Traveler Films

(excerpt from the travel journal)

The stench of the streets cover their clothes and bodies. They live on the streets, most nights they sleep in the Hindu temples for shelter, and they are smiling.
There are about 11 of them altogether crowded into the little restaurant. Tonight is New Years Eve and we are all here. The children all sit and talk excitedly in Nepalese, and wait.
Kushal begins to take orders for Momo and Chow-mien; the kids are grateful and surprisingly quiet as they get their food and drinks. We get 2 liters of Coke and I can hardly keep up with their demands for more. They are the forgotten children, but tonight they have names. They eat quickly, but they serve each other. A few of the kids are brothers, all are boys. I am overwhelmed by the scene only when I step back from it. They cannot go to school, they have no protection or shelter. They tell us of sniffing glue to kill the emptiness that is their enemy. They sometimes drink. The youngest is probably only 2 years old. When Kushal asks him how he came to live on the streets he replies: “I came!”
The restaurant is a small place on “freak street”, and it is smaller than my bedroom back home, and with lower ceilings. The owner is kept busy making all the food for the hungry children and his young son works hard to serve the honored guests for tonight.
I order Chow-mien. It is served in a bowl made entirely of dried leaves, and it is delicious. For a time I forget who I am back “home”. Here I am a friend to these precious kids, and I am here to tell their story.
The owner seems bewildered by the scene when we first arrive, but after he observes his customers for a while, he just smiles. A light has come to this place on this night.
As Kushal translates the stories of each of the children we are saddened. They seem to be happy, but their circumstances are some of the bleakest I have encountered, and they are just children.

The boy in the picture told his story for us. He is 13. His eye is swollen because of asthema made worse by the dust of the streets and constant fighting with the other kids. He lived at an orphanage for a while, but they got new children and kicked him and the older children out. He doesn’t have a mother or father to take care of him, and he cannot go to school. He wants to study but now he is too old and cannot pay for it.
I want to take care of him, to give him a chance again, but for now this is all we can do.

As I write this I sit in a much nicer restaurant in Pokhara, far from the children we spent that New Years Eve with. Bob Dylan’s voice is coming through the speakers telling me that the answer to these questions I have is blowin’ in the wind… and I wonder if that is so, or if I am not looking hard enough.
Jesus said that we are the salt and the light of the world, and I find myself praying that I will not forget why I am doing the good I have set out to do. It is because He said if we did not take care of the orphans and the widows we were far from his heart. “Let the little children come to me, the kingdom of heaven belongs to them.”
If this is true than we were serving the princes of that very kingdom, children who need hope. They take refuge now in the houses of idols, gods that never existed, nor care for them. Where is the body of the living God who loves them and made them? Christ called us to be that very body, and be that light that dispels the darkness. I don’t think this is easy, or reason for boasting. In fact I find it at times I sense a dichotomy exposed between that which I believe, and that which I live.

As we say goodbye to the children and head back to our hotel we are quiet. The beauty in the children is contrasted sharply by the ugliness of their situation. Can we make a difference? Is our story and theirs intersecting for a reason bigger than we can see right now?
We watch a movie on our laptop and fall asleep wishing there was an easier way to bridge the sharp divide between our life and theirs. Outside our hotel the New Years celebrations are loud and last late into the night. The thoughts of the children rest uneasy on our minds.
This is true religion. To take care of the orphan and the widows in their distress.
I can still hear their chorus of “Namaste!” as I met them.

Shepherd/ a white stranger

(excerpt from the travel journal)

It was almost as if I was sprouting wings as we drove out of the Kathmandu valley. The smog and incessant honking was wearing me down to where I could hardly breathe. Buildings began to crowd in less and color and people began to appear through the ever widening gaps between them. Each sari-clad wife washing clothes, each child at play, each little rice terrace garden was a breath of fresh air as we flew to the hills and forests.

Clatter and bump our little minibus goes around the looping dirt road, dodging oversize trucks with messages like “Slow Drive – Long Life” painted on their bumpers. Between sailing through white dust-clouds we get a glimpse of gardens, houses, and people below. Our minibus lands right at the foot of a stone staircase. We are here to visit a Leprosy Hospital that we are told is at the top of these steps. I feel my thighs burn and breath is short but I push on urgently; we are an hour and a half late for our appointment and they should be closing in just a half hour. My fears are allayed when at the top we are greeted warmly and told we will be able to film anything we would like. I wonder what we will find. The face of Jesus, I hope.

“Where can we meet some of the leprosy affected people?” I ask after touring the kitchen and bio-gas producing facility.

“Yes, next we can visit the mens’ ward.” our guide offers.

We enter into a sanctuary of sorts where men can gain dignity and heath. The fatherly faces that greet us lay aside every ting of fear or reservation. They have purpose and the future is bright. Toothy grins and greetings of “Namaste” find us there as we touch the face of Jesus. “Tell me, how long are the patients usually here?” I ask.

“Maybe six months; it depends on how severe the case. They are able to stay free of charge and receive all the necessary medications and therapy. Some times they return here because their sores come back.” I am told, “Now maybe we can visit the womens’ ward.”

Entering the women’s ward was warm and filled with smiles, shy wrinkles and laughter! Pain exists but holiness prevails. Mothers and grandmothers knit with beautiful gnarled hands and chat back and forth. Kate, an American girl working here with United Mission to Nepal who is traveling with us for the
day, connects well with the women. She speaks in Nepalese asking the women their names. I just smile and absorb theirs. In each person a hope of wholeness exists that leaves me more full and whole through interaction with it. Pain exists but hope and holiness prevail.

As we prepare to leave I notice a large sign in Nepalese script and ask our guide what it means.
“It means, ‘Forest of Joy’” he replies, “That is the name of our facility here.”
They could not have picked a better name.

Even though I will descend back into the Kathmandu valley, I will keep my eyes on the hills and always remember the faces, joy and hope that I encountered there.

I will remember that pain exists but, hope and holiness prevail.

Caleb/uplifted traveler

(excerpt from the travel journal)

…Many other events have transpired in the last few days. So many that it’s sometimes difficult to process everything, even more so to describe. In view of this continuing process, this specific post doesn’t describe our journey itinerary but rather creates a snapshot of our journey experience…

A businessman sits casually across from his guest, confident words packaged neatly in a thin plastic coating. Leaning forward, elbows resting on knees, his posture mirrors his manner, engaging yet demanding. He talks too much.
He looks and sounds like the typical middle-aged, American businessman, meeting a few potential clients in the most Western coffee shop we’ve seen. I feel out of place here.

Smooth words puff like unwelcomed smoke from an unwelcomed smoker…evident in the juxtaposition of his own posture to his guest’s, back pressed against her chair across the table, slouched. She brightens noticeably at the joining of another guest, a relieving pause from the seller’s pitch. A sense of rescue accompanies her soft kiss on his cheek.

I couldn’t hear very well and honestly didn’t mean to listen or notice, only his vice bumped into me, like a clumsy passerby on a crowded street, above the festive background music and warm chatter. And in all fairness, I don’t know him or anything about him. Only I couldn’t help feel a sense of discomfort at his crowding words and polished agreement…just too quick to incorporate his guests’ remark into his continuing pitch. Couldn’t help but feel on guard against his shrewd smile. Maybe you’ve felt it when it seems that friendliness is but a thin, crackled mask for the coming sale. There is a hearing that precedes, transcends sound.

As the pitch seemed to fall on wet kindling, reluctant responses gave way to rambling conversation. Again, I couldn’t and didn’t particularly care to hear, but his volume continued to take up more than his share of table space. Part of me wondered if he wouldn’t soon turn to me and try to sell something…
Trying to distance myself from their chatting, one question lifted my head and pulled me in, “so how old’s your son?” one of the guests asks. Maybe it wasn’t even the question so much as the response that captured my attention.
…For once, silence. A struggling face, “…maybe seven or eight…six…” And the conversation rambles on. But I’m completely astounded, left in disbelief. Incredulous. Maybe I heard the question wrong. A deep unsettledness says maybe I didn’t.

Disgust washed by deep sadness follows his answer. How easy it is to see how obviously he’s missed it, traded once passionate, now faded family life to be wed to a corporate ladder…relationship with a son exchanged for contacts in the next big deal. How very obvious and so deeply saddening. The warmth of a family for another dollar. Real love and meaning for facades of contentedness and fleeting comfort. Wholeness for emptiness.

So painfully clear.

…Another wealthy man, young, approaches Jesus and asks what he has to do to gain eternal life.
Responding to Jesus’ quote of several ancient commandments, the young man tells that he has been faithful to these. Perhaps he’s comforted and is left with confidence. Astonishingly, Jesus continues.
Boasting smiles washing from the young man’s face. “You still lack one thing. Sell everything you have and give to the poor. Then come follow me.” Saddened, the wealthy young man turns and fades into the gathering crowd. (paraphrase, Luke 18)

Wholeness for emptiness.

Though I’m middle-class in my comfortable society, as a member of the world’s community, I am unimaginably wealthy. So wealthy that I flush clean water down my toilet and throw away food I don’t enjoy. And yes, I’m asking, struggling, trying, but this process sometimes reveals a reluctance. Could I sell everything if asked? Am I asked, called, pleaded to sell everything? Does the way of Jesus counter
my wealth?

How can it not?

Wholeness for emptiness. How easy it is to see the speck in another.

Patrick/ an awakening rich young man

(excerpt from the travel journal)

In the dark of a planned city wide power outage we walked… Kathmandu is full of people, living out their lives selling souvenirs to tourists, gear to trekkers, food to their own people, and everything in between to everyone. During the day we could see temples and huge hills and narrow streets, now those streets feel even narrower as we sidestep taxis and motorcycles and dogs… and one rather unexpected donkey that I nearly walked into in the fading light.

Our new guide is named Kushal. He is a friendly and well spoken young man we met as we searched for a camera store. He is about our age and promises to help us find our way around. He is eager to help and we feel like we have known him for a long time after having only been with him for a few hours. Kushal takes us to a cafe in a place called ‘freak street’, a street known for hippies who still love Nepal for its permissive drug policies. It is a nice place, with candles lighting the small garden style restaurant. We settle on “Tia” or Chai as we are familiar with it and some flat bread. The aroma is delicious. We ask our new friend about himself and his life, and he goes on to share much of his life story. We feel good about his honesty and openness toward us, as well as his value of friendship over material. As we eye our surroundings we hear a loud shriek in the tree above us, and look up in time to see a rat about the size of a tomcat fighting with another rat of near equal size. Our friend calls to the waiter and tells him about the guest, to which the waiter replies chuckling “catch it and throw it back.”
We only hear the rats once more as we finish our meal, and they seemed to have found some common ground. We pay for our small meal and leave to return to our hotel. On our way we go to the many shops looking for a couple jackets and a sleeping bag. It seems to take Patrick a long time to settle on anything, which frustrates me. I decided to sit and talk with Kushal. He tells me the story of how the elephant headed god in Hinduism came to be. He says he is Hindu, but most of the time he is not sure, “there may be no God” he says, “or there may be one”. “In Hinduism” he says “you speak to one god and anger another.” He laughs and rolls his eyes. We finally settle on something to buy and part with our new friend at our hotel. We get his email address and phone number and he tells us to call him soon.

As we go to the roof of the hotel for our evening meal Patrick explains his hesitance to buy the relatively cheap gear from the local shops in our tourist district. It is the issue of “fair-trade”.
The shop owners acknowledged the reason for such low prices was because the items were counterfeit… Though we have no idea how such items are made, we cannot shake the fact that we have no idea if the clothes we wear and purchase were made by children or oppressed workers in slave like conditions. Are the clothes cheap because the workers who make them are underpaid for their work? We talked for hours about what our response to this issue should be over our Nepalese meal. Rice and Lentil soup with black tea. I think the Nepalese life is beginning to take a hold.

After only the second day in Kathmandu I know for sure I will not be the same in so many ways when I return home. So many questions, such a short life, and yet perhaps we should be more like the Nepalese. To have a more peaceful outlook on life.

“Shanti, Shanti”
(Peace, Peace)

Shepherd/“wildlife” enthusiast

(excerpt from the travel journal)

The bittersweet aroma of exhaust, dusty roads, refuse, and just a tinge of incense press in around us as we bump along in Nepali traffic. By patting his leg our Rickshaw driver assures us that three people in a maybe-two-person space is no problem. We give each other a considering look, shrug, and climb aboard. With Patrick on my lap and Shepherd manning the camera we take in the story of the streets of Kathmandu. I wonder at some of the faces we pass by. The lady selling vegetables on the corner, she sits with a dozen more women jut like her, selling food to feed their children. A seller of trekking equipment stands outside his shop; most, if not all, of his wears are counterfeit, manufactured in China and sold to trekkers and tourists for cheap. Incense takes the aroma foreground, heralding a Hindu temple with its red dust and pagoda dragons. As we climb down from our buggy I notice a small dirty boy who sits above a white dog. He sees that he has caught my eye and quickly begins to plead for money for food. I know that it is illegal to give to street children or beggars in Nepal, at least I think I heard that. I have five Rupies in my pocket (about 7 cents) and think about discreetly giving it to him by dropping it on him as we pass by. But, I know that won’t really do him any good… that amount is even insulting in a way. If I give him more money he may make a scene and then I will have a dozen other beggars to turn away or give to till my money is spent.

What should I do? What can I do? I decide to play it safe and by the law. I turn and ignore. “That dog with him looks pretty well fed”, I tell myself. “Maybe the boy as food enough if even the dog can eat.”
Can that be right? How do I love mercy, act justly and walk with God if I withhold from those who ask. “Give to the one who asks of you”, Jesus says. When does that NOT apply? These are the questions I am daily struggling with here. I know that the situation is complicated, but where and how do I draw lines? How do I love my neighbor if the cost is so high?
God, give me the ability to pay the cost with wisdom and love. Make me like Jesus in every way you will. Save me from myself. My eyes are on you Jesus.

Caleb Meeks/full of questions

(excerpt from the travel journal)

Silently we sail over a sleeping world, wrapped in a blanket of white and patches of lingering darkness. Here there is a quiet that carries and soothes, a harmony played around us as we descend. Within this quiet is such a real sense of newness, of hope, of morning…a warm sense of the world and its people clinging to hope in the midst of wrongs and brokenness…a feeling that leaves me foolish enough to believe something can be done, that I can be a part of bringing right and wholeness, a deep penetrating belief that hope remains. Hope, at first barely visible in burnt orange strokes against a dark canvas, now a vibrant diffusion of pink and gold, bringing light to the entire sky, giving word to the world of morning. Yes, hope remains.

And there is something so very sacred in this state of liminality, this in-betweeness of night and day, as the world waits for word to continue or cease, to bring light or dark, order or chaos. For me too, my soul must decide what music it will play, the score from which it will be directed. This morning, a voice deep within calls me to sing the song of a better man, to be more fully human, more in tune with the Way of Good News.

So may we join the harbinger’s song, informing the world of redemption and wholeness. May we bestow dignity in small gestures of putting others before ourselves. May we bring understanding and grace to counter the voice of fear and skepticism of our neighbor… may we join this Way, with lives lived out in the melody of Jesus.

Come, morning come.

Patrick, morning poet/ one who believes in a better way

(excerpt from the travel journal)

London. At what is 1:02 AM at home I am sitting in a dining room waiting for Caleb and Patrick. I have been up for a couple hours now and I am waiting for tea and my first English continental breakfast. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but I intend to capture that on my camera. Here is one instance where the time change of 6 hours is an advantage.
London is different than I expected. Having come from New York City I almost expected a similar vibe. So London is fairly busy, but friendlier and more tasteful by far. I love it and I think I could stay here.

But this is only a stop on the way. There still lies about 50 hours of travel before we at long last reach our destination. This project and trip has become more and more about the journey and I think I am becoming more or less glad for that. I find it challenging to have so little control over our travel and the story we set out to tell. That is good, it is stretching me. So far God has kept us healthy, and brought us the right people on our way. It is exhilarating to be in new places and experience new things, and I am thankful for the opportunity to do so.

I am amazed by the journey at this point, having nearly seen this dream die at the gate. We are on our way, and we have managed to push through what has been one of the greatest challenges we have ever faced. God has stretched us. We have no idea what is coming next, but I am not afraid. I am certain He intends to use whatever circumstances and challenges to shape us and grow us into mature followers of His gospel.

Shepherd/morning dweller/connoisseur of cheap food

(excerpt from the travel journal)

Times Square on Christmas Eve; the cacophony and flash of skyscraper video-billboards cram their messages into the minds of the continuous flows of human beings. Limousines and beggars, fights and kisses, Rolex hawkers and faceless strangers milling bye, and three men standing under an overpass away from the drizzle trying to buy tickets to Nepal.

“The airline won’t take any of the credit cards you have given me. I don’t know why this is not working.” says a travel agent, sacrificing much of his Christmas Eve to help us get flights.

“…I don’t know what else to do.” I reply.

For the umpteenth time I felt nearly sure that we will not be going to Nepal. Huddling against that marble wall we have exhausted every possible avenue we can think of. After over one hundred and one hours of trying, we have come to the end. And then, somehow, there at the end, in a matter of seconds, the tide shifts. With some unforeseen travel agent magic we had purchased the tickets, we were going to Nepal, a way had been made.
To celebrate we went and got Gyros with a man named Davis who we had met randomly on the street while we were buying tickets. After we ate the Gyros, Davis asked if he could pray for us and our journey. We all four held hands on a sidewalk in Times Square as the crowd rushed past on their way and Davis blessed us. God works through his body and we are blessed to be a part of that body. Praise him for the great things he has done and for a way being made where there is no other!

There will be more mess-ups and mix-ups to come but we will continue to press on.

“The LORD gives strength to his people; the LORD blesses his people with peace.”
-Psalm 29:11
 

Caleb/Blessed Follower,Possessor of an Indian Visa

(excerpt from the travel journal)

Day 3: Dec 23rd 2008

The last 12 hours have been the craziest 12 hours of our lives. I think we all are frayed to the point of exhaustion. And yet and yet. There is a ray of hope.
The past twelve hours I think each one of us has felt more or less like this trip was a failure.
The past twelve hours I am pretty sure we have each doubted the strength of God’s commitment to us… (as though He might owe us anything.)
The past twelve hours we have looked for the miraculous as much as possible and every door has slammed on us… It seemed.

“O ye of little faith.”

Perhaps to me if God gave us an outright no I could in my mind count this trip, not as a failure in God’s big picture, but as a lesson, or God’s testing us out of a greater love. Nothing felt like a greater disappointment than to see our trip and plans cut so short at the gate of exit.

At this point each time we found tickets (that didn’t require an India visa, as we had exhausted our options there) we had the flight book up, or the price too high, or we would have to travel separately, or they were too late. Honestly we were ready to admit defeat. We discussed the implications of this many times, and spent hours in fervent Prayer late into the night. I am certain we were being fervently prayed for as well. While it is hard to think of another trip more fraught with difficulty in these days, we recognized that many servants of God have had far worse traveling difficulties. Specifically Paul was shipwrecked, and imprisoned, and yet he still persisted, and trusted God.
So we decided not to give up. We will wait and see what God does…

Day 4: Dec 24th 2008

Since we are a day behind we are going to catch you up on Christmas morning with the miracle of Christmas Eve. Merry Christmas to all our beloved friends and family!

Shepherd Ahlers/filmmaker, tired writer

(excerpt from the travel journal)

…first things first: today is…hmmmm. Honestly, I’m not sure what the day is.  But I’m fairly certain this is the third day of airports, frantic phone calls to anyone who’ll listen, and surprisingly enjoyable JetLite mambo- dance-while-you’re-on-hold music.  (it’s really good… if you have some free time, i seriously recommend you check it out)

So things have been a little crazy (understatement?).  And in view of this eventful beginning a few ‘thank you’s’ are certainly in order:

First, to our famillies and friends who’ve been on call, helping to find numbers, make calls, look up addresses, etc, etc, etc, etc, and give much needed encouragement.  We are truly so thankful. (p.s. Mom- you seriously should consider a second life as a data mining and information research specialist…incredible…)

Second, to Carolyn and Dorn in Memphis… your excitement and warmth were such a relief after lots of confusion and exhaustion. And your vision and passion for living out the way of Jesus is inspiring, truly inspiring. That’s what we want our lives to look like. So keep loving people, bringing hope and reconciliation.

Third, to our good friends and brothers John and Zach…you hold Jersey down. How great it was to see your ragged faces at the airport. Good friends, a warm house, and the best homeade Philly cheesestake subs I’ve ever had. Your passion for people, redemption, and figuring out how to live all of this out intensifies our own strivings.  Thanks for being really good friends, for your lives and great conversations. Keep following Jesus.

Fourth, the lady at the Continental counter in Memphis. Thanks for making the flight to Jersey possible and for smiling a lot.

Fifth, and seriously one of my new favorite people: Roshenani (rosh-nee), one of the operators for JetLite. You were so incredibly helpful and patient and you gave a little glimmer of hope when it looked like no one would help us. Without you, I’m certain I’d still be on hold listening to incredible hold music,  in the midst of an emotional breakdown.

I realize all of this sounds like a book thank you and I should’ve thanked my publisher and editor and such, but there have been so many people a part of this trip already that I really wanted to show our gratitude.  So thank you so very very much.

A brief update: today we found out that India is one of the few countries requiring visas to enter the airport, even if you’re routing through to another country.  In short, we didn’t know this until we were at the ticket counter getting our boarding passes in Memphis. Yes we agree, this was not ideal, we should’ve know this before, how could we not know this, why didn’t anyone else help give us this small but vital piece of info, how could we not know this, we should’ve figured this out before, how could we not know this already…yeah.

So what ensued was several hours of frantic phone calling and figuring out some of the most creative ways to get to Kathmandu. We considered getting rid of our checked bags so we wouldn’t have to go through customs in Delhi (because we’re changing airlines our bags couldn’t be shipped straight through to Kathmandu…so because they couldn’t be shipped through, we would’ve had to get our bags, go through customs, and re-enter the airport, which requires a visa…if you’re confused, we completely understand). We tried getting in touch with someone who could add our trip from Delhi to Kathmandu onto our Continental itenerary…that meant calling Jet Airways who, after explaining the entire dilemma, let me know I needed to call JetLite (more rockin’ music)…who were again very helpful and gave me a few other numbers to call.  But then we found out that we had to have visas regardless of whether our entire trip itenerary moved us through India to another country.  So, we tried finding other cities outside of India that we could fly to and then continue on to Kathmandu…Continental doesn’t have any other way into Nepal except through India.  Finally, our friend at the Continental counter helped us with another option of possibly getting visas in New York. So now we’re in Jersey, preparing to go to the Indian consulate tomorrow to turn in visa applications and hopefully get them back early Wednesday.  If we get our visas back in time on Wednesday, then we’ll catch a flight from Jerseyto  Delhi on Wednesday night.  And we wanted an adventure…

Incredibly, the preceding paragraph probably took you a couple of minutes to read (possibly more if you really tried to figure out what was going on and then happened next), but in real time lasted from our arrival at the Memphis airport around 11:30am until now… 1:40am the following day.

So thanks for reading and helping and praying and just believing in us. Off now to get our visa applications ready. 

grace and peace

Patrick Covert/photographer/mambo-dancer

(excerpts from the travel journal)

A Departure poem:

Twas the night before departure and all through the dorm

not a student was stirring, which is out of the norm.

I in my thermals and Patrick in his cap

had just started packing stuff in our pack.

When out of the blue my cell phone gave a ring;

so I leapt to retrieve it with one giant spring.

And what with my wondering ears did I hear

but Shepherd Ahlers with questions of gear.

Up in the morning after waving good byes

we will head to Memphis with moistened eyes.

As the runway shrinks away below

we will make our plans to make a show.

But, till our journey has taken flight,

“Happy blog reading to all, and to all a good-night!”

Caleb Meeks/ engineer/part time poet

Day 1: We are slowed but not stopped. Though, due to bad weather, our flights from Memphis to Deli India were canceled we will still be traveling to Nepal with only a 24 hour delay. Thankfully some relations of Patrick’s in Memphis have graciously taken us in and hosted us until our new flights on the 22nd. We are in very good spirits despite the delay because it has afforded us a much needed short rest and preparation period.

Tomorrow we fly! Keep up those prayers and thank God that he has turned a potentially discouraging situation into a blessing.

Caleb Meeks/officiated fearless leader