Laos

This month has been full of new friends and sad goodbyes. Just five minutes ago I stood outside my guest house wishing a bon voyage to my Irish, Maltese, American, and Swiss friends with whom I'd spent seven days riding motorcycles throughout the southern half of Laos. Had I not met Dominic and Colm, who convinced me that I'd be able to learn how to operate the clutch and balance on a bike (even though they themselves had never ridden) I wouldn't have had half of the experiences I will now cherish from these three weeks in Laos. And the fact that Sarah and Brenda, Cristina and Malia all decided that they should also learn how to ride on the spot and then our one experienced rider Kevin joined us made for a bad ass crew, cruising through villages that never see tourists. But my desire to get back to India for the next month made me abandon one last trip down to 4,000 Islands in the far south of Laos, which was my original idea behind staying in this country longer. Still, abandoning a plan to follow the heart is the best thing. Ladakh is waiting. I need to dedicate a nostalgic moment to a few unforgettable nights in Pai, Thailand where the backpackers convened at Edible Jazz by night, and buzzed around on mopeds by day. And a moment for the slow boat down the Mekong with the leg dangling off the side. One for Luang Prabang and the temple up on the hill and the French architecture. Even a moment for the stupidity of the tubing debacle in Vang Vieng. And Vientiane, where we rode bicycles with the British girls and I said goodbye to my beloved travel partner Susannah, who will forever add an extra layer of sentiment to this whole trip. Susannah went to the southern Thai beaches while I decided to stay in Laos to head to 4,000 Islands. And how about a moment for the present moment, typing in Pakse, waiting for an overnight bus back to Bangkok, a flight to Delhi, a bus to Manali and one to Leh, Ladakh. Sweet Ladakh, where the valleys caress the soul and the mountains keep your secrets quiet for eternity.

this is kathmandu


this is pokhara

Boudhanath

After having a few good conversations with scholars and headmasters at Buddhist institutions in Boudhanath, Kathmandu, I went to get lunch at a place recommended to me earlier that day. I ordered jambalaya rice, which was a bright red color and mesmerized me as I ate. I was focused down toward my plate and the notebook next to it when something came crashing down on my head. I didn't know what was happening. There was a deep gasp from across the room and then I was out of my seat, staggering. There was a small commotion around me and a table of Westerners were staring at me. I looked back at my table and the big clay flower pot smashed into pieces around it. It had fallen from a ledge six feet above me, out of my vision so there was no warning. It had also been filled with dirt so that the weight on my skull was substantial. I took one more staggering step and glanced again at the table. My red rice had been buried by six inches of dirt, the rest of which had spilled across the table and floor, and the back of my neck. I went to a clinic for a neurological exam, and passed (I could walk a straight line). Everything still seems to be fine after two nights. Rose told me there was an energy I was already tuned into before I chose my seat in the restaurant.

Photos from Nepal

Nepal

Thamel is the most popular neighborhood for tourists in Kathmandu, which for me translates to a good time, plenty of relaxation, and interesting people to meet in a place that might as well be anywhere else in the world. A warped view of Kathmandu--a warped view of Nepal. Still, spending a few days here before venturing north to Pokhara (another heavily touristde area) reminded me that I am supposed to be slipping into vacation mode. My main problem is that I seem to have a knack for feeling relaxed even on the job, so when I'm not working it doesn't fel all that different and I look for little assignments I need to complete.

Heading up to Pokhara was a good experience, and felt a little like a summer camp. Getting away from the smog of Kathmandu was also nice. We went fishing, hiking, horseback riding, canoeing on the lake and bonded with some inspiring new people at night. One was a Quebecan (?) writer/lecturer/social worker, with whom we attempted to wait out a monsoon rain at our restaurant table. Finally the rain never stopped and we walked through it laughing. We also met a Nepali who'd moved to the states at age thirteen. He took us to natural hot springs unknown to foreigners and to a nearby home/restaurant for some local food. I haven't felt much better in life than I felt after those hot springs. The river they sit beside is called the Sethi (white) river, because it is white from the limestone it carries. Not the white of rapids, but really a rich silvery color. Sliding back and forth between the cool river and hot springs between lush green mountains and waterfalls in the distance, I think I finally embraced vacation mode fully. Our Nepali friend came to visit us at our guest house back in Pokhara later that night and we talked politics until sleep started knocking.

Politically it's an interesting time to be here. Nepal's congress got rid of the king's power in 2006, forming a parliamentary democracy. Last August a Maoist prime minister was elected but failed in the eyes of many Nepalis. Then three weeks ago he stepped down after the president vetoed his attempt to sack the army general and instate a Maoist to that post.

Sriram

I realize that I'd felt a little overwhelmed after my first night in Varanasi, due to the crowds, the heat, the different world that I was in. Later I discovered that this feeling had something to do with being disconnected from the people I was surrounded by. I felt that I needed to try to connect. Varanasi is not a vacation town to just relax in--there is too much to learn. I felt fortunate to have contacts up the road in Sarnath, even if some of them weren't exactly local.

As I mentioned in the last blog, Sriram Jaiswal approached me as I was going for a light lunch. He asked if I was a student at the local university. I explained my circumstances and he said he'd written something in English and wanted someone to read it. I said sure, and shared my plate of momos with him. He brought his notebook out and what I read was something that I can't remember entirely, but will never fully forget. The simplicity and striking truth in his words made me forget where I was for a moment. He had written about a statue of a god under a banyan tree whose arial roots seemed to reach down to meet once again the earth from which they came. And the god statue sat composed through any weather, reminding him of that great one who sees over all things. This 75-year-old man from 60km outside of of Varanasi, whose circumstances had forced him to move from place to place around India, and who now feels estranged from the locals of Sarnath who view him with distrust and who cannot find a student to tutor, had written something that could have a great impact on many lives if they found the proper outlet. His words were plain and simple, but in command of the English language. Sriram had taught languages--English, Hindi, Sanskrit, and Pali--and was looking to share his knowledge for a living wage in Sarnath. But he couldn't find a student despite his incredible knowledge, and his simple way of explaining things. The books lining his walls contain rare works from the British period that you just couldn't find elsewhere. Yet they sit there virtually untouched, and Sriram sits beside them with his wife, wondering why things have always been so difficult for him. He had so much regret and sadness in his voice, yet when my rickshaw pulled off, he was waving with a broad smile from a chair at the side of the road, like that great one who sees over all things. I made a silent promise to find him again.

Varanasi (Banaras) Part Two

Of all the trips to have a camera stolen...yet there just too much to capture and leaving I'd inevitably feel disappointed that I didn't get a certain shot. I want to show you this place. I want to just say "look" and then walk through the alleys, because it's not just cows and sheep and dogs. It's something new around every corner. Some kids playing cricket while their mother throws a bucket of water out into the thin alley. Someone placing flowers and other items from a blue plastic bag onto the alter of a temple that appears out of nowehere. A motorcycle navigating the thin alley and distracting a teacher and student, who are sitting cross-legged in front of a sitar. Incense pouring out from every shop, it's smoke bathed in the light angling down into the alley. Or the light that hits the Ganges from the corner of your eye when the alley suddenly opens up to the river. The boatmen gliding, bodies being sent off into the holy river, a bathing sadu, a cricket ball splashing into the water and a crowd of children jumping in after it. Sheep hopping up and down the ghats--the many sets of stairs along the river. Then as you duck back into the alley there are TV sets blaring from open doors with hoards of people crowded in front of them while cutting vegetables. And then the every-colored spires rising out of the darkness into the open air, carved gods crowded up to their tips.

Varanasi has a long history of silk weaving, and the owner of my guest house took me, on the back of his motorcycle, to the "Weaving Institute", which exists on the map, but in reality is a lot of people working out of their homes or other small spaces on the street. There is no one place you can call an institute, but rather a web of weavers working over large area of the city. Some young boys were hammering holes into thick carboard for patterns-the patterns themselves had permanent metal patterns with the same holes. The weavers know that computers can do this job now, but they won't give up any part of the art and give away so many jobs. Next door the patterns were strung together into longer cardboard sheets, which would later hang from the top of a huge loom. I cannot describe the loom, except as a giant, clacking beast moving back and forth madly with a little man like a troll hovering above it. And then the hand weavers, working in utter silence, meticulously weaving each gold thread through the fabric. The things they produced tempted me to leave everything and join the textile exporting business. I lounged on a floor covered wall-to-wall with pillows as the exporter (who sends much of his goods to Seattle under a fair-trade agreement) threw bedspreads, table runners and scarves out in front of me. Some were woven with silver and gold. All of them were jaw-dropping representations of a lot of hard work and many generations of perfecting a trade which still flourishes in Varanasi.

We went to the Mother India Temple on the motorcycle. Mohatma Ghandi, in 1918, had wanted to inspire nationalisma in the Indian people. Women gave up their gold bangles to his Mother India (Baharat Mata) Temple project, something that would represent the solidity and spirit of the Indian people during the British rule.

I took a last walk along the ghats last night, watched all the prayers along the river in quiet contemplation, as the bats flew into my shirt and ate the mosquitos so they couldn't eat me. I ended up in three guesthouses in Varasni, one I'd booked in advance, overpriced (Rs650, or about $13) but close to the station and with AC, good for the first night. Last night I stayed at the Elvis Guest House (Rs 200 or$5) whose owner showed me those places I mentioned. There were more lizards on my walls than in other places, but they're harmless and probably get some of the mosquitos. Also the sheets were dirty but I have my own spread. But I need to talk about Sarnath, where I sent my second night. It's about 10km north of Varanasi, and a half-hour auto rickshaw ride.

Running is good in a new place if you can manage it...and the heat is bearable between six and seven. I can remember going for walks in new cities and taking hours to get anywhere with sore legs. But by going for a run I can scope out the places I want to see more of and feel good in the process. In Sarnath, I found myself running in a big square near the deer park where the Buddha gave his first sermons, preached the Four Noble Truths (remember what they are?). There are excavated ruins from a monastery and a giant stupa built by Ashoka in 200 or 300 B.C.E. Antelope and spotted deer are still in the park. Buddhists from all over the world have set up monasteries. There are Cambodian, Thai, Chinese, Korean, Tibetan, Japanese, Sri Lankan, and other monasteries in Sarnath, which is also a sacred place for Jains. I stayed at a guest house ($2/night) where many Ladakhi people stay when they come in the winter time. Tashi's brother Konchok Rigzen is there year-round, and suggested I may not be comfortable ther with the heat. Actually the power did cut out that night so the fan stopped spinning, and my head was turning in the stifling heat, but it kicked back on again later, and Rigzen had provided me with a nice pink mosquito net so the bugs didn't get me. After my run and exploring the Buddhist sites, Rigzen's friend Thupten Choedak took me on the back of his bicycle to the Tibetan Institute, a campus as beautiful, but much smaller than the Banaras Hindu University 10 km back in Varanasi. Then, when I returned to eat at the little Tibetan Restaurant, I was approached by Sriram Jaiswal...