Children in the village are a dime a dozen, and look curiously at the outsiders in their secluded locale. (Erik Jepsen/Guardian)

The Indian villagers lead a common but cultured life. (Erik Jepsen/Guardian)

Yes! Fate handed me a cookie, and before I knew what I was
doing I was over the Pacific, heading straight for Kolkata, Bengal. When I arrived in this great city of the East, I was surprised to see what one
can only describe as an environmentalist’s nightmare. Trash piles littered the
streets and banks of the Hugli River,
only to be gathered in droves and burned by city dwellers for warmth at night.
The air was thick with eye-burning smoke that smelled like seven straight years
of San Diego wildfires. Looking
past the poverty and unexpected adventures of the city, I found myself immersed
in an overwhelming amount of culture and architecture that was slowly being
absorbed by jungle growth. The scene made me feel like I was living in an
“Indiana Jones” movie. This feeling could have lasted the rest of my life, but
alas, a few hours later, I was on a domestic flight heading for Siliguri in North
Bengal.

When I arrived in Siliguri, I was unexpectedly mobbed by
hundreds of begging children, many of whom were maimed and crying, as I made my
way to the cockroach-infested train filled with peddlers heading for Assam.
After a sleepless night on the train clutching my camera, I hopped into
something resembling a Jeep. Traveling for another four hours on half-paved
roads filled with packs of cattle, scooters and three-wheeled doorless taxis; I
had finally arrived in the Pokai Gaon village.

There is no doubt that much of India’s population remains impoverished, but villagers of all ages enjoy their daily lives that remain untained by Western ideals. (Erik Jepsen/Guardian)

The village was surrounded by freely wandering livestock and
dried-up rice fields. The villagers lived in huts made of cow dung with dead
palm leaves or tin for roofs. Local villagers gathered around as we set up our
tents, amazed at the portable houses that we brought with us. The village
leader told me this was the first time foreigners had ever visited thew
village.

Even though I was sleeping on the dirt with mosquitoes and
using a hole in the ground as a bathroom, I could not have been more content. I was quickly treated as part of the extended village family. The villagers
pampered me to no end, feeding me all varieties of exotic foods, including dog.
They told me many stories of their past histories, some of which included cannibalism.

When the trip came to an end, the villagers made a bonfire
and joked about our obvious American habits. The next day, as I boarded the bus
for the return trip to Siliguri, the whole village gathered around to watch us
leave. I almost wanted to cry as I was forced to leave behind the best part of
the trip, the wonderful people and children of Pokai Gaon. We had become close
during my short stay, but I knew my bond with them would last a lifetime as I
headed home to America.

Overall, this was the ultimate dream trip; I never wanted it
to end. I would encourage all individuals with a strong sense of adventure to
take this journey across the world to a remote village in a developing country,
one that that has not been tainted by Western ideals. The trip will take a
while, but the memories will last forever in your heart; and even then, you
have those amazing photos.