The funny thing about being invited to something in India is that there is an underlying assumption that you're going to say yes.

For instance, when I was invited to my church's annual retreat, the conversation went something like this.

Pastor: Hey so this May is our annual retreat.

Me: Oh cool. Where are you guys going?

Pastor: A camp ground in Ooti.

Me: Sounds fun.

Pastor: Yea, the deposit is 2000 rupees.

Me: Oh. Oh okay, yea, I'll check my work schedu-

Pastor: Yea, just bring the deposit next week and give it to Joseph.

Me: Okay?

And that's how I ended up on a train bound for a campground in Ooti. But I'm glad I did. I had a great time and got to know some really good people

I also saw wild elephants and a monkey, but I was too slow to grab my camera so you'll just have to use your imagination.

But first the train.

Indian trains are a destination in themselves.

Eunuchs cloaked in saris begin making their way from cart to cart begging for spare rupees.  Men who refuse have their face stroked gently or their thigh touched until they are made uncomfortable enough to pay up. I'm told by a friend that it's more than just being uncomfortable. People believe that the hijras, as they're called, have real powers and can curse stingy riders, depriving them of future children. Fortunately for my genetic line,  I've taken a seat by the window, out of their reach. I continue pretending to be asleep as the less fortunate pull out 20 rupee bills and hand it upwards without eye contact.   

In the window, behind steel bars, cities, slums and fields draped in the light of a rising sun pass by on an endless loop like someone flipping through TV channels.

Unidentified crops go on and on before slipping over my perspective's edge. Brightly colored humps speckle the straight, green rows. The women in their saris never fully stand up as they tend to the roots, only their backs visible.

The narrow field between the tracks and the wall of a nearby slum becomes the bathroom for its inhabitants. The train passes by, invisible to them.

A heard of sheep is calmly guided from one patch of grass to another, from one pond to another, from one randomly chosen place to another.

We cross a steel bridge over one of India's numerous brown and grey rivers, a sprawling network responsible for dispersing  80% of the country's untreated sewage. The smell hovers high above and our train cuts straight through it. It is new to me in its intensity. It's dull and sharp at the same time. It's deep black and it's decay and my guts turn. I try to restrict my breathing to my mouth but now I'm drinking it. I feel it land in the bottom of my stomach like a heavy, muddy stone and I fight back a strong gag. Then as quickly as it came, it's gone and I can breathe again.

We exit the train and 30 of us crowd into a miniature bus. Laps are sat on and the men take turns standing in the aisle so others can sit.  As long as the bus is moving, cool air continues flowing in through its open windows, but as soon as it stops the temperature begins rising like the inside of a toaster, each person a glowing nickel coil. We distract ourselves by playing games of telephone, butchering simple phrases as they pass from English to Hindi and back again. Every round ends in laughter.

I sit in the back with the high-schoolers who are singing along to John Denver (I swear to you, this is true) as it plays on a girl's cell phone.

After two hours of driving, we arrive at the campsite.

Click 'Read More' for some pictures from the next few days.