I wrote in my journal on the third morning, “I find no God here,” then I packed my bags and left.
It’s Your Job
The Duty to Share Your Gifts
Buddhism? Check.
Hinduism? Check.
Judaism? Hmm, not really the best place for that.
Islam? I’ll wait to check that out in Indonesia.
What was left on my list?
Ah, yes, Christianity.
What better place to get a deep taste of Christianity than in Calcutta (now known as Kolkata), former home of the famous Catholic missionary, Mother Teresa. I had heard that Calcutta was a place of intense poverty, and I was powerfully drawn to seeing the slums for myself.
For the fourteen-hour train ride to Calcutta, I could only afford the lowest-class ticket. I walked into the littered, dimly lit cabin crammed with people of all ages perched on ripped seats with their parcels piled high around them. The train reeked of perspiration and curry. Once I was lucky enough to find a seat, I didn’t move. I had no companion to watch my stuff, and I trusted no one. I had witnessed enough petty thievery to know that if I even so much as turned my head, my belongings would be history. I popped an anti-diarrhea pill so I wouldn’t have to use the bathroom.
“Baksheesh, baksheesh!” (“Tip, tip!”)
“You give me money, lady.”
“Please, lady . . . p-l-e-a-s-e . . . ”
All around me in Calcutta, people were crying, pleading, and moaning in an orchestra of suffering and despair.
A drooling blind man grabbed my pant leg and refused to let go. Filled with repulsion and guilt, I pried him off and kept walking. I had been raised with the Jewish ethic of tzedaka: “Always help those less fortunate than you.” I sincerely wanted to hand him some money, but I had just given my last cash to a half-naked girl holding a wheezing, emaciated baby. There were so many needy people here; I couldn’t possibly help them all. Who to relieve, and who to deny?
Perhaps I would find an answer at Mother Teresa’s church. I kicked my way through piles of rotting garbage, ducked under corrugated cardboard and metal shanties, and wove my way through endless crowds of people and cars coughing out black gusts of smoke. Suppressing a gag, I hurried past an open pit overflowing with human waste. Everybody I passed seemed to be missing at least part of their eyes, arms, or legs.
“Is there such malnutrition here that people’s bodies become twisted and malformed?” I asked a nun who was giving an armless beggar some water outside of the church.
“Many people maim themselves and their children, gouging out their eyes and mangling their limbs,” she explained.
I was dumbfounded. “Why on earth would they do that?”
“It brings in more money.”
I don’t know how Mother Teresa did it. I felt nauseated my entire time there.
To this day, I try to give money to as many homeless people on the streets as I can. A recurring phrase keeps running through my head: But by the grace of God go I.
Calcutta made me realize what a luxury it is to ask such questions as “What’s my purpose?” and “How can I best follow my passion?” Mother Teresa’s purpose emerged in those slums. But what about the people she helped? What passion and purpose did they get to pursue? They were living on a subsistence level—literally hand to mouth. I felt more motivated than ever to find and pursue my purpose. If I was in any position to think about and figure out how I could best use my gifts and talents to serve, and if I could find the means to go do so, then I had absolutely no excuse not to. Finding the answer to how I could contribute to the world was more than a luxury; it was my responsibility.
Thou Must Chill!
Learn to Relax and Recharge
Creamy coconut milk melted into tangy lemongrass and salty, crunchy spring onion. “Mmmmm!” I cooed as the warm custard cup disappeared on my tongue.
“And for dessert,” the woman said, handing me a clear plastic bag. I picked up a piece of sticky-sweet, perfectly ripe mango.
“Wow . . . whoa!” I exclaimed, surprised by the bite of freshly ground chili. She laughed with delight.
Everything in Bangkok was a magnificent feast for the senses. Whatever I touched, tasted, smelled, heard, and saw in Thailand screamed joyfully to every part of my body, “Wake up! You’re alive!”
Before coming to Thailand, I’d trekked through the jagged, 26,000-foot peaks in Nepal, known as “the rooftop of the world.” When hiking in Nepal, you don’t camp; you sleep and eat in the local villages. My Australian trekking partner and I had underestimated how much money we would need. By the time I came staggering out of the Himalayas three weeks later—having lugged my heavy backpack at high altitude on only half a cup of lentils a day—my legs were trembling uncontrollably. I had a new appreciation for my body and how strong it could be.
I decided to spoil myself a little. Fancy salon haircut at the Bangkok Hilton: $15. Relaxing Thai massage: $8.50. Nice hotel room with clean, crisp sheets and a working fan: $10. Many of my friends had asked how I could afford to travel. I wondered how they could afford to live at home.
After a few days in Bangkok, I took a bus to northern Thailand. Riding an elephant wasn’t on my bucket list, but it was a popular activity there, and it seemed like a fun thing to try. In the hill tribe village of Karen, as I clung to Jumbo’s prickly neck, I listened to the two young women chatting on the elephant next to me. From their accents I guessed they were British.
“I don’t think we should try opium, Catherine,” the one riding in front said to her friend.
“I’m not saying we should, Marion; I was only curious what it does,” said the one in back.
“I can barely stay on this elephant sober,” I joked, hoping they wouldn’t mind me joining their conversation.
They laughed.
We introduced ourselves. With her blue eyes, porcelain skin, and perfect features, Marion reminded me of my favorite childhood doll. Catherine was the more athletic type; lean and muscular with tousled sandy brown hair, she looked like she could compete in one of those “gigacathalons,” where they run, swim, bike, and bake a cake upside down, all in under two hours.
After trekking with them all day, I discovered they were both highly intelligent women. They knew when to be flexible and easygoing and when to take action in a challenging situation. Best of all, they both had a fantastic sense of humor, and we spent hours cracking each other up. They were perfect travel companions, and we became inseparable for the next forty days.
Catherine and Marion shared my passion for the beach. I soon shared in their passion for coconut peanuts with Mekong and Coke. Each evening, we watched the sun go down while sitting on our towels with our snacks spread out before us in the sand.
We explored Thailand’s most scenic islands, including Ko Samui, Ko Pha-Ngan, Ko Tao, and Ko Phi Phi. Back then, many of the nicest Thai beaches were still undiscovered or just being developed. In Ko Tao, they literally finished putting the doors and windows on our bungalow when we arrived.
When we got to Long Beach on Ko Phi Phi, there were only seven tiny tourist huts in the whole place, and six were already full. It was getting to be nightfall, and there were no other options.
I told the girls, “If