In November 1992, I took my first mission trip to India. Since then, the Lord has given me the privilege of going back many times, allowing me to introduce the tribal people I have come to love to many others. I thank God that He has enabled me to become their teacher, pastor, and friend. Recently, I was reminded of my first trip back in 1992, so I re-read my old trip diary, from which these memories were recalled. 

     After my first night in Calcutta, I flew to Bhubaneswar, the capitol of Orissa, where I had been asked to be part of a team that would teach for five days at a pastors’ seminar. The team was made up of people who came from Canada, America, South Africa, and Singapore. The organizers, David and Marilyn Wallis, were New Zealanders who had a remarkable mission to India. They sacrificed a great deal by constantly traveling the length and breadth of this difficult country; staying in cheap hotels, moving about by train and bus, the same way the locals do, in order to provide these wonderful seminars. I have never heard of anyone doing this, before or since, much less with the humility and grace with which they have done it.

     The Indian pastors and their wives came from all over Orissa, as this was a rare event. In fact, this may have been only the second time anything like this had been organized, partly because there was not much of a mission concern for Northern India, compared to the South where there are many Christians to teach and train. Also, Orissa is such a remote and primitive place. This State ranks second in India, in terms of poverty, and is one of the few places where you can still find tribal people living in the mountains and jungles the way they have for hundreds of years. Only in this generation have the officials been able to ban human sacrifice. Instead, at certain festivals they allow the natives to either use live goats or oxen, which are hacked to pieces with machetes during the sacrifice. Even so, since I have been going to Orissa, I have heard reports of young boys being sold for this purpose. 

COMFORTABLE ENOUGH TO CARE 

      David and Marilyn had rented a Marriage Hall, which is a long, low, concrete building that would seat about five or six hundred people. Here we would hold meetings all day and each evening. At night, the pastors would stack the chairs against the walls so they could sleep on the vast concrete floor. On the second day of the seminar, the water ran out and the toilets failed. The only place for the families to wash was in the fountain out front. Behind the building was a large cauldron used for cooking the rice for all the meals, which was provided by David and Marilyn. It was the first time I had seen people using large leaves as plates.

     On the other hand, our team stayed in a luxurious hotel. It had a first-class restaurant, marble floors, and spacious, air-conditioned rooms, with two good beds to a room. It was reported that Princess Margaret had once stayed there. This double standard troubled my conscience. When I shared my concern with David, he simply said that we could not stay on the level of our Indian brethren and still function. We would be too focused on our own needs and comfort, and would not be able to accomplish what we had traveled there to do. He told me that I needed to see it as a means to ensure that I was rested, so I would able to give my best when it was my turn to teach. 

PRESSING IN FOR MORE 

     One person who accompanied us that week was a missionary named Joan Jones. She and I had attended the same country church together back in Canada, soon after we both had come to know the Lord. Joan was about my mother’s age and was on fire for the Lord. She knew I was called to teach and was a source of never-ending encouragement to me. Once, she even sent away for a set of rare books that she thought would challenge me to press into the things of God. She was a wonderful example of someone who was always seeking to be more open to the ministry of the Holy Spirit. Joan had a vision to be used of God and was always preparing to that end, but was somewhat limited by her husband. He did not meet the Lord until just before he passed away. Shortly after his death, she headed off to Bible School and from there went to Orissa as a missionary, teaching young women to press in for more. Now here we were, a dozen years later, traveling in the back of a motorized rickshaw, surrounded by a blur of strange sights and sounds, teaching together in India.  Only God could bring something like this to pass. 

RUNNING FROM THE PLATFORM 

      Another member of the team, a brother from South Africa, brought a small group of family and supporters with him. He was a dynamic personality who could really excite the crowd. He told dramatic stories of healings and got everyone in a receptive mood, but I was deeply disappointed when, after he preached himself hoarse, getting everyone to their feet with their hands raised and their eyes closed, he darted from the platform to a jeep parked outside. His group suddenly picked up their Bibles and ran out after him. We had been warned about the possibility of the police breaking up our meeting, so I ran with them. We sped across town, coming to a halt in front of our hotel. Everyone jumped out, bounded up the stairs and then casually walked into the dining room. As they sat down and opened their menus, I tried to figure out what was going on. Nobody else seemed to think that this was strange behavior. I finally asked, “What did we just do?” The preacher looked at me, with a knowing air of experience, and said, “Well, you can’t touch them, can you?” I searched his face for any hint of prejudice. He went on to explain that it was just a practical matter. “If you shake hands with one, you will have to shake hands with them all. If you lay hands on one to pray for them, you will be there all night praying for the rest.” While there may not have been any prejudice in his heart, I felt it was still contrary to the nature or Spirit of Christ.

     It was my turn to teach in the morning, so I went to bed early. 

SHAKING HANDS CHANGED MY HEART 

     As I stood before the vast audience, I was pretty intimidated. I had never preached to that many people before, much less to five or six hundred pastors. I wondered what I could possibly say that would make a difference in their lives and ministries. Hemant was my interpreter and he did a great job, preaching in unison, imitating both my tone and body language, but I could tell my sermon was falling flat. We stopped for a break and I did what I would normally do back home. I made my way out to the audience to greet the people. I was not prepared for what happened next. The hands I shook seemed so strong and callused. I didn’t expect that. As I greeted my Indian brethren, my mind was trying to grasp what was happening... “These are field workers hands… not like pastors back home… these are laborers…” Then I noticed they would not look me in the face. I playfully held on to their hands trying to get them to pick their eyes up off the ground. Some would look at my shoulder, but no further. Finally, when our eyes did meet, their faces would explode with bright smiles. Each one obviously enjoyed the contact as much as I did. I was ashamed to have been intimidated by them. They were just needy people starved for encouragement. I don’t know how many hands I shook, but they did not overwhelm me; compassion did. When I stood up to speak at my next session, I was a different man. I just wanted to give them everything… anything that might help them to understand how dear they were to the Lord and that He saw their need.      

     After that meeting, David came up to me, smiling approvingly. He asked what had gotten into me. He told me that the first session was good, but that I really connected in my second session. I could not explain myself very well, but was pleased that he was pleased.

    From that meeting on, I always took time to wade out into the crowd to greet my brethren. The tiny mothers would come up to me, their babies on their hips, and extend their hands to be shaken. Then they would take mine and place it on their babies’ heads. I could feel their fever, probably from malaria, and was moved to pray for them. In a land where there is no health insurance or social security, God’s blessing upon their children is the only thing able to comfort their mother’s heart. I felt something of Jesus’ heart being stirred within me, as I remembered how He longed to bless the little children. Others on the team also spent more time praying for needs after each meeting, all except for the “man of power”.

     A week or so after the seminar, while we were traveling someplace, Hemant broke the silence by stating, “We are not stupid, you know.” I sat up, not knowing if I had heard him correctly. He said. “We are not stupid. We see them run to the jeep. If they only knew how much we love and respect them; we just want to be able to shake their hands and thank them for coming to India. This is all.” There was nothing I could say in response. I knew what he meant and I resented it, too.

     The well-traveled preacher knew this was my first trip and that I was as naive as could be, but he also knew I could see right through him. One night, after he got the crowd really pumped up, with their hands raised and everyone praying out-loud with all their hearts, as only Indians can, he asked his son to take a picture of him in the pulpit with this amazing scene as a backdrop. When the young lad couldn’t work the camera, he angrily gave him instructions on how to do it. At that moment, his eyes caught mine. He froze and momentarily lost his place in the meeting, which soon came to a close. I had seen some of his newsletters with similar pictures taken in the various places he had been. Before we parted, I had a chance to share with him that this was not the way we should conduct our ministry if we were to be like Jesus. To his credit, he was very open and humble. He invited any admonition from the Lord I might share with him. I was faithful to do that. 

BACK TO CALCUTTA 

    Several members of our team, including the Wallis’ and Joan Jones, traveled overnight by train from Bhubaneswar to Calcutta, and then on to the city of Rourkela, where their mission was located. I would be spending a few days teaching at the girl’s school where Joan worked. Then I would be off with Hemant to the jungle region.

    That night at the train station, I saw the strangest sights. There were people everywhere, but some stood out from all the rest. I was surprised to see so many bedded down on the platform for the night. One old man, naked as could be, laid on a blanket oblivious to the fact that thousands of people were walking past. I saw a tall, bearded Westerner, a giant compared to the Indians, obviously traveling alone around India. He was carrying his knapsack draped across his tired khaki clothes, but what stood out most were his fear-filled eyes and the large knife stuck in the front of his pants. It might have been put there to make others afraid of him, but clearly he was the one who was afraid.

    I noticed some shadows moving across the rows of tracks. Everything was flat black from the soot, so it took me a minute to realize that these were little children scurrying across the tracks. They seemed to be about five or six years old and came out of an empty train car, where perhaps they were looking for food. Their rags and faces were as black as everything around them. I watched as they came to a concrete wall, which was the raised platform above the tracks. It took them a while to help each other over this obstacle. No one else seemed to notice them. The only help they had came from each other. After ten years, this vivid image still plays like a silent movie in my mind whenever I think of my first trip to India. 

TO SLEEP OR NOT TO SLEEP 

     I had never slept on a train before. I hoped I could, so that I would be rested in the morning when we arrived at the mission compound. I shared a small room with David and Marilyn, who had the top and bottom bunks opposite mine. Our beds were plastic mattresses suspended from the wall. There were plenty of clasps under the bed so you could chain your suitcase to the floor. This was about the only indication I had that we were in first class.

    Fortunately, I went to sleep right away. When I woke up before daylight, I checked my watch and felt a little sense of victory, because I had slept through the night. Then I noticed David leaning against the wall opposite my bunk, reading his Bible. He shook his head sadly and informed me that we were still in the Calcutta station. We hadn’t moved an inch. There had been a derailment somewhere on the line so we would be spending all day confined to our bunks, if we traveled at all.

    One of the other missionary ladies traveling with Joan said they had had a long, sleepless night. It all started when one of the gals went to the washroom before bed. The toilets on the train are quite a shock for anyone visiting India for the first time. You have a choice. One door is marked “Western Toilets”, which is a bowl with no seat, and too nasty to even be in the same room with. The other door is just marked “Toilet”, but there isn’t any. It is just a hole drilled through the steel floor, which empties out onto the tracks below. While this is more hygienic, it is also a little trickier. One of the ladies had peed on her shoes, so she tied them to the ceiling fan beside her bunk to dry them out. She was turned, facing the wall, when God spoke to her telling her that someone was stealing her shoes. She said she ignored this, thinking it was just her imagination. When she finally turned over, her shoes were gone.

    That long, drawn-out day was not a complete waste for me. I had the privilege of visiting with David and Marilyn, learning about their experiences in India. One story I will never forget was about their teenage daughter. She was taking a shower and had just lathered up her hair when she felt something touch her leg. After she rinsed, she looked down to find that a cobra had come up through the drain and had wrapped itself around her leg. She screamed and jumped out of the shower, somehow frightening the snake. It went back down the drain. Later, when workmen found it in a pipe, they pulled it out and killed it. It measured about eight feet in length.     

BLUE MILK 

    David smiled fondly as related the story of the blue milk. When they first moved to India as missionaries, he had hired a man to bring fresh milk to their house everyday. This worked well for a time, but then he began to notice that the milk was getting so thin that it was almost blue. He asked the owner of the cow about it, but he just shrugged it off, saying that was how it came out. David insisted that this was impossible. The man insisted that it was a fact. Rather than arguing, David asked the man to bring the cow to his house the next morning so he could watch it being milked. The man agreed. Sure enough, when the milk accumulated in the bottom of the pail, it was so thin that it was blue. As he watched the man milking away, he noticed that when he squeezed the teat, he also vigorously pumped his arm. Upon closer inspection, David found a small hose in the man’s hand that ran up his sleeve to a bladder that was placed snugly under the man’s armpit. With each pump of the arm, water was being added to the milk. We all marveled at Indian ingenuity. 

THE COMPOUND 

     The mission compound where Joan and the other ladies worked was such a dramatic contrast to everything else around it. The landscape was barren and brown, and dotted with steel factories whose smoke stacks belched out dark red or black smoke. I had never seen anything like it before. As we entered the gates of the walled courtyard of the compound, we found a virtual oasis. The Englishman who developed the mission years before had planted many kinds trees, bushes, and flowers. There was a poinsettia tree as big as a small maple tree and plenty of palms, which made it feel timeless. The handsome buildings housed the many orphans, students, and missionaries who lived together. God could not have provided a lovelier place in all of Orissa.

     Immediately, I was greeted by a polite group of giggling little girls, who called me Uncle. I was shown to my room, where I would spend the next few days until Hemant came for me. In the meantime, I would teach the young ladies’ class each day and have fellowship with the missionaries by coal oil lamp each night. It was like being at a cottage; very peaceful, restful, and rustic. The ladies told me stories about how they had developed the mission, which made me appreciate how difficult it had been for them to get this far. They had to do everything by hand. Just buying and preparing the necessities of life was an endless and difficult task.

     Behind the compound was a large pond where idolaters gathered to celebrate and worship their gods. Joan told me that several times a year there would be drunken festivals behind the compound. They would go on twenty-four hours a day for several days. The drums never stopped beating, as they repeatedly threw their gods into the pond. These were very difficult times to endure for those who were as spiritually sensitive as these missionaries.

    I enjoyed being with the children and gave away the candy, toys, and games I had brought for them. When it was time to go, the children asked where I was going next. When I told them I was going to the Phulbani area, some cried and others pleaded with me not to go there. I did not understand why they made such a fuss, until it was explained to me that it was a commonly held belief that the worst place in India was Orissa, and that the worst place in Orissa was the Phulbani District.  

OVERNIGHT BUS RIDE 

    Hemant had come for me as planned and we bought tickets for an overnight bus ride to his home in another part of the state. As I stepped into the mass confusion of the bus terminal, I wished I didn’t have to leave the peacefulness of the compound or the company of the Wallis family. Hemant found the right bus, which seemed to be in good shape, at least compared to the bus next to us. Its side would completely pull away from the roof each time a passenger stepped up to board.  Our bus was not as bad. Just missing a few windows, which had been replaced by canvas flaps in order to keep out the cold night air and black clouds of diesel exhaust that enveloped the terminal. The seat behind us had no back, just a frame. Some passengers had to share their seat with sacks of grain or stacks of cardboard boxes. Hemant found us a good seat and we settled in for a long journey.

    As we traveled, we passed through all kinds of cities and small villages, separated by vast rice fields. All the while, the bus was weaving past old oxcarts filled with grain and thousands of people walking somewhere, even though it seemed like we were in the middle of nowhere. When night came, I could easily look into the houses, which were often small concrete buildings or mud huts. I watched families working by candlelight and people visiting around coal oil lamps, wrapped tightly in their shawls. It was winter here, but like a good day in early June back home. For them, it was cold. We saw many homes with rows of men sleeping out on concrete porches, with just their bare feet sticking out of the ends of their bedrolls.

     At one point in the night, we were flagged down by a group of young men who wanted to go somewhere that the bus was not scheduled to travel to. Before the driver could close the door, an argument broke out. I did not understand a word that was spoken, but he obviously was trying to kick them off the bus. They refused to go. We sat there for the longest time as they hollered back and forth. Some of the young men were angrily walking up and down the aisle hollering at the passengers. Finally the bus began to move, then it stopped again, and they argued some more. I kept my face down and prayed. Finally we drove for a few miles before letting them off into the night.  Hemant leaned over to me and whispered, “Just like in the book, `The Cross and the Switchblade’.” I had given him a copy of this book to read, which was about various gangs of youth that terrorized New York City.  

UP INTO THE MOUNTAINS 

     Sometime in the night, we left the vast rice plains and began to ascend into the Kalinga Mountains. The air was becoming colder, unchecked by the canvas flaps that waved at the windows. The bus groaned its way to the top, being urged on by the bus driver’s constant gear shifting and erratic acceleration. This ascension went on for hours. As daylight came, I could see why. There was nothing but jagged mountains and deep valleys all around us. We were competing for the narrow road with other vehicles trying to make it up the endless hills, down the valleys, and around the hairpin curves. Finally, the bus came to an abrupt stop. To me it seemed like we were teetering on the edge of a cliff, but no one seemed alarmed. I got off with everyone else without any instruction from the driver. As I stretched my legs, I watched the other passengers make their way down to a creek that ran under the road. Some bathed, others relieved themselves upstream, while many others broke off branches from a plant that grows everywhere and began to chew one end until it bristled. This is a common way to brush one’s teeth in India and Hemant said it tastes good, too. After our refreshing stop, we all climbed back in the bus. Hemant assured me that this stop meant we would be arriving soon, “Just a few hours more to go.”  

A HANDFUL OF BANANAS 

    It was a bright, sunny morning and the next village we stopped in was alive with activity. Hemant got off the bus without explanation and then appeared at my window with handfuls of bananas. Each one was about as big as my thumb and full of flavor. He also passed up some fresh bread and a couple of glasses of hot, sweet tea. To this day, this breakfast ranks up there as one of my all time favorite meals. It tasted so good, sitting there in the sunshine, having survived an overnight bus trip in India.

    The next village we passed was not so pleasant. I suddenly gasped and covered my mouth and nose at the smell of dead fish. Not just a little whiff; the air hung heavy with it. I asked Hemant what the awful smell was. He said, “Dead fish.” Later he added, “This village is known for the market where people buy this fish (like a sardine) that is taken from a lake nearby. They push them into the mouths of idols as part of their worship.”

    The bus had stopped to let a large herd of water buffalo pass, which had walked right in the middle of the road. While we waited a man got off, and the driver patiently waited, as the traffic, buffalo, and odor of rotten fish swirled around us. Finally, the passenger reboarded the bus, his coat pocket bulging with fish.

HEMANT’S HOUSE 

    When we finally arrived at Hemant’s house, it was another adjustment for me to make. The house was made of rough concrete and sat on a muddy lane just off of one of the main streets of G'Udayagiri. This small city would be our base for the next couple of weeks.  Inside, I was greeted by a motorcycle, which filled the first room I entered. This is what we would use to get around the jungle for the next couple of weeks. Standing beside the motorcycle was the bicycle his wife used to get to the school where she taught. It was evident that they were better off than most people in Orissa. After visiting for a while with Hemant and his wife, and enjoying an excellent traditional Indian meal, I was shown to my room. They had tried to make my room very comfortable, but I was not used to sleeping on planks.  As I lay there on my wooden bed, with a quilted blanket between them and me, I thought about home. I was a long, long way from home. As I retraced every leg of the journey I took to get to this bed, I felt about as far away from home as a man could get. Then I reminded myself that I had not even gotten into the jungle yet.