Homecoming

The trip from Palestine to Cochin took six taxis, five buses and two airplanes.  I crossed four borders and slept in two countries along the way. 

This time, I was visiting India not to experience something new as a volunteer, but to visit people that I love.  I was bursting with excitement regardless of my swollen feet, aching back and twisty-cone stomach.

My first few minutes soaking it up!

Rather than stepping right onto the tarmac into the Kerala air like I did when I first arrived in August 2006, a catwalk connected the plane to the airport.  Rose water and a cacophony of flowery powders wafted around me as I rushed with the crowd towards the immigration line, which progressed faster than I expected. 

I was thankful to see my red backpack quickly pop out of the cavernous luggage shoot and yelled for the man in front of me to grab it.  He did, smiling and wincing at its weight (six lbs of dates, five bags of mixed nuts, two bags of chocolates, scarves and earrings galore, which will thankfully be doled out during the next few days).

Before I knew what was happening, six men working at three currency exchange shops were simultaneously beckoning me, “Miss!  Miss!  Come here, Miss!”   I laughed hysterically at the competition for my attention, which ended anti-climactically for them, as I really just needed an ATM. 

The rode to Achen's house in Aluva.

It reminded me of my last day in Mavelikara, when a busload of my elementary school students drove past on their way to their first day of middle school.  They seemed too tiny to be going into the sixth grade.  Their voices, still high-pitched, screamed “Cate Miss!” all together and waved as the bus drove by. 

At last I steered my luggage cart outside, cash in my wallet and taxi voucher in hand.  The rose water, powdery smells of people were mixed with lush plant and burning trash smells, the smells of a place I adore and am lucky to have called home.  

Translation, anyone?

The rolling Malayalam letters on “Welcome!” signs outside the airport seemed to compliment the voices of families welcoming the return of their loved ones.  Malayalam is a language you chew on, the letters must be rolled around in your mouth before they come out like droplets, one after the other in delicious spurts.  The alphabet is a series of curly q’s and rounded M shapes, demonstrating its pronunciation to the reader, how one must swish the sounds around like wine before enunciating.

When the taxi pulled up to Achen’s house at five-o’clock in the morning, I saw his figure standing outside the house waiting for me.  He was waiting with open arms and his hug melted me. 

“It is so good to see you, Achen,” I bawled.

A few hours later, after a fitful rest in a climate much different than the desert I’ve become accustomed to, I was dipping appam into egg curry, eating delicious, tiny bananas and sipping on “chaia.”    

These guys just wanted me to take their photo.  

After four years I am back in India, and it feels like a homecoming.

Four years later: My return to Kerala

My time in India was as formative as everyone said it would be.

In August 2007, I returned to Chicago and spent two years working at The Cara Program, a workforce development agency that achieves the high goals that it sets. Cara was an amazing place to come home to, where I felt a small but significant sense of control over one of the greatest faults of the United States: its homeless and unemployed population.

I realized, having worked with people overcoming homelessness, that I would rather be helping them express their incredible life stories than writing their resumes and coordinating mock interviews for them. So I went to journalism school, much to the chagrin of my bank account.

After j-school I moved to the West Bank, a place where Walls are being built. Where families discuss their livelihood over delicious mahklouba meals. Where kids are playing, students are studying and teachers are teaching but everyone is thinking about the occupation.

In three days I will return to Kerala for the first time in four years. It feels like a daunting vacation, returning to a place where a walk down one street revealed mansions, paddy fields and dalit huts. Where cows rule the road and dogs are dirt. Where Hindu temples belt out melodious prayers and rickshaws wheel perilously around tight curves in the road.

Please join me as I return to Kerala, this time as a tourist, hoping to see old friends, eat the comfort food I've craved and tell some stories.