Traveling to INDIA, and Staying Well

Las Vegas to Chennai: My First Hours in India

Las Vegas to Seattle to Dubai to Chennai. Two days of travel. And the first thing I needed when I finally stepped off that plane wasn't immigration—it was a bathroom.

I followed the signs, opened the stall door, and froze for a second while my brain caught up with what my eyes were seeing. Let me walk you through my very rapid internal monologue:

1. There is no room in here for me and my carry-on and purse. And yet, in they come.
2. How sanitary is this, exactly? (I answered my own question immediately. I will not elaborate.)
3. No toilet paper. Thank the heavens for the lone napkin still riding around in my purse from yesterday's airport lunch.
4. Is it physically possible to squat here, hands-free, without redecorating my own pants and shoes? A fair and pressing concern.

I gave myself a proper pep talk. "You can do this." There was no way around it, only through—and no telling when the next opportunity would come.

I squatted like a champion. I almost nailed it. What I had failed to account for was the sheer slickness of the floor. My left foot shot out from under me, and in a flash my left hand threw itself down to save me. Bless that selfless hand. It took the entire hit so the rest of me didn't. A single four-letter word leapt off my lips—quietly, and in English, so I could only hope no one was offended.

That hand was now, medically speaking, quarantined.

But I finished the job, deployed the napkin (safely retrieved with my uncontaminated right hand), used the little bucket-and-faucet system to "flush," and executed a flawless one-handed pull-up-and-shimmy. Mission accomplished. Pants and shoes bone dry. I have never been prouder.

I emerged, found the sink, and washed my hands with the focus of a surgeon scrubbing in.

And that, friends, is how I met the original, real-deal Squatty Potty. The little one at home that props your feet up on the "throne"? An adorable imitation. This was the master.

Stepping into a wall of sound and sun

Past immigration, I pushed through the doors and out into India—and the sunlight hit me so hard everything went white for a second. As my eyes adjusted, the world came back in slow motion: crowds pressed on both sides of the barriers, more people in one place than I could take in, a wall of warmth and noise and life.

I felt, absurdly, like a celebrity walking a red carpet. Horns honking somewhere in the distance, engines revving, shouts and smiles everywhere. My very serious, jet-lagged face gave up and broke into a grin. It felt like crossing a marathon finish line with cheering fans lining both sides. And in my unmistakably American shoes and puffy little winter coat, I could not have looked more like a foreigner if I'd tried.

Here and there, a woman in a brilliantly colored dress would move through the crowd like a jewel. I'd read before I came that men far outnumber women in that region, and now I was seeing it with my own eyes—which somehow made the women who were there even more striking.

I scanned the crowd for any sign of my name—and there it was, in bold black letters on white paper: Steffanie. I nodded to the man holding it. Yes. That's me. He motioned me forward, disappeared behind the throng, and reappeared right as I reached the end of the lines.

The drive (and the smell that nearly knocked me flat)

The couple beside me on the plane had warned me: brace yourself for the smell, the congestion, the sheer closeness of everything. Take it slow.

The drive was pure sensory overload—in the best and most overwhelming way. Cows wandering freely. Fires smoldering over piles of trash. Humidity and heat pressing in through the windows. I tried to chat with my driver, but we shared no common language, so I gave up and just filmed, drinking it all in. I'd seen a hundred photos. Nothing prepares you for standing inside it.

And then—without any warning at all—a smell reached through the car window and slapped me square across the face. I actually flinched backward and stopped recording mid-frame. I cannot remember another smell in my entire life cutting my breath off that fast. Holy cow. (Sometimes literally.) I finally understood the friend who'd told me she had to retreat to her hotel and give herself a pep talk before she could face the city again.

Home for the next while

We were met by the security man who worked for the doctor whose family I would be staying with. I spotted her name on a golden plaque by the door and felt a jolt of excitement to finally meet her. My luggage went up to the second floor, and I was shown my room, the kitchen I'd share with another couple, and my own little bathroom.

The smoke in the air was constant, and before long my throat began to feel the edge of it—it reminded me of the time our family once had to evacuate as wildfires crept too close to home. I said a quiet prayer that the pollution wouldn't take a toll on me, and opened my window to see the view. When I saw laundry strung out to dry across the way, I smiled. It carried me straight back to Mexico, and to the people at the clinic who had saved my life three years before.

After two days of travel, I wanted to scrub every germ off of me, so I did—thoroughly, gratefully, with a wash that smelled of clove, cinnamon, and warm citrus. Then came the shower, which I discovered (the hard way) was cold, because no one had yet told me the heater switch lived in the next room. But honestly? I loved it. It brought back memories of my host mother in Chile from my missionary days—my sweet Mamita, who used to shake her head at us silly American girls and our hot showers, and who at her age still had the most beautiful, youthful skin. "Cold water," she always insisted. So there I was, shivering and hopeful, placing my bets on Mamita's wisdom.

I set up my wattage converter and a surge protector (I'd been warned the power surges come several times a day), and switched on my little diffuser with a warm, spicy-citrus blend I love. It wasn't going to scrub the smoky air clean—I knew that—but a familiar, comforting scent made that unfamiliar room feel just a little like home.

Then I opened my favorite treasure: a small jewelry pouch holding a few of my most beloved and rarest oils—jasmine, neroli, rose. Just seeing them made me happy. I dabbed a bit of rose on the back of my neck, breathed it in, and whispered, "Thank you, God, for these beautiful gifts."

 I actually came here to do

Here's the part that matters most.

For the next stretch, I'd be working with three hundred children, kindergarten through tenth grade—directing a Life Dance Troupe every weekday and leading individual and group dance-and-movement life-skill focused classes, twice a week, in communities affected by leprosy. That is what I flew across the world for. To move, and dance, and connect with kids and families that so much of the world overlooks.

To do it, I needed to stay well—and that's no small thing for me. My immune system has never fully recovered from the years my Lyme disease went undiagnosed, so on a trip like this I couldn't afford to be careless. So I came prepared, the practical way: diligent hand-washing, my own tissue and water bottle, careful habits, a good headlamp for the citywide power outages (a last-minute tip from the wonderful dance teacher who served here before me, whose own lantern had saved her more than once), and a healthy respect for my surroundings—a friend had shown me a photo of a genuinely enormous scorpion and reminded me to stay alert.

But here's what I decided before I ever got on that first plane: I was not going to let fear of what I might catch, or what might go wrong, keep me from saying yes to something this good. I don't want to live in a bubble. I want to live.

 Here's to health, to wonder, to saying yes to the beautiful, overwhelming, sacred mess of the wider world—and to an ounce or two of prevention along the way.

With much love,

Steffanie