“It’s cheaper to fly to India, pay for a room, and get my teeth worked on, than it is to get work done at home,” said Robert, a Canadian volunteering at Ramana’s Garden for three weeks.

Children and volunteers with overbites and cavities, lost fillings and broken teeth climbed into the back of the Gypsy for a trip to the dentist on Wednesday. Smaller children sat on laps as we drove down the crowded streets to the city of Rishikesh. Large black bulls with sharp horns slowed the traffic as monkeys swung from trees on the roadside.

Off the main highway, slightly out of town, stood the Seema Dental College & Hospital. We walked past a mangy dog, wagging his tail and scratching scabs off of its ears into the rose gardens surrounding the clinic. The low light of the lobby didn’t feel like any dentist’s office I had been to before. One receptionist took cards from the children who had visited before another made new accounts for those of us having our first visit.

There was no soft music playing in the background, no smiling pearly teeth hung from the walls.

“Children to the second floor,” said the female receptionist. Three volunteers, including myself went to the initial diagnostic room. We gave our files to a woman waiting at the counter and removed our shoes. One at a time we were called in for questioning.

Twelve examination chairs filled a large room—only two were in use. A woman with a broken jaw entered before me and winced in pain as she lay down in the chair. One technician stood at a sink sanitizing tools.

“What is the problem today?” a man in a lab coat asked. I explained that I needed a cleaning and thought that I had lost a filling. I leaned back in the chair and after a moment of examination I was sent to the third floor to have someone else look at my teeth.

Up the stairs and shoes removed once more, I waited in the hall. Dental students passed, talking in quiet voices and carrying large textbooks. My name was called and I sat in one chair among thirty, no individual cubicles for privacy, still no elevator music.

A woman with a journal asked me as many questions about my medical history as they do when I donate blood. Married or single, occupation, diet, vices, I thought she might even ask about my favorite color. After another quick look into my mouth she told me that I needed to get my cleaning first. “Go to the fourth floor.”

I climbed another flight of stairs and asked a student in a lab coat where to go for cleanings. She looked at my file and pointed down to the area I had just come from. I explained again and was sent down the hall and to the left.

The friendly face of a fellow volunteer awaited me. We asked about one another’s dental progress and I was shooed into a room where I received an aggressive examination and was told to go to the first floor for x-rays and payment. She also told me there was a possibility that I might need surgery.

I was beginning to feel skeptical about the dentists in India. I have always had healthy teeth and they were hurting more by this time than they had upon my arrival.

I figured that I was in this already, and may as well see where it would take me.

Shoes back on, I walked to the ground floor and into an office next to the one where it all began. One quick x-ray and I went to the front desk to pay while the film was developing. The charge was 230 rupees, for the x-ray and cleaning—that is $5.29 US, no insurance.

When I picked up my x-ray the man there offered me water and asked me where I was staying. He gave me 10% off discount coupons for my friends.

“He must have been hitting on you,” Maggie told me later, “I go there with the kids all the time and have never received a single coupon.”

Back on the fourth floor without any shoes I finally sat in a chair knowing that I would get some work done on my teeth. Looking around, I saw nearly fifty examination chairs; one dozen filled with patients. A counter along one side of the room was filled with students, mostly female, studying from textbooks and sharing notes. The sound of drilling filled my ears.

The woman who sent me for the x-ray approached and sat down next to me, placing a mask over her mouth. I rinsed my mouth out with some red liquid and lay back in the chair. It felt like a power drill was pounding in my skull as she began the cleaning. My mind raced with the possibility of losing all of the enamel from my teeth. To me, this seemed like a procedure from the 1940’s.

I’ve always had cleanings done by hand—dentists scraping away plaque with sharp hooks that resemble Egyptian torture devices. Now it was power tools.

When it was finished I was a little shocked to find any teeth remaining in my mouth, especially clean teeth. I was told to rinse with warm salt water for a few days and sent on my way.

Getting a filling for my chipped tooth was out of the question by now, so I went to return my file and find the kids and other volunteers. I learned that rather than the power tool I assumed she was using it was a state-of-the-art pressure washer for teeth. No enamel is damaged by this method. I talked with another volunteer who had to return for a crown fitting, his entire procedure will cost 1600 rupees, or $37 US.

Trips to the dentist do not require appointments or calling ahead. It’s nice to know when a specialist will be in, but there is never a guarantee. Seema Dental College and Hospital is open every day except Tuesday.

“If you push yourself in a healthy way, you can achieve amazing things,” said Anja Brinkmann on March 10, 2007 after unveiling the new playground at Ramana’s Garden.

Brinkmann volunteered at Ramana’s last year, doing arts and crafts with the children. When a swing broke while she was here, an idea arose in her mind. “I wanted to do something for the children using my talents,” she said. At that time she promised to return and build something that was not a toy for one child, but was long lasting and for all to enjoy.

Six years ago, Brinkmann constructed a play structure for one of her friends, a large-scale version became her vision. She began by asking for donations from friends, sending out postcards explaining what she wanted to do and how much money she would need. She donated her time and paid her own travel costs.

“I wanted people to know that the money they donated would go directly to the children,” she said. Presentations at her local yoga center and donations from friends brought enough money for supplies, tools and labor.

About 10 full days went into planning, presenting, and sketching for the playground as she worked around her regular life as a custom furniture and lamp maker.

Brinkmann bought a plane ticket for one month in India. A carpenter was supposed to be helping her the entire time, but 3 days before her arrival, another job in Nepal was presented to him and he left the country.

“The first week was really difficult because I had no help,” she said. She went into the city of Rishikesh to have some wooden mallets made and was so impressed by the carpenter that she asked him to come and help with the playground. The next day he sent his employee to help, he did not speak a word of English.

Brinkmann used every resource she could think of to communicate with her new hired hand—drawing pictures, making elaborate gestures, and using children as translators. Volunteers from Ramana’s helped strip bark from the eucalyptus trees used in the construction. We stained and sanded, built swings and glued ropes whenever we had a free minute.

“There was a time when I almost gave up. But the next day there were three people waiting to help.” Brinkmann learned that all she needed to do was ask, and help would be there. Working through broken tools, shops closing each Thursday, and children running wild on holiday she learned to “think sideways” to get things done. In 28 days of being in India, she worked 7 hours a day for 27 of them.

The unveiling occurred at 9 am, she left Ramana’s at 4:30 pm of the same day. There is a special joy and satisfaction that comes from volunteer work. Being paid $1000 for labor would have meant nothing, but seeing nearly 200 children swarm the slides, swings and merry-go-round that came from her vision gave her a sense of fulfillment.

Last year at Ramana’s was her first time doing volunteer work and now she is hooked. Brinkmann loves the idea of traveling but doesn’t want to be the typical “consuming, passive tourist.” She plans to raise money each year and go to a different country to build a playground.

“All children love swings, no matter where you go.”

Anja Brinkmann is a 39 year old German woman - born in Munich, raised in Holland and educated in England. She has lived in Spain for the past 10 years.

Brinkman believes that if you have a vision, and put your focus there, anything can be accomplished and maybe others will be inspired. The entire project cost just over $1000 US.

Days before leaving Europe she saw an article in a German paper praising a US soldier and UN peacekeeper who had built a playground in Afghanistan for $52,000 US.

“I want to know who got all that money. Supplies in Afghanistan are probably about the same price as they are here,” Brinkmann told me. She wondered if all the workers were flown in first class and stayed in five-star hotels.

It is nice that those men had the vision to build playgrounds, but lets give credit where credit is deserved. People like Anja Brinkmann, working for nothing but the satisfaction of knowing they made a difference should receive the highest praise, not people who fill their own pockets while saying they are helping others.

“Happy Holy!” a child screams and smears paint on the face of another.

“Holy is a day where you can start new—get rid of all of the old, bad energy,” said Gaba, a 30 year old Indian man who works at Ramana’s Garden. “It is a festival of color.”

It all started hundreds of years ago when a King became jealous because all of the people chanted and prayed to the name of the Gods. He forced the people to chant his name rather than that of a God. All the people of his land follow this law, except his own son. The King became very angry banished his son. A god came down to Earth, half man and half tiger, and killed the King by tearing his chest open.

Now people celebrate this day called “Holy,” the right to worship the gods, with fireworks, chanting, paints, and burning piles of wood. I do not completely understand the holiday, but joined into the festivities with our children down at Ganga.

All chores were finished and all bedrooms cleaned before anyone set foot on the trail down to the river. The children laughed and played, but the volunteers were a little nervous. “I feel like a virgin on prom night,” a Danish woman, Lea, said with a giggle.

First we set up zones on the beach. There was the dry paint zone, the wet paint zone and the no paint zone. Second, ammunition was handed out. Two children to a bucket of water-based paint; each received a squirt gun that resembled a turkey baster. Water balloons came next and were filled with colored water in the buckets. Last the powdered “dry paint” was handed out. We all lined up and waited for Prabhavati Dwabha to yell “GO!”

As soon as she did, the beach became absolute chaos. Children screaming with delight chased down one another and volunteers with hands full of powdered paint. The squirt guns lasted only ten minutes and then it was buckets full of paint poured over heads, then buckets of water.

The kids laughed, ran and played for three hours. Many of the adults slowly made their way to the safety of the rocks. When all the paint was gone, and everyone’s entire bodies tie-dyed, we made our way to the next beach for a picnic.

A group of 10 drunk Indian and Nepalese men awaited us. A few were starting trouble with one of our employees who recently, within the last week, lost his brother to a hit-and-run accident. They were calling to the children and some of the older girls. A dangerous situation worked closer and closer to a boil.

The men began to shout, we ushered the children further up the beach. Gaba talked with the men, asking them to not bother us or leave. Prabhavati Dwabha walked directly to the middle of the group and began to shout.

“Who touched one of my kids?!? Who was it? Did you touch my kids?” Dwabha, a 52 year old American woman with snow white hair shook her sandal in the faces of the men. One hit it from her hand. She lurched at him.

Some of the older girls began to wail higher up on the beach, fearful that something would happen to Dwabha. The teenage boys had to be held back. Gaba and Tope pulled everyone apart.

One of the men began to advance towards the children, “Hey, it’s Holy. We’re just trying to have a good time.” He said, as he stood drunk in his under ware.

“Leave us alone,” we shouted back.

Our picnic was moved to a beach a little further down. Dwabha told the men if they came near again she would call the police. Once we got all of the children settled down and all the food out of the Gypsy Dwabha held a quick meeting.

“We will have our picnic here,” she said. “And if those men cross this line, Tope, Gaba, Dil, Dom, Kishan,” she spoke to the men with us, “we will beat them and throw them in the Ganga. I don’t think they will come here, but that is the plan if they do.”

The kids formed two lines in front of the food and it was over. Laughter and play commenced and the afternoon continued as if nothing had happened. We sang happy birthday to Ramu and Shivu, ate lunch and birthday cake, and played in the sand.

I kept my eye on the men down the beach, but they walked away after fifteen minutes.

Cows have the right of way, donkeys laden with building supplies trot along, often taking up an entire lane, and motorbikes weave in and out of traffic. Blinkers do not seem to exist in India, horns are tooted as a warning while one vehicle passes another on blind corners through mountain passes.

“It seems like they are honking just to say hello,” said Cas Foste, 25, WSC Alum, upon arrival in New Delhi in early February. “I think the driver used his horn more during the 20 minute cab ride than I have in my entire life.”

Lanes mean nothing; cars drive with dotted lines straddled between tires. At times a supply truck will drive on the shoulder to pass a passing car.

“The only time officers ask for papers is when you hit something,” said Tope, the go-to man for Ramana’s Garden, referring to a driver’s license. His license has only been given to an officer one time in his life.

Walking is scarier than driving. Footpaths through neighborhoods have motorbikes speeding past. Stepping into driveways is the only way to keep from being run over.

Rickshaws, three wheeled taxis, clamor up steep hills with passengers packed so tightly that people sit on one another’s laps. There are no laws regulating pollutants put out by motor vehicles, black smoke hangs in the air after cars pass by.

“Anyone can drive as soon as they are 18, no classes or tests are given,” Tope said.

I have had my license since I was 16 years old—driving on the farm since I was 7—but would never dream of getting behind the wheel in this country. Drivers don’t seem to be paying attention, but there are so many obstacles that complete concentration is important.

Women in saris, traditional Indian dress, sit elegantly upon the back of scooter with both legs dangling off one side.

Monkeys and stray dogs run away from honking drivers as tourists scurry to safety. The streets of India are scarier than any extreme skiing imaginable.

On Friday, February 23^rd, 2007 two children and three adults piled into a soft top Gypsy—a jeep like vehicle—headed for the state hospital in Dehradune.

Sunali, a 6 year old girl, was getting stitches removed from an operation for spina bifida so we decided to take Raju, 11, to see a neurologist while going to the hospital. He has been having seizures for two years and the epileptic medicine he has been on for four months doesn’t seem to be working anymore.

Raju, sat in Maggie’s lap, a 20 year old volunteer from New Jersey, in the front seat. Tope, a Nepali man and staff member at Ramana’s Garden drove the Gypsy and Sunali, her mother and I piled into the back. One hour later we pulled into a dirt parking lot and stared at a large brick building. As we walked to the front doors of the hospital, I looked up and saw a bee hive the size of a small child hanging from a third story window.

“This is also a medical school,” Maggie explained. She has been at Ramana’s Garden for a little over a year and keeps the place running.

“Did you make an appointment for Raju?” I asked.

“We don’t need one,” she said.

In the USA you sometimes have to wait weeks or even months to see a neurologist, but in India appointments are not necessary.

Sunali and her mother went to see the pediatric surgeon and Tope registered Raju at the front desk. The receptionist gave Tope some papers and told us to take Raju to room 42.

While Maggie and Tope checked on Sunali I held Raju’s hand and walked down corridors looking at the Hindi signs with small English letters printed on the bottom.

I walked in the door of Room 42 and handed a man Raju’s papers. He wrote down his name and said something in Hindi. I was about to respond that I didn’t speak the language, but Raju gently took my hand and led me into the hall to wait.

We sat down amongst colorfully clothed Indian women and men in business suits. Raju took a notebook from my hand and started writing the names of fruit in English. He was missing his Lower Kindergarten class that day. I was surprised to learn that Raju was 11 years old, he is the size of the 5 year olds in his class, but much skinnier.

“Whatever has been causing his seizures has stunted his physical and mental development also,” Maggie had said on the drive. “But I can’t be sure about his mental growth because he doesn’t speak much English; he only started school when he came to Ramana’s.” Raju has lived in Tapovan as one of Ramana’s children for six months. “He is our newest,” Maggie told me last week as she held his head during a seizure.

Tope and Maggie came down the hall and gave me a quick briefing on his medical history then went upstairs to retrieve some medications for Sunali.

Raju and I sat together, quietly singing songs about the Ganges River for about 20 minutes until he was called in to see the neurologist. There was one doctor sitting at a desk who asked me some questions about Raju and another behind a curtain talking to other patients and their families.

Maggie and Tope reappeared before too long and told him about Raju’s family history and birth in Nepal. We went behind the curtain to see the head neurologist. He spoke to Raju in a gentle voice, measured his head, and asked what medications he was taking.

“He’s on Epitoin, the strongest medication out, but still having three or four seizures on a bad day,” said Maggie.

“His head is abnormally elongated, there may be something pushing it from within,” said the doctor. He never used the word tumor, but we were all thinking it. He gave us a note, ordering EEG scans and a CT scan.

At the front again, Maggie asked what the price for the scans were and learned that for both it would be 1900 rupees, before the 10 percent discount we would receive because Raju lived at an orphanage. That is roughly $45 US after the conversion.

Sunali and her mother were waiting for us at the front. There was an abscess that had to be drained, stitches taken out and new bandages applied. Sunali was cradled in her mother’s arms and Raju ran along at our heels as we left.

That night Raju had two more seizures and three more the following day. We will take him back to the hospital on Monday, next week for the tests. Hopefully there will be good news and a cure.

Some of the children at Ramana’s have serious medical problems; some will not live to adulthood. Each day we love and support them, hoping for a brighter tomorrow.

Nestled in the foothills of the Himalayas, Ramana’s Garden is a home for 60 destitute children from northern India and Nepal. Living as brothers and sisters, these children receive one of the best educations in India, take traditional dance classes, learn vocational work and take care of one another.

The children range from the age of four to eighteen and come from some of the grimmest backgrounds imaginable. Many were forced to beg for food in families that could not support them, others had no families at all, and a few were taken from homes where they were being prostituted out for liquor or money.

Such sadness and pain would never be expected to hide behind the smiling faces of these children. Most are healthy and happy. As new children come to Ramana’s the volunteers must work through issues from the children’s pasts with love and care.

Often the media of this country refers to children such as these as “India’s garbage kids,” but I have found talented, caring angels given a second chance in life.

Dr.Prabhavati Dwabha, founder of Ramana’s Garden, travels around the world once a year asking for donations to support the futures of these children. Private donations from around the world fund all of her projects. Dwabha is an American woman who has lived in India for thirty years. The last fifteen of those years have been devoted to bettering the lives of people in need.

Dwabha runs one orphanage and four schools in northern India, providing free education to over 800 children, and medical care for countless others in need. “We are constantly fighting to stay alive,” she told a customer in Ramana’s Garden Café, “but Shiva always protects us.”

“Lord Shiva is the deity of destruction. He finds all that is false and impure, destroys it, and replaces these things with purity and beauty,” Dwabha explained. The first brick of Ramana’s was placed in the ground 10 years ago on Shivarati, the 16th of February and birthday of Lord Shiva.

We celebrated this day by walking to the temple in the village of Tapovan. The temple houses the largest Lingum in Northern India. A Lingum is a statue, usually carved from black stone, symbolizing the power of Lord Shiva. It is a giant shaft with a snake wrapped around the top and slithering down the side, an abstract penis.

The temple was filled with Westerners and Indian’s alike, all chanting the name of Shiva. Dancing and music filled the great temple and flowers were draped upon the Lingum.

Across the waters of the Ganges River, or “Mother Ganga” as she is referred to here, was a giant festival in the town of Laxman Jhula. Drums, chanting and other music reverberated across the valleys of the Himalayan foothills deep into the night.

Ramana’s Garden first came to my attention four years ago. I attended a speech given by Dwabha in Boulder, Colorado with my mother. The power emanating from this fifty-year old woman with snow white hair inspired me to make a difference some day. At the age of 18, I did not see any possibilities for this at the time, but vowed that one day I would meet the smiling faces of Ramana’s children.

The time came, and I have put my life and education on hold. Eight volunteers from Italy, Spain, Germany, Canada and the United States are currently devoting their lives to these children. Each day we awake with the sun sing with Ramana’s angels.