Catherine Farquharson, co-leader on Epic Photo Tours Sept 2014 trip to the Omo Valley has produced a magazine which features images made by the participants on the tour. If you buy the magazine a large chunk of the money will go towards supporting Omo Child, an organization formed to rescue and care for children who are victims of Mingi.

I find the use of language in India fascinating. The other afternoon as I was roaming around the kite market in Ahmedabad shooting the kite string makers, kite makers and boys mixing the glass powder to coat the strings, numerous people asked me from "from where do I belong". That can be translated to  "what country are you from". That  sense of belonging to a village, town, city or country gives people in India a collective identity. So many of the warm and welcoming people that I have encountered here in Gujarat have inquired where I am from, and immediately asked me how I liked India. When I respond that I love being here, their emotional, and at times physical embrace, gives me a case of travelers delight. These people are proud of their place and I don't sense it in a nationalistic way but in a spiritual way. They belong to India, and while I am here I feel that spiritual, physical attachment as well

It is seven o'clock in the morning and the group of 11 photographers arrives in a the hamlet of KhodiyarNagar. It is not a place foreign travelers will ever visit unless they have a connection. Our good friend Ranjit Sinh Parmar proprietor of the Niwas Palace, whose family has been residing for 100s of years is a descendent of the princely  class and he can trace his family back 27 generations. His visit is unplanned and the residents of the mud brick houses scattered along a narrow strip of land bordered by cotton fields are just waking up. The first cooking fire of the day is being lit and the most wonderful tea that I have ever experienced is being prepared. The milk is  being  being squeezed out of the cows, goats and buffalos.  While we document this mediaeval way of life in awe, the residents are oblivious to us. But, as the tea is ready, we become the center of  their attention. They offer to share their first cup of tea with us and this offer is another gift that travel gives you.

It is not tea that they are offering us; tea is an idea. It is hospitality, friendship, and a shared human experience. In rural India; the guest is god. They think that we are important, who else would drive into a hamlet where electricity doesn't exist and people sleep in one room and their animals in the next. The tea is a profound gesture of affection. These people live an uncluttered life. We are on the same planet but of a different world.

Henry Cartier Bresson, probably one of the greatest photographers ever to shoot in Ahmedabad, India is my  source of inspiration for this photography expedition. Today we walked the backstreets, narrow alleys and ventured into the pols of the city. These small micro communities of clustered houses, three stories high, still inhabited, end in a central square with small intact Jain temples dating to the 1600's. The hanging wooden bird cages (Chabutaras), and intricately carved wooden pillars, beams and brackets really captivated me. The people live their lives in public, whether that being cooking, washing clothes and sleeping outside on heavy belt beds (Charpay) when in the warm season and constantly sweeping the pigeon droppings of the square with straw hand brooms. I felt the spiritual vibe inside of  the eerily quiet Jain temples. The cold marble floors, smell of incense and worshippers dressed in homespun cloth  transported myself and Isabella, an insightful photographer from Venezuela, back in time. When she spoke about the difference between human misery and poverty I envisioned the wonderfully taken black and white shots taken by Cartier Bresson in the 50's. I felt that I was part of the image and not an image maker. Totally surreal experience.

Walking through the streets of a country like India you meet some interesting and colorful  characters. Some don't speak English and I don't speak Hindu so it makes for a lot of smiling, grunting and pointing.  Today as we meandered  in a a Jain pol  one of the trip participants received some extra special  attention. We spent some time photographing   a  delightful  70's lady under a veranda ironing shirts and pants for the people who lived in her heavily hued, multi layered  comlex.  The iron had charcoal in it, and was really heavy, she earned 14 cents per suiting. She took special interest in Robbie who hails from Columbus, Ohio. She kept on eyeing her like a special friend, and not until we were about to leave did she tell our guide that she looked like the Indian screen star of the 50's Nirna Mala. Not knowing who she was, when I returned to the room  I googled her; what a beautiful raven haired women I saw. Robbie from Ohio being mistaken for an India screen  star, pretty special memento for sure.

Later on that day we found ourselves in a winding narrow alley  and had to dodge  zooming motorbikes, cattle droppings and the occasional woman  carrying loads on their heads. We attracted stares, no glares and  the attention of one gentleman who seemed to be amused by our photographing the walls which were brightly painted in yellow with Hindu words in red. I wanted to be friendly and attempted to get him into a conversation but our languages didn't seem to match. So in my zeal to include him in the group I positioned him next to Robbie in front  of a 400 year old wooden door. My hope was that he would smile and pose and Robbie would have a keepsake shot of her standing in front of a door with a local  guy. As soon as they both were he positioned he wrapped his arm around her neck and planted a bit wet kiss on her check. It looked like Robbies' eyes were going to pop out of her head  when he lunged at her and I almost dropped the camera laughing so hard.  She jumped  about 10 feet away and I dont know whether she was going to laugh or cry. Definitely one of those "getting to know you" moments in a palace very far from home. I wonder what Robbie's husband of 42 years will thing of his wife gallanting off Inia to get kissed by strange guys in a very strange land. 

I woke up Tuesday on morning and the view from my bedroom  window was pretty bleak. Dark, grey and snowy. You didn't need to go outside to know that it was freezing but I couldn't have cared less as I was  jumping on an Air India flight and going to Ahmedabad, India a few hours later.  With any luck the plane would be half empty and I would be able to get a few seats  to myself.

Definitely got that wrong, and the agent who checked me in said there were only three empty seats on the plane and that I would definitely have a seat mate.  Once on the ancient-looking, no-seat-cushion, noisy-as-a-locomotive 747 my seat mate asked me if I would  switch with her and move from the aisle to the middle. When I politely whispered no, she bolted and I never saw her again. Sixteen hours later, with half a book read, and and one ambien in my system, I woke up in India.

The customs line was really long for Indian citizens but I  breezed through the foreigners line as myself and two others were the only ones there. I arrived at the conveyer belt first and hoped the bags would come out quickly. The next person out from customs grabbed a cart, and with all the room in the airport, proceeded to wheel it right into me. Too tired to get New York on her I kept my mouth shut and smiled. The conveyor belt  was broken and airport staff had to physically drag all of the bags out so it was another hour until before I left the airport. 

I always start a trip by giving a donation to the first beggar I see and it didn't take long. While walking in the market a  women who "looked like" she was in her 50s but could have possibly been either 40 or 80, was the recipient of my foreign aid. After giving her some rupees she pleaded with me to take her photograph. But before I could hit the shutter button she lifted her sari to show me a scar on her stomach that she seemed very proud of.  Miss personality then took the money, kissed it, then starting primping for the camera as though she was a Hollywood celebrity on the red carpet. To me she was Miss India and her happiness in posing was a great  welcome.

Gujarat is known for its fine cuisine and a few of us went to Swati Snacks which is a well known and loved Ahmedabad eatery. The items on the menu looked unfamiliar and so I asked our smiling and friendly waiter what he suggested. Within minutes out came raita, a yogurt based preparation, chichi, a split pea dish, generous helping of ghee, mukhaws and hot dal.

The textures, spices, and seasoning were fantastic. Not knowing what you are eating and not being able to pronounce the names of our first meal made us all laugh and smile. Jane, from South Africa, impressed as a serious foodie  and helped us with the pronunciation, and Carl the professional food photographer from California, cursed himself for not having his camera. The coconut water had a cream in it and I think I found my new drink of choice

With photo leader extraordinare Jeremy Woodhouse leading the the charge a first-day sunset shoot was in order. The best place to do this was on the bridge crossing the Sabarmati River. If you have been to India you know that crossing the street is a combination of dance, athletic ability, pure stupidity, cunningness and anticipation. Our trusty driver Jagdish stopped the car in the middle of the road in the middle of the bridge and we all piled out. I saw blind fear in the face of a few and an expression of, "are you crazy, we can't cross here!" in the face of a another group member. We watched cars go by an then, with a pack of bicycles coming up next, we quickly and deftly crossed the street. I noticed a few people were holding hands like they were school kids on a trip and I felt an arm latched tightly onto mine as well.

Ahmedabad, India — January 8, 2015