TravelStream™ news feed for member hodizzle on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/hodizzle en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Mon, 17 Nov 2008 00:51:31 -0500 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1226901000/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1226901000/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1226901000/tpod.html Mon, 17 Nov 2008 00:51:31 -0500 Stories from abroad and a way to give back to the people who have given much to me. When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. -HST

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Fort Collins, Colorado, United States

Shout Out #38
I was in defense. Prepared to deal with pointless inquiries and abundant suspicion. What is the post-911 American Customs stance regarding 13 month absences? Is it deemed 'unpatriotic'? I hoped it meant anything but that. I imagined being branded with a big U and forced to go through a rigorous array of search and interrogation methods. Call me a communist, a red, an intellectual...call me anything but an Unpatriot. Getting into Vietnam and Laos was less frightening. I understood their corruption. The rules were clear. If trouble arises, money makes it go away. My uneasiness stemmed mostly from the term Homeland Security. When talking with someone who uses the term 'homeland' I feel anything but secure. What does Homeland Security even mean? What are the rules? How many flags do I have to wave to be Patriotic on an official level? The ease with which I made it through their procedure only heightened my suspicion. Given the current ideas about freedom and patriotism, I was hardly innocent. The agent only asked why I had so many stamps in my passport.
"The cartel sends me wherever the dirty work needs to be done...if you know what I mean." Whispering from the side of my mouth, "Between you and me, things got a little messy in Thailand." That was the cynical response I kept to myself. I was too happy to be back to make things difficult.
"Hi Honey." A man was talking on his cell phone on the Skytrain from JFK airport to the subway station. "Yes, I've already got my bags and I'm on the train." (Honey speaks) "Oh that's super Hon! Golly, I sure can't wait to get home." (Hon speaks) "Okay. Thanks a million! (Hon speaks) "Love you too."
Wow, that was awesome! He spoke in perfect Realtor's Voice! How long had it been since my last encounter with Realtor's Voice? I totally forgot about American quirks and nuances. Things that had once been familiar and unremarkable stood out boldly. I felt like a foreigner with insider information. A spy. Realtor Voice was surprising and bizarre but I had a catalog of WASPy stereotypes in my mental database. Created with a hefty dose of cynicism, I was trying to remain as disconnected from that database as possible. Familiarity would come quickly enough and I wanted to maintain an observer's perspective.
The subway was an entirely new experience. I'd never been on an American subway. In comparison to the trains in Sydney, Bangkok, and London, the New York subway was grimy. From the airport it passed through Brooklyn, went under the river, and at a stop near Wall Street, I switched trains. The mostly black ridership diversified as I neared my destination: Lexington Avenue. Having little to no knowledge about New York I expected to emerge from the subway into a busy crowd of pedestrian traffic. Not on a Saturday afternoon in Manhattan. The sidewalk was empty.
My suspicions had been aroused when Neil emailed only the address of our hotel. Walking down Lexington I came across a flashy place with flashy clientele and lots of slicked back hair. Having ignored such places while balancing a 12 month out-come budget, I instinctively kept walking...until I realized it was the place. This was 541 Lexington. With my giant backpack and my emaciated (according to Sarah) frame I got the key to our room at the W. Neil had played it perfectly.
My circle of friends is pretty small but the ones I have are tried and true. Neil's one of the truest. His reputation precedes him in just about every situation known to man and he still requires a lengthy introduction (which he's willing to perform on his own). Dubbed 'The Fattest Skinniest Whitest Guy in America' by Housley, another true friend, no other nickname comes close. As a welcome back gift he put me up in a nice Manhatten hotel.
After passing the Bar exam in Colorado, Neil moved back to Philadelphia. Between studying for his second Bar exam and working in his capacity as Dr. Neil D. Esquire (a.k.a. The Fattest Skinniest Whitest Guy in America) his spare time was limited...(to screening phone calls and downloading Widespread Panic set lists). He was due to arrive sometime mid-afternoon.
I hadn't slept in about 34 hours. Rather than succumbing to the joy of a plush bed I decided to shower and take a walk around the neighborhood. It was my only day in the city and sleep would come soon enough.
Once I'd eaten and taken in some of the surroundings I returned to the hotel and walked through the lobby. The elevator doors opened and Neil was standing there, talking to his girlfriend on the phone.
"Oh hey! Felice, I'll have to call you back. Ash is here." "Yeah, he's got Johnnie Dep facial hair." "I'll tell him." "Okay, bye."
"Hey! Felice says hi too."
"Hey man!"
"When I got in the elevator I thought that would happen."
"That I would be here when the doors opened?"
"Yeah."
"It's meant to be. Nice spot by the way. I almost walked by it."
Neil and I fell in stride quickly. We spent some time catching up- talking about the books we were reading and what was happening in our lives. I then grabbed a full half-hour of sleep while he showered and primped for our night on the town. It nearly put me down for the count.
A walk through a small stretch of Central Park helped me wake up. First, we came across a group of people Argentinean tango dancing in the cool, quiet night. The setting was idyllic, as if that corner of the park had been created specifically for tango dancers. We walked on and arrived at a group of drummers keeping time in another little enclave of the park. Neil was ready to jump in but we decided to hop a cab to Greenwhich.
To satisfy my craving we had a succulent, tasty, mouth-watering Mexican dinner before meeting up with his friend Campbell. We were going to a comedy show featuring Dave Attel. The affair started at 12:30 (5:30 AM London time) so I judged the comedians by their ability to keep me awake. 5 of the 7 did just fine. By the time we got back to the hotel it had been two full days since I'd slept in a bed. It had been a long, long time since I'd slept in a plush bed.
We had some time in the city before Neil needed to get back to Philly and his Bar preparation/Widespread Panic set lists. He could typically rely on our friend Hiraldo to keep him up to speed with Widespread but Hiraldo was also in New York. He was at risk of being out of the loop. We planned to meet up with Hiraldo after having a Mexican brunch. Neil and Hiraldo worked out the logistic. "Okay, you walk towards us and we'll walk towards you. We meet in the middle." Their conversation was entertainingly not that straightforward though.
We were walking towards Hiraldo when I spotted an organic grocery store. "Wait man, I've gotta check this out." Seeing an organic grocery store was similar to hearing Realtor's Voice for the first time. (Whoa, I forgot about all this stuff. How could I forget about things I used to buy daily? This is crazy.) "Neil, check it out man...Cliff bars!"
"Oh! I know what's going on here! I couldn't figure out what was so special."
"Yeah, look. Organic veggies, brown rice... Oh shit...Kombucha! How did I forget about kombucha?"
We continued on our walk towards Hiraldo just as a flamboyant parade came by. Groups of men were hitting volleyballs back and forth with varying degrees of skill. Other groups went- cheering squads, soccer organizations, etc. A transvestite walked down the middle of the road, seductively waving to the crowd. It was the gay pride parade. Two men standing near us caught much attention for a sign they were holding. Neil walked up and asked to see it. The couple had been together for 52 years. Their sign had pictures of them taken through the years.
"We live in Boston so we're officially married. How long have you two known each other?"
Neil and I looked at each other and both answered, "Since we were kids."
"Are you lovers? I hope so," he added eagerly.
"Oh, no we're just friends," Neil said.
"Well that's nice too."
We stayed and watched the parade go by before continuing our walk towards Hiraldo. The atmosphere was fun and lively and made for a good walk.
Ultimately, we ran into Hiraldo on our side of the halfway point. He was in true form. "So Ash... how was it? Tell me all about it."
I laughed. "It was great."
"So you're back huh?"
"Yeah, I made it back."
"Neil! We (he was with two friends) walked all the way from 120th! Where have you been?"
"Ash was infatuated with an organic food market and there was the gay pride parade."
"Oh yeah, we saw that too."
"We talked with a couple who had been together for 52 years."
"Did you see that Widespread played 'Smoking Factory', 'Porch Song', and 'End of the Show' for their encore at Red Rocks last night?"
"Damn! No I didn't see that. I bet that was such a good show. You were able to get on the internet? What else did they play?"
"'Airplane', and...oh yeah, 'Party at Your Mama's House'."
"Oooh, no way!"
"Is the Hippie Brotherhood ever going forgive you guys for missing a show at Red Rocks?" I asked.
"Hey, I came HERE to welcome YOU back," Neil replied. I couldn't argue that one.
Once we'd met Hiraldo (on our side of the halfway point) the five of us walked back towards our hotel. It was time for Neil and I to go to Philly.

I spent a few quiet days at Neil and Felice's place, mostly writing and walking around the city; reacquainting myself with many other forgotten features of American life. I then flew to Denver. My dad picked me up from the airport and we raced to the golf course. He was going to a concert that night with my step-mom and we wanted to get in a round before he needed to look respectable.
In the morning they took me to Greeley to see my grandma. She picked up where all our conversations in the past ten years had left off.
"Now that you're here (Colorado) you can stay and find yourself a nice girl and get married."
"I COULD do that. I doubt I will though."
"I don't think you're ever going to get married."
"You may be right."
"Oh honestly! What about my great-grand babies?"
"I don't even have a job yet. Even if that's what I wanted, who's going to have children with a homeless and unemployed 30 year old?"
"You're hopeless that's for sure."
"Exactly! That's what I'm saying."
"Oh honestly! I think you need me to help you find a girl."
"So you'll go up to someone and say you have a nice grandkid, he's 30, single, unemployed, and he's living at his mother's house at the moment... want to meet him?"
"No, I'll tell her I have a nice grandson whose kind of a smart-aleck and he needs someone to keep him in line."
"That's a pretty good approach. I'm still suspicious though."
"Why don't you go to church and find a girl there?"
"Church girls are boring grandma."
"What am I going to do with you? I don't think you'll ever get married."
"Probably not. I'm not too concerned about it."
We talked like that for much of the day. My mom and step-dad picked me up in the afternoon and took me to their house, the closest semblance of home in my world.

I've always had an inner restlessness. I know I'm not the only one but I don't know whether it's inherent in everyone. I'm aware of it only because I've occasionally dropped my guard, seeing through my defenses. I don't know where it comes from or even where it exists. Is it a deeply rooted ego device or is it something greater? The fact that I know about it gives me the opportunity to not react blindly when it comes to the surface. The urge to travel or remain uprooted is possibly associated with that restlessness. I can't say for certain. It's more like a restless night of sleep than a need to drastically alter my surroundings. I get the sense that there's something swimming in the deepest pools of my being. Something refusing to let the waters settle into silent stillness. I know there are people who've overcome this dis-ease but I also know it as a plague of the civilized world. A disease of busy-ness. In the chaos of civilized life it's easy to be blind to disturbance. After all, stormy weather creates turbulent water. Regardless of whether I knew it or not, when I split town, I was getting out of the storm.
While growing up I bounced around among the different groups of kids in the school. If asked, I wouldn't have been able to give a reason why. I just stopped hanging out with certain people and started hanging out with others. My interests changed. In this way I unconsciously tried out tons of different lifestyles, steadily circling around something that worked for me. With my closest friends it didn't matter much whether I was into smoking weed, buying beer with a fake ID, or talking philosophy. Whenever our paths converged we met in stride. Our common ground was deeper than our experiments.
Years later, when I lived in California, I occasionally flew home to see my family. I usually needed some time to adapt and find a common ground with them. Whether it took ten minutes or three hours I had to consciously acknowledge that my family had their ways and I had mine and that it's okay for it to be that way. Looking back, I see that it was my way of dealing with being restless.
Upon returning to the U.S., it took no time to adjust. My brain wasn't moving ahead, moving ahead, moving ahead. I simply enjoyed them for who they are. The trip wore me out and I was tired. But, perhaps for the first time in my life, I was also well rested.

The reunion with my belongings. Over the duration of the trip, the natural result of having only a few articles of clothing was that I grew pretty familiar with what I carried. I knew (and sometimes wore) those three shirts inside out. That was not true for the items I left behind. Before storing my things in Colorado I went through an extensive purging process. I thoroughly rid myself of clothes, furniture, sporting goods, house plants...everything I deemed non-essential. Upon reuniting with those essentials, I was stunned. Aside from a few choice items, I hardly remembered the things I kept. It was like looking back in the fog. Once past a certain range of visibility, the route leading to that point was vague and indiscernible. Even items I mailed home early in the trip felt as though they were sent from somebody else. These things weren't mine. It was eerie. I had no sense of ownership and only a small sense of familiarity.
It was a good opportunity to create a new relationship with materials. The earth's elements all possess inherent qualities and mass production makes it easy to forget the miraculous traits those elements have. It's easy to forget the resources we exchange for goods. Pulling a shirt from the pile of stored clothes I tried to remember when and where, and most importantly, why I bought it. They weren't easy things to recall. I realized that having more than that which is necessary is symptomatic of not knowing what one wants. It's consumption for the sake of consumption. That's not the kind of existence I want to have. I want to know exactly what it takes to get a shirt manufactured and to my door, and if I don't like that process I don't want to be a part of it. Not to say that I don't have more than I need. I only strive to be more wise when deciding whether a good is worth the burden of ownership.

A friend from high school was getting married the following night and people were flying into town to celebrate. Neil and Hiraldo arrived from Philly. Blake flew in from Thailand and many others came from nearby. Everyone was gathering at Blake's house in Fort Collins. On my first night in town I was able to have a reunion for everyone with everyone. It couldn't have been more perfect. We ate and drank and juggled fire before going into town and running into more people we knew.
I kept a low profile after having the reunion. I was content doing some work around the house and spending time with my mom and dad while looking for a job. It made for a less jolting re-entry process. Getting back into the flow of life in America was much harder than I expected. I felt like I was living in a parallel universe. In talking with people I didn't know well, I felt like my voice struggled to bridge the gap between two worlds. Like they were hearing a faint whisper and couldn't figure out where it was coming from.
I grew up in Fort Collins. The roads were all the same roads, the trees were where they've always been, and the people were the same. It was the same as it's always been. More people rode bikes than before but very little had changed. I consistently felt like everyone else saw the city differently though. It was the exact opposite feeling I expected to have. I was surprised when people spoke of how hot the weather was getting. Most summers get that hot. I remembered working in the hot sun during my summer breaks from school. They didn't seem any different than the days we were having that summer. To me they were the same dry, hot summer days. The difference is that everyone in Fort Collins was arriving on a summer that followed a spring and a winter. I was arriving on a summer without preamble. Memory was my only gauge and it offered a mushy conglomerate of all summers in Colorado smashed into one eternal summer temperature. That was the difference in all aspects of my life. I had just arrived from a non-linear course of events. Unless I was with my close friends or family, the hassle of trying to relate was discouraging. I preferred to keep quiet.

It took a couple weeks before I saw two of my closest friends, Chad and Mike. I went by Chad's house in Denver to pick him up before meeting Mike in Boulder. Just as I walked in the door his house phone rang.
He answered with a Latin-flavored accent. "Whaz hap-o-ning." I loosely filled in the other half of the conversation based on how he responded.
"Is Maggie Fee-lan available?"
"Naw, she just took off somewhere."
It was clearly a telemarketer. "Is she your wife?"
"Naw, she's just my roommate."
"But not your significant other?"
"I wi-ish...she's kind of hot."
It was definitely a female telemarketer. She chuckles but keeps her professional voice. I'm laughing and can no longer infer what she's asking. She ultimately loses the professional manners and starts to offer personal advice.
"So what, you think I should make a move on her?" he replied to something she said.
"Yeah. Why not?" I start to infer again.
"She's my roommate."
"You want her right."
"But she's my roommate an' shit. How'm I 'sposed ta step ta my roommate?"
I'm cracking up as this goes on. When he hung up he explained that only salespeople call on the house line.
"Do you typically not answer it then?"
"Sometimes Maggie's parents call that number so we still answer it." The phone rang again.
"Bueno. Oh hey Susanne." He looked at me with a guilty smile. "No, I think she went to her dance class." They made some plans and he hung up. "That was Maggie's mom."
In short time, I could see that Chad was living a full life. He's always been a solid individual but something had changed. He was a new man. It wasn't until I saw him and Maggie together that I realized just how much he'd grown. They both had. I don't know that I've seen a more inspiring couple. They continually amaze me, both as individuals and in what they are creating together.
The changes in Mike were also instantly apparent and even more dramatic. He was halfway through his education in Traditional Chinese Medicine. When he made the decision to go back to school it was clearly in line with who he is. Now well into the program, he was obviously doing something he loves. My friends were in good form.
Chad, Mike, and I spent a good portion of our free time enjoying the Colorado summer. Whether it was rock climbing, river kayaking, or hiking in the foothills, we always sought the outdoors when we got together.

The circuitous path back to employment first involved several road trips to see family and friends. I even spent a day with Mayuko who was visiting from Japan. Ultimately, I accepted an opportunity to return to my previous employer, Burton Studio.
Prior to leaving Colorado I bought an old Mercedes with a diesel engine and an amateur conversion enabling it to run on vegetable oil. With some clothes and some extra oil, I ventured west to begin the process of resettling in California. Having a fairly open schedule, I opted for a more scenic route going south into New Mexico. Several years earlier, upon returning from his own backpacking experience Chad said, "The trip never really ends." The two months leading up to the road trip had reinforced that idea. Everything was flowing just as it had abroad...perfectly and mysteriously. The process of adapting to a new existence in the U.S. continued to trigger many comparisons between how I was living, what I remembered of how I had lived, and the prevailing American habits. The road trip took a much different tone. One of a ramble through the mountains and deserts of the Southwest; seeing the country without thinking too much about my place in it.
Taking I-25 south I said my goodbyes to Colorado. It had been a joyous two-month re-entry process. Now it was time to work and I was ready. I needed it. I needed to have my own place with utility bills and spare light bulbs. I needed to produce...to make a daily contribution to society. One of the most difficult aspects of being a lone wanderer was finding creative outlets. Ways to be of service in the world. Yoga, meditation, cycling, rock-climbing, Cambodiafund...serving life was the primary motivation behind all these pursuits. Ultimately, writing was my best outlet. Writing added much to the depth and freedom of my experiences. Sharing what I was thinking and feeling with everyone I knew caused me to think and feel with more honesty. Everyone who has come into contact with these words has directly contributed to that process. Together we contributed something to the world. The process was not complete when I returned to the U.S. I continued to tell the story for my own benefit.

On June 5, 2006 I flew from Los Angeles to Papeete, Tahiti. Before boarding the plan I sat down in a corridor and cried. I don't know why. My best guess is that at some level I knew I would never be back. On June 24, 2007 I landed in New York. On September 1 I arrived in San Diego, making the circumnavigation complete. I am now one rotation ahead of the calendar. My birthday is obsolete. I am not the same person who left. I am not the same person who returned either. I am the one who is sitting down to draw these chronicles to a close.

The stretch of I-25 between Fort Collins, Denver, and Colorado Springs isn't remarkable. Unchecked development is creating, as George Carlin would say, "A big fucking shopping mall". Obese homes are crammed on tight lots in stretches of land too remote to associate with any surrounding urban area, other than the fact that they're jammed between shopping malls. Stone veneer and kitschy ornamentation does little to mask the boxy mass of the monstrosities. The Front Range has become the back page of an outdated lifestyle.
As I traveled through the sprawl, the mountains to the west were constant companions standing against the blue sky. The Colorado sky on a clear day is a deep, crisp blue. In my mind, the sharpness of the hue will forever be associated with the equally crisp air. Whereas Southern California has a much softer, almost pastel feel, Colorado is bold and rugged. Though I was leaving, the mountains are in my blood. They will always be with me.
In south Colorado Springs I pulled off the freeway to find some breakfast. Acquiring edible food on an American interstate is a test of one's will. The options are nearly 100% fast food; fried things vaguely resembling animal or vegetable parts. On this particular stop I hit the jackpot. In a small community of old, well preserved homes I happened across a farmer's market. I could buy organic fruits and vegetables from the people who grew them! Better opportunities do not exist on an American road trip. Rather than huffing exhaust at a drive through, I strolled among the people of the community and bought food unique to the season in that region.
The southernmost portion of the state becomes more rural and scenic along I-25. Once through Trinidad, crossing into New Mexico always feels like heading off into a new frontier. The land is hilly, vast, and arid...and I'm no longer in Colorado. The state line is the first landmark.
Several miles past Raton (Spanish for rat) I veered off on a two-lane road headed for the southern end of the Sangre de Cristo range. On a straightaway I floored the accelerator to see what the Benz could do on vegetable oil. This trip was a test run. Making a desert run in the summer was a way of putting it through the ringer. I needed to understand how the car got along. In due time it hit 100 and I backed it off. I was tuning in to how it accelerates and how it handles at high speeds. So far so good.
As it ascended into the mountains, the straight open road began to meander through forested slopes. I steadily climbed a mountain pass and began descending, ultimately arriving in Taos. Taos is an attractive little ski town. I pulled onto the main road in need of lunch and used vegetable oil. A comfortable Thai restaurant looked to be a good option for both. I waited several minutes while a Thai lady took the order for a couple sitting near the front window. They were the only customers in the restaurant. Once she was free, I explained that my car ran on vegetable oil and asked if they had any waste oil I could use. She showed me two five-gallon plastic containers behind the kitchen and let me go to work. I thanked her and somewhat filtered the oil as I poured it in the tank. It was enough to keep me going for a while. I then washed my hands and sat down for a delicious lunch.
Sensing that the man and woman in the front booth were watching me leave, I averted their gaze. Not that I was opposed to being friendly, I often like keeping to myself.
"Excuse me, are you from England?" he asked with an English accent.
"Ah, no." At first I didn't understand. Then I remembered I was wearing a t-shirt with a Banksy stencil. The image was inspired by a well-known photo of a few policemen arresting a man known as 'The Streaker'. It was taken in London 20 or 30 years ago and became famous due to the unique resemblance The Streaker had to Jesus.
"We thought you had a good vibe and I couldn't help but notice your shirt as you got up from the table."
"Oh thanks. Are you familiar with Banksy?"
"No, I can't say that I am." Turning to his lady-friend, "Are you?" She wasn't.
"He's a well known graphiti artist in South London. I saw the manifesto on his website a few years ago and it blew me away. It's worth reading."
"Are you an artist?"
"No. I like to write and I'm getting back into architecture." When not in the mood to explain things further I say I'm an architect rather than a landscape architect.
"Oh really? We're both highly involved in architecture. We have a project where we studied the minimum amount of space humans require without feeling constricted. Take a look at our website."
"Sure, I'll look". I did ultimately check out their project but I didn't like their concept from the beginning. Personal space is a personal concept. Reducing our impact on the earth is important but imposing one's personal lifestyle doesn't work in any circumstance.
"So where are you returning to architecture from?"
"I took some time off to travel."
"Splendid!"
"Yeah, it was pretty nice."
We've been traveling around North America."
"That's cool."
"We've put over 6000 miles on our car. When we find a place with a good energy, like here, we'll stay awhile. We trade healing services for accommodation or money. When the time is right we'll move on."
"Sounds like a good way to get around. Well, gotta go. I hope the U.S. treats you well."
"Thanks. It has so far."
I made my exit and continued down the road. It was time to make a phone call. "Dylan! What's up man, this is Ash."
"Yo Ash, what's goin on?"
"Well, I'm leaving Taos and I'll be in Santa Fe in a couple hours. Are you around?"
"Yeah man, it's going to be a special night. Me and a few friends are going to a peyote ceremony with a Mexican shaman. Want to join in?"
"Whoa. What? A shaman?"
"Yeah. He's doing a ceremony tonight."
"I don't think I'm up for that one man. When are you meeting him?"
"We're going right now."
"Why don't I call you tomorrow? I think I'll be in the area still."
"Cool man. Talk to you later."
From Taos, I wound my way out of the Sangre de Cristo range. I was descending into the Sonoran desert.
Adobe homes sprouting from the dry soil marked the outer fringes of Santa Fe. Few, if any places in the United States compare to Santa Fe when it comes to having vernacular architecture. Utilizing an old Spanish planning practice, the original city was constructed around a central plaza, the roads set in a radial pattern extending from the center. Government buildings were set off the main plaza. In the latter half of the 20th century the small city established a strong art community. A feat almost certainly related to the beauty of the city as well as the beauty of the surrounding desert. Butt-ugly suburban gated communities don't generally attract people whose work entails craft and a strong social and aesthetic sense.
I drove to the center of town and began my search. The car needed fuel. Collecting oil in the downtown area wasn't a great idea but I couldn't go to Santa Fe and not see the galleries and architecture. Even if it was just to walk or drive by. Central Santa Fe is nice precisely because the businesses are geared towards pedestrian traffic. Oil vats weren't going to be kept out on the sidewalk. They were most likely kept in closets off the alleys. I took a walk around town and watched people going in and out of the restaurants at dinnertime. I needed to stretch my legs and it felt good being out in the cool evening air.
When the time was right I returned to the oil hunt. For my purposes, the one positive aspect of the model suburban restaurant floating in a sea of parking is the readily accessible oil drum stored in an indiscreet trash enclosure. It's easy to drive up, connect my pump to the car battery, and suck the vat dry. With a little effort I found an upscale restaurant near the downtown area. Cleanliness is another important factor in the oil collecting business. Shitty restaurants that make shitty food have shitty oil. It's too nasty to deal with. Chili's and its ilk are out of the question. This prospect was an upscale Asian restaurant with an accessible storage location hidden in back. Perfect!
I went inside, told an employee my situation and asked if they had any waste oil. He walked outside with me and said he has a friend who also drives a diesel on veg oil. He opened the gate to the trash and oil storage area and said, "There was some oil in here the other day. If it hasn't been collected feel free to take it." I lifted the lid and the drum was empty. "I guess they came and got it already."
"Oh well, thanks for your help."
It was time for a trip to the 'burbs. I could look on my way out of town. In short order I spotted another Asian restaurant, this one located in a strip mall. The restaurant was closed so asking permission wasn't an option. Two 50-gallon drums in the trash enclosure were full to the brim. With much haste, I took what I could and began my career of oil thievery.
With a full tank and enough reserves to get me well into the desert, I continued down the highway. I wasn't ready to stop for the night. After a few more quiet hours on the road I made it to Albequerque and got a hotel room on the outskirts of town.
Early the following morning I crossed into Arizona before the sun started to bake the dry earth. Like the Rocky Mountains, the southwestern deserts are in my blood. Their discreetly complex nature comes from the harsh simplicity of sun and rain. The extreme temperatures and minimal precipitation warp everything, including time. The processes of the desert are often slow to the point of being imperceptible. Yet in response to a five-minute monsoon the land changes overnight. Flowers bloom from some unknown sources and the dusty soil puts on a thin green coat.
Cruising along at 85 with the air conditioner fighting the heat of the mid-day sun, the vast scorched terrain melted away into the peripheral blur in the car windows. A few miles shy of Winslow the engine started to lag, struggling to maintain speed. With two-tank veg oil systems, the car is started with regular diesel while the vegetable oil is being heated. Once hot, the driver can flip a switch and start running on oil. I switched to regular diesel when the car started to lag. The car regained some composure but the engine was heating up. I pulled into a station in Winslow just as it began to overheat.
Such fortunate timing is hard to ignore. The roads between Albequerque and Flagstaff are mostly vacant. I can't begin to discern what Winslow, Arizona brings to the world, but on that day I was grateful for its existence. There's a purpose in everything. In ignoring the reality of the desert and my experimental transportation system I was given the slap on the wrist. I made the mistake of getting comfortable. The car had been performing well and I was able to find oil. It was time to proceed with caution and awareness. Scorching along in 100-degree weather with the air conditioner cranked as high as the stereo wasn't going to work. I wasn't driving a new car running on regular fuel.
With my untrained eye I was able to discern the fact that my car had overheated, the radiator was empty, and that it overheated because the radiator was empty. Why the radiator was empty? No idea. I filled it back up and continued on. The engine still lagged with vegetable oil so I kept it running on regular diesel. The air conditioner was off; windows and sunroof open wide. I gauged very nuance of the vehicle, listening for missed beats in the clacking diesel engine, feeling the vibrations through the seat and steering wheel, and checking the gauges with religious fervor. Time began to slow down.
What felt like many hours later, heading up the hills into Flagstaff, my car started to overheat again. Again, I made it to a town before it acted up. Like Santa Fe, Flagstaff is located in the high desert so the temperatures are much more moderate. The tallest mountains in Arizona are within 15 miles of the city. It was a good place to take a break. I parked the car under a tree and went into town, letting the engine cool down in the late afternoon.
Flagstaff is a quaint little city with a hippie-ish flavor. I ate lunch and spent time watching people at my favorite local café. All sorts of people, old and young pass through that particular café, but the kids returning for the fall semester at N.A.U. livened things up. It was a good distraction from my car worries.
When I returned to my car and the shady tree I took a closer look at the engine. That's when I spotted it...one of the fuel lines for the vegetable oil had blown. The veg lines were run through a hose connected to the engine coolant. The hot coolant kept the veg oil hot before hitting the engine. When the line blew the coolant leaked, draining the radiator and causing the car to overheat. I raced to the auto parts store just as they were closing for the night and convinced the guy to sell me some fuel hose meant for bio-diesel (essentially vegetable oil). In the parking lot, I replaced the fuel line but couldn't handle the coolant leak. To keep it running I had to occasionally refill the radiator with water.
With that situated for the time being, it was time to get more oil. A nearby Asian restaurant had the right set-up. While pumping oil from the trap, a Native American man rode up on his bicycle. He was not 'on the wagon' that afternoon.
"Can I ask you to do me a favor?" I wasn't sure I liked where this was headed. "Do you mind dripping some of that oil on my chain here?"
"Sure, I don't mind." I wouldn't use veg oil as a lubricant but I didn't mind letting him try it out.
"The chain's a little dry. It's a good bike and it was really cheap. I got it at the reservation. It just needs a little oil on the chain."
I left Flagstaff with enough oil to get to California. Preferring two-lane roads to highways, I veered off towards Sedona, taking the long way from the mountains back to the desert. The back roads also kept me close to little communities where I could stop if the car acted up.
The sun was setting when I parked in a canyon near Sedona. Dusk is the perfect time for a short hike. Trails ran with the river through the canyons. Reinforced by the soft evening light, the walk was especially tranquil. Even as a brief visit, the atmosphere was mesmerizing. Sedona's good reputation is well earned.
I returned after dark and drove onward. Winding out of the mountains, I went through Cottonwood and started up the steep hill to Jerome; arriving and overheating right in front of the Connor Hotel. The proprietor gave me a room just as he was closing for the night.
By the end of the 19th century the little mining town was the image of a lawless wild-west settlement. At mid-century the mines were all closed and the population fell well below 100 people. In 1976 the town was designated a National Historic Landmark. Currently, arts and tourism feeds a population of about 400 people.
The Connor Hotel has a time preserved appeal. As in the movie The Shining, I imagined having conversations with ghosts in the corridors. Unlike the movie though, the ghosts would all be friendly. They would be part of the ambience, doing their best to make my stay authentic. My room faced the main road, overlooking the weeknight bar traffic. People went from Bar #1 in the Connor building, to Bar #2 down the street, and sometimes back to Bar #1.
I went down to my car and refilled the radiator. A man stopped and asked if I needed any help. I told him I could keep it running but I needed to replace some coolant hose. He gave me the name of two trustworthy mechanics in Cottonwood and continued on to Bar #2.
In the morning I went to one of the mechanics to see if he could fix some of the flaws in the vegetable oil conversion. Fortunately he understood the idea of running a diesel engine on oil. He told me a story of how his friend ran out of fuel in his diesel truck so they went to a grocery store and bought enough Wesson to get them to a station. I was back on the road by mid-day, going through Jerome to Prescott, then descending back into the desert.
The roads wound out of the hills and ventured through a few small agriculture towns before merging onto I-10. After 10 miles on the freeway I exited onto a frontage road in order to catch state highway 95 south towards Yuma. A few small businesses line the frontage road at the interchange; one had a large BOOKS sign over the entrance. I drove past it, thought twice, and turned around. The incongruity of a bookstore at a little highway community piqued my curiosity. I parked in the gravel in front of the semi-permanent shelter and let my car idle for a few minutes before turning it off.
The store was essentially a large tent-like room with books tucked away in different shelves and bins, all organized by genre and author. A small music section featured only old blues albums. Nobody else was in sight. I spent a few minutes looking through the blues CDs near the store entrance and started to wonder who was tending shop. There was a little shuffling noise in the back of the room and a man appeared to my left. He was on the short side of 5'8", wearing a leather hat with leather strings tied under his chin, reading glasses, sandals, and a pouch over his cock. Covering only things that dangled, he was essentially butt naked.
"Whoa-ah, hi." (There you are...literally.) Thoughts were running through my mind. (Did he just put that on for me? Was that the cause of the delay? What is this place? Is he just keeping cool?) I decided to ask. "Staying cool in here?"
"Yeah, it's not too bad today." He put one of the blues albums on the stereo. "Are you looking for something in particular?"
I hadn't thought that far ahead. Books. Definitely I was looking for books. (What have I been thinking of reading? I always forget the titles when I'm in the store. It was that one book I read in high school. The only one I can remember reading in high school. Oh yeah!) "Razor's Edge by Somerset Maugham. Do you have that?"
"It should be in those bins over there. That's where most of the classics are."
He had a great selection of paperbacks. I thumbed through several titles by Hemingway, Steinbeck, and others. All were in the $3 range. He had Razor's Edge and more obscure books by Maugham as well.
"How do you get your books?"
"I have friends who pick them up in garage sales and things like that. Sometimes people bring them here. The CDs are all new so they're more expensive."
I bought five books and a CD and spent less than $30. Outside the front door I noticed a sign I hadn't seen when I walked in. It was a caricature drawing of him, his hat, glasses, and pouch and a speech bubble saying "I'm picture friendly". Indeed.
I left with a smile. The naked guy in the desert was living his life. That's real freedom. The truth of 'We the people...'. It's not about imposing our morality on others and establishing frivolous laws. It's simply a matter of being who you are and letting others be who they are. If I lived in 110-degree heat I'd probably have a cock pouch too. How can I not appreciate someone who's unafraid of baring it all?
With the air conditioning off, the windows and sunroof wide open, I put in my new CD, Memphis Slim and Willie Dixon performing live in Paris. The sun was starting its descent. I enjoyed the straightforward sound of a piano, stand-up bass, and drums. The recording picked up faint sounds of people talking in the background. They traveled halfway across the globe to play in small clubs in France and took only what they needed. It gave the album a timeless quality.
Like music, humanity may only be the balance of time and proportion. While we may get along briefly with our burdens, the rotation of the earth will always remove impurities. The sun dropped behind the horizon, winding down another phase of the daily rotation. Waiting day after day after day for the next little drop of moisture, desert plants don't have large branches and dense canopies. More often, they have thick skin and a low profile. It's the balance they've created with the elements. In harsh circumstances they flourish knowing every day is a day in the sun.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1221628320/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1221628320/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1221628320/tpod.html Wed, 17 Sep 2008 01:14:29 -0400 Stories from abroad and a way to give back to the people who have given much to me. When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. -HST

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London, England, United Kingdom

He held the cup of tea in both hands, his elbows on the table. Once Sinatra's voice came through the speakers, 'As Time Goes By', the person holding the cup disappeared. He had been replaced by the vacancy of a memory. While eating breakfast at the hotel I watched him stare off into space. Several business travelers were having a last meal before catching the hotel's airport shuttle. The music took a funkier turn with a Prince song and my attention went to two men eating casually...no suits, no ties, no starched collars. Both men were probably in their sixties and both had aged well. In a room full of stiff-shirted thirty and forty-somethings the two elders stood out. They also appeared to be doing business in Dubai; they didn't have to wear the burden of corporate image though. One was singing and nodding his head to the beat while the other smiled lightheartedly. We boarded the shuttle at the same time and the funky one asked why I was in Dubai.
"I'm passing through on my way back to the U.S."
"This is a wild place isn't it?"
"It's definitely interesting."
"Where are you traveling from?"
"Well, I've been backpacking for awhile but I came here from India."
"Oh yeah, how was it?"
"People say you either love it or hate it. It took awhile but I loved it."
"I've heard that about India."
"Actually, on my first night abroad I was staying at a guesthouse in Tahiti owned by a French expat. We were talking with an English girl about India- she had been a couple times- and the French guy told us a story about people he knew who flew to Delhi. They walked out of the airport, looked around, and went right back inside to book a flight home. I'd already bought a flight to Delhi and that story haunted me for months. I think ultimately I loved it because it wasn't easy. India's its own world."
"Sounds like an incredible trip."
"It has been. I'm tired though. It'll be good to go home."
"I can relate to that a little. Sometime after our kids left the house my wife and I toured North America in an RV."
"Really?!"
"We bought it from an elderly couple and put thirty thousand miles on it without any problems. We took it coast-to-coast, up into Canada and Alaska, camped out in the woods...it was the best time of my life."
"Wow! That sounds great. I've always wanted to do that but on motorcycle. There's so much to see in North America."
"There sure is. We took that RV all over the place...forests, mountains, plains, deserts. Actually, Santa Fe, New Mexico was one of our favorite stops. The straw bale adobe architecture really caught our eye. We went back and built a straw bale place on our farm in New Zealand."
"You did?!"
"Yeah. We did the work ourselves and we're just about ready to open it up to the public."
I frequently have a mood where talking takes much more energy than I want to exert. I would have been happy to look out the window and say nothing during the ride. When the man spoke to me I answered hesitantly. As the conversation progressed I was excited to hear what he had to say. Though he was very much a senior in society, he was still youthful. He spoke with exuberance and obviously found much inspiration in life. It inspired me to speak and listen.

I was asleep within minutes of sitting down. The plane should have taken off at the time we boarded. We were still on the ground when I awoke from my nap two hours later. The businessman sitting next to me was stressed about missing his connecting flight to Chicago. Every time the pilot tried to um, er, ah, explain the delay, my buddy groaned along with most other passengers. I didn't feel well and Sarah was waiting in London but I couldn't get worked up over the delay. The fast life was still too foreign. Ultimately the plane took off and ultimately it landed.
Although it wasn't a long ride from Heathrow to Paddington station I was already nodding off. After my nap I hadn't slept at all on the plane. Because of the delay, Sarah had been waiting at Paddington most of the afternoon. I barely said hello before ranting about feeling ravaged. My lack of grace provided the perfect opportunity for her to be incredibly gracious. She gave me some juice as we walked to the main part of the station and let me vent. When I repeated my complaints she delicately told me to get over myself, "I know. You said that already." (Damn, she's right. I've been an ass.) "Thanks for the juice. Did you have to wait long?" Nearby, a man was sweeping the floor with a v-shaped broom designed to push debris toward the center. "Oh wow. I'm used to seeing a lady sweeping the floor with a bundle of grass. It's odd to see things that are designed."
We found a room in Paddington for 40 pounds; essentially the same price as my sparkling room in Dubai but with shared bathrooms. Although it was down the hall, the shower was perfectly refreshing after the voyage. I was a little more personable afterwards. Much had changed since parting ways in Rishikesh and we took some time to hear about one another's adventures. We then went to Covent Garden for dinner.
From the subway station to the restaurant we were surrounded by the glory of London- cafes, busy sidewalks, public plazas, and street performers. Having arrived from Dubai, the basic ability to walk and use trains was phenomenal. I barely paid it any mind though. The time difference caught up with me. Sarah knew of a Greek restaurant with great food and a great crowd of people and I struggled to appreciate the significance. My mind registered all the raw data without applying relevance. The city and Sarah were alive and I was nodding off at the table.

Tate Modern was as much an architectural treat as it was an artistic one. Prior to leaving for the Glastonbury music festival, Sarah was showing me a few sights. A train magically dropped us off at a stop near Big Ben. From there we crossed a bridge over the Thames (pronounced temz for those of you who may want to go to England and pronounce it as it's spelled in English and have everyone make fun of you for it- or just one person in particular who offers 'thyme' as a counter-example even though it still doesn't explain 'ames' going to 'emz') and walked along the Thames, ultimately arriving at the Thames-adjacent Tate Modern. En route, she pointed to the 'Gherkin Building' on the opposite bank of the Thames.
"Gherkin Building? Which one is that?"
"The one that looks like a gherkin."
"A gherkin? Oh yeah...the pickle. Pickled cucumbers in the U.S. are called 'pickles'".
Until its conversion to an art gallery, the Tate Modern building was a power station. Turbine Hall, a vast space cutting through the lower levels of the building, used stark honesty with materials to create a readily adaptable space. The clean interaction between the original brick structure and the steel and glass used in the renovation set the perfect tone for 'Global Cities'. Using the fact that in 2007, for the first time in history 50% of the world's people lived in cities, the exhibit was a collection of mostly pre-existing work focused on cities and urban life with a few extra commissions added to the mix. The Tate's website describes the exhibit better than I can:

'Global Cities looks at the changing faces of ten dynamic international cities: Cairo, Istanbul, Johannesburg, London, Los Angeles, Mexico City, Mumbai, São Paulo, Shanghai and Tokyo.

Exploring each city through five thematic lenses - speed, size, density, diversity and form - the exhibition draws on data originally assembled for the 10th International Architecture Exhibition at the 2006 Venice Biennale. This unique show presents existing films, videos and photographs by more than 20 artists and architects to offer subjective and intimate interpretations of urban conditions in all ten cities.'

The exhibit compared a number of facts about three to five cities in the context of one of the themes. As a whole the exhibit is a major compilation of social, economic, environmental, political, geographical, etc. statistics, figures, and art commissions. Each theme compared a number of statistics for 3 to 5 cities. The overarching idea was that the nature of cities is not easily defined or understood and that it is constantly in flux...especially as they become larger and larger factors in the human experience. With millions of people congregating in relatively small regions, everything that is magnificent and horrific about humanity is magnified. The raw data was vast, scary, and exciting. A friend of mine once spoke of 'what' as being a more thorough question than 'why'. I certainly left the exhibit thinking less about why and more about what it all means.
Films and commissions made the assembled information more personal. It's easy to read about Istanbul having XX% of open space. It's a much different experience seeing a film about people using freeway interchanges for picnic space. A documentary in Sao Paulo was especially captivating. The filmmakers used interviews with people from peculiar businesses or roles in society to give a sense of the nature of the city. A helicopter pilot spoke of the congested airways due to the increased use of helicopters for commuting. A representative for a car bulletproofing company spoke of their services and clientele...those who feared and those who caused much fear. A policeman anonymously described the personal and social situations that created the need for him to take a second job as a privately paid security guard...using the same gun for public and private use. A graffiti artist anonymously described being chased and shot at by the police while the building manager encouraged the police to kill him for painting the building. A catador, someone who collects recyclable materials in the city and takes them to a weigh station, spoke of his work. In addition to the main interviews, the film used interviews with people of related knowledge to add context. A social worker spoke of the need for the catadors to be independent from the state, saying dependence is comfortable but degrading. It's a message I related directly to the political climate in the United States. We've been voting ourselves into dependency.
A commission by Rem Koolhaas also caught my eye. It was described as 'asking whether the privatisation and surveillance of 'public' spaces is creating exclusive urban environments at exactly the time when British cities have become more ethnically and culturally diverse.' (Tate Modern's website) One display was an image of a vibrant early 19th century London street with orange arrows pointing at all the aspects of the photo which are now illegal or not permitted by public agencies. A good example was that awnings weren't allowed if they blocked CCTV angles. An image directly below the streetscape was the same photo with all of the non-approved elements blacked out. The vibrancy no longer existed.

"Bloody hell, the nose-picker's at it again."
"He's a bit dodgy that Yank."
"Indeed. I'd pay a Queen's ransom to know why that fit bird at the Tate got mixed up with such a beastly arse."
"Bugger it. Let the Yank have his day. He looks a bit campy anyhow."
"I believe you're right. Instead, take a gander at the slapper on camera 9... a bit fruity aye?"
With the remainder of the day I roamed through the streets and alleys without knowing or caring much about where I went. London's heavily monitored by CCTV. The average person is caught on CCTV 33 times per day. As a nomadic street wanderer I estimated about 629 camera appearances: 87 times in crosswalks, 216 times heading down the sidewalk, 8 times staring dumbfounded at the phenomenon of 'joggers', 2 times contemplating a billboard with the phrase 'Fine tune your image' which inspired many thoughts about marketing, consumerism, and the fact that I had been away from 'image' almost long enough to forget about it, 5 times (and 3 news camera appearance) chuckling at animal rights protesters (not because I thought it ignoble, only because it reminded me how different first and third world problems are), 7 nose picking incidents when I thought nobody was looking, 5 butt scratches, 233 ogles, and 71 ogles when I thought nobody was looking.
The walk became something of a procession...a process of becoming reacquainted with western society. Being well rested, I could finally appreciate London's vitality. London existed before automobiles so the streets were built for pedestrians. Uncommon little shops, restaurants, and cafes were the common. Public areas were public and not directly associated with shopping. With no destination in mind I moved through the city at a stress free pace; somewhere between senior citizen and mall walker. Among Londoners my pace felt especially slow. Men in suits and women in heels passed me like they had just nicked my wallet. They moved at business pace- fast enough to keep one dignified foot on the ground at all times. Both feet in the air was 'Missed Train Casual'. Effective albeit less dignified. I was moving at the speed of an unemployed gaper. Just slow enough for the cameras to keep a stern eye on my seemingly discreet actions.
Watching people's quirks and seeing the built elements ('things') in the city helped me get back in touch with the thought processes behind those quirks and creations. Guided by an excess of signs and lights, traffic moved in strict lines. The abundance of pubs and cafes spoke of leisure time and money. As did the CCTV cameras. Architecture was a large part of the re-acquaintance process too. It began with the Tate Modern and Global Cities and continued as I walked the streets. Lloyd's of London's headquarters was a particularly stunning surprise. The postmodern deconstruction showed its guts with grace. In a similar fashion as the Pompidou in Paris, the utilitarian elements (elevators, air vents, plumbing, etc.) were built on the exterior. The surprisingly clean aesthetic caught my eye from afar. Up close, the preserved façade of a previous Lloyd's building at the main entrance made a great juxtaposition of old and new. I later discovered that the building was designed to be modular, making it easily adaptable to changing times. The cranes from construction were left in place as an aesthetic, but they added to the idea of a persistently adapting creation. The building was a beacon of the broad cultural milieu that is London.
They may drive on the left and say the 'h' in herbs but comparatively, the English aren't vastly different from Americans. London had enough similarities with cities in the United States to serve as an initial re-entry step. I started seeing my heritage as an outsider. I noticed that people didn't take concern about wearing their shoes inside. And that I did. I saw Indian and Asian expats with a new eye and realized that for much of my life I paid little attention to people who had come to the United States from vastly different cultures. Perhaps the greatest gift of spending quality time away from home was the ability to return with new ideas about what it means to be at home. Without seeing cultural ideas as something that can be questioned or altered, one has no choice but to follow the prevailing wind. Oftentimes the simplest details have the most profound impacts. Seeing the details of what had been the essence of familiarity was a treat. London offered a glimpse into how far I had strayed from home.
The next morning I strolled through Hyde Park on my way from Paddington to central London. The overcast sky gave added strength to the colors of the gardens. The turf was a deep green and the flowers bloomed in bold yellows, reds, purples, and blues. People passed me at a much slower pace than those on the streets. Hyde was a testament to the value of providing open space in a bustling urban environment.
I wondered about the holes at Albert Hall and continued toward Buckingham where the tourists stacked against the fence waiting for the changing of the guard. My stroll ultimately ended at the plaza in front of the National Gallery. I proceeded to spend another day absorbing art. First, at the National Gallery seeing work by Da Vinci, Picasso, Rembrandt, Van Gogh, and Monet. Then venturing back to the Tate Modern for the Dali & Film exhibit. Film is an inherently surreal media and Dali was a connoisseur. His collaborations with Disney and Hitchcock were particularly captivating.
The mid-simmer sun didn't set until after ten. It was natural to sit for dinner at 10:30. I found an Indian restaurant not far from a café I enjoyed in Piccadilly Circus. For my last dinner abroad, an Indian dinner in London was the perfect choice. My palette and general demeanor were still more aligned with Indian ways. I was tempted to toss the utensils aside and eat with my fingers. Part of the adaptation process was getting used to being in an English speaking country. The curiosity from a year's worth of foreign background conversations made it impossible to tune people out. Everywhere I went I listened to every word I could catch. At the restaurant I wanted to just sit and eat. A couple at a nearby table was in the midst of a coldly emotional tiff. She cried in near silence while he gnashed with an icy whisper, "Why must you do this now?" Tension emanated from the table. I wanted to stop listening but my ears were honed in. Thankfully they left just as my food came and no other diners were in earshot. Although I ate with a fork, I was able to focus on the deliciousness of my dinner without getting distracted.
I returned to the room in Paddington, packed my bag at 1:30 in the morning, and checked out. The trains weren't running and I had to negotiate my way to the airport by bus while the pub crowd was negotiating its way home. Early the next morning I left for New York after a night without sleep.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1219299720/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1219299720/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1219299720/tpod.html Thu, 21 Aug 2008 02:22:54 -0400 Stories from abroad and a way to give back to the people who have given much to me. When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. -HST

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Dubai, United Arab Emirates

"Forget me! I met the son-of-a-gun." The in-flight movie on the luxuriously half full Emirates plane had been dubbed to a G rating. Had I been blindfolded and magically transported to the window seat, the dubbed movie would have made it clear that the aircraft was heading to a destination with a dangerous balance of wealth and religion. A mixture commonly infected with a penchant for cuteness. "Fuck me! I met the son-of-a-bitch" is not cute. It's a phrase in need of some fine-tuning. Something to make it a little more pious. My problem with cute is that it's so rarely gosh-diddly-darned honest. It's the equivalent of telling someone to have a nice day. The cute movie was a good indication that I was leaving the fucking god-blessed rawness of India behind.
The first time I heard of a place called Dubai was about 10 years prior. A television documentary highlighted the design and construction of the Burj al Arab, an incredible luxury hotel built to resemble the sail of a dhow. The show went into detail regarding the tremendous effort of constructing an island and building an intricately complex structure on that island. Cooling the building in a way that didn't create condensation during construction was a fine tuned task in itself. My first question about the documentary was, "Who the hell wants to go to a '7 star' resort in a Middle Eastern desert anyway?" Ten years later I'm landing in that desert wondering if I can afford a third as many stars.
The industrial view during landing was unimpressive. The skyscrapers were hardly visible through the dusty air and nothing grew in the sand. Even for a desert it looked barren. Exiting the airplane on a separate ramp as the first and business class passengers I had clearly been demoted from 'wealthy traveler' to 'poor backpacker'. Once through the immaculate terminal getting my baggage and visa stamp took less than ten minutes total. Just as I was exiting to the taxi/hotel booking area a man in a white robe stopped me.
"Excuse me, do you smoke or drink?"
"Gee whiz mister, I'd never think of smoking doobies or tipping the sauce."
"Where are you landing from?"
"Kolkata."
"Come with me." Kolkata is apparently a suspicious place to fly from.
He led me to a small shakedown room and asked if I had any medication. I showed him my bag of toiletries and he was satisfied. Even if it proved that I was a no-good ruffian, searching my overloaded backpack was a daunting task. It might have been cute to go through my stuff with him. We could have bonded over anecdotes about the various articles in my bag. "What are these?"
"Ah....it's called poi. You, ah, light these on fire and spin them in circles with the chains." It's probably best that we avoided the cute scenario.

Checking into an actual hotel was a startling experience. A team of friendly, kiss-ass staff acted like they actually wanted me to stay. I signed my credit card receipt and the guy handed me a large folder of information. "There you are sir. The deli is right over there if you'd like to buy snacks, the restaurant for your breakfast buffet is right there, and this 'Check-in Packet' will tell you a little about Dubai and our other services. Do you need any help with your bag?"
"No thanks. It's easier to just leave it on my back once I've got it there."
"Okay sir, we hope you have a nice stay."
"Cool. Thanks." (I really hope so too.)
There was an elevator. The door to my room locked without using a padlock and it opened with a keycard set to deactivate at my departure time. The room had a bed with linens (that were clean) and several pillows more than I could use. The shower had a showerhead that rained into a bathtub, not a drain set randomly on the floor. There wasn't a bucket to be seen. I looked in the mirror and saw a clear reflection. Prior to visiting India I hadn't combed my hair in years. Although Indian mirrors were as pointless as vanity in India, combing my hair had become a necessity. The calcium in the water caused my hair to get especially tangled. A clear reflection after months of shadows was shocking. "Whoa, so that's what I've become." I stepped forward to look closer and stubbed my toe on the doorstop. "Gosh-darned, mother flipping, son-of-a-buck! Don't they know that the developmentally disabled doors are meant to bang against the 'special' walls?!" The luscious shower quickly cooled my temper.
I set out for the city dressed in my nicest threads and armed with a map from the trusty 'Check-in Packet'. A taxi pulled in front of the hotel as I left the lobby.
"No thanks, I'm just going to walk."
"Walk? No, wait sir."
I waived him off and kept walking. "I'm alright."
"Hey mister! Hey, I just want to ask you a question."
I waived again and kept walking. He drove up next to me. "Hey, are you from Egypt?" Americans often thought I was European, Europeans knew I was American, and in Dubai, I somehow resembled an Egyptian.
"What? No, I'm not from Egypt."
"Two days ago there was a man who wants to walk like you. I think maybe you are the same man."
"It wasn't me." Apparently the desire to walk around Dubai is more distinct than blatant genetic or cultural differences. As he sped away I knew I should have hired him.
I walked down a broad recently paved road, crossed a dirt road still under construction, came to another recently paved road with a bit more traffic, and ended up at a gas station with a Subway sandwich shop. The gas station was on the frontage road for a major highway. According to my 'Check-in Packet' map a mall with cheap food was on the opposite side of the highway. I analyzed the cross-ability of the highway but the concrete median wall was a deal breaker. Maybe a true Egyptian could cross any road without fear. I am from a much less noble heritage. I followed the frontage road along a dusty stretch of land that ended at an overpass for a crossing highway. I ran across the cloverleaf on-ramp, went up to the bridge, and made my way over the major intersection. The sidewalk ended at a construction site just past the exit ramp of the overpass. Rather than walking through freeway traffic I decided to cut through the construction site and weave my way to the mall parking lot.
A group of Indian laborers working on the highway looked at me like an alien who had teleported into the situation. It took a few moments before they decided I wasn't a random supervisor. Then the questions began, "Where from? What's your name?" and to complete the Indian experience, we posed for some photos together. Our fun ended when an Asian man came by and told them to get back to work.
Watching the mall crowd gave a pretty good glimpse of the city's dynamic. While eating warm pizza in the food court with teenagers and mall employees, my attention went to an Arab boy playing a claw game for full-sized Cadbury bars. He wore jeans and a t-shirt, as did his father sitting at a nearby table. Between calls on the cell phone his father spoke with another Arab man in western attire and frequently contributed to his son's chocolate fund. Every time the claw snagged a chocolate bar and started it's slow ascent the boy held his breath. When the claw rattled around at the top of the chain he leaned forward and silently begged it to hold firm in the grip. His entire body tensed as the claw crept toward the chute. It was almost his. When the chocolate dropped safely into his clutches, he quickly fed the machine more money for another thrill ride. When it didn't, he fed it even faster. He left with a Halloween-sized chocolate horde.
One can get a good sense of Dubai's dynamic by sitting at a mall. Arabian men dressed in dishdashah robes with shumagg head coverings shopped in luxury stores while talking constantly on cell phones. Arabian women wearing black abayas dropped a lot of cash on handbags and other accessories. Teenie boppers ran in diverse packs. They were presumably the children of the European, American, Australian, and Asian expats being paid well to keep the city growing. A few expats stopped to eat at the food court- presumably taking a break from keeping the city growing. Somehow the mixture of fading Arabian traditions, contemporary Western influences (Americanization), a larger foreign than local population, lots of money, and an insane rate of growth have managed to create a city of nowhere. It's a newer and bigger mall again and again in the same way forever. The worlds tallest tower is under construction and the next worlds tallest tower is already being planned.
Five stars is six stars is seven stars. But what good is luxury if it's not rich? A desert only has the properties necessary to produce fertile growth at a small scale. The scale of Dubai's development has been fantastic...that of a fantasy being realized. My sense of life in the city is that it's largely vacant...shiny surfaces, not much depth. Without fertility its luxuries will only become more luxurious and more vacant as global resources become more scarce. The scale is too large to create a multi-dimensional community in a harsh environment.
Walking didn't work. Freeways ran between mega developments built by private entities. There was no public realm to walk through, only a vast selection of air-conditioned shopping centers. Once I had eaten and seen what was to be seen in that mall, I went to the taxi line and waited 20 minutes for my ride. Using a map from my 'Check-in Packet' I told the driver to take me to Old Dubai. "I want to go somewhere to walk around."
"Why go there? I can take you here." Pointing at the Burj al Arab, "Verrdy nice. You can walk around there, then you can go here, The Mall of the Emirates. More than 5 kilometers of shops and corridors. You like to ski?"
"The Burj sounds good. I doubt I'll go to the mall though."
Although I couldn't see the horizon, the deep blue sky told me the sun had already sunk into the sea. The taxi dropped me off at the front gate of the hotel as the sunlight gave way to the changing illumination of the hotel sail. The Burj al Arab is not a hotel where sloppy backpackers can stop in for a quick look. I could only admire from adjacent properties. The manmade waterways at a neighboring resort- the Madinat al Jumeirah- gave the best perspective. Ever since the TV documentary introduced me to Dubai, the 'sail hotel' has been my mental picture of the place. Seeing it with my own eyes from the contrived waterway changed my image of the city. Its luxuries are undisputed. The details are precise and its profile is stunning, but it sits on a manmade island in a hostile environment. The sky is silty, the heat is unyielding, and water is scarce. Immersed in the luxuries of the interior space these facts are probably inconsequential. From the outside it's a compound in a desert city with a mysterious lack of purpose...and that's my fascination with the place. That's my image of the city. It's an image I can't understand.
A star floated perfectly beside the crescent moon in the early night, accentuating the moon's glow. Both reflected crisply on the surface of the lagoon. The composition was so flawless I wondered what it cost to reorganize the heavens.

The map showed smaller roads weaving through smaller blocks with smaller buildings. With a rental car I was determined to find a place where I could walk among people. Old Dubai was my best bet. In the recent building explosion the city skyline has become a staggering sight. Not only do the existing buildings cast superhuman shadows, it's the mass of cranes that tells the story. Over 1000 tower cranes and several thousand mobile cranes call the city home. Finding an outdoor space with intimate proportions wasn't easy. Most of the developments are mega-centers divided by mega-highways, making for a mega-private life. The closer I got to Dubai Creek the scale of the roadways became much more democratic.
Prior to the building boom Old Dubai was Dubai. It's where the Beduins came in from the desert and where traders had little outposts in the souks. Long before the discovery of oil fueled and spurred the growth of the city in the middle of the 20th century, the community existed at a modest scale. Without massive amounts of cheap energy (oil), modest is the only feasible scale for a desert community. Though the modern souks are mostly glass storefronts, the area still has a pedestrian feel.
For a dirham (about 30 cents) ferryboats take passengers one way across the creek. The famed gold souk is in the deira neighborhood on the opposite side of the waterway from the majority of Old Dubai. Over 25 metric tons of gold are on display in Dubai's over 600 jewelry shops. Half of those shops are in the gold souk. I made a pass through some of the streets to see the displays but wasn't too enthralled. Gold is gold and stuff made of gold is stuff made of gold. It looks the same in a glass case in Dubai as it does in a glass case anywhere else. The souk was mostly interesting because it inspired a game of 'Who would wear that?' With the gaudiest pieces I imagined different people (rappers excluded) walking down the street in a 10 kilo broche. Every image came with a story about why they wore such a thing. I kept returning to the same explanation though. 'Because it's bigger than the one that last person wore.'
The spice souk was much more intriguing...spicier. All the spices were kept in large sacks along the sides of small aisles in open-air structures. The aromas blended into a distinctly Middle Eastern scent. The souks are a last vestige of traditional Arabian culture. Larger stores and supermarkets are quickly replacing the informal trading outlets. Dubai's history may soon begin at the discovery of oil.

Jumeirah Beach Park had an entry fee. In lieu of paying I kept driving along Jumeirah Beach Road. Not far past the park fences I made a right, and pulled up on the beach. A blonde western girl was sunbathing next to her Volkswagen with an open door so she could listen to music. A western man flew a kite within close proximity of the blonde sunbather. His car was a little farther away. A group of Arabian men were parked down the beach. "This is too American to even be allowed in the U.S." I parked and went for a swim. After six months away from the ocean, the salty water was especially soothing. I was sufficiently prepared for another mall visit.
The place was huge. I parked but I didn't know where I was in relation to what it was. I roughly equated it with landing on the Death Star and trying to find Princess Lea. A huge linear appendage to the building gave the impression I was somewhere near the indoor ski area. One of the first things I was asked upon hearing about my stop in Dubai was 'Are you going to snowboard?'
"What? Snowboard? In a mall? I'm from Colorado man. No thanks."
The whole thing sounded so absurd. An enormous mall?...in the middle of the desert?...with snow?...skiing?...what the fuck? (Oops, my apologies...What the gosh darn heck?) Regardless, I had to see it. Although I parked near the appendage it took awhile to weave my way through the long corridors. That cabbie may have been right when he said the Mall of the Emirates has over 5 kilometers of shopping. It was a long hike past a countless number of shops before I found the glass enclosed winter wonderland.
Dubai is a shining example of a privatization trend happening in many countries. Public amenities are being provided more and more by private agencies. As a result public space is becoming increasingly private. Plazas are becoming malls and malls are becoming the primary gathering spaces. Public spaces were once the locations for public debate and conversation. They were places to transfer information. As a commercial product in a digital age, gathering spaces are now sources of entertainment and public discourse is fed by a variety of media outlets. The market is a mall is an entertainment center...and for the right price, it snows in the desert.
I wanted to hate it. I wanted to hate the excess and the absurdity of it, but I couldn't. Once I saw people careening down the slope and the kids playing in the little snow park I knew it wouldn't take much time in the city before I'd have a season pass. What else would I do after parking on the beach?
Every night I would routinely get in my car and drive through LA-esque rush hour traffic, park in one of the structures (the one I ultimately understood to be the closest), take my board off the rack, walk through the mall, snowboard for a few hours, have dinner at the delicious Lebanese place in the food court, sit down to write in a mall café (until the secondhand smoke became intolerable), and go home just late enough to be tired at work the next day. Day in and day out. I might switch scenes with the completion of new malls and new forms of entertainment but the basics are the same. I would live that way because the city is built that way. It's a lifestyle I might be able to sustain for an extended amount of time. I'm guessing I would burn out sooner than later though.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1212124080/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1212124080/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1212124080/tpod.html Fri, 30 May 2008 23:09:10 -0400 Stories from abroad and a way to give back to the people who have given much to me. When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. -HST

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Gangtok, Sikkim, India

"Prashant! Prashant! Prashant!" A group of men chanting on the street startled me from my sleep. It was well past midnight. "What the hell's prashant?" The disturbance didn't keep me up long. I was asleep as quickly as it took the men to continue down the street.
Mayuko, Andreas, and I spent a few days in Kalimpong mostly meeting up for lunches or dinners. As in Darjeeling, the weather was consistently overcast with sporadic showers. Perfect for late mornings and long lunches and dinners.
"Did you hear the people shouting for Prashant last night", Andreas asked the next day at lunch.
"Oh yeah that's right...they woke me up. I forgot about it until just now. What's prashant anyway?"
"You don't know about Prashant? Didn't you see the posters all over Darjeeling?"
"No. Which posters?"
"There were posters of his face everywhere. He's on Indian Idol."
"What!? There's an Indian Idol show?"
"Yeah. He's from West Bengal so everyone [in the area] is excited for him. I think he's the son of a police officer too."
I later looked him up on the internet. Prashant was a favorite on the show. He's of Nepalese descent and grew up in Darjeeling. He became a police officer after his father- also a police officer- died in an accident.

Mayuko was going to Bhutan to get a taste of a country that takes Gross Domestic Happiness (GDH) into its measure of success. Andreas and I were going north into Sikkim. Had it not been the end of my trip I would've spent the money to visit Bhutan. Instead, I spent several days relaxing in Gangtok, the capital of Sikkim. The fact that Mayuko was planning a trip to the United States made it easier to say goodbye.
The main road into Gangtok passes by a stream of raw sewage cascading down a small rock face, flowing underneath the road, and continuing downhill past a few multi-story housing structures with white laundry blowing in the fumes. A concrete billboard built right in front of 'Poo Falls' almost hides the feature behind an advertisement for the Gangtok Ropeway with a public service message to "Keep Sikkim Clean and Green".
The days in Gangtok revolved around yoga, buying fruit at the market, and relaxing in cafes. With every transaction I enjoyed the way vendors handed me change with their left hand touching their right. I always thought of grocery clerks in the United States and the endlessly meaningless 'Have a nice day's' said monotonously. The unspoken gesture of touching the right hand made it an offering. It humanized business transactions.
In the cafes and restaurants Andreas and I had some good talks and we came across some interesting people. One morning we stopped at a little kitchen for some veg momo chili after the market fruit run. An Iranian man having breakfast alone struck up conversation. He lived outside Iran most of his life and had a great perspective on life and his home country. He'd been living in Germany for several years working in nanotechnology. Earlier in his life he'd worked on ships as a way of seeing the world. 1968 was the first year he stopped in India. "Ninety percent of the people were hungry then. Now there's food for everyone. Each time I come back the country has progressed since my last visit."
I've been interested in seeing the Middle East for a few years. The layers of history are so deep in that part of the world. His take on the situation in Iran added to that desire. Maybe it's something of a forbidden fruit for me.
"The government is the five percent of the people willing to blow themselves up over something in the Koran. The people stay quiet when the government uses force. I don't even know why women have to wear the burqa but they are fined if they don't."
"Would you ever go back?"
"I have family and friends there. I visit but the Mullah doesn't like me [his type of person]. I wouldn't be able to get work and I'd have to stay quiet. I couldn't say what I feel."
He mentioned the fact that various groups in Iran are backed by other countries and I asked about the conflict between groups within the same religion. "We're all human beings. Killing is senseless, regardless of religious differences. There's an ancient Persian leader who once rescued Jewish people."
"I've heard Iran is beautiful. Some friends in California showed me some great photos of their home city. I'd love to see it someday."
"Don't go now. It's not safe for you."

Andreas and I found a good lounging restaurant on the outskirts of town. Our walk to the spot took us past the market, through several stretches of storefronts, by plenty of guesthouses, near some pirated movie theatres, and right by Poo Falls. The movie theatres were little rooms with bench seats and a little screen where people young and old played hooky to watch a midday flick. Poo Falls was Poo Falls. On one trip we came across a man walking for national integration. He traveled from Kolkata to Sikkim (over 700 kilometers) on foot and planned to cross India. He unfolded a banner advertising his cause and spoke of being interviewed by a TV station. His shirt and hat also bore the Walk for National Integration logo. The message of his campaign was pretty simple- we are all one. "I depend on you, you depend on me. If I don't serve humanity I am not a man."

I stopped to pee in the bushes on the way to the Tibetology Center. Once finished I looked down and saw a leach slinky-ing across the top of my shoe. I quickly batted it away, sending it cartwheeling through the air. A couple feet away it caught a rock and stopped instantly in place, unbelievably latching on from mid-flight. The action was nearly the equivalent of a baseball holding on to a swinging bat. I was awed and motivated to remain leach-free.
The Tibetology center had some cool displays related to Tibetan Buddhism. Twelve thangkas (banners), each over two meters long, depicted the twelve phases of Buddhahood. Other fabrics showed the history of the Panchen Lama in his various incarnations. Glass cases held smaller items, the human skull cup being the most peculiar. A library full of Tibetan books and documents occupied an upper floor and a room on the roof had a photography exhibit of a family dynasty in Sikkim. It showed a closely linked relationship between Tibet and Sikkim where sons and daughters of leading families often married. The center piqued my curiosity. I wanted to know more about Buddhism, especially the tangible, human approach associated with Tibetan Buddhism. Why do Buddhist countries in Southeast Asia condone eating meat and why do Tibetans refrain from killing anything but have human skull cups for their rituals?

Prashant was big in Gangtok too. The posters were on display around town (though some were now being vandalized with mustaches and eye stabbings) and a group of police officers were getting signatures on a large banner. I tried to send an SMS vote for Prashant with my cell phone but voting had already closed. Signing the billboard was the next best option.

Jhoom Barabar Jhoom was fresh out of Bollywood. If only for the fact that it featured Amitabh Bachchan (The Big B), Andreas and I decided to check it out. The theatre was suspiciously lacking in security and ushers so we decided to sneak in three bags of snacks and a video camera (pirated copies now selling for 100 R if you know who to ask). A few of the ten or fifteen attendees cheered when The Big B kicked it off with a musical number in the train station. It was a Bollywood version of the standard Hollywood chick flick, the one difference being the singing and dancing between each of the formula's variables. Song - Intro - Song - 'Boy Meets Girl' - Song - 'Getting To Know One Another' - Song - 'Something Special Is Happening' - Song - 'Someone's A Big Jerk' - Song - 'Romantic Pursuit (With Highly Unorthodox Methods)' - Song - 'Something Special Is Really, Truly Happening' - Song - 'Marriage'. In a foreign language it was the perfect story because I didn't need to understand any dialogue in order to keep up with the plot.

A bus took us from Gangtok to New Jaipalguri. Ten minutes out of town a huge fallen tree blocked traffic in both directions. Not knowing why we were delayed I decided to have a look-see. It took awhile to walk past the line of traffic to the source. A group of men worked hard sawing branches and moving huge limbs off to the side. At first it looked like we'd be delayed for hours. I then saw that they were close to moving the biggest obstruction far enough to clear a lane. I jumped in to help but didn't have to do much. The path was clear in a matter of minutes. After two chai breaks I made it back to the bus just as the wheels started rolling.
The overnight train from New Jaipalguri dropped us off in Kolkata at 6 AM the following morning. For my last night in India I treated myself to a single room with air conditioning. Being Sunday the city woke up a little later than it had on my last visit. It took a little more effort to get my morning fruit and chai before meeting up with Andreas again.
A large crowd of homeless people gathered on Sudder Street for the free Sunday breakfast served at one of the churches. Andreas was carrying a water bottle and a little boy asked to take it for recycling. In an effort to not be wasteful he wanted to keep the bottle so he could refill it. Water was his only vice for the day. Inspired by Gandhi's autobiography, Andreas was fasting. He was going one step beyond the basic diet of fruit and nuts from the previous day.
We decided to walk north along the Maidan. Ultimately we made our way into the BBD Bagh and Lal Dighi area, a part of town mostly comprised of streets lined by government buildings, banks, and corporate offices. Millennium Park is a linear series of park spaces on the banks of the Hooglie River near BBD Bagh. We entered the gates just as the heat was starting to build. Andreas was getting thirsty and needed to fill his water bottle. Finding water wasn't easy. He asked food venders and park employees but nobody understood what he was asking or what he wanted to achieve. Thinking of the lemon-mint drinks in Rishikesh and how the guy got his water from a constantly flowing outdoor shower, I suggested he use a public water tap. "It's the same water they use in restaurants." It wasn't the same. As he went to fill his bottle a man told him it was for hand washing not drinking. He then suggested Andreas buy a bottle of Bisleri. Andreas didn't buy another bottle and ultimately threw away the one he wanted to re-use. There's something brutally honest about sitting in a riverside park during a fast and not being able to freely drink water. Something was going to have to give.
We passed many construction sites in the BBD Bagh area. Government employees were doing hard labor on a Sunday. Many of the buildings were under construction and several segments of road were being worked on. A team of men cleaning out the storm sewers waved us over and invited us to take photos. Kolkata had flooded between my two visits and a guy was in the sewers shoveling silt and debris out of the pipes. He dumped it in a bucket and the men pulled up the bucket with a rope. Because of the heat I can't say who had the hardest task, the guy with the shovel in the dark pipe or the men in the sun pulling up the buckets and taking pictures with foreign tourists.
A little closer to the Maidan a man near a building under construction asked me where I was from. While we spoke a friend of his working on the building threw a clay chai cup at my feet and asked if I wanted chai. Puzzled, I pulled broken pieces of the cup out of my sandal and studied his mannerisms. He showed no other signs of aggression and didn't look mad at all. He was even friendly about asking me if I wanted chai. "No Chai for me."
The heat was in full force when we got back to the Sudder Street area. I was hungry and I think Andreas was thirsting for my hunger. He needed me to eat in a restaurant so he could drink some water. A woman laughed as we entered a nice air-conditioned restaurant with a delicious unlimited thali. Andreas wore a tank top and a knitted skullcap and I was wearing a sweaty t-shirt and shorts. We were not beautiful.
I licked plate after plate of food off my fingers while Andreas kept the waiter busy with his water glass. He was the same waiter who had served me in a prior visit. He was the waiter who liked to talk politics. An election was coming in six months and he was hoping for a new Prime Minister. "We have had same Prime Minister for thirty-five years. Many corrupt elections."
"How often do you have elections for Prime Minister."
"Each five years we are voting. Always the same Prime Minister."
The rains came while we were eating and drinking. It poured then drizzled the rest of the day. I loved the rain even though it didn't cool down the temperatures. It still felt refreshing and my clothes were already drenched in sweat. Leaving the air-conditioned restaurant was like going into a humid furnace. I bought some magazines and music from a bookstore in the bazaar. When I stepped outside again a woman was trying to get some money from Andreas. Seeing me, she turned and showed me the scabs covering her baby's body. Andreas wanted to take the girl to a doctor, a bookstore employee wanted the lady to leave, and I just wanted to be left alone. I didn't like the way the woman used her daughter as a marketing gimmick and I was getting bitchy with Andreas. We'd been in close quarters longer than I enjoy. I was not good about sharing my space after leaving Australian hostels behind. Even with people who are cute and sweet and flower scented, I needed to get alone time every day. I split while Andreas sought a doctor.

The fancy dinner spots were all busy. McDonalds had the red rope lines outside the door and KFC was packed. Even the restaurants worth trying were busy. It was a Sunday night dinner rush. We ultimately landed at a classy joint called On Track. Simulated train whistles occasionally zoomed through the sound system and they put on a birthday number for someone at a nearby table. The whole arrangement earned some big points for ambience.
The waiter took my order and asked where I was from.
"I'm from the United States."
"Oh, you are American! I am Uncle Sam."
My bitchiness subsided that night and I was able to appreciate Andreas much more. He always had great travel stories and he told me about learning to make didgeridoos in the Australian wilderness. His backpack was minimal...at least half the size of mine. His didg was the one big item he carried. Train stations were the perfect place for him to play. It was a good day to pass time and people always stopped and watched with curiosity. Before parting ways he gave me his Gandhi book even though he hadn't yet finished it. It was the perfect parting gift.
At 5:30 in the morning I took a taxi to the airport to catch a plane to Dubai. I called Krishna to say goodbye and to thank him for being an inspiration. I also called my dad to say I was going to be in the U.S. in a few days. It was miraculously Father's Day.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1210568820/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1210568820/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1210568820/tpod.html Fri, 30 May 2008 00:16:55 -0400 Stories from abroad and a way to give back to the people who have given much to me. When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. -HST

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Kalimpong, West Bengal, India

With a certain frame of mind the idea of a destination is merely an excuse. At most, having a goal creates a plan of attack. At least (and often best), they spur a series of events only related to the original idea by the fact that they wouldn't have happened without the motivation. Acquiring my permit to enter Sikkim wasn't an overly adventurous process but it certainly wasn't straightforward. I'd done the research and had a good idea of the steps to take; it was only a matter of taking them.
The Foreigner's Registration Office was easy. The building was right in town and the guy behind the counter didn't have much else to do. He handed over the paperwork and waited for me to fill it out. Once stamped, he told me to come back after getting the District Magistrate's endorsement as well. The best I could discern was that the DM was somewhere in the direction of the Tibetan Refugee Self Help Center but down different roads and closer to the town.
Just down the road, still in the general neighborhood of the registration office, I knew I had no idea where I was going. Darjeeling's layout never really became familiar. Just as the bewildered look appeared on my face, Lindsay the Missionary also appeared. Thinking I'd been saved because she had pointed me in the right direction when I was searching for a room I asked if she could give me direction. She struggled to offer advice now that I no longer needed shelter.
Two merchants in a nearby store both scratched their heads. They had a hunch about the Magistrate's locale but weren't sure they could give me trustworthy advice. Instead, they pointed across the street and suggested I walk outside and catch a taxi. They were of the opinion that the destination wasn't just an excuse.
'I'd rather walk. It's not that far is it?'
They pointed up the street, told me to walk down some stairs to the lower road, then make a right. Making the right turn on the lower road didn't clear things up though. I basically walked, made some random turns, and somehow ended up in a back office of a building full of military/police folks. It was the District Magistrate's counter. I got my second stamp and left without delay.
Assuming I now knew something about my whereabouts I continued along the road that'd delivered me to the doors of the magistrate hoping to find the path to the Tibetan Refugee Self Help Center. The road went past the Happy Valley Tea Plantation, a stop Mayuko (and Andreas) had enjoyed on one of their journeys. I decided to see what I could. A winding dirt road led down a hillside chock-full of tightly groomed tea shrubs. Near the bottom of the hill a woman came out of a gatehouse to say that the factory wasn't open. As we spoke, the girl behind me in the magistrate's line showed up. We could walk around but we couldn't see the inner workings of the Happy Valley. On the way back we were highly encouraged to stop by the gatehouse for tea samples. The girl and I had some small talk while looking around the fields. At a crossroads I took my leave. Rather than returning by the same road I opted to work my way through a community set into the hill. It was a new sight and it was in the direction of the Self Help Center.
The voyage through the community was the best part of the walk. A series of corrugated metal shacks randomly terraced up the hill. They were almost stacked one on top of the next. Some had nice doorways or little courtyards and some were rougher around the edges. Laundry hung under the eaves of many homes. Some families had drums set to catch rainwater off the roof. The community had two public restroom facilities- one for each sex- and a centrally located trash chute. Several steep stairways and paths wound between the homes up to one of the main roads leading to Darjeeling.
The zoo was right above me and the refugee center was much farther off. Opting to shorten the walk, I went to the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute ironically confined to a zoo. Highlighting the adventures of Tenzing Norgay and Sir Edmund Hillary among many other iconic mountaineers, I took one particular message from the display. They all set their sights on the tallest peaks and learned the best lessons during the approach. I may never see the refugees again but all the side roads took me where I needed to go.
On the return walk to town I noticed the statue of a historically well-known explorer/philosopher from the area. Andreas had mentioned his resemblance to Charlie Sheen and it made me laugh when I saw what he was talking about. Back in town I crossed paths again with the girl from the Happy Valley and the District Magistrate's office. We both had food in mind so we introduced ourselves and went to lunch. Valentina spent much time in India volunteering with organizations focused on helping children in some way. Her favorite was a group that used art programs as a way to get children interested in school.

"Reality is a question of perspective; the further you get from the past, the more concrete and plausible it seems- but as you approach the present, it inevitably seems more and more incredible. Suppose yourself in a large cinema, sitting at first in the back row, and gradually moving up, row by row, until your nose is almost pressed against the screen. Gradually the stars' faces dissolve into dancing grain; tiny details assume grotesque proportions; the illusion dissolves- or rather, it becomes clear that the illusion itself is reality." -Salman Rushdie

Not long after my in-depth contemplation about pop culture and beauty, I went to the cinema for a dose of American film at it's finest. Spiderman 3 was playing...fresh out of the box. I'm not sure where I got the idea that it would be a fun thing to do. Amerivcan culture wasn't too appealing to me at the time. Visiting the cinema must have been something about getting a taste of home though.
In the aftermath of the pop culture mind-melt I became excessively critical of certain character traits. If the evolutionary process involves an embracement of a lower phase in order to transform beyond it, I was struggling to evolve. Stuck in a post-modern attack mode I stood on a perch and fired shots at everything in sight, conveniently forgetting that my perch rested on all I was trying to destroy. To transcend is to purify and absorb a lower order. For example, a sound is identified and labeled as a letter in the alphabet. As a representation of sound, the letter is pure and can be joined with other letters to make a word. A correctly spelled word is pure so it can be absorbed within a sentence. When a sentence is fragmented the flaw must be accepted and corrected before advancing to the next phase. Only completed sentences create paragraphs. Ignoring the flaws or being offended by their presence stops the growth process. I was taking offense at all things pop culture.
Attack #1- 'Permissions'. Once I'd bought my ticket I came to a security gate. Cameras and outside food were strictly prohibited. My bag contained both and I was annoyed by the whole process- going through a line, having someone dig through my stuff, and being given the options of checking my things with security or leaving. I chose to check my bag and be annoyed by it. I had no desire to film the movie or buy snacks at the theatre. The fact that as a society we agree to ask and give permission for matters of personal responsibility didn't suit me at all. "C'mon man, can't you see my hair blowing in the wind?! I don't need your rules to make me act right. Handle your own affairs and I'll handle mine."
Attack #2 and Attack #3- 'Hand-holding' and 'Doing as You're told'. This was a two-for-one affair. At the theatre door an attendant looked at my ticket and a.) walked me across a vacant theatre to show me my assigned seat, and b.) walked me across a vacant theatre to show me my assigned seat located right next to the other three people who thought Spiderman 3 was worth paying for. I pointed to an unassigned seat and said, "I'll just sit here instead." He shrugged and went back to his place at the door.
Attack #4- 'Spoon-fed Bullshit'. The movie wasn't thrilling. Beyond the standard Hollywood action-movie formula, the additional clips of American flags blowing through unnecessary shots multiplied the spoon-fed factor. It continued when they cued the music for the 'Intermission- snack bar is open' phase....'Sha-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la- ka-la-ka-boom boom' came on. 'Sha-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-boom boom' is a song that's plagued most of my urban stops in India. Shitty pop music is everywhere and every country had its song. The 'Sha-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-la-ka-boom boom' song triggered a deeply rooted anger. During the monotonous onslaught a Saul Williams quote came to mind. "Radio programming is just that - a brainwashin' gleamed of purpose". My anger was clear proof of that phrase. Some people become programmed into needing the monotony. My program was angry repulsion. In either case it's a mindless pre-determined response. Reaction versus spontaneous choice. All of my attacks that night- permission, hand-holding, doing as you're told, and spoon-fed bullshit- were negative reactions to legitimately negative societal habits. My journal entry spells it out- "I cringed and wanted to unplug the speakers but realized how much my anger over shitty pop and the hollow culture spreading across the globe is only holding me back. My anger is so deep on this one...tied to expectations of others waking up and seeing through the pictures on the screen. I myself need to wake up." My anger over other people sleepwalking was my own sleepwalk.
My final discomfort with the movie was due to the amount of violence it depicted on the screen. A year away from TV and movies had a much greater impact than I would've guessed. Aside from a few small street scuffles I'd seen along the way, I'd gone a year without seeing someone get punched. The violence in Spiderman 3 is minimal in comparison to many of the films I've watched but I was no longer used to seeing someone get punched in the face, thrown from a moving vehicle, or blown up. (Cue the American flag). Motion pictures are an extremely influential communication medium. There's a reason advertisers spend millions of dollars on Super Bowl commercials. I realized how effectively human behavior is influenced by media.

I met with Mayuko (and Andreas) a couple more times before they left town. We were all able to learn a little more about one another over a few dinners. Andreas is 30 and spent most of the last 10 years outside his home country. He'd traveled through Asia pretty extensively and lived in Bali and Japan in spells. Our discussions touched on any number of subjects- Hunter S. Thompson, Vegas, gambling, cows, raw food diets, being lab rats for money (2 of the 3 raw foodists I know have donated their bodies to science), grandparents raising children, and string theory to name a few. He had some great travel stories and many similar thoughts as me, especially the atypical ones not too many people agree with me about.
Mayuko could've said anything and I would've been captivated. My jaw dropped when she spoke of being a dancer, liking jazz, and playing piano. It dropped even lower given the way she spoke about those interests. Ballet was the first form of dancing she learned, then jazz, and then flamenco. Flamenco was a struggle for her because it's about being low and grounded. Ballet is about being up, lifting her head, and having lightness. She was a woman with her feet on the ground and her head in the clouds.
They had left town a day before me and we planned to meet in Kalimpong. Tata SUVs are the best public transport in the hilly northern regions. Mine was the passenger's side window seat directly behind the passenger. A few minutes after sitting on the empty bench seat a man crawled in and sat next to me, close enough to almost say he was sitting on my lap. And there we stayed, two strangers snuggled together in an empty truck. It took some time for me to somewhat understand. Then I remembered the usher in the movie theatre and it clicked. All the Tata operators cram 4 people onto the bench seat. I always thought it was a business thing- more people per run equals more money. What I didn't understand is that the 3-seat bench in America is actually a 4-seat bench in India. It is not a scheme to fit one extra person in the space. The space is actually considered room enough for 4. My buddy was simply sitting in his seat. He also didn't sit farther away until the other people came because it didn't bother him to sit that close. It was natural. I'm from a country where an SUV comfortably seats a young couple with an infant. He's from a country where that same SUV comfortably fits 12 or 14 people. He only took the space he needed for comfort.
The close proximity also allowed him to read Civil Society over my shoulder. When the truck loaded up and took off I started to put the magazine away. He asked to read more of it. He flipped through the pages for awhile then handed it back to me. I told him he could keep it but he initially refused. I could tell he wanted it and a few seconds later he asked if I was done with it.
"Sure, I'm done. Have it."
He smiled and we had the usual talk about where we're from. He lives in Kalimpong but works in Darjeeling. Each month he gets to go home for a couple days. Once we'd become acquainted he started pointing out the things we drove past- "forest, tea plants, tea workers, tea gardens, over there is Sikkim, the Tistra river, the Tistra bridge." He got two plums from the two Nepalese women sitting next to us and handed them to me.
"It's their pleasure to share with you", he told me. He then told me how to eat them. "You have to spit out the middle part."
As nice and as thin as he was, I hopped over the seat when some passengers cleared from the back. He reached over and handed me the magazine and a pen. "Will you sign your name on one of the pages? It's for the memories." Heart is one thing India has in abundance. His gracious acceptance of my gift was an even greater gift in return.
The truck dropped us off in the center of Kalimpong. We shook hands and he went to be with his family. I went on a long walk in search of my next room (and Mayuko (and Andreas)).
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1207376100/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1207376100/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1207376100/tpod.html Sat, 05 Apr 2008 03:32:14 -0400 Stories from abroad and a way to give back to the people who have given much to me. When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. -HST

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Darjeeling, India

Just as I'd finished my morning yoga routine the lady running the guesthouse brought in a cup of tea and let me know the hot water for the shower was turned on. Seeing the dense fog from a room full of windows made it easy to relax through the early morning. For a year every day was Saturday. This was going to be a Sunday. Having such a nice room with views of such a beautiful area was a rarity. My time abroad was also coming to an end. Relaxation time was to be appreciated. I sat in bed reading Civil Society, listening to music, and drinking delicious Darjeeling tea.
Sometime mid-morning I went to a cozy restaurant run by an exceptionally nice Nepalese family. The restaurant was full of Christian missionaries so an Israeli man asked to sit at my table. Nanu was at the end of an eight-month trip through many of the same countries I went through. He toured Laos and Cambodia on rented motorcycles and considered buying an Enfield in India. The Indian roads were a little too crazy for his liking though. He was an attorney prior to leaving, upon returning he was starting a new career as a teacher. In speaking of India- and whatever else- he had great insight from a much different angle than mine.
"With India, you start to see time differently. People contemplate god, spirit, existence, and all that, but time is such a big part of it. Time is completely different. Bus or train rides that take 40 hours! Even 10 hours...people who spend most of the day sitting still. In India time changes."
"Yeah, I see what you're saying. It's probably part of the reason why people either love it or hate it here." Time is as cultural as religion.
He compared India to China. "There's a balance between the two countries. In China they only allow one child per family, which puts huge pressure on that child. He has to take care of two parents who've given him everything- he's their only child. In less than 100 years, 5000 years of Chinese culture is being lost. The Chinese people don't know their own history or the place China currently has in the world. In India the population is growing and their system is very different. They are the two countries with over a billion people, with two completely different natures, and two of the deepest cultures. It's interesting that they're right next to one another." He liked the geographic, social, and economic balance between the two countries and the rest of the world. "With wealth- mostly U.S. and European- Asia, Africa, and the Middle East having so little, Israel is right in the middle- geographically, economically, and culturally."
Following breakfast I went for a stroll through town. Darjeeling roads zig-zag up the hillside in a confusing network. My room was at the top of the hill, just behind most of the city. The main town plaza was on the crest of the hill about a kilometer up the road from my room. Several shops and restaurants ring the plaza. Even though I had several kilograms of books in my pack, I couldn't resist walking through a bookstore. An Indian girl came in and stood close while I looked at various titles. I kept thinking it odd that she was looking at the same section of books. (This girl has great taste in literature.) When she followed me to another section I started getting suspicious. Especially when she reached for a book just as I did. (Why is she so curious about my choice of books?) She ended the mystery with simplicity; she said hello. (Oh, now I get it!) In almost any other country the situation would've been crystal clear. It was probably even obvious in India.
This was her seventh trip to Darjeeling. Her father couldn't join the family this time because he was busy with business. She was hoping to get in the Darjeeling art school because she liked the area so much. Before going to meet up with her family she offered to show me around Kolkata before I flew home and said I could stay at her house. We exchanged emails, took a picture together, and said goodbye.

Walking to the Tibetan Refugee Self Help Center takes about 45 minutes from the plaza. Ample time to appreciate the setting- green mountains, patches of fog, panoramic views, and the blend of cultures. The more casual nature of the people brought a fun shift in mood. The Tibetan and Nepalese cultures are much more laid back and the vacationing Indians tend to be more contemporary than most. Social interaction seemed to be less restricted, especially between men and women. Women wore tighter clothes, make-up, and had a different way of walking or holding eye contact. Even without expressing sexual intent or interest their eye contact was different.
Watching people has always been a way for me to analyze situations and life. In passing an attractive Tibetan girl a stream of thoughts came to mind. Assuming she's probably had little exposure to pop culture and all it says about being sexy, stylish, and what she should/shouldn't want in a man I figured she takes a person's qualities into consideration long before bothering about their appearance. The assumption could easily be off base, it worked for my analysis though. I was scratching the surface of something much deeper but put my thoughts on hold while exploring the Self Help Center.
The trail zig-zagged down and around the hill, crossing through various little communities, ultimately ending at a paved road. The center was a short way up the road. A collection of aging wooden buildings surrounded a dusty patch of ground. The rough exterior fails to conceal the warmth of the residents. A few kids were playing basketball on a court in the middle of the space. All the buildings around the courtyard were labeled with signs in English. The place was informal. I looked in a building and saw a few elderly Tibetan women making thread. They sat and talked comfortably while doing their work. A woman saw me watching, smiled, and invited me in with a nod. They let me snoop around the room and take pictures. From making thread, dyeing, weaving rugs and clothes to producing other handmade crafts, all their goods are made using traditional Tibetan techniques. I went from workshop to workshop, looking in on the various groups of elderly artisans. The different crafts may have been divided by sex. The rooms were either all women or all men. The one group of men I came across was rolling thread into bundles.
The center was started by a group of refugees who followed the 13th Dalai Lama to India during China's invasion. With their skills, support from the Indian government, and support from the Tibetan government in exile, they managed to create a home for those who no longer had one. It still operates as a charitable organization and their goods are shipped globally. Currently there are about 650 refugees living at the Self Help Center. The children have a safe place to learn and play, the elderly have meaningful work, and they all have a close community. In a foreign situation they've managed to create something few people have.
A museum-like room had different aspects of China's occupation of Tibet on display. Geographically Tibet gives China a direct border with India; a border they've crossed forcefully in the past. China still controls portions of land technically considered India. Tibet also plays an important role in China's nuclear capabilities. Aside from having several Chinese nuclear weapons sites, Tibet has some of the world's largest uranium reserves. Other displays spoke of the ecological merits of the region. Several rivers of importance to millions of people in India and China originate in Tibet.
The Panchen Lama was also a big concern. Several signs mentioned the Chinese abduction of the next Tibetan leader. China claims the Dalai Lama got it wrong in designating Gedhun Choekyi Nyima as the reincarnated Panchen Lama and offered another person as the true Panchen Lama...then kidnapped Nyima. His whereabouts are not known. As the next leader, his youthful years are critical to his spiritual training. The Tibetans want him and his family back.
A workshift ended just as I was leaving. Several groups of women and men walked along a few paths leading up the hill behind the central buildings. Rows of prayer wheels lined portions of the walkways. Everybody spun the wheels as they passed. 'Om Mani Padme Hung', a mantra of compassion, is inscribed on each wheel. The wheels should be spun with a correct mind-frame and technique and the merits of the mantra are realized. In visiting the center it was apparent I was among people who routinely spin wheels of compassion.
On the walk back to Darjeeling my thoughts returned to the topic of pop culture. My assumptions about the attractive Tibetan girl were essentially self observations- positioning myself in the context of how I saw her. The thought of her having little concern for beauty was in direct contrast to my own addiction to beauty. An addiction fueled by pop ideologies. Surface level details are of exaggerated importance. American society pushes image as a commodity and I bought the story somewhere along the way. With capitalism, people can easily be viewed as the products of the products they buy. Branded consumers. Objects then become a measure of identity, the consumer becomes the consumed, and beauty becomes a commodity. I am what I buy, what I buy am I. The self-feeding cycle creates strong attachments to a surface level image- physical beauty. These attachments are my isolation.
In a situation where my camera, shoes, and clothes makes me foreign, wealthy, and separate I was more able to analyze my sense of material attachment. An excerpt from my journal that day explains it further, 'Everywhere I go those things will limit my freedom and ability to get close with people who have none of those. That doesn't make it wrong or bad to have, I was just seeing my belongings differently." The belongings themselves aren't divisional. Attachment is the root of division and isolation. Attachment=image=me separate from you=isolation.
A major flaw of capitalism, pop culture, and the wealth associated with both is the concept of abundance as a product, not an inherited right of humanity. As a 'have', my image is purchased with the sweat of a 'have not'. Everyone knows of the plight of the 'have nots'- starvation, slum existence, violence, etc, etc, etc- but the resolution to these problems will probably come from a deeper understanding of the plight of the 'haves'. Wealthy countries are more apt to be enslaved by blindness. Liberty can't be bought sold, traded, or given. It is only actualized. Mental freedom- true liberty- tends to come after the basic necessities in life are actualized. Then the struggle becomes one of comfort. The good is the enemy of the best. Comfort can breed lethargy and lethargy makes liberty nonexistent. I could be in the freest situation possible and still remain chained; bound by a clouded mind. When people truly become (mentally)free, the world will easily follow. Because their rent is paid, the wealthy may be in a better position to do so. It's a matter of how blind we've become.
Whereas capitalism thrives on concepts of limitation- the finite nature of the manifest world- an Eastern ideal speaks of manifestation in a different sense. Mandalas and yantras are physical, geometric creations representative of the belief that 'manifestation (the world, maya) is the conformation of infinity through limitation. All of "reality" exists and takes form thanks to limitation.' (Abitare #463 Jul-Aug 2006) Yantras and mandalas are not an objectified image of self. They are a material representation of limitless abundance. Though an abstracted image of Gandhi on my t-shirt speaks of freedom and how I wear it says something of my perceptions of self and freedom, it's still an image. Yantras and mandalas express something much deeper. 'These restraints (physical form) are actually perceived as the forms taken on by freedom, rather than as restrictions to it.' (Abitare #463 Jul-Aug 2006) Until goods are appreciated as infinite manifestation they will be imagined limitation, or tools of enslavement. A plight particularly associated with 'the haves'.

Later that afternoon I bumped into Mayuko and Andreas and we decided to check out an art exhibit for some sort of global environmental day. Much of the exhibit was a display of various arts and crafts made from re-used waste. Another portion was a really nice collection of photos relating people and nature. My attention was especially captured by images of the various trash chutes around Darjeeling. India doesn't have municipal trash service. Waste is either littered or taken to certain public trash dumps. In Darjeeling, the trash dumps are actually chutes where the trash flows down the hill. Being a tourist destination for a wealthier breed, Darjeeling actually has trash bins around town. I didn't notice that it made much of a difference but the intent was there. Signs posted around town encourage people to not use plastic water bottles or bags. There is no recycling and plastic fills up the fills up the trash dumps. It was the first place where I didn't drink bottled water.
My contemplation came full circle at the exhibit. The goods produced at the Tibetan Refugee Self Help Center were very much in line with a yantra or mandala. They were manifestations of infinite abundance. That was the beauty of the arrangement. In exile they were more free than most of the people on earth. The goods accumulating in the trash chutes are the offspring of a system that sees production as a juggling act with limited resources. It makes perfect sense too. Why would a system that preaches a limited ideal be the system that has the most waste? Precisely because the goods are not 'forms taken on by freedom'. They are forms taken on by the finite economics of a limited perspective. They are my addiction to fleeting beauty.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1205387460/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1205387460/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1205387460/tpod.html Thu, 13 Mar 2008 01:53:24 -0400 Stories from abroad and a way to give back to the people who have given much to me. When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. -HST

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Darjeeling, India

Just past noon the jeep stopped somewhere in Darjeeling near the main taxi stand. By train, cyclo, and truck the trip from Kolkata took about 16 hours. The overnight train landed in New Jaipalguri that morning. A cyclo took me 8 kilometers to the Jeep stand, and the 4-hour Jeep ride into the mountains completed the trip.
It was the one-year anniversary of being on the road and I was tired. A contemplative mood settled in for the last couple weeks in India. Time to kick my feet up, not get too involved, and reflect on whatever came to mind.
Finding a place to stay proved a trying task. The city was full of Indian tourists escaping the heat of the south. All the hotels and guestrooms were full. An hour of wandering door-to-door, up and down hilly streets and alleys with a 25 kg pack on my back turned up very few options. I'd checked over 20 places, almost all were full. A few had rooms costing over 1000 rupees (about $30), and one guy had the nerve to charge 300 for a place with no running water.
"No shower or toilet?"
"No."
"Not even shared?"
"No."
"300 rupees you said?" (You've got to be kidding me. I wouldn't pay $8 for that even in the United States.)
I hit the jackpot just as I was considering going back to a pricey spot. A friendly couple rented a few rooms out of a converted home. Their master suite was available for 500 rupees, not cheap but perfect. One full wall of windows looked over the steep, green mountains. The bed was soft, the floor was clean, the shower was hot, and I wanted all three.
The culture's different in the north. Darjeeling is closer to Nepal, Tibet, Bhutan, and Sikkim though it's still a part of West Bengal. The local culture was more Buddhist , the tourists were more Hindu. The options for thali and curry were limited to upscale restaurants. For cheap eats Tibetan momos were the choice.
A quiet little restaurant off a busy road served up a good plate of cheap momos. Two backpackers walked in while I was eating- an Asian woman with a European man. Andreas introduced himself with a smile. He was from Sweden and had an English question for me. I answered as best I could then introduced myself to the woman he was with. Mayuko (from Japan) instantly captured my attention. Some people move through the world with an exceptional radiance. Regardless of circumstance, they clearly have something the majority of us fail to express or emanate. Mayuko is one of those people.
I offer no explanation for what I saw in her eyes or how it impacted me. I only hope to grasp a piece of something innately intangible. When our eyes met I saw a flash of light in her retina for the briefest of moments. It was like looking into the spark before a match ignites. In that almost imperceptible length of time I knew she was a person I could bare my soul to. She could know and understand without the need to possess. It could just be, existing without idealizing or trying to make it different or culturally correct. I saw something full and complete...and it freaked me out.
I don't subscribe to the American measure of success. School→career→spouse→kids→empty nest→buy a Harley and a toupee→retire→die. Something happened somewhere between career and spouse. From a purely informational/intellectual perspective I see having a girlfriend or getting married as a fundamentally flawed arrangement. The culturally standard list of shoulds and shouldn'ts distorts love. What then for intimacy? How does a person who doesn't call when he's late and makes no guarantees about even arriving have intimacy with someone? Freedom and intimacy are not mutually exclusive. They are mutually binding. The standard list of shoulds and shouldn'ts only creates a barrier to intimacy. Rather than simply being with someone while with them we often take concern over issues of yesterday or tomorrow. "Where did that come from? This just isn't going anywhere?" It's possible to have both freedom and intimacy in relating to someone, it just takes much clarity and modesty. I've only seen it in glimpses.
With intimacy, my hang-up stems from a lack of both clarity and modesty. From a distance it would be easy to attribute my ideas to a fear of being hurt. Opening up to someone can lead to hurt. At a macro-scale there's probably some truth to that statement. A more accurate truth lies closer to the core. At a deeper level my fear has little to do with being exposed to someone else. Letting go and being fully open with someone means giving up control. It's myself I fear. 'Can I give up control without going off the deep-end?' I would most likely go off the deep-end and it would most likely be fabulous.
And there's an even deeper level of truth. Yes, I am more afraid of losing control and crushing myself than I am of being crushed by someone else, but the only way to truly know one's essence is in letting go- dissolving the sense of identity or self. I'm afraid of crushing myself- my identity- because I'm afraid of seeing who I really am. I shy away from being intimate with someone from a fear of intimately knowing myself. The dilemma is that it takes energy to pretend. I could pick up a girlfriend, play by society's rules though I don't agree with them, and hide behind the relationship do's and don'ts. However, it wears me out. Since my ideas differ from the way of the culture I'm in, I could choose to spend my days alone. If it's not done through introspection solitude takes energy too. Whether alone or with someone, what's the point if it's not done honestly? Really, there is no difference between a true relationship with self and a true relationship with someone else. Both are intimate and free. I saw myself in Mayuko's eyes.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1204612260/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1204612260/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1204612260/tpod.html Tue, 04 Mar 2008 01:54:39 -0500 Stories from abroad and a way to give back to the people who have given much to me. When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. -HST

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Kolkata (Calcutta), India

The bus pulled up casually, just like a bus that's on time. The doors opened and the operators invited us aboard without acknowledging any sleight. Our 2x2 push back seats never arrived. Instead, 2x3 straight-backed bench seats greeted us. Alex- the 40 year-old Parisian who spent much of the hour and half delay telling me about his camping experience with a 21 year-old girl from the yoga class- was not going to let the transgression slide. His complaints echoed off the unpadded seats. A friendly Indian family suggested he board anyhow- there were no alternatives.
Pulling into Delhi after a rough night of mosquitoes and curvy roads helped me appreciate holding a plane ticket. The original plan involved 30 hours on a cross-country train but all the trains were booked. Several days of fruitless attempts at buying a ticket reconfirmed my desire to fly. The overnight bus ride crushed any lingering concerns about being a pussy.
At the airport, passengers aren't allowed to check in more than 2 hours prior to departure. I dropped my bag and slept on the floor until a line grew- weaving around the entrance, along the wall, and past my feet.
The Air Deccan flights have no assigned seats. Passengers are shuttled to the foot of the plane where it's every man for himself. A scheme came to mind. Be the last on the first bus and score a window seat at the front of the plane. Just as I contemplated the logistics a line magically formed and I wasn't in it. Somehow it made perfect sense for it to happen in a situation where it was best to not be first. India has an unexplainable logic. Lines only form if they are absolutely necessary. There was a purpose behind it, I just didn't understand. For me, this line made for great bus capacity estimation. For my plan to work I had to insinuate myself into place; the spot I gauged as capacity (in India) for the first shuttle. Phase One couldn't have gone better. I was THE last person on the bus, standing on the steps at the rear door.
On the tarmac we were detained inside the bus while a delinquent cleaning crew scrambled to please the angry superior. The bus had parked so that my exit was closest to the boarding stairs. During the delay my position in the doorway left me susceptible to bumping and nudging by people behind me. This was serious business. The crew finally finished, the doors opened, I was second on board with a front row window seat. Before the plane finished taxiing I was asleep. The only explanation I can give for taking such concern with the seating is that flying was such a rare treat. It was an opportunity to have legroom.
In Kolkata I was quickly off the plane, my bag was one of the first on the carousel, there was no line at the prepaid taxi desk... it was all too smooth. 200 rupees wasn't a cheap ride to town. Perhaps a rickshaw would be cheaper. Seeing me exit with a backpack and a furrowed brow a taxi driver pounced. "You are needing a taxi sir?"
"No. I want a rickshaw."
"No rickshaws are driving from the airport. It's too far."
I noticed another 'Prepaid Taxi' stand on the edge of a parking lot. They charged 370 rupees. On the walk back to the first desk the driver began negotiating, working his way down to 200 rupees. At the car he took my bag and put it in the trunk. I sat in the back. He walked off. It only took a minute or two before I figured it all out: the trunk was locked, I was stuck, and he was hustling up another passenger. My anger mattered very little to him. After I'd said my bit he chuckled a little and told me, "You are not getting 200 for one person."
A long line had formed at the true prepaid taxi stand inside the airport. All the passengers from the rear of the plane now stood in front of me. I was directly behind Nakul's (the warrior's) mom. We hadn't spoken prior to that odd coincidence. It was the perfect opportunity to split a taxi.
Just as we sat in the back seat a man came to her window asking for money. Rather than handing out cash she blessed the man with Ganga water from Rishikesh, one of the four main pilgrimage destinations. He was more pleased than if she'd bought his dinner. Knowing that wasn't her intent I couldn't help but think it a great gimmick. 'Not only am I not going to pay you, I'm going to splash this water on you and you're going to like it.' She then splashed the driver, me, and sprinkled some on herself for good measure. We were all very blessed.
"I'm writing a book about Ganga and her healing properties.
"Really?"
"Throughout history there were references to Ganga from many different foreigners who'd come to India. Long before there was mass communication."
"So several different groups of explorers had similar experiences without knowing about the others?"
"Yeah, exactly. They had no way of hearing about Ganga from the others." Looking at my arm, "What does your tattoo say?"
"Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question."
"Is that your writing?"
"No it's from an e.e. cummings poem. It's actually from the introduction to a book called 'New Poems'. Nakul told me you are a tattoo artist."
"Well, I used to be."
"Why did you stop?"
"When you stick needles in the body it releases a lot of energy. If you look at the origin of tattoos in the Polynesian islands-I'm from Hawaii- they were doing it to tell the important stories of their lives. It was ritual. I wouldn't do a tattoo unless there was that personal connection."
"That's an interesting reason. I've never considered the release of energy. It makes sense though. Just think about acupuncture. So how did you end up in India?"
"I wanted to raise my kids in a place with more freedom. Mayapur was a good destination because we can live in the forests. I'm a single mother too. We get support from the U.S. but $500 is nothing there. In India we can live comfortably off that."
Though the human history of Southwestern Colorado hardly rivals the magnificence of its geologic history, the Pueblo settlement now called Mesa Verde blurs the distinction between the fingerprints of humanity and those of the earth itself. The adobe houses and cliff dwellings give the appearance of having emerged with the surrounding Rocky Mountains. Mesa Verde was the image Rasa used in explaining how she prefers to live. She took that image from Hawaii to India.
Being the 'queen of the deck' she was going to Mayapur on family business- the selling of their home in the forest. She was taking the kids and the man Nakul called his father to Auroville. "I'm afraid the idea of Auroville is tainted because the government has stepped in. The school (in Mayapur) has been good for Nakul but I want him to experience something else. I mean, I chant Krishna sometimes but the school is too traditionally Vedic. It's good that they taught Sanskrit though. Sanskrit is such a language of the heart. I wanted him to open up his heart space. English isn't a warm language."
I remembered my German friend calling down from a climbing rope, "I have no more power!!" Language is so closely related to a way of being. Hearing how different people from different countries used English gave much perspective into their culture. French élan, Israeli common sense, or the gentleness of certain Asian cultures came through in how phrases were composed. A German has no power. An American is worn out. Speaking English with people from non-English cultures gave me a lesson in my own thought processes and how they manifest in verbal form.
Rasa and I shared a similar understanding about India. Regardless of how much time we spend in the country we'll never be Indian. "I'll dress Indian to get by and to show respect but I'll still fly and take taxis instead of using the trains and buses." We both have an American sense of privacy too. It's not comfortable rubbing against people in a crowd or publicly handling business we typically handle privately.
Rasa's hotel was a notch above my economic standards. Around the corner a mildewy cavern suited my price point...windows cost extra. Getting out of the clothes I'd been wearing for two days felt as refreshing as the cold shower. I was ready to roam.
My room was the last on a short hallway that ended at a mysterious door. A stack of continually exchanged dirty plates and utensils sat on the floor in front of the unmarked doorway. A right turn led me past the neighboring room (ours were the two rooms under the stairs) to the front counter and the grumpy, overweight Asian girl with an Indian accent and too much make-up on. (I was forced to reconsider a staggering number of preconceptions.) The hotel opened onto a narrow dead-end alley. Employees from the other hotel sat on crates against the wall smoking cigarettes. Another employee washed dishes with water from a hand pump. As I walked by, one more employee hustled by with a plate of food. The kitchen was on the opposite side of the road as the hotel. A little storefront selling packages of cookies, crackers, laundry soap, calling cards, and much more marked the end of the alley. Turning right onto Chowringhee Lane I passed a line of cart-pullers wanting to show me the city. The human powered rickshaws are unique to Kolkata. A quick right onto Sudder and all of the noise associated with being on a busy little road.
Kolkata is different from Delhi, the only other major city I visited. Sudder Street and Paharganj, the budget hotel districts of each city, shared few similarities. Paharganj was a densely woven network of densely populated unnamed alleys. After three visits to the city I was starting to get a vague sense of how to find my way around. Sudder Street and the adjacent roads are wider and lined with trees. It's something of an avenue. People don't walk in the middle of the street and the traffic isn't mostly auto-rickshaws and bicycles. There are no cows. Kolkata is puzzlingly devoid of cows.
Finding a thali spot was much more difficult in Kolkata as well. Continuing along Sudder the sidewalks varied in width and level of decay. Shops butted against the walk on most of the roadway though an occasional break in the streetscape created enough space for a vendor to make a little kitchen. A collection of pots and pans and a few stoves were thrown together under a tarp secured by a series of ropes. Customers sat on wood benches or simply stood with their plates. The dishes were washed into the gutter using the same hand pumps people bathed in. Groups of men and boys bathed on the street. The pumps were especially busy in the morning. Wearing shorts and tank tops one person pumped while others lathered and rinsed. The women must have had other means for getting clean.
From Sudder I took another right onto Mirza Ghalib Street, working outward in a widening spiral from my hotel room. Ghalib fed into Park where a series of upscale restaurants, cafes, and retail stores created a mall-like atmosphere. My eating options were high class or low class with little in between. Finding a thali spot with the perfect blend of cheap and dirty took a little more effort. The search ended at a side street back in the vicinity of my hotel. I was then officially in Kolkata. The arrival process ended only when my bag was in a room, I was showered, and my stomach was fed.

"Excuse me sir, do you speak English?"
(Whoa! I'm a sir.) "Uhh, yeah. I do."
"Can you tell me where an internet place is?"
"I'm actually looking for one too. I just left a place across the street because their computers are slow and the guy was reading over my shoulder while I wrote. I think there's another one up this way."
We both thought it was time to go after spending a couple hours sending emails. We were getting hungry.
She asked, "Do you want to have room service at my hotel? I've got air conditioning."
"Ah, yeah. You have a/c?"
"Yeah. This is my first day in India and I just wanted to have a nice place to stay. Tomorrow I'm going on a train to Mumbai. I was teaching English in Japan and I'm passing through India on my way back to Canada. There's a meditation thing I'm doing in Mumbai."
"Nice. I did something similar. That'll be a good way to return home."
The hotel employees weren't too comfortable with Allison bringing such a dashing young man back to her room, especially considering the fact that he'd seen me help Rasa check in earlier. The two guys at the desk exchanged knowing glances of uncertainty. "Should we be allowing this?" The porter/janitor/desk clerk/waiter guy sheepishly brought us our dinner; moving around like he'd walked in on something. I imagined him thinking, "These foreign blondies are horn-balls. They are not waiting 10 minutes after ordering their food. I must be taking the food quickly." At 9 PM sharp, shortly after finishing our food, the phone rang. They were a reputable establishment and I needed to be leaving. We decided to continue our conversation at a café on Park.

Waking up in a room without a window is not easy. Not wanting to sleep later than I'd become accustomed to sleeping, I decided to set a 6 AM alarm- something I rarely did. The day began with a series of asanas and a cool shower. Dressed in my cleanest selection of clothes I hit the streets by 7:30, a few hours before the heat picked up. I came across a great stretch of street vendors on Jawaharlal Nehru Rd. A man setting up his fruit display happily sold me an awesome papaya. Another guy farther down the sidewalk handed over a straight-faced chai in a little clay cup. At a display of magazines and newspapers spread out on a cardboard box I saw an English language publication with national distribution. The cover featured an image of a Kolkata street vendor with the caption 'Hawker Power'. Since I was enjoying the benefits of that specific economic market, I decided to take a copy of 'Civil Society' for my travels.
Kolkata is an incredibly morning friendly city. Had the sun risen no higher I might still be relaxing on the street eating papaya over the latest news. But of course, the sun did rise. The heat struck sometime during my mid-morning lunch with Allison. Leaving the air-conditioned restaurant felt like walking from a freezer into a furnace.
Seeing how she operated gave me a good glimpse of what my second day in India was like. Everything was completely different than everywhere else. Being with her felt much more touristy than I'd grown accustom to feeling. It gave me some perspective on how much I'd started to understand and how much I still didn't know. The country is baffling. We were just in separate stages of cluelessness.
She caught her train and I continued wandering the city. The Maidan was the obvious destination. Sometimes called 'the lungs of Kolkata', the enormous park has several sports fields, athletic clubs, lots of grass, and tons of shade. Kolkata played a big role in the British Raj. As an act of the British East India Company in the late 1700's, the Maidan was created with the construction of Fort William. The sight of a large grassy expanse told much of the story. It's the sight of an English garden. The same garden Americans endlessly re-create in their public parks and private lawns, regardless of climate. Another part of the story was told in the form of exclusive athletic clubs. Places where 'Dogs and Indians' were once forbidden continue to flourish. Access is still exclusive though entry is based pedigree not race. I passed a competitive volleyball match being held at the Aryan Club, one of the less exclusive athletic clubs.
Racehorses grazed freely in a portion of open grass at the southern end of the park. The Kolkata Race Course was nearby. Just past the equestrian area, I found my way to the Victoria Memorial. Completed in 1921, the building is a memorial to Queen Victoria, also entitled the Empress of India. It now serves as a gallery showing art in the context of India's history. After a few hours of walking in an extremely humid 40° C (104° F) heat, my clothes were totally drenched with sweat when I passed through the gates. I've been drier in a shower. At the memorial I was the stinky white guy among clean, somewhat dry Indian tourists. The most interesting exhibit showed in more detail the cruelty and greed of the British Raj. At one point in time the average British citizen in India had around 100 Indian servants. It was clear how trade originally favored India- having more desirable spices, fabrics, and resources- and how it ultimately shifted to favor England. Mostly through force, the Raj drained India's wealth in less than 300 years.

Why are there no cows to be seen? Even on the little side roads...nothing. I was heading back to Sudder by a different route, thinking I'd stop by the Nandan cinema on my way back from the memorial. The liberal side of Indian life comes out in Kolkata. Considered the cultural capital of India, many famed artists and writers called the city home. Rabanindrath Tagore being the best known. A movie showing at Nandan, an art-house theatre next to the Sadan cultural center, was advertised on posters in English. Clusters of really smart looking people hung-out in front of the two architecturally significant buildings. Just as the agent held out the ticket he reconsidered the sale. "You are knowing the film is in Hindi?"
"No I didn't. The posters are in English though?"
He looked at me, glanced at all the really smart people in the plaza, and needed no other explanation. It's a status thing. Speaking English is high society and I was trying to kick it art-house style. The theatre would've been relaxing anyhow but I decided to keep walking.
Kolkata is liberal. I was actually surprised to see a man release a mouse from a non-lethal trap. Chicken was on more restaurant menus and there weren't any cows, but there were still some good old-fashioned Hindus. Seeing him drop the mouse in the street served as a reminder. "Oh yeah, this is still India."
The side roads led to a main road that somehow opened onto the retail section of Park Street. Most of the daytime action on Park revolved around shopping and being seen. Groups of young folk met at cafes and men freely socialized with women in a way I hadn't yet seen in India. There was even flirtation. Just as I'd come to terms with all the fraternization, two girls effectively startled me. They walked out of a store...wearing miniskirts. This is a country where rebellious movie stars actually kiss on screen (and it's known how many on-screen kisses they've given). Miniskirts are...they're...I don't even know. Miniskirts just aren't. The incident instantly and irrevocably compromised my moral turpitude.

The following morning I put on my cleanest pair of dirty, sweaty, damp clothes determined to leave on the first available overnight train. Doing laundry wasn't an option. Not with that kind of humidity and a room without windows. Kolkata would be a great city to visit any other time of the year. In June it's good for about a day. I bought my papaya and chai, and walked around before the sun went higher. Once the temps started to rise I got a train ticket to Darjeeling and found some a/c. The remainder of the day was devoted to writing and people watching in a variety of cafes, restaurants, and internet places.
The travel agent told me the appropriate fare for a taxi to the Howrah train station. All the drivers quoted a much higher price and waved me off when I countered with what I knew to be the going rate. I walked down the line of cabbies, each waiting for a Sudder street tourist fare. Ultimately one guy agreed and I hopped in back. The first driver I'd approached marched up with loud protests, arguing with the guy about taking me. They argued until nothing was settled. At the station I decided to pay him the tourist fare for the ride. Whether out of necessity or principle, he stood up to the others and accepted the standard rate. Regardless of his reason for taking me, I knew there was value in making it more beneficial for him. He had earned the money.

Two homeless kids locked on- a little boy and his younger sister. They followed me step-for-step through the station as I looked around for a restroom. The girl wasn't buying it. With a clever smile she followed me right inside the bathroom. Her brother giggled shyly and waited outside. Again, there was value in buying them some bananas. They had strayed from convention.
The station was full of people moving in every direction. Clusters of families and friends sat together on the floor wherever they could. I found space on the fringe of traffic where I could relax for an hour waiting on the train. It was a great locale for people watching. The parade of humanity moved by in concert with train arrivals and departures- quickly in one direction, then quickly in the opposite direction. Some ran, some limped, some struggled with heavy loads, and some struggled with kids. It was life in Kolkata. Boarding the train wasn't easy. Once I'd pushed my way aboard I was being pushed from behind by others pushing on board. Thankfully the family in the berths around mine gave me the upper bunk. They were free to sit and joke around while I read and slept through the ride.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1200897600/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1200897600/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1200897600/tpod.html Mon, 21 Jan 2008 09:18:11 -0500 Stories from abroad and a way to give back to the people who have given much to me. When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. -HST

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Rishikesh, India

Shout Out #30
To be without bearing is far from being lost. The only loss connected to location is that which is imagined. Much of the insight inherent in traveling actually comes from being disoriented. It's easy to get caught up in programmed responses when the events are always the same. Spread out over the duration of a lifetime, our mental programming gives the illusion of security and direction but we lose track of where that programming comes from. Being totally unfamiliar with the circumstances makes it easier to cut through the programming. "I've never seen that one before and I have no idea how to respond." The abundance of choices becomes readily apparent.
Being disconnected from the seasonal moods of the earth was another factor in being disoriented. I forgot that days are longer in the summer and shorter in the winter. The seasons were no longer a process. Rather than working my way into summer through spring and the steady shifts in weather, I landed in the heat. The seasons were a condition on the other end of a portal; the temperature and humidity outside a train station or airport. It's amazing how disjointed life becomes without having the seasonal processes as a means for guidance. There were few constants for measuring progress. The path leading to the person of today wasn't as clear when the settings were constantly in flux. Self became a discontinuous idea more associated with climates at the end of portals than with a series of linear events. "That was 'Ash' in Laos. That was 'Ash' in Thailand. I am now 'Ash' in Rishikesh." The lunar cycle was the best way to gain a sense of synchronization with any process. "On the last full moon I had just arrived in Rishikesh and it simultaneously feels like yesterday and several lifetimes ago."
I knew I had changed much over the year but it was hard to identify exactly how I had changed. It was hard to measure progress or shifts without operating in a constant system or environment. Not having that continual sense of identity helped highlight the necessities in life. There was a greater sense of choice about what is essential, what isn't, and which preferences (anything owned beyond necessity) are worth the burden of ownership. Simplification became increasingly more appealing and vital.
Perhaps more than the physical wear, the mental stress of continually being disoriented wore me out. After a busy stretch of quick visits I'd stop in a quiet place for an extended stay. The month of rock climbing and relaxation in Railey Beach, Thailand was the first extended stop. It offered a constant setting by which I could gain some perspective. Rishikesh was a similar opportunity taken to a much deeper level. In the meditation course in Jaipur I came to a level of clarity about who I had become over the year of travel. I then went to Rishikesh where I was able to live it. Krishna's yoga lessons gave me a practice for maintaining and expressing that ideal. The freedom from any stresses allowed me to practice unburdened and fully focused.

My leg was almost healed when I pushed it too far again. As my last few days in town went by Krishna made it a personal mission to have me fully recovered and flexible by the time I left. After class he'd treat my injured muscle with an ayurvedic method. He lit camphor cubes in a little clay dish then placed it on the sore muscle. He then covered it with a glass cup. The fire gobbled up the oxygen creating suction on the skin. When the fire burned out after the second round of camphor he heated a spoonful of home-blended oil and rubbed it into the muscle.
Throughout the treatment he spoke to me on a much more personal level. "I have helped many people to heal. It is my service to humanity. Through helping, 10% of their pain and sorrow is transferred to me. Horrible things! Sexual energies, mental anguish...much ego and anger. Afterwards I am meditating for 4 ½ or 5 hours."
"Is that why you wear gloves in class?"
"Partly. I don't tell people why I wear them."
Outside of class he always spoke to me about women. In the midst of the treatment he mentioned that people often ask him why he lives without a woman.
"I like women but I am wanting someone who will follow my teachings."
"It's not easy when you don't live with the same frame of mind as most others."
"Yes, after two days of living together it would be a disaster."
"Yeah, probably."
"Many women are with one man then they are going to another man. When they go back to the first man they are saying "I love you". Chuckling, he said "Silliness. It's just mental love. They are not knowing what love is."

After Krishna treated my leg I met up with Ana- a girl from Mexico who had arrived in class with her uncle and his girlfriend. We all sat down for dinner. She just finished a semester at a university in Delhi as part of a graduate program in a German school. Her first semester was in Germany, the second was in South Africa, and the third was in Delhi. She was traveling for a few weeks before going to Amsterdam for the last semester of the program. Life in the Delhi dorms had been an education in itself.
"It was all girls, no male guests are allowed, and all the guests had to sign in and out. The guest had to leave by 11 and there were security guards to enforce the rules."
"Did the men's dorms have similar rules?"
"They had none of that. We actually had to pay more because of the security guards. It's considered a progressive school because they have a program to curb sexual harassment."

A big group of people from morning yoga met at a new breakfast spot after class. A foreign kid came in and sat alone at a table nearby. We'd seen him at the beach one day with his dad and younger sister. His dad, built like a gladiator, was doing the splits and various yoga postures in the sand while the two kids scrambled around on the rocks. Our group dwindled down to the standard handful of us once the food was eaten. Elad, Ninie, Sebastian, and I typically melted into the cushions after eating. We sat and talked about Krishna and yoga while the boy sat alone for over half an hour without getting restless. Our discussions weren't as involved when the boy got up to leave. Elad was sitting nearest the door and asked the boy about his 'Coexist' shirt. He had the haircut of a Krishna devotee- clipped short with a patch of longer hair left in back. When I heard the boy say, "My name is Nakul ever since I was initiated as a warrior", I went to join the conversation.
When he spoke he looked us fully in the eyes without shyness or intimidation. Elad asked how he had been initiated as a warrior. "I go to a school for warriors in West Bengal. My name was Nicholas until I was initiated when I was 5. My full name is Nakul Eko Ola. Nakul was a warrior in the Mahabarata and Eko Ola is Hawaiian for 'Of the Sea'. I was instantly impressed.
The first conversation with Nakul had me baffled. Was he a prodigy- the next generation of advanced beings? Or was he an ordinary kid living in extraordinary circumstances. Was he neither? Here's a 10 year-old American boy telling us about warrior training, the Vedic lifestyle, and what it's like living in the forests around Mayapur, a couple hours from Kolkata. He gave me advice on where to stay in Kolkata and how much I should be paying for a place. After a few talks I wasn't as confused about him. From a very early age he was given the freedom to test his limits and express his power. He wasn't treated like an infant so he never became infantile. He knew how to survive. His freedom did cost him quite a bit in terms of isolation. Depending on how he responds it can either be solitude or loneliness.
They lived in Thailand for a year before getting the money to go to India. A family friend sponsored him in the school and his mom had a little house built in the nearby forest. During the week he lives at the academy. Their schedule is as follows:
Wake at 2 AM- 5 minutes to wash and dress. Chant, pay respects to the deities, clean their clothes, and cook their own meals. Nakul eats mostly kitcheri, a simple (bland) mix of mostly rice and dal, and only a bowlful per meal...about the size of his two fists held together. Aside from the four hours of martial arts training each day, he mentioned a Sanskrit class and a course about the Baghavad Gita. His Baghavad Gita teacher recently left the body (died). "We all thought he was going after he finished his book ('Vedanta Psychology'- http://www.suhotraprabhu.com/). His martial art's training covers a variety of styles. We learned about brick breaking, archery (pulling the bow all the way back to your ear) using special arrows that twist into form using a personal 'code', and the relationship between you (the archer), the arrow, and a mantra. "The mantra is the captain of the arrow and you are the minister." In sparring he went up against the biggest and best to get accustomed to being spent. "In fighting you have to be like metal, AND like a feather." He told us the sparring tournaments were necessary to vent warrior aggression and spoke of not feeling pain. "It's a weakness. If I cheat, I lose." The academy also taught healing methods using plants from the forest. He couldn't heal a wound on his leg because he couldn't get the same plants in Rishikesh.
He also explained a little about his lifestyle and what it means to be a warrior. "Warriors can't be told what to do all the time. They either prove they're right or they show aggression. That's why we get four hours of play-time at school. When we first started the teachers broke our egos. I almost cried. The ego is our biggest enemy." He continued by explaining a little about his family. "My father and sister are both warriors too. It's not like a caste. They can be the son or daughter of a Brahmin. My mother's the one who looks after the business matters. The woman is the ruler of the home. She's the queen of the deck. Whatever she says gets done. This is vedic culture." Elad asked about his haircut and Nakul corrected him, "It's not a hairdo. It's a sign of my devotion."
Elad asked another question. "Which deity do you worship?"
"Narasimha, one of the incarnations of Vishnu. He's a defender."
They were in Rishikesh because his mom made the decision to go. It was a good place to practice and teach yoga- his father being a yoga instructor. Rishikesh was alright but he wanted to return to school. "I told my mom I'm going back. I miss my teachers. There are people you meet and you can sense that you are close already. It's like that with my teachers. I knew them before. My biggest boons are to please my teachers, to become a teacher at my school, and to die and server god. "I'm so fortunate. I mean, I'm from Hawaii. How did I end up in India at the academy?"
"Wait, what does boon mean?" I asked.
"It's like a wish."
When I was 10 I had an enormous list of wishes almost entirely comprised of Legos, GI Joe, and Star Wars. Pleasing my teachers? Becoming a teacher?? Dying and serving god??? None of those were on the radar.
He told us about the Kali Yuga... the era of vice. When Kali Yuga comes to an end the oceans will purportedly be in flames.
"I don't want the boon of (living) forever. Those are fires I don't want to be burning in."
In our more casual talks he gave us advice about life in India. "You'll see babas wanting 100 rupees"-he made a sly smile- "if there was just one real baba no-one would go hungry within 10 kilometers of the town." Eating in a West Bengal villager's home can also be a bit of an ordeal. "An empty plate means you want more food and not finishing your food is an offense. It's also an offense to deny food. How can you stop?" Then he shared his best words of wisdom. "People will act a lot. If they're around serious people they will act serious. If someone's telling jokes they laugh along even if they don't think it's funny. You have to be yourself."
"You're right about that one my man."
Nakul has a younger sister. She introduced herself with 100% unrestrained shrieking screams before we ever met her in person. Nakul didn't like their first apartment in Rishikesh so he found the family a place with a yard. A small ghat leading to the river separated their yard from the restaurant. She was running around the yard, totally naked, screaming as loud as she possibly could. We witnessed two warrior siblings in battle and the waiter came over to assure us she was fine. "They're just playing. Both are good kids." When Jamuna, came to the restaurant with Nakul he explained that, although she doesn't have any training, she's a really good dancer. He has the academy and she's had to teach herself.
"Are you also artistic Nakul?"
"My hands are not soft."
Warriors and soldiers are distinctly different. Soldiers are units of rank conditioned to respond to orders. Decisions of value have no place in the world of a soldier. Soldiers are simply taught to react. If? Then. If? Then. If? Then. If? Then. Command. Obey. Warriors exist outside of easily definable parameters. They're not blood hungry savages and they're not automatons. Warrior's decisions come entirely from a place of value. Nakul prompted memories of an intense experience I once had. Though it occurred about 18 months earlier, it was like looking into another person's mind because so much changed in that time. It was similar to 'Being Jon Malkovich' with my own past.
I happened to pass by a mirror in my apartment and noticed my eyes. The look of terror reflecting back at me was shocking. It had nothing to do with how I felt. My eyes portrayed the fact that I was physically expressing something I wasn't consciously in tune with. Startled, I fell back into a wall. I was pinned between a seemingly foreign reflection and an actual physical barrier. I couldn't look away, I could only stare back.
The terror came from earlier thoughts about sanity and insanity and the fact that I'd just become aware of that dividing line in myself. Apparently something about those thoughts startled me beyond conscious recognition. As I stood against the wall, staring into my own terrified eyes, a surge of power coursed through my body. My lungs took long, deep breaths and my hands felt disproportionately large. The look of terror faded into a level gaze devoid of fear or intimidation. Compassion and unyielding strength blended in the irises. I stood and felt the power surging before taking a few steps closer to the mirror. I stared at my reflection noticing that my appearance looked slightly different than the one I had grown accustomed to seeing. I was seeing myself more clearly than ever. My ego typically distorts the reflection into a judgment about my appearance. I took note of my undistorted appearance and pondered who I was seeing. I then understood that I was seeing my own warrior self. The one with no concern for petty day-to-day worries or thoughts of sanity. He was not ignorant or reactionary. He was fully aware and entirely creative. He was the uncompromising expression of compassion. Because there is absolutely no compromise it's easy to confuse being a warrior with the image of violent resolution. A violent warrior does not exist. Because he recognizes the true source of human experience, a true warrior would never utilize lethal force in resolving uncompromising conflicts. Killing is an expression of day-to-day worries and thoughts of sanity. It resolves nothing. He would hand over his life before taking another person's. That experience forever changed my perception of life.

The last stretch of road leading into Luxmanjhula from Swarg Ashram rises up a short hill before descending more steeply into the central part of the village. The lemon mint drink- prepared by the best lemon mint maker in town- settled lightly in my stomach. My feet strode deftly up the hill. I moved with ease; totally unburdened. I hadn't a care in the world. (It's my last few days in town- soon I'll be in Kolkata. In a few weeks I'll be back in the United States. And I'm ready to go home. How cool is that! To be happy to return. What a satisfying feeling!) These thoughts carried my light feet up the hill and almost past a man struggling with a heavily laden cart. Several men sweat out a living hauling cartloads of goods between the different communities. He didn't speak English but he wasn't going to let me commit the offense of just walking by. I translated his tone of voice into, "Hey pal, why don't you put those lazy hands to use and help me with this cart!" It wasn't a request. His words brought me back to earth in a good way. (How did I not help him right away?) I hustled over and pushed on the back of the cart while he took the front handles. (This is awesome! He just said it like it is!) At the top of the hill I let go as he started the downhill into town. Again he spoke in an easily distinguishable tone. "Come on man! Do you see any brakes on this thing?" I grabbed on and helped ease the cart down the slope. At the bottom of the hill, he waved me off without looking back. He made no motion of thanks. It was 100% perfect. I walked on with an enormous grin. Everything was so simple. The cart was heavy, he was going over a hill, and I had two free hands. There was no room for blubbery gratitude. He had given me the opportunity to be of service and he made sure I didn't miss it. I could spend several lifetimes waiting for that kind of honesty in the U.S. ("Excuse me, um, sir. Do you think you could, um, help me real quick? Oh, thank you so, so, very much! You're so gracious!") It's all so, so pointless.

Tourists from across the country converged on the bridge seemingly at once. Even the restaurant employees took a break to watch the standstill. I'm not going to lie...I was a little intimidated. That was the bridge leading to Linlin's apartment and the delicious lunch she was making me. The crowd reached a density that even silenced the motorbike drivers. Honking was pointless. When I ultimately joined the swarm, old women and little kids were getting aggressive. The pushing got to the point of having to show strength in standing my ground. A frenzied mob was heading for the Ganga. They were only a few elbows away from the sin-cleansing river goddess- with a few extra elbows thrown in for good measure.
Linlin outdid herself again. Our second 'Lunch at Elaines' featured soup, spaghetti, fried potatoes and eggplant, and banana and chocolate pastries. A man could get used to that kind of treatment. It was easy to face the crowded bridge with a smile after such generosity.
The goodbyes are more difficult after such a long stay in one spot. Typically, I just like to slide out unnoticed to avoid the formalities. Rishikesh had become too much of a home for that. Elad went to a nearby village the night before my departure. He was deciding his travel plans from a more neutral environment. Rishikesh and Krishna were in his blood too. We hugged goodbye but didn't know what to say. He was a solid presence for almost two months of my time in India.
Linlin and I met up for one final lunch, this time at a place with the best waiter in town. Being about 15, he was probably several years into the business already. He went about his work as most do, not necessarily loving or hating the day-to-day. That is, until he scored a pair of Oakley shades. His entire persona was transformed by the sleek plastic eyewear. He was now a star. The dining patio became a stage for his grand performance. Orders were taken with a sly grin, his posture betraying a cocksure swagger just waiting to be flaunted. In the realm of waiters, he was Bono.
Linlin and I spent a quiet afternoon together before I left that night. We ate, swam, and watched people bathing and doing laundry in the river. We also parted with a hug, pondering whether our paths would cross again in Darjeeling.

My leg was feeling good. Krishna's treatments did the trick. He wasn't going to let me leave without having full flexibility. The final class had an inordinate number of leg stretches in helping me achieve the goal- to plant my forehead on my knee. The month of rigorous stretchings and holdings had me feeling physically transformed. With a healed leg the task was easy. Krishna enjoyed the progress and I was free to go.
The meditation class typically began around the time the mosquitoes came out. Citronella typically did the trick though it wasn't flawless. Hearing me smack at a bug, Krishna had one final lesson for me. "Hey Architect! You are not wanting to feed the mosquitoes?" The point was clear: killing is bad karma. "Sometimes one will be landing on me. I sit and look at it. Then it's getting shy and goes away."
My bag was waiting outside the meditation room. An overnight bus to Delhi left shortly after class. Krishna gave me a photo of him sitting in a white robe without wearing his standard do-rag. His smile reflected well in the camera. Om Jai Shri Krishna was written on the back with some words of parting. When he handed me the photo he told me, "I don't give these to all my students. I'd like to teach you more someday." For only a month's worth of practice he had already taught me much.
The end of class brought the remainder of the goodbyes...Ninie, Sebastian, Peter, and a variety of others. It was a much more joyous and warm farewell than I expected. Krishna chimed in, "I hope to see you again!" He then corrected himself with his finger pointed in the air. "No! I WILL see you again. Keep that in your mind and it will be so!"
The rickshaw traveled along the road between Ramjhula and the bus stand in Rishikesh. A bright full moon rose over the mountains and reflected in the Ganga. Leaving the isolation of Luxmanjhula and Ramjhula, this full moon marked the end of an incredibly transformational cycle. The prior full moon welcomed me to town. The next full moon would be rising over North America.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1195627500/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1195627500/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hodizzle/cambodiafund/1195627500/tpod.html Tue, 11 Dec 2007 23:52:31 -0500 Stories from abroad and a way to give back to the people who have given much to me. When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. -HST

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Rishikesh, India

The label reads: Dry fomentation could precede or follow application of Moov. Massage gently to facilitate penetration. Ash said to Elad, Ninie, and Sebastian, "This stuff is so good it foments before you even put it on." What's fomentation anyway? Since it precedes application I'm not even sure I want to know. I'll be sure to massage gently though." (Fomentation is an herbal treatment that could be applied.) Everybody from the class was rubbing Moov all over their sore muscles. The classes went deep. Elad in particular was getting tremendous benefits. One of his vertebrae protrudes from his back. It has been misaligned throughout his life. After three weeks in class the bump diminished drastically- at least halfway. He'd done yoga before and never experienced such a change. In the breathing exercises he was improving 4-fold on his intervals- an accomplishment only achieved with a quieted mind. He was beyond where he thought he could go.
They talked about Krishna quite often. During class Ninie asked him how old he was. He answered, "There's no birth, no death. We are without beginning or end." At breakfast after class, Ninie mentioned him being 72.
"He's not 72", Sebastian answered.
"I thought he was. That guy in town said he was 72."
"He's not", Elad answered. "We asked and he told us he wasn't 72."
Krishna had two things he wouldn't say: his age and why he wore fuzzy gloves during class. Ash worked out a general idea of his age based on some other facts he shared during the classes. "He mentioned that his brother was 75 when he re-emerged from his exile and that he has lived in Rishikesh for 17 years. That makes his brother 93 now. Krishna's the youngest of his siblings so he would have to be twenty years younger than his brother for it to be true that he's 72. It's possible, but I think he's even older."
The topic shifted to his gloves. Krishna had just bought a replacement pair and Ninie was curious about whether he kept all his old gloves.
Laughing, Elad said, "Yeah, I bet he's got them all numbered."
"He said in class he wouldn't throw them away because they'd done good service."
A new girl started going to the classes. She was from British Columbia but moved to Quebec to work for Cirque du Soleil as a costume designer. Some of the exercises in class were done with the help of a partner. 'Elad's back exercise' was one such exercise and Canada- Krishna's name for Zoe- was Ash's partner. After helping with the back stretches the partner then does some massaging. Krishna stepped in to correct Ash's technique. "Massage not like flower...(whimpering for emphasis) eeahh, eeahh, eeahh. Next time Canada you'll get Indian style."
The message of the day involved name-calling and being offended. "If you take offense at being called a dog it means you are doubting whether you are a dog or not. Also, before you finger someone else you must finger yourself."
Ash's leg was still injured. His hamstring had been pulled for a week now. In all the other stretches he was fine. The leg stretches were the ones to get him. Krishna encouraged him to work out the problems. "Give me another week." He knew Ash was thinking of leaving.

Because the days in Rishikesh were becoming similar and it was almost the end of his trip, he thought of going to Darjeeling or even getting some days in Bhutan- a country looking to measure the GDH, Gross Domestic Happiness. A few days later he bought a train ticket to Kolkata, where he could catch another train to the north. He didn't feel like staying another week. The pilgrimage season made arranging tickets very difficult. Plans had to be made ahead of time so he couldn't just hop on like he preferred. The train ticket didn't get used.

Zoe, Marlena, Julio, Guy (Gee), Sylvan (Syl-VAH), and Ash were all sitting at the table. English was spoken for Ash's sake. Marlena, Guy, and Sylvan are all French. Julio is Spanish but did a stint in Paris. Zoe learned French in Quebec. Ash is from America where only girls studied French in high school. Julio lived in a touristy part of Spain. During his youth he saw loads of people swing through town with a lot of money and free time. His desire to travel came from watching the freedom of people on the move. Guy is an old man with a socially provided income. In India he loves 5-rupee chai but expects 5-euro service. Ash loved his rationale about certain things. "I am an unimportant man. My existence is not important to this world. Why pretend?" (Now where's my god-dammed tea!). Marlena is a teacher in Paris who uses her summers for travel. Sylvan is a hard man to describe. He studied kinesiology and calls himself a healer. He also trained to be a circus clown. The topic he spoke most passionately about though, was the flute. He spoke philosophically about his flute, and how he loves his flute like he loves a woman...without need for seduction. "When I play I'm fully immersed. There is no Syl-VAH anymore; only music."
Ash took much inspiration from his words. Initially it was an inspired rant of mental name calling...mostly flute loop and douche-bag. Then he realized he had to finger himself if he was going to finger someone else. "Do I want to be a douche-bag to? No. There's no reason to be negative. He's just excited about learning the Indian flute." Throughout the breakfast he waged this mental battle about Sylvan. "Douche-bag! Wait, there's no need to be negative. I'll just listen to him play or I can turn my attention elsewhere." "What, a, clown! Wait, well...he is actually a clown, but there's no need to judge. Not everybody can balance a flute on their nose." It was a good test. Ultimately he thought Sylvan was just funny. When they decided to take a trip to the waterfalls Ash was simultaneously glad Sylvan was staying behind and that he could shake his hand without feeling negative about him.
By late afternoon the group dwindled to Julio, Zoe, and Ash. They stopped in for dinner and Julio raced off to class as soon as he finished. Zoe and Ash didn't have the motivation. Especially after eating. They decided to take a swim in the Ganga instead. Lorena, a Spanish girl from class was at the same spot. She had just learned how to 'run to the stiff'. The previous day she ferociously paddled across the river, struggling throughout the swim. By the time she reached the opposite shore she had washed far downstream. She realized that she swam how she was living- chaotic and ungrounded. On the second attempt she relaxed and paddled casually- making it across with the ease of a cow tumbling downhill.

Ash hadn't seen Elaine (the Taiwanese woman who came to India to learn about teaching yoga) much since he started going to Krishna's class. In the morning she was waiting by Krishna's sign. He was planning on leaving soon and she wanted to say goodbye properly. After class she took him to breakfast and they took some pictures together. His decision to stay came that night and he was ultimately able to spend more time with her.

"Krishna, why do you wear white?' Ninie was giving him a hard time.
"Because it takes more work! Work is worship."
Ash and Zoe had just arrived. "Hey Architect, who do you like more, me or Canada?"
"I like Canada more, Krishna."
Turning to the class, "Did you guys hear that? Architect just said he doesn't like me." Turning back to Ash, "I love you, do you love me?"
"Yes Krishna, I love you too."
With humor, "Then why are you leaving? I said to give me a week."
"I'm not sure I'll actually go. The situation has changed since I bought the ticket." When he bought the ticket he was getting anxious to move on. The days were starting to feel repetitive. Now his leg was healing, his body felt like it was awakening, and he was curious about Zoe.
Maintaining a quiet life can be difficult. Part of the reason Ash booked the ticket was that Rishikesh is really quiet. Part of the reason he stayed was that Rishikesh is really quiet. Much can change in a few days. The circumstances are of little importance. The crucial distinction rests in one's relationship with those circumstances. Rishikesh is quiet, Ash isn't accustomed to long durations of stillness...he buys a ticket across the country, a 30-hour ride to one of the craziest cities in the country. Rishikesh is quiet, yoga goes deeper, Zoe arrives...Ash decides to stay. The circumstances changed and the changes shaped his decision to stay, but the distinction rests in his relationship with those circumstances. Be with the quiet or make some noise?

Outside of class, they spent the majority of three days together. A line of tension was building in his thoughts. The daily yoga and meditation was acting against his prior habits; silence vs. noise. Both arenas brought choices about how to relate to the situations at hand. Where does Zoe fit and do I want to go there? It took 3 days for him to decide.
They shared several dinners, talked much, talked little, met one another's friends, and went to yoga...little about Zoe or Ash changed in those 3 days. Their relationships to one another- to the situation- are what changed. Of all people, Sylvan helped Ash decide which direction he wanted to go.
The debate began when Sylvan spoke about certain Asian traits with a hint of negativity. He was trying to express thoughts about the differences between eastern and western cultures- heart versus head, many versus individual, and the nature of love and detachment. Some of his points came out more negatively than Zoe wanted to hear. Because his thoughts were in contrast to hers, she was offended. Because she was offended she became offensive...on the attack. Based on Sylvan's speculation about whether monks contribute much to society she voiced a somewhat romanticized version of Asian countries being more loving and graceful. Ash had thought quite a bit about the subject. Both Sylvan and Zoe were getting at the heart of something he'd written a few months earlier. Essentially, they were both hitting on valid thoughts but they both added some invalid thoughts too. He was able to bridge the gap a little.
The incident made him fully aware of something he didn't want to deal with in Zoe. As a result of some uncertainty about life or who she is, she took certain differences of opinion as personal attacks. Seeing her response to Sylvan he knew he wasn't going any farther with her. She was looking for someone to capture or worship or both. All three were exceptionally noisy propositions. The decision was clear: be with the quiet. Accommodating another person's confusion wasn't worth the loss of solitude. His own confusions were enough to deal with. For the first time in his life, he knew his relationship with silence was worth more than his relationship with someone else.
That's when Krishna started whispering about the benefits of celibacy. When he first brought up the idea in talks outside of class, Ash thought little of it. Even when Krishna just suggested heightened standards- "Maybe once a month and only with a good girl with positive energy"- it didn't make any sense to him. Then Krishna pointed out his shaky legs during some of the exercises and commented on it being the result of smoking and promiscuity. In time Ash started to understand Krishna's perspective. Yogis practice celibacy as a means for maintaining strong energy. More energy = deeper practice (in all the limbs of yoga) = more silence = more energy. It's an upward spiral. When he saw the wisdom behind the idea he finally understood. Hadn't he just made a similar decision with Zoe? Knowing and living are two different things though. The level of clarity required to maintain celibacy is vast. It's not something he could fully practice but he got a taste of the freedom that comes with the removal of desire. The benefits of removing only one desire are tremendous. Life without any desire, for anything- food, comfort, acceptance, sex,etc.- would truly be incredible. All misery is tied to a desire by either satisfaction or avoidance.

"Hello South Africa!" Krishna greeted a new woman in class. Marlena corrected him, saying the woman was French. Krishna was having a hard time reconciling the notion of there being a black French woman. "You are not from France originally?"
"No. Congo."
"Where is that?"
"Central Africa."
"Ahh, the center of the Earth."
Ash made his decision to stay and it was already paying off. His leg had almost healed and his body was becoming much more flexible. Before class he always sat and talked with Krishna and Peter. Peter's an Austrian man who's been splitting his time between Europe and India for 10 years. He'd been practicing with Krishna for 6 months. As with most people who said little, his words held more weight. The pre-class discussions are where Krishna spoke a little more openly about some of his ideals, i.e. celibacy, and Peter added his thoughts. Those are the kind of discussions Ash wanted to hear. The easily accepted ideas- the ones shared in class- aren't the ideas that break through barriers.
After class Peter walked into town with Ash and Zoe. He typically went his own way on motorcycle but tonight he was on foot. Peter brought a contemplative perspective to the walk. "Why are you here Zoe? Why India?"
"Because it feels like home."
Nodding in agreement, "It's the same for me. I'm certain I was here in the past. I bet you were too. That's why I live here much of the year. At first I traveled around India but now I mostly come to this area. It's special to me." As a subtle reference to Krishna and some other people he had met, he added, "There are some amazing people in India." They walked a few paces in silence then he turned to Ash, "Why are you here? Why did you start doing yoga?"
"I first started because I wanted to heal my travel-abused body. My motives changed when I started to understand what Krishna was getting at...overcoming limitations by calming the mind and living with more awarenss- living yoga not doing it. It's hard to even say what yoga is."
"I agree. I don't even like to talk with people about what it is. Talking about it gets farther away from what it is and I find that it empowers my ego." Peter rarely spoke with ego.

As was custom, Elad, Ninie, Sebastian, and Ash were having the after-morning-yoga breakfast at one of the chill-out restaurants. Zoe stayed behind to talk with Krishna after class. Ninie had something she wanted to ask Ash but proceeded hesitantly. "Sooo...Ash...?"
"Yeah?"
"Uhh, I'm curious..."
"I think I know what you're getting at...it's okay to ask."
"Have you and Zoe, uhh, hooked up?'
He hadn't heard that term in long while. It was a perfect way to ask. "No we haven't. We're not going to either."
"I thought for sure...you guys have spent all this time together and...no? Nothing happened."
"No. I realized it wasn't going to work for me. The funny thing is that Krishna started talking to me about celibacy, AND, I'm actually listening."
"He talks to you about being celibate."
"Yeah, and I'm hearing his points. In some of the stretches my legs get shaky and he whispered to me that it comes from smoking and sex."
"What? You smoked?"
"I just stopped in the last month or so. I smoked a lot during this trip. Something happened though. It's hard to explain but I basically became a person who doesn't smoke before I actually stopped smoking. I don't know how anyone could just quit. It's like what Gandhi said, "You have to be the change you want to see." Somehow I became a non-smoker. It wasn't quitting- I just stopped. Now I don't even understand the psychology of wanting to inhale toxins through a filter. It really is something of an insanity. Anyhow, yeah, Krishna's been pushing on some of my biggest hang-ups. He's talking of celibacy, and at a minimum, it's helping me see through some of my old habits. Well, I've gotta go now. I want to wash my clothes before I go to a friend's place for lunch."
"You're getting to be like Krishna...washing your clothes every day."
"I'm going to start wearing white just because it's more work."
"I was wondering how your shirt is staying so clean", Elad added.
With two classes a day and a small selection of clothes, it was necessary to do laundry every day. It became really satisfying for him too. He played music, scrubbed his clothes in the sink, and took part in no discussions with Zoe or anybody else. Rishikesh is small. After a few days the faces get familiar and the discussions all sound the same. The time alone- doing laundry in an uninviting bathroom- was a great relationship with solitude. Work really is worship if it's treated that way.

Elaine likes to cook. It took some effort but she ultimately found a hotel room with a kitchen. Ash jumped at the offer of a homemade lunch. It was far beyond anything he expected. When he arrived she had momos (Tibetan dumplings), little pizzas, soup, banana and chocolate pastries, and some mixed fruit. Everything was made from scratch- the dough was even made from whole-wheat flour. It was unbelievable. Finding whole-wheat flour couldn't have been easy either. After months of subsisting on white rice and white naan, the lunch was far beyond just a simple treat. This was an occasion. It was the best gift he'd received throughout the journey...a perfectly quiet afternoon with a beautifully quiet woman and a delicious lunch.
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