each other for the first time in front of all of their guests. This exchange initiated them into society as a couple.

Mala Badal

After the shubho drishti, the bride was still sitting on the piri and she and groom exchanged flower garlands three times. This demonstrated acceptance of each other and making a commitment to each other.

(Flower petals shot up in the air and showered down on the bride and groom and guests during this ritual. Right after this, there were also fireworks in the distance.)

Sampradan

The bride and groom sat in their respective places at the mandop (the altar) and her uncle gave her hand away to the groom. Ancestors were remembered and blessings were sought from them. Mantras were recited and the couple’s hands were bound by a sacred thread and placed on the mangal/ghot – a brass pitcher filled with water and covered with mango leaves and a green coconut.

The Baashi Biye Jogya

The bride and groom sat in front of the sacred fire and chanted mantras after the priest. Agni, the God of Fire, was the divine witness. Offerings were made to the fire while the couple promised each other a long and happy marriage. They then circled the fire and prayed that they would achieve four goals in life:

Dharma – religious and moral duties
Artha – prosperity
Kama – love and energy
Moksha – spiritual salvation

Laai Homa

More offerings were made to the fire. Khoi (puffed rice) was placed in the bride’s hands. The groom held her hands so they could make the offering of rice into the fire together.

Sindoor Daan

The groom applied sindoor (vermillion) to the bride’s forehead and hair as a mark of their marriage. The bride’s head was then covered by a ghoomta (veil).

Saptapadi

The couple walked around the fire together seven times. It is believed that completing the circles leads to lifelong friendship for the bride and groom. Each circle represents an aspect of life’s journey and prayers were recited for each one.

Bidaai

The farewell. The bride leaves her family and begins a new life with her husband.

After the Wedding

Going back through the program and relaying the wedding rituals was as much for my own understanding as it was for my desire to share the experience. When I try to re-imagine the ceremony experiences, it almost seems surreal. There was so much distinct color and sound and centuries old rituals to take in. But even though what I saw and heard that evening was radically different from any wedding I’ve been to before, the ideas behind the rituals were not. If you rearrange and substitute and add and subtract a few things, you’d find a Western wedding ceremony in there. I think what makes attending weddings around the world so fascinating is that it gives us a joyful opportunity to celebrate our wonderful cultural differences and bask in our binding human similarities.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

My exploration of India started before I left San Francisco. It began the moment I stepped into the India visa outsourcing office. On a chilly November evening, the air inside the room was warm and damp. Technically, the office was closed for the evening, but the place was full. The line to pickup visas zigzagged throughout the room. Families of multiple generations waited while a few kept their place in line. Those who hadn’t snagged one of the limited chairs took a seat on the floor. There were people everywhere. And it smelled like curry.

I was in the back of the line, one of the last few people they’d let in before they locked the door. I knew I’d be there for awhile, but I was so relieved that my visa was ready that it didn’t matter. I’d made a rookie traveler mistake and didn’t take a thorough look at the visa processing time. My trip was just a few days away and I’d rushed across town after work to make it in time to pick up the visa I’d been anxiously awaiting. As I walked out of the office, passport with India visa in hand, my nervousness about potentially not being able to take the trip was replaced with nervousness about taking the trip. The impending tangibility of India scared me.

A few days later, after several time zones had been crossed and many hours of sleep had been lost, somewhere above the Atlantic, my love for travel solidified in a slightly delirious rumination:

Even when I hate this, I love this. It would’ve been easier to stay home. It would’ve been easier to not renew my passport and to look adoringly at my old one filled with 10 years of travel experiences and say, “That’ll do.” It would’ve been easier to not dig up a copy of my birth certificate and other obscure information and fill out pages of visa application forms. It would’ve been easier to not have spent hours figuring out how to get around a country I’ve never been to; to not have spent night after night trying to find decent and affordable accommodations and transportation. It would’ve been easier to not be spending two days flying halfway around the world. It would’ve been easier to not have pissed people off with the timing of the trip. It would’ve been easier to not be visiting a country that I know will challenge me and test me and break me. I probably should’ve stayed home. But I love this, like, really freaking love this. Even when I hate it, I love it.

When we reached London, brimming with travel love, I felt the urge to bolt out of the airport and explore the city once more and continue where I’d left off 10 years ago. I feel a strong connection to London. It’s where my parents met after they’d both left Ghana. It feels like one of my beginnings. And in the wee years of my life, on a day I cannot remember, England was the first country I set my little feet on outside of the United States. Those things, combined with the silly, snarky, subtle English humor I enjoy so much make me want to explore the corners of London’s massive sprawl a lot more. My layover was certainly not long enough for that, but I looked forward to meeting more people from England at the wedding I’d be attending in India and enjoyed views of the city from above.

And in the airport, I marveled at inventive travel knick knacks for sale, roamed through Boots and made note of the products I wanted to pick up on my way back, and sat down to read the Independent. When the screens finally announced the gate our flight would depart from, I got caught up in a crowd of people frantically dashing onto the airport tram that would take us to the gate. Here we go…

“All the things you probably hate about traveling are warm reminders that I’m home.”
-Up in the Air

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.