And so it begins...

Four nights ago I was so ready for travel. Then three nights ago I woke  up at three am thinking of all the stuff to do...then two nights ago I woke up thinking about all the reasons I didn't want to leave...and last night I lay awake imagining all the tragic consequences of flying across the world and leaving all of my family and friends behind.
John is envisioning the chai in Ganeshpuri and I'm remembering the dust. John is remembering the beautiful view from the Sea Shore Hotel in Mumbai and I'm remembering the four flights up the dark, dirty stairway.
Yes. I guess I'm ready, but this is part of the process...I suppose.
It aches to leave my sister behind who is facing surgery in a couple weeks. It aches to say goodbye to my daughter who is brave and strong and beautiful. It aches to leave friends and familiar faces for the unknown.
I truly aches to sit on an airplane for 22 hours, trusting in only the universe and good people.
I do know that I will adjust and the sights and sounds and SMELLS of India will slowly become part of the adventure, but right now I just feel acutely aware of what I'm leaving behind.
It does not ache to leave cold winter and dark days.
I will bring love with me and I will bring love home. That's one thing I can count on.

The Family Table

When I was younger, like 55, I used to think I could predict what an experience would be like. But travel has reminded me that I’m not even close to knowing what the next adventure brings. Now, I’m not talking about danger or high stakes stuff although I have been in the company of a wild bull elephant. (An old blog will tell you about it  ) I'm actually talking about those times when I feel a little bit uncomfortable; when I know I will have to interact with strangers beyond the basic social  courtesies..

Yep, I know you’re thinking, Marcia…that’s what travelling is all about. And I do know that…but…I still feel squeamish if I know I’m gonna be outside my typical comfort zone… So, the fact that our homestay had a family style eating arrangement and the fact that we were going to be up in the mountains of Kerala, without easy access to alternative meal settings. Well, it made me squeamish.

We arrived at Varnam Homestay in a taxi whose driver definitely got the short end of the stick. He must have asked directions ten times  before he found the little oasis tucked away down rugged dirt roads and surrounded by rubber tree plantations and random ramshackle and not so ramshackle homes. When we pulled into the driveway, we all (including the driver) breathed a sigh of relief.

Beena, our hostess, greeted us with a warm hello and welcomed us right up to that “family table”. Hmm, let the awkward conversation making begin.

Yes, there were a few awkward moments, but I was pleasantly surprised by how much travellers in the same place had to talk about. That family table was the highlight of this leg of our adventure. Our first night, the two German women (I’m terrible with names) convinced us that we would love the organic farm tour, and we did. John and I had walked around the farm earlier, and I was amazed at how many fruits, veggies and spices we didn’t recognize. My favorite was the cinnamon tree. Eating cinnamon bark off of a young branch of a cinnamon tree is soooo  much more delicious than any cinnamon you will ever eat. I saw pineapples that weren’t on the shelves of the produce lane at Hannafords. One pineapple has its very own plant. I ate green peppercorns off of the vine. Anyway. It was pretty cool.

Back to the family table. At dinner, we would all talk about what we did that day. As the stay progressed, we started to talk about ourselves and learn about each other. By the end of our stay, there were passionate, friendly conversations about living with disease, decisions about end of life, politics and…of course.. the dreaded conversation… who had seen an elephant and who had NOT!

There was a lot of strategizing as those who did tried to help those who did not to have the penultimate experience of what I assume must be everyone’s reason to go to India.
“We didn’t need to go on the safari tour…you can just see them on the side of the road.” And then, quietly, “we haven’t seen one yet. We’re just going on the tour. It increases our chances, right.”

I  the meantime we entertained ourselves with 10 km treks through villages where adorable  little children come running out to stare and dare to speak English. A typical conversation went  "Hello Madame. How are you?" I would respond and ask,and how are you. " I am fine thank you." Then we would stare at eaxh other, trying to make a deeper connection.

We also walked along a river, where a boy had recently been mauled by a tiger. We would swim in that river, with monkeys up in the trees, only to learn later from Hussein, who by the way told us about the tiger mauling, that there were crocodiles in that river (but it’s okay cause they are FRIENDLY)

And that “family table” was also where we heard the beautiful, haunting Malayalam song by our hosts, Beena and her husband (I’m terrible with names). That was also the family table where my new friends sang happy birthday to me and I made the same birthday wish I had made two years earlier, which was to see a DAMN elephant! We did “kinda” see some way far off in the distance amongst trees and rocks on the safari.

But my birthday wish must have been on Maine time, not India time, because, the next day, as we were leaving our homestay and the western ghats of India, my new Brazilian friend, Marcello, (I’m getting better with names) spotted a huge, bull elephant, with brilliant long white tusks on the side of the ROAD!

On Selfless Service and Meditation

Seva is selfless service in an ashram. When you stay at Amma’s Ashram, you are kindly requested to offer two hours of Seva per day. For folks having a short stay, the tasks are pretty simple. Our Seva was wiping dishes. This was a crazily easy task, but one night I was really tired, so I skipped Seva and went to bed. Being at the Ashram triggers my self consciousness pretty well and…(let me be clear that nobody follows you around during your stay making sure you did your Seva), but my little transgression was haunting me a bit. So when the Seva girl was coming around looking for someone to sweep the temple steps, I volunteered.

One of the benefits of Meditation is that it helps you discipline your mind. On a good week, I usually meditate for about 20 min for 4 or 5 days. That means I’m not listening to my thoughts for less that 2 hrs a week. Mind you, my thoughts are generally not very important or meaningful…and most off the time they are completely self destructive.

While we were at the Ashram, we participated in a workshop about this type of negative self talk and a strategy we can use to change our thinking by activating your “resource identity” which trains you to revise the negative story you’re telling yourself to a positive one. In Sanskrit there is a term called Matrika Shakti that basically says that our words create our reality.

So, if that is the case, my self talk puts me in a hellish reality relatively often.  For instance, I create critical stories in my head about why someone is scowling or laughing. Or what someone is thinking or feeling. This is an awesome skill if you’re a writer and you don’t have an ego, but my stories and interpretations are always about ME. This person is angry because I am taking too long, or I’m not following the proper protocol.

Speaking of protocols, at the Ashram, there are lots of people very willing to tell you what to do and how to follow the protocol. Since Amma means mother, there is a lot of  “mother” energy and “grandmother” energy. That’s great energy when it is enlightened and filled with grace, like Amma’s energy. But the more earthly version of mother energy is a bit more challenging for me.

Speaking of Amma’s grace, everything in the Ashram is about your spiritual growth, so a cigar is never just a cigar. I'm constantly being spiritually tested by the guru. Someone once described Amma’s work with her children as polishing stones in a tumbler. We are tossed about in our own dust until our rough edges are polished like gem stones. My “dust” for this visit has been to pay attention  to the negative and self destructive stories I create in my head as I go about my daily life.

Speaking of daily life, When I was little, my Yiayias spent a lot of time with us. It was typical for my mother’s mother to spend the summer in Maine. She would cook and clean and hang out with my dad’s mother. They were pretty critical and I was pretty sensitive, so they would complain to each other about how I didn’t pick up my clothes or take care of my dishes. Usually the conversation included some rant about some character flaw such as laziness or gluttony or selfishness or rudeness. These rants were always under the guise of the Greek language, which I, in this case unfortunately, understood much better than I could speak. So I would hear all about how horrible I was, but never told directly. In fact, my Yiayia’s favorite expression to me was , “Marcia, you’re a GOOD girl.”which was always accompanied with an affectionate cheek pinch. So now I spend a lot of my head time examining whether I’m a good girl, so I can please my critical Yiayia. This experience, and about 5000 other "formative" interactions, has left me with what I have come to realize is what I sometimes believe is an uncanny ability to read minds.

Anyway...I show up for seva at the temple steps at 2:30, but the task is changed to sweeping and washing the floors in front of the elevators. Once I figured out how to sweep and wash the floors in front of the elevators I go right to work. I was going to do my very best Seva to honor Amma. To build my character. To show everyone what a dedicated Ashramite I could be. And this work was right up my alley. I am an excellent cleaner. I take great pleasure in it.  When I was teaching, I used to reward myself for grading papers by allowing myself an hour of cleaning time. I love strolling through the cleaning products and looking at all the different kinds of gadgets that improve the cleaning experience. I have developed a good critical eye for the gimmicks and the good stuff.

So... when I saw the “swiffer” and the seriously recycled mop pad I was going to use to wash the large marble floors in front of the heavily trodden elevators… I was crestfallen. And the frugal amount of watered down cleaning products was equally disappointing. As was the absence of really good hot sanitizing water. But my self talk scolded, “MARCIA, quit being  such a first world primadonna with your selfish expectations of fancy, fine tuned state of the art cleaning supplies. This is an Ashram. People dedicate their lives to loving and caring for the destitute and suffering masses. Use the mops you’re given and shut up!”

 So... I set to work. I was to clean Floors 4-7. These floors were in open air areas that offered access to fresh cool air and bugs and birds. And it’s HOT in southern India. Lots of moist humidity that seems to make every part of my skin feel sticky… a perfect magnet for all the dust flying about from the sweeping. I swept the steps and then the floors. As I swept I discovered that birds had shit under the railings at the edges of the floor. My head said, “They surely don’t expect me to clean up dried  bird shit with cold water and a swiffer… do they? But Amma’s devotees are pretty devoted. I could hear them in my head too. They were saying, “Of course you will make these floors impeccable in Amma’s honor.” Then my Yiayia’s Greek criticism joined them. "Look at these filthy floor. You need to put more pressure behind that swiffer...and why are you using a swiffer...get on your hands and knees."  Then another voice said, “Marcia, you lazy snob, step up, do your best. Then another voice said, “No way, that’s too ridiculous, obviously the shit hasn’t been cleaned by others. Nobody will even notice whether the shit is cleaned. Anyway, if I had the right products and hot water, then I could clean the shit.  Heck, I didn’t even have a little scraper. Just my silly, very old swiffer.”  I was so exhausted by the tirade I had in my head, I skipped the shit and left that floor feeling like a fancy pants westerner with her picky high standards and lazy work ethic.

The sixth floor was exactly the same with similar voices and sometimes much more imagination. I imagined Amma (the goddess of unconditional love) making this one exception and  calling me up on stage to use me as an example of how not to be lazy. Then she would kick me out of the Ashram. Then my grandmother’s voice commenting on how filthy the floors were and how they needed more cleaning. As I was having this lively  conversation with myself, a little old Indian woman, who remarkably resembled my Yiayias, came out to the hall and sat right next to the bird shit.

We exchanged glances. I tried a little smile, but she wouldn’t have it. Then I went back to my self and my, supposedly, selfless service. When I got to the shit part of the washing, we made eye contact again, and she pointed to the shit and gave me that incredibly ambiguous Indian head wobble, which, with my brilliant imagination and particular personal grandmother history, meant that I needed to conquer the bird shit.

Out loud, (in English I was pretty sure she didn’t understand), I said, “I know, but I can’t figure out how to clean it.” Which was followed by another wobble. I continued to wash the floor, but I was desperately haunted by Indian Yiayia’s gaze. I knew what she was thinking… about how I was a lazy western primadonna that has probably never washed a floor in her life and had no idea what she was doing.

When I returned to the bucket of cold water, there it was, the plastic dust pan, with the stiff squeegee edge, perfect for scraping softened dried bird shit from a marble floor. AHA! I grabbed the dust pan and proceeded to easily scrape away the shit, leaving behind only lovely shiny marble. Indian Yiayia must have approved because she stood up slowly and shuffled back to her room..her work was done there.

I think I need to meditate a little more often.

For love of sunglasses and water bottles

One of the tenets of enlightenment is that of nonattachment. The idea is that attachment causes suffering. So by not being attached to things or people, we avoid suffering…or something like that.

All I know is that I really loved these sunglasses  and this water bottle. The sun glasses were awesome because they had reader bifocals in them so I could read or look up close without having to change to my readers when I’m out in the sun. I had them for two years, which for me and sunglasses, is a huge amount of time. I even took great care of them, or at least I tried to.  Before them, I would have to choose between seeing and squinting. Every once in a while I could do a layered thing with the sunglasses and do the readers on top of them. So when I lost my sunglasses during  my first week in India, I was truly bummed out.

Losing the water bottle was tragic. Sally gave me this amazing water bottle that had a spritz mister on the top. One day it just showed up in the mail. I've been getting hot flashes and her sympathetic nature was activated when she saw the bottle on Groupon.

Hot flashes are never really comfortable, but breaking into a sweat in cold Maine is a lot more tolerable than it is in hot India. I used it in Maine primarily for drinking water and occasionally enjoying watching folks react to a fake sneeze accompanied by a spritz of my delightful water bottle mister.

It was in the humidity of Kerala that I really developed a deep relationship with Mister Waterbottle. He would tag along on the dusty roads of the Ashram and offer up a cool drink or a refreshing mist whenever I needed one. He also became a bit of a rock star since he was truly one of a kind. Others were surprised at first to see him give me a light spritz. Then I would offer them his services and they would appreciate that amazing relief he gave from  the oppressive heat. I felt like I had a magic wand of instant refreshment!

I carried him with me everywhere I went. He would sit patiently as I ate dinner or sat in the temple listening to bhajans. He came with me to the coconut stand and the juice stand. He accompanied me to yoga and workshops. Once or twice I would forget him, but I’d quickly remember him and devotedly reunite with him. We were destined for each other. Mister Waterbottle was my hero.

So on the night before we were to travel to our next  destination and I didn’t find him when I returned to our room I was devastated. What had I done! How could I have left him behind after all the refreshing moments we had shared. John immediately recognized the significance of this loss and he thoughtfully went out and searched everywhere from yoga studio to temple to coconut stand, but alas Mister Waterbottle was gone. I even woke up in the middle of the night parched and thinking he was still with me.

In the quiet darkness I pondered his absence. Maybe it was because I skipped Seva and God was punishing me? Maybe I showed him off too much and someone else coveted having him and snatched him away from me. Perhaps he was carelessly tossed away, abandoned in the recycling when no one came to claim him at the yoga studio?

I’ll never know. But as I travel away on  this train, I realize that attachment does cause suffering.

But I resolved my "first world" problem with this pair of cheap sunglasses and this extremely cumbersome water bottle.

Happy Panji...doh..Panjo...doh...Pongal

Being in India gives me a taste of what it is to be a minority, a foreigner, a side-show freak at times. People stare at me and children are afraid of me. I try to say hello and they bury their scared little faces in their mothers' necks. Trying to communicate is very challenging since I, unfortunately, only speak one language. I usually find myself speaking loudly and gesturing way too much. 

The fact that we are traveling and tourists makes being authentic and real even more difficult. I never know what someone's motives are. I remember I one time paid a girl to take her picture because it was expected by the half dozen others whose pictures I took. When she was surprised that I offered to pay her, I felt like shit. I immediately stuffed my rupees away and left the scene of the crime.

I try to connect with the touts and the Tuk Tuk drivers. And in India, I notice that it's not too difficult to have a sweet moment...if you look for it. There are some opportunities, but not as many as I'd like.

So it was a really special treat when Moony invited us into his home to meet his family. It was one of the first times I was able to let my guard down and just trust the company and appreciate who they were. 

We entered his home and were immediately greeted by a huge collection of older and younger folks. There was Moony's wife and their four children. There were his brother and sister-in-law and their two children. There were a bunch of other relations that I couldn't keep track of. His house was very modest and very different from western homes. The floor was cement and there were no chairs in the room. Of course he scuttled about to find a couple for us, but we just all ended up sitting together on the floor.

Then there was the whole language barrier. Mostly warm looks, curious stares and lots of friendly nodding. Then the ice was broken when Jake broke out his camera. But brilliantly, he didn't take photos. He just gave the camera to the kids and let them go at it. Pretty soon the adults were taking pictures with it too. Every possible combination of relationships were documented in the photo session that followed.

Once the photo shoot ended, the universal glue was presented....the thing that brings us all together...yep..food. Moony's wife, who I took to calling Mommy Ji, brought sweet rice and bananas in honor of Pongal, the festival that celebrates the harvest. Of course she didn't bring spoons and Moony said something to her and she ran off and rummaged about for some spoons for us. Then there was a little more awkward silence and I cheered "Happy Panji" which was received with confused looks. Then I tried "Pongil"...to which they responded "ahhh Happy Pongol". And we all had a good laugh at my bad Tamil.

The children also helped to break the ice some more. They practiced their English on me and I was delighted to get to play a game of naming body parts with them. I would point to my nose and Moony's adorable littlest daughter would proudly say "nose" with her sweet Indian accent.

While I'm doing this, Moony's teenage daughter is giving Jake a beautiful henna tattoo on his hand and her cousin is giving him another on his other hand. Jake is huge by Indian standards and he looked like a temple sculpture with both of his palms held out for the henna.

In the meantime, Moony's sister in law has run off and returned with her baby for me to meet. Indian babies are particularly adorable with their eyes made up and tiny bindies on their foreheads.

But, Janu, the adult niece (I think) of Moony was holding out on us and I soon learned that she also spoke very good English. Once that was revealed, she loosened up and we were invited to her house, where she offered me a piece of sugar cane, which I immediately began to gnaw on. It was cool because it was one of those things that typically wouldn't be offered to western tourists. But it's a delicious treat to chew and suck the sweet sugary juices out of it.

She showed us pictures of her husband and we lingered in her place. She told us about her husband, who is a milkman, and we exchanged addresses. 

We went back to Moony's house and we got to see the pooja, which is a little altar where they honor a particular god. I'm not sure which god it was, but I'll bet it was Ganesha, the elephant God of welcome and new beginnings, since that's what our visit was all about.

Moony Ji

One of the hard things about traveling is that you're immediately funneled into tourist areas, treated like tourists and made to feel like outsiders. I've come to accept that this is just the way it is and there's not much I can do about it.

So, when Jake said, "I met a guy who feeds homeless people and he's taking us out with him to feed the homeless tomorrow at 11", I immediately felt doubt and cynicism about it. What's the gig? Is this guy for real or is this a clever scheme to get us to his store to buy stuff? But Jake just smiled at me and used my own words, "just say yes" to convince me that I should trust and go.

We were picked up by the sweetest, kindest man who got out of his car and put his hands together in the familiar prayer gesture and welcomed us into his little van. On the back and side windows it said, MMC TRUST DESTITUTE FEEDING. Inside the car we were seated next to about twenty prepackaged food tins. 

As we started to drive away, he handed me an article that described his simple story. He was a mechanic that one day saw a hungry and homeless person on the street and when he asked the person what he could do to help, the person said he would just like some tea and bread. This was Moony's calling and since then for the past ten years he delivers 100 meals to homeless people every morning at 8 o'clock. Yep. That's it. He cooks rice and gravy for them and delivers it in tins and little bags. His dream is to start a home for the homeless in Madurai.

We rode along with him and participated in the delivery of food to about seven people. Jake had generously given Moony $50 in our name, so there was a lot of picture posing and hand shaking and John and I looked like ambassadors or something. It felt a little disingenuous and awkward, but we were willing to do it, if it helped Moony continue his good work.

To witness the authentic gratitude of the people was a great privilege. One guy kept waving his hand and praising the gift of rice and gravy. Another woman had a vibrant smile. Moony took us to the home that he provided for Rajesh who was severely handicapped. So much that he needed to walk with his hands. He also couldn't speak. Moony provided him with a cement room and he cooked on a small fire in the front yard. He was happy with these meager provisions 

These people were so destitute it was hard to witness. I felt pity and shame. I always struggle with myself when I participate in charity. It feels like never enough and almost ridiculous and absurd that I'm who I am and they are who they are. All these feelings are a silly waste of time and I'm starting to learn that being charitable should be a "just do it" approach. Just be your imperfect self and do it. 

When I asked Moony why he did this, he just put his hands together over his heart and gazed at me. It was the clearest, most accurate message he had communicated to me during our visit. 

While we have been traveling, Jake has taught us some basic Hindu language to help talk to folks that we met. One thing he taught us was that when you say, "ji" after someone's name it shows respect. As we finished our little charity excursions with Moony, I thanked him and called him, Moony Gee. He liked that and had a hearty laugh about it.

If you would like to help Moony Ji to continue his dream you can contact him at...worldmkr2000@yahoo.in  and check out his website at www.mmctrust.in

Elephants, Tigers and Rafts, Oh My!

Periyar Tiger Reserve is a lot like any woods in Maine. There's a man-made lake there with ancient stumps sticking out of it, lots of trees with similar green leaves and...oh yeah...TIGERS. 

The coolest thing about walking through Periyar is that, as you're  walking, you're imagining what you would do when a tiger jumped out of the brush and attacked you. 

My scenario, which I shared at dinner that evening after the park visit, was something like, "I'd jam my arm into the tiger's mouth, thus sacrificing my arm, but saving my neck, which I'm sure would lead to ultimate death. Then I would expect John to pounce on the tiger thus detaining him from killing me long enough for the guide to shoot the tiger dead." But Jake quickly reminded me that the tiger also has two giant paws with razor sharp claws which would easily rip open my jugular vein. 

Good-bye Maine woods...right.

So we started our day at Periyar at 8 AM. We elected the rafting adventure because we would likely have more opportunity to see wildlife since the raft is quieter. I had read several guidebooks and websites about Periyar (as well as conversations with a lovely New Zealand family) that warned that folks rarely see wildlife on the wildlife viewing excursions offered by the reserve. So I tempered my enthusiasm with good common sense. After all, it was a lovely day and we were paddling on a peaceful lake in the western mountains of southern India...what's not to like.

But I secretly wished for more. You see, it was my birthday that day, and you always get one wish on your birthday, right? 

So when Jake asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I said I wanted to see an elephant. I figured that an elephant would not be as scary as a tiger, and I actually love elephants more than tigers. So I wished for an elephant.

I imagined that seeing an elephant in the wild would be something like most elephants I have seen. They are kind, smiling eyed, docile creatures. Sometimes you can feed them bananas out of your hand and pat them on their big floppy ears. They stand still for you and the caretaker can make them do tricks.

So as we slowly paddled about on Lake Periyar, I imagined elephants coming down to the shore to have a drink of cool water. I kept a close watch on the shore, but the most we saw were some black wild boars scurrying about and very far away. In fact, we could hardly recognize them. The day grew longer and hotter and the trip was from 8-5. The likelihood of seeing animals was growing dimmer by the hour. 

We had to trek through the jungle for a good chunk of the time. The guides were very helpful and pointed out all sorts of unique plants and interestingly shaped trees. I had read that the guides in Periyar were reformed poachers who knew all about the jungle and the behaviors of wild animals. I wished I had had the ability to chat in greater depth with one of them, but even the few things he did share indicated that he knew his stuff. This one guy looked like he had spent the bulk of his adult life in the jungle. He had super dark skin and sharp eyes. He was spry and strong even though he looked very old. He could easily identify footprints and droppings and tell me how long they had been there. He knew all the different plants and how they were useful. I wondered if he enjoyed his new career as a guide and if it lacked the excitement that poaching presented.

 It was getting hot and frankly, boring. Everyone in our group was polite and not very talkative. 

Then we heard it. This awesome sound. So amazingly loud that it startled me.  I had previously mistaken sounds I'd  heard. I thought a woodpecker was a tiger purring. I thought a monkey was a tiger's roar. But this sound was definitely something big and powerful. Jake aptly described it as Satan's trombone.

The guides immediately flew into action. Very quickly I learned that it was an elephant. Then we heard another similar sound. There were two elephants. Of course we all started to run toward the sound. But the guides came running back toward us. You could see the authentic fear in their eyes. Their eyes were huge as rupees. They weren't trying to help us see the elephant, they were trying to protect us from the elephant. One of the guides kept saying "dangerous, very dangerous" and his eyes confirmed that sentiment. 

So we were all huddled together like hostages in a little clearing. The elephant could charge and crush us. I quickly remembered John telling me that there were 400 deaths by elephants in India every year. This made me want to run very far and very fast. But seeing wild animals is what we were there for. We wanted to see this creature we were being told to run away from. Each time the guide with the gun waved his arms to send us back, there was some hesitation. This only made the guide show even greater alarm as he kept swinging his arms to send us further away. 

So many possible scenarios went through my mind. At one point I asked one of the guides if it would be good to hide behind a tree. He laughed at me. Hmph.

The other two guides were ever so cautiously attempting to investigate the situation. There was a lot of talk that I couldn't understand, but I could tell from the tone of their voices that they were not all in agreement about how to handle the situation. The one with the gun was insisting that we get further and further away. The other guy was more willing to risk...which I liked...cause I wanted to see the elephant.

Finally the little guy won over the guy with the gun and we were allowed to creep up slowly to peek at the BULL ELEPHANT about 50 yards away from us. He was munching on a tree. Every once in a while he would start to move and the guy with the gun would start waving for us to get back. 

"Go away, go away" he would shout and wave his hands at us. Then we would creep back up and watch a little longer. 

But there was also the danger of the MOTHER AND HER BABY on the other side of the path catching wind of us and charging from there. The guide later explained that it was a particularly dangerous situation because we were in the woods and the elephants can't really perceive what's happening and they're  more likely to be aggressive. 

We all loomed in the glow of elephant energy for a good twenty minutes and then started to head back to the raft. 

As we were returning, half of our group was missing. One of the women noticed this and we all ran back to see the second sighting of the elephant. This time we got to see her whole body and we were about 75 yards away. She looked so important and strong. There was something noble about her on her turf and on her terms. Very humbling.

We lingered a little longer then started back to the raft and then the hike back to the gates. All the way back I was keenly focused on the possibility of another sighting. It was an awesome experience that I'm amazed to have had. Happy birthday to me!